If Cooks Could Kill (7 page)

When Paavo walked into Homicide, he was tired and cross from a grueling morning in court. The defendant's attorney was good, but with his client obviously guilty, his only chance was to make the police look like the bad guys in the case. It didn't help Paavo's mood any to know it was more a show for the jury than anything else.

The first thing he saw was an ornate silver coffee urn on a desktop near the entrance to the detail, and around it, yellow, green, and gold floral demitasse cups more than half filled with cold coffee. On platters were fancy little sandwiches, no crusts, cut into heart and flower shapes. A number of them, with one bite taken out, lay abandoned on plates besides the cold coffee.

He looked out over the large, oblong room that held the Homicide detail of the San Francisco Police Department. Homicide was a specialized department, part of the Bureau of Inspections, and housed centrally in the Hall of Justice rather than scattered over the neighborhood stations. Although Homicide was the top level for an officer not interested in supervision or administration to aspire to, right now, those few tough
cops on the premises had their heads buried in their paperwork, refusing to meet his eye.

Elizabeth, Lieutenant Hollins's secretary, and de facto all-around helpmate for the homicide inspectors, a usually pleasant and chatty woman, in her fifties, with dyed red hair and glasses, stepped into the room, saw him, and froze.

“What's this?” he asked as she scurried by, almost as if she didn't want to be anywhere around him.

“Don't ask me.” She picked up the outgoing mail, then hurried from the room.

Heads bent lower as he headed toward his desk in the back.

On the desk was an envelope with his name, written in Angie's neatly rounded script. Eyes peered at him as he opened it.

His own partner was one of the cowards. Paavo stared at him until he looked up. “What's wrong with it, Yosh?”

“Try it.”

Paavo slowly walked to the coffee urn and poured himself a cup. From the smell alone, his stomach began to sink. He took a sip and nearly gagged. Rebecca Mayfield, the city's only woman homicide inspector, stood beside him. She was an attractive blonde, intelligent, tall, and with a figure sculpted to near perfection by workouts at a gym. Everyone knew, including Paavo, about her “secret” crush on him. They also thought she was a lot better suited to him than Angie.

“Strawberry?” he asked.

“Strawberry-and-vanilla-cream-flavored coffee…as far as we can tell,” she said, her lips pursed.

“It's awful.” Paavo's cup joined everyone else's on the table.

“Wait until you taste the sandwiches,” Rebecca warned, unable to suppress a smile.

“What are they?”

“The watercress isn't bad, if you like veggie sandwiches, which these guys don't. But it was the pâté that really got to them.”

“Christ,” he muttered.

“You call it pâté. To me, it's chopped liver,” Calderon's voice boomed across the room. Luis Calderon was Homicide's resident grouch. A Jack Nicholson wannabe, he could have easily played the guy in a Stephen King movie who scared little boys and girls. “Tried to wash it down with that strawberry crap. Thought my damn tongue would shrivel up.”

Rebecca patted Paavo's arm. “I'm sure she meant well. It probably sounded very…romantic…to her. It's excellent pâté, if you like that kind of thing.”

“I can't even think of where to send it,” Yosh finally got the nerve to speak up from behind his desk. “If we offered it to the guys in City Jail, it'd probably cause a prison riot.”

The entire detail laughed.

 

Angie walked two steps from her car and stopped, staring down at one of her black Ferragamo pumps with high platform soles. Stan Bonnette, a slim, preppy-looking man in tan Ralph Lauren slacks and a suede Brooks Brothers jacket, stood beside her. She'd convinced him to go to Connie's shop to buy his mother a birthday gift. “Before we go into Connie's, Stan, I've
got to get the heel of this shoe fixed. It feels loose.”

“How can you tell with those things? I think you need a blacksmith more than a shoe repair.” He laughed at his joke. She didn't.

“A shoe repair is right next door to Connie's. Isn't that handy? Let's go inside.”

Helen Melinger was concentrating on the sole of a man's shoe when the two entered. “Hi, Helen,” Angie said. “How are you today?”

