If Cooks Could Kill (5 page)

“Thanks.” The phone went dead.

Lexington stared at Maple's records with growing fury. How the hell had her release date changed without him being notified?

Something about the phone call bothered him as well. Lexington hit star-six-nine on his phone. Some aspects of high tech he liked. “The number of your last incoming call was four-one-five-three-nine-two…”

He scribbled down the number. Four-one-five was San Francisco's area code. He used the reverse phone directory on his computer for the full number. It belonged to a woman named Constance Rogers.

He jumped to his feet. What the hell was going on? And where was Veronica Maple?

 

Connie raced up two and a half flights of stairs to her third-floor apartment. On the last half-flight, she slowed down to catch her breath, smooth her dress, adjust her bra, and push at her rock-hard hair so that it'd pouf up a bit. One bad thing about this short hairdo was that gel tended to make it flatten against her head and look like a bathing cap.

Max just might be awake.

Something about him drew her to him. She liked the way he looked at her, like she was somehow special. That must have been it. Even—okay, it was colossal admission time—she liked having someone who needed her in her house, in her life. The words and tune of a schmaltzy Broadway musical tune popped into her head,
As long as he needs me…

She waltzed up the rest of the stairs humming to herself, then quietly unlocked and opened her apartment door. No sound came from the living room. Tiptoeing to the doorway so as not to disturb him, she peeked at the sofa.

It was empty.

He must be in the bathroom. The door was open. Cautiously, she approached. It, too, was empty.

Was he in the kitchen? Hungry, perhaps? Some runny eggs and a piece of toast weren't enough for such a tall man's appetite. What had she been thinking? She should have used her Safeway Club Card and bought
both
sausage and bacon—and maybe splurged on a quart of chocolate Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond or maybe Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

The kitchen's appliances were last updated at least thirty years earlier. The miracle was that they still worked. The room had an almost art deco look to it with small white appliances atop sheets of ancient linoleum in a yellow, red, and black plaid. Red accessories made the room bright and cheerful, but nothing more.

At the far end of the kitchen the back door was ajar. Outside steps led down to a small yard where trash-cans were kept until garbage day, when they were rolled along a small alleyway to the main street. She always kept that door locked.

Max's clothes, which had been folded and draped neatly over a kitchen chair, were gone, and in their place was the terrycloth robe she'd lent him.

He wouldn't have snuck out on her like that, would he? She wanted to believe he'd merely stepped outside for a moment, maybe to have a cigarette, and would be back soon. She wanted to believe anything except that she'd done it again—that she'd again opened her home and heart to a man whose own troubles left no room for her or her feelings or desires. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with that
type again—her ex had been a complete course in needy personality.

Good thing she found all this out about him before she got any more involved! And even better that she hadn't mentioned him to Angie. This way, she could forget she'd ever met Max Squire, or that he even existed.

Too bad she'd kind of liked him.

As she stepped into her cozy living room, her mind froze. Her big, brown shoulder bag lay open on the oak coffee table. When she picked up her wallet, her heart sank.

All her cash—about a hundred eighty dollars' worth—was gone.

“Isn't that sweet?” Angie thought. She'd returned home after her unhappy encounter with Connie and was on the sofa going through her mail when she came across a letter from
Bon Appetit
magazine. It was an offer for her to become their Bay Area correspondent, since the current one had resigned to become a full-time cookbook writer, and they were aware of her through the occasional but always wonderful restaurant reviews she wrote for the regional magazine,
Haute Cuisine
.

They enjoyed the whimsical style of her writing and thought she would add sparkle to the stories she wrote for them.

“Sparkle?” she murmured with a smile. She did have plenty to sparkle over these days, that was for sure. Diamonds, champagne, Paavo, love.

