If Cooks Could Kill (9 page)

“They're doing their own thing. I'm the one who tracked her to San Francisco.” He tightened his lips. “They aren't listening much to me. But she was my case—and it's my job on the line now that she's vanished. I'm not about to sit around. She'll be long gone before they start checking in this area.”

Calderon grunted, his most common form of com
munication. None of what the parole officer was saying surprised him. “We'll do what we can.”

“When, or if, you find her, I want to know about it.” Lexington leaned closer. “She's armed and dangerous, and has already killed once. I don't want to chance her doing it again!”

Calderon slid back in his chair, his mouth firm. “In this department, we know how to handle ourselves.”

Angie was in Stella's Bakery in North Beach carefully going over a recipe for a
Le Succès,
a meringue nut layer cake, with the head pastry chef. She wanted to be sure all four cakes she'd ordered were perfect. And heart-shaped.

The cake literally melted in the mouth, but it required more time and concentration than she wanted to give. For each cake, three heart-shaped layers of meringue, mixed with ground almonds, were baked separately. After baking, the layers were stacked, with caramelized almond butter cream spread over the bottom and middle layers and along the sides, and chocolate flavored butter cream on top. Slivered almonds were pressed against the sides of the cake and chocolate rosettes or other designs could be added on top for decoration. Angie was convinced the difficulty in making it was why French pâtissiers often wrote
“Le Succès”
on the cakes.

The chef was growing increasingly unhappy with each of Angie's comments. Meringues turned crisp and brittle after cooling, so the cake was a bit of a tour de force, and she imagined the possibility of being criticized over each flaw was not a happy prospect.

Nevertheless, she was working to convince him to give it a try, sure the boys in Homicide would be ecstatic over it, when who should walk in but her old friend and sometime foe Nona Farraday, restaurant reviewer on the staff of
Haute Cuisine
, a regional magazine for gourmands. Once, Angie would have crawled through ground glass to get that job.

On top of that, Nona was everything Angie would have liked to be. Tall, thinner than a breadstick, with high cheekbones, big, round, green eyes, and silky straight blond hair, she could wear clothes like a
Vogue
model. Her lips were a lot poutier than Angie remembered, and she wondered if a little collagen hadn't been added. Basically, she was someone Angie could easily hate, and often did.

“As I live and breathe,” Nona cried. She threw her skinny arms around Angie, bent slightly, and they air kissed. “Whatever have you been doing with yourself? I heard your name come up in connection with something, but for the life of me, I can't remember what.”

“My name?” Angie asked in surprise.

“I know. There's going to be an opening at
Haute Cuisine
.” She smiled demurely. “I guess someone mentioned you. You might want to apply. You might have
some
chance. Perhaps.”

“If I were interested, I'd take
Bon Appétit
's offer.”

Nona reached for the countertop to hold herself up, then laughed. “I couldn't have heard right. I thought you said—”

“I did,” Angie stated. “My big news hasn't been announced in the papers yet, and I'm still trying to figure out a date for my engagement party, but look.” She held out her hand.

Nona's mouth distinctly down-turned before she recovered with a big smile and a loud squeal. “Can it be?
You're engaged! How wonderful. Is it the cop?” Nona asked.

“None other.”

“He's so sexy, I'll have to grant you that, Angie.”

“Isn't he? I'm here ordering some special cakes for Homicide. That way, Paavo's friends can enjoy our happiness.”

Nona's teeth clenched as she focused on the cakes behind the glass display. “I've got to get some cake for an open house one of my friends is holding at her art gallery. It would be much more fun, I'm sure, to be buying sweets for my fiancé's friends.”

“It
is
fun.”

Nona rested one hand on the counter, the other on her nearly nonexistent hip and angled toward Angie. “Maybe you've gone about this the right way,” she said. “You've found a regular guy, maybe not real exciting, but
basic,
a guy who believes in things like marriage.” Angie's eyes narrowed as Nona gave a toss of her head, making her hair whiplash away from her face. “Here, I've been going out with artists, chefs, restaurateurs, even a couple of film directors—poor ones, which is why they're here instead of Hollywood. What good has it done me?”