“Well, look who's here. What's up, Angie? I saw your pal drag herself next door this morning. I guess she's settling down a little, finally.” Helen's greeting was good-natured as she swung the hammer down with a resounding
clang.

“I hope. I'd like you to meet a dear friend of mine, Stan Bonnette. Stan, this is Helen Melinger.”

The two shook hands. Angie waited for “Love in Bloom” to sound. “Stan is my neighbor,” she chirped. “He's a good friend. Of Paavo's too.” Heaven forbid Helen get the wrong impression about the two of them.

“Oh, nice.” Helen scarcely looked up. Her muscled arm swung again.
Clang!

“He works in a bank.” Angie pretended not to see Stan scrunch his face up and cringe with each blow.

“Is that so?” Helen glanced up at the clock. Two
P.M
. “Banker's hours are getting shorter every day, aren't they?”

“It's my day off,” Stan said petulantly. He was sensitive about his work habits, or lack thereof. “Why don't you show her your shoe, Angie?”

“Yes, my shoe. Helen is just a wonder at fixing things, Stan.” She counted off on her fingers. “Shoes, purses, belts, um…”

“Motorcycles,” Helen added with a wink and a smile. “I have a big Harley that sings like a bird.”

“Isn't that exciting, Stan?” Angie asked, still not touching her shoe.

“Sure. Except that they're dangerous,” Stan added.

“Not if you know how to ride them properly,” Helen countered.

“It's not
how
to ride them, it's the way they're ridden,” Stan proclaimed. “I hate how bikers head along the line that divides lanes, zipping between cars stuck in traffic. They should stay in one lane or the other, the way cars do. But instead, if you change lanes and you bag some guy on a motorcycle who's where he shouldn't be, usually right in your blind spot, it's the car driver's fault.”

Helen put the hammer down and folded her arms. “You need to understand that motorcycles aren't like cars. They have only two wheels, in case you hadn't noticed. You've got to keep them moving so they don't fall over or stall.”

Angie yanked her shoe off. “Here's—”

“If they can't handle traffic like everyone else,” Stan pontificated, “they shouldn't be allowed in it. A no-motorcycle zone, that's what this world needs.”

“My shoe?” Angie waved it around, hopping closer to Helen. Both Helen and Stan ignored her.

“What kind of a pig-headed attitude is that?” Helen growled. “If everyone rode motorcycles instead of big gas guzzlers, this country would be a lot better place. We could save the environment.”

Stan threw back his head to bray a phony laugh. “A Sierra Club Harley rider. Now I've heard everything. A two-wheeling tree hugger.”

Helen came around the counter toward him with deadly deliberation.

“The heel, right here!” Angie pointed vigorously, trying to get her attention.

“You haven't heard nothing if you bad mouth Harleys
or
the Sierra Club, buster.”

Helen looked ready to deck him, and Angie had no doubt about the agonized outcome for Stan if it came to that. So much for matchmaking. “Uh, Stan, I think it's time for us to go.”

He waved her off. “I can say whatever I want, lady—and I use that term only because I don't think it's polite to say everything one is thinking.”

Angie couldn't believe her ears. Stan never stood his ground. Was he drunk? She shoved her shoe into Helen's clenched hand.

Scrunching the shoe as if it were tissue paper, Helen put both hands on her ample hips. “You can say what you want, you pencil-necked weenie, as long as you have the balls to back it up.”

Angie wobbled dangerously on one shoed foot, tugging at Stan's arm.

He brushed her off. “Well, maybe mine aren't quite as big as you wish yours—”

“Why, you little—”

“Stan!!” Still hopping, Angie grabbed him around the waist and pulled. “Let's get out of here!”

“Hi!” Connie said from the doorway. “I thought I heard familiar voices. I was just heading home.” She met Angie with a smile. “Got to get ready for my date with Dennis Pagozzi, thanks to you.”

Angie gave a whoop of joy and quickly decided her matchmaking failure with Stan and Helen was only an aberration.