The offer from
Bon Appetit
dropped unnoticed to the floor as she stared dreamily out the window. The magazine had recently had a particularly nice spread on savory tea sandwiches…

 

Sidney Fernandez, known as “El Toro” by friends and enemies alike, stretched out on the back seat of his
black limousine and watched the bright neon glow of the city at night. He loved his limousine. He loved the plush red leather seats, the fully stocked bar with all his favorite liquor, the television, the satellite phone that worked even when he was in a valley or beside a high-tech office building. He loved the way he never had to worry about parking. He just had Raymondo drive him around and around, picking up friends and acquaintances, and once in a while pulling up to a gas station so he could use the crapper. That was the only thing still needed so he'd never have to leave his limo at all—a toilet.

He didn't even care if he never took a bath or a shower again. He washed up for other people, not himself. He was getting so rich, so powerful, no one would have the
cojones
to object to his stench anyway. Come to think of it, they already didn't.

“What you laughing about, Toro?” a nasal voice asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

“None of your business, Ju-li-us,” Fernandez replied, harshly eying the nervous, sharp-nosed goateed man. “So keep your trap shut.”

Julius Rodriguez sulked, as usual. Fernandez didn't give a damn. He owned the guy. Rodriguez had been one of Fernandez's men since they'd started out as one of many street gangs in Los Angeles. Lots of guys from the barrio wanted to call him “Hu-li-o” but since Julius—like Sidney Fernandez himself—was third generation and his knowledge of Spanish was limited to swear words and common phrases, he preferred the Anglo pronunciation. Anyway, Fernandez also found “Julius” more in keeping with being a big shot's main man.

“I was just wondering,” Julius said. “Where we going?”

“No place. I'm thinking.” Fernandez's three hundred pounds lumbered over onto his back, so his head lay on a stack of pillows covering the armrest, his feet braced against the one opposite.

Julius perched on the seat facing him. “No place. Great.”

Fernandez glared at him. “Is she out yet?”

“She's trouble.” Julius stared out the window. “You can't trust her.”

“Who says I trust her? I want this job. That bitch owes me.”

“And then?” Julius asked.

Fernandez smirked. “That's for me to know. So, she out?”

Julius sighed. “She got out today. I took care of everything for her. She's ours now.”

Fernandez sat back and shut his eyes.
“Bueno.”

After a few more blocks of silence, Julius said, “Why don't we go find ourselves some chicks? I'm tired of just sitting.”

Without moving, Fernandez ordered, “Get out.”

Julius stared at his boss. “You joking?”

“You're tired of sitting, and I'm tired of listening to you complain.” Fernandez struggled to sit up. “Raymondo! Stop here!” The car stopped in the center of Nineteenth Avenue, one of the major thoroughfares through the western side of the city. Brakes shrieked and horns blared outside.

“Come on, boss. I didn't mean nothing,” Julius said.

“Me neither. No hard feelings.”

“But—”

Fernandez pulled out a .357 Ruger. Julius leaped out the door and dashed down the sidewalk. Laughing, Fernandez gave Raymondo the signal to take off.

As the limo rolled through Golden Gate Park, Fer
nandez once again stretched his flabby bulk across the back seat. “Drive along the ocean. I got to relax. The sound of waves, they relax me.”

“You got it, boss.”

“This is gonna be big, Raymondo.”

“I know, boss.”

Fernandez rested his bulbous head and shut his eyes. He wanted to think of
her
, of the way it used to be between them, and could be again, without Julius's constant nagging and worry. He'd been the one to come through for her, to help when she needed it most, and she owed him big time. Also, she knew what he'd do if she tried to get away without paying. She'd help; no doubt about it.

“It's gonna be the biggest job of my life,” Fernandez said to his driver. “After this, I may even think about retiring. What'll you do, then, without El Toro to drive around?”

“I'll be very sad, boss.”

“I'm sure you will, Raymondo. I'm very sure you will be.”

 

“So what that it's a corny old song?” Angie sat across the table from Paavo at Wings of an Angel and listened to him describe the tenor's serenade. “The sentiment is beautiful—that there's the sun in the sky, but my own sun,
sole mio
, is your face,
sta 'nfronte a te
. It moves me to tears just to think about it!” She sighed dreamily, her gaze slowly moving over Paavo's face. It was handsome, and to her eyes, the stuff of songs. Some people might think that it was too angular and hard, with his high cheekbones and intense blue eyes. Not her.

His hair was dark brown and wavy, and he wore it short and brushed conservatively back from his face. He was trim and fit, and about a foot taller than
Angie's five-foot-two, which meant she usually wore fun shoes with wondrously high heels around him.

“Well, maybe it's not such a bad song,” he murmured, then cleared his throat, as if to hide the way her words had touched him. “Anyway, the cops with me sure enjoyed it.”

She grinned at his discomfort. He hated showing any iota of sentimentality, yet hidden under a brusque exterior, he was one of the most loving people she'd ever met. “I'm sure they thought the singer was wonderful. They just didn't know how to tell you.”

“Angie.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “It was thoughtful, unexpected, loving—but no more singers. Please.”

She smiled ruefully. “All I wanted was for you to know how happy I am.”

“I know, believe me. By now, the entire police force of the City and County knows as well.”

“Good.” She laughed. Even Paavo chuckled, proving he wasn't nearly as upset as he pretended to be.

Earl White scurried from one table to the next, serving desserts and coffee, collecting checks, and clearing dirty dishes, while continuing to provide for a steady stream of take-out customers. Angie hadn't realized Wings had started such a service. It appeared to be successful, amazingly so. Who would have thought so many people would have a yen for cash-and-carry spaghetti and meatballs?

Angie leaned toward Paavo, and in a lowered voice said, “As soon as Earl is free, I'll ask him what happened here last night between Connie and her date.”

“So eating here wasn't due to a sudden lust for Butch's cooking,” he said.

“If I was taking care of my lusts, we wouldn't be here now, believe me.” She and Paavo had finished
their green salad and small bowls of minestrone, and were working on the entrees—polenta and Italian sausage for Paavo, and Butch's spaghetti and meatball special for Angie—when she saw that Earl was free, and used her engagement-ring-laden hand to wave him over.

“How're you guys doin' now?” Earl asked as he bustled closer. “Wait! I almost forgot.” He filled his lungs, spread his arms wide, and in an ear-splitting voice that grated like a flat bugle, erupted into “‘
O soo-o-le mi-i-o
!”

The other customers gawked in stunned silence, then burst into applause and laughter.

Paavo cringed as Angie beamed. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Da last take-out guy was a cop. Tol' us all about it. What a hoot! Miss Angie, you're too much.”

Since Paavo looked ready to chew the table, Angie quickly changed the conversation to Connie's date. Earl told them all about the stranger Connie had dined with after Dennis had stood her up.

“Did they leave together?” she asked.

Paavo studied Angie's expression. “You don't think she'd take some stranger home with her, do you? She's smarter than that.”

“Why, then, didn't she tell me about him?” Angie wondered aloud.

Earl had an answer. “Maybe 'cause dis stranger looked like a bum.”

“Well, something kept her home from work, and me out of…”

The door opened and two men walked into the restaurant. The one in the lead dripped magnetism, money, and sexy good looks. Angie stopped talking and eyeballed him. Rarely did she see a man she'd call
a hunk—other than Paavo—but this guy definitely fit the category.

He was at least six-three or-four, with shoulders that stretched from one wall to the other, and thick, jet black hair with an evocative lock carefully draped to touch his forehead lightly. His eyes were hazel, framed by long, black lashes, and his face chiseled. His clothes reminded Angie of a recent Saks Fifth Avenue ad, from his chestnut brown leather sport coat to the gold chains against a cream pullover, dark brown slacks, and Italian brown leather loafers. On his pinky rested an eye-popping diamond in a chunky twenty-four-carat gold setting.