 

Connie gelled her hair into spiky strands that stood up on top and sprayed it into place. With this new hair-style she should buy stock in Clairol. She added globs of black mascara to her lashes, gray eye shadow, and
pink blush. After sheer black pantyhose, and strappy black sandals, she squeezed herself into a slinky Victoria's Secret black dress with a skirt so short and a neckline so plunging that if either was much shorter or lower, they'd have met.

Eat your heart out, Pagozzi.

She hadn't believed his concussion story one bit, but having him call made her feel a lot better about him. Angie's predictions about how much she'd like him, though, carried no weight after watching Angie try to matchmake Stan and Helen. Who was next? Charlton Heston and Rosie O'Donnell?

Covering up with her sensible, long, and bulky navy blue overcoat, she headed for Wings. When she walked in, she spotted Pagozzi immediately, and all thoughts about him feeling remorse for missing their date vanished. Who was she kidding? The guy was drop-dead, mouth-watering, giant-size Tom Cruise gorgeous. He stood up as she walked in, all six feet, four inches of him, in what looked like a deep red cashmere sweater and well-fitted black slacks. She stopped breathing. “Connie?” He smiled pleasantly.

“Hi, Dennis.” She fought for composure. She was supposed to be cool here, not gape and drool like some brain-dead groupie. “How nice to finally meet you.” They shook hands, he holding on a little longer than necessary.

“Same here,” he answered, admiration in his eyes. “I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine, Wallace Jones. Everyone calls him Jonesy. Jonesy, meet Connie. She's the chi—er, gal, I was telling you about.”

When she could finally tear her eyes from Dennis, she saw an older man also sat at the table. Skinny, wearing a pinstriped suit with wide lapels, he had a left eye that twitched as he looked at her.

He stood up and shook her hand. His hands felt dry and scaly, and his teeth looked the same.

Dennis held out a chair for her as she removed her coat. His pleasant expression expanded into a wide, happy grin, and he murmured, “Wow.”

Ecstatic, she sat and then turned her attention to his friend. “What do you do, Mr. Jones?”

“It's Jonesy, ma'am. I'm a collector.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How fascinating. What do you collect?”

“Sports stuff, I mean, mem-or-a-bi-li-a,” he said slowly, as if he'd just learned the word and was testing it out.

“That's right,” Dennis said enthusiastically. “And if we make this into a sports bar, like I'm thinking would be a real good idea, Jonesy will supply the stuff to sell, and we'd get a cut.”

Facing him, she was struck anew at what a stunning man he was. “Why would you care about a sports bar when you play football?”

“A guy has to think about the future,” he said. “Someday, when I retire, I'll need a backup plan. Of course, my contract will be renewed for next season. It's not like there's any problem.”

“I see,” she said, although she didn't, quite. Still, a man who thought about the future was fine in her book.

Dennis placed his hand on Jonesy's back. “No sense talking business tonight, friend. I'll call you.” Jonesy took the hint and left.

The evening went by in a haze of glory. Dennis Pagozzi treated her like a princess, and he was large enough that she could feel almost petite around him. His hazel eyes had a way of gazing at her as if she were both interesting and intelligent.

She kept pinching herself to make sure this evening was real. That she was here, and so very happy.

Much too early, he escorted her to her Toyota. She'd hoped he'd ask her to go to a nightclub or out dancing. How many times could a girl say she loved to dance without appearing too obvious? But, no luck.

It was just a first date, though. He should call back. And maybe he really did have a concussion. At this point, she'd have believed him if he said he'd missed their blind date because he'd turned into Superman and saved Metropolis.

“I almost forgot,” he said, as they neared the car. “You talked with Max Squire the other night.”

Max who?
was her first reaction, but she smiled and said she had.

“Did he say anything about how I could get hold of him?” Dennis asked. “I heard he was looking for me, but he didn't leave a phone number or anything.”

That's the question she'd planned to ask
him
, back when she was able to hold a thought in her head. “He didn't say, specifically. Only that he lived near here—in easy walking distance. I suspect he might show up again.”

“I see…” Dennis nodded, looking around. “Anyway, I got to go. See you around, Connie.” With that, he hurried down the block to his Jaguar.

Connie hadn't even put the key into the ignition before she saw him drive off. What was he in such a hurry about?