She scarcely noticed the older, thinner, and smaller man in a dated off-the-rack pinstripe suit with wide lapels. He seemed to fade into the woodwork, while the first one lit up the room.

“Oh, my! Who's that?” Angie whispered to Earl as he rose from his seat.

“Not'in' like a day late an' a dollar short,” he murmured. “It's Pagozzi.”

It took all Angie's willpower not to swivel around and stare at the man and his cohort as Earl led them to a back table. Pagozzi looked like part of the high-rolling world of celebrity sports stars, the kind of man who'd have starlets and showgirls throwing themselves at him, while Connie—despite her love of loud, too-tight clothing—was really a down-home kind of girl.

On the other hand, Angie thought with a thrill, it might be time for Pagozzi to settle down with a real woman. Why should he bother with young, sexy play-girls when he could have Connie? A question better left unanswered.

Nevertheless, his own uncle Butch seemed to think
Connie was exactly what he needed, and Butch obviously had Dennis's best interests at heart. Connie's, too.

“Very interesting,” Angie murmured, mental wheels churning and spinning.

Paavo cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the man who'd caused such a reaction in Angie. “He looks like a lot of jocks who've hit the big time,” was his only comment, until, “Uh-oh.”

Angie didn't like the way Paavo was frowning. “Why did you say—”

The question lodged in her throat as Dennis Pagozzi cast a huge shadow across the table. She had to lean way back to look him in the eye. “Hello.”

He held out a large, strong hand. “I'm Dennis Pagozzi,” his deep voice rumbled. “I understand you're Angie Amalfi, and you been a big help to my Uncle Butch and his friends getting this restaurant off the ground.”

“Thank you,” she said, her hand still swallowed up in his. “This is my fiancé, Paavo Smith. We've just become engaged.” She freed her right hand and lifted her left toward him, ring finger extended.

“Very nice,” Dennis said, then offered congratulations to Paavo as they shook hands. “Care if I join you?” he asked as he sat down in the chair Earl had occupied. “I feel terrible I missed meeting your friend last night. Man, my Uncle Butch is really piss—I mean, angry at me about it. See, what happened was, I nearly got knocked out during a pick-up game with some friends—we never get tired of playing, even during the off-season—and I spent my dinner in the infirmary. Do you think she hates me so much if I call her she'd hang up? I been told she's a great gal.”

He looked so hangdog as he relayed his tale of woe
that Angie couldn't help but laugh. “If you tell her what happened, I'm sure she'll listen.”

“Cool!” His face lit up with a big smile. “This restaurant's great, isn't it?” He looked around, eying everything much like a little boy in an ice cream parlor. “I been suggesting to Butch that they expand it so they can fit in lots more customers. I could help out, take part in it myself.”

“Expand it?” Angie was shocked. “Don't you think that'd ruin the place? It's a small, romantic eight-table restaurant.”

“Isn't that the problem?” He shrugged, then rose. “Well, I won't keep you. I wanted to say hello. What if sometime we get together and, you know, toss around ideas about how to make this place bigger and better? I been told you're real creative.”

“Why…that would be most interesting,” Angie said, pleased that someone, somewhere, appreciated her creativity. She tried to be creative, not that she often succeeded, but she always tried.

“Before I forget,” Dennis said, “one more question. What was your friend's name again?”

A short while later, Angie was getting into the passenger seat of her car—Paavo preferred to drive—when she realized she'd never gotten an answer to her question. Had Connie left with the stranger last night or not?

 

Dennis Pagozzi was almost asleep when he heard the doorbell ring. He lived in a mansion in Sea Cliff, one of San Francisco's most exclusive neighborhoods. Most of his friends and teammates lived with family and kids south of the city in big suburban sprawlers with land and swimming pools. Dennis enjoyed city life, so
the thirty-five hundred square feet of high-tech luxury he called home suited him just fine.