“I don't know how ‘basic' Paavo is—”

“I'm not getting anywhere! These men are so busy trying to figure out themselves, they can't begin to take on the problems a woman might have, especially a strong businesswoman like
moi
.” Nona ran a hand through her hair. She was a melodramatic nightmare.

Angie had had it. She turned back to the chef, whose eyes were starting to glaze over. If she wasn't putting out big bucks for the meringue, he'd have bounded back into his kitchen the minute Nona started talking. She addressed him. “It isn't as if my fiancé jumped
onto the marriage bandwagon first chance he got, believe me, and—”

“You know what I mean, Angie,” Nona interrupted. “At least there was
hope
for the two of you.” She folded her arms. “All right. I'll admit it. Much as my life, my dates, my sex life have been wild and successful and exciting, I wish I knew someone like Paavo.”

Angie did a double take. She tossed her recipe at the startled chef, giving him a quick thumbs up. He clutched the recipe to his chest and escaped.

Then she faced Nona, her mind quickly racing through the unmarried homicide inspectors she knew—and just as quickly came up with the perfect match. “No problem.”

 

Dennis sat at a table at Fior d'Italia, a large restaurant near saints Peter and Paul's Church on Washington Square. He was early for their lunch meeting, but he was anxious to see Max Squire. He'd left word at the Forty-Niner office that if anyone should try to reach him, to give out his cell phone number. Sure enough, Max had called, and they'd arranged to meet.

The waiter, a young man with sandy-colored hair, one gold earring, and a well-scrubbed demeanor, brought him a Johnny Walker Red and water and put it on the table. “Say, you aren't Dennis Pagozzi, are you?” the man asked.

Pagozzi focused on the earring. “Yeah, I am.”

“Wow! I watch the Forty-Niners all the time on TV. Can't buy a ticket”—he chuckled—“even if I could afford one! Man, seeing you here is great. Want to order? Wine? An appetizer? I'm Scott, by the way.”

“Let's give my friend a few minutes to show up,” Dennis said. “In fact…here he comes now.”

Scott turned and tried not to look shocked as he
glanced from Max back to Dennis, as if to be sure he had the right man. “I'll show him to your seat,” he said, baffled.

Dennis could understand why. Max's gaunt appearance stunned him, as well. He'd seen beggars better dressed.

He stood. “Good to see you, old buddy,” he said, hand outstretched.

“Dennis!” Max shook his hand, his lips smiling, but his eyes hard. “Thanks for seeing me. I wouldn't have contacted you if it weren't important.”

The waiter hovered near. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”

Max glanced at Dennis's Scotch and began to shake his head when Dennis said, “Johnny Walker red—a double—for my friend.”

“Thanks,” Max murmured as Scott rushed off.

“So how you been?” Dennis asked.

“Well…not so hot, as you can see,” Max said, gesturing at himself. “But that's not the reason I wanted to talk to you. You see—”

“Wait. After we order lunch. I didn't eat breakfast today.” The waiter brought Max his drink, and Dennis ordered antipasto, soup, pasta, and prime rib for them both. “That okay with you, Max?” Dennis asked.

“Sounds great.”

“And don't take too long,” Dennis said to the waiter. “We're two hungry guys here.” Scott dashed toward the kitchen, about ten feet off the ground.

“So, things haven't come together for you since that trouble a few years back?” Dennis asked.

As the table became loaded with bruschetta, baked brie, and roasted garlic, Max turned the conversation back to Dennis and his football career, as if he didn't
want to talk about his own troubles. Not when he had a chance at a feast.

It wasn't until they were well into the prime rib that Max said, “Veronica Maple was released from prison three days ago.”

Dennis tried to act surprised. “I heard she was expected to get out around this time. I didn't know exactly when. Why do you care?”

Slowly, Max lay down his fork and knife. “Don't play dumb. I know you kept in touch with her.”

“But I didn't!” Dennis protested.

“She told people you did. People in the prison.”

“Why would I? She meant nothing to me. Think, man! She ripped me off, too.”

Max looked, at first, as if he didn't believe him. But then his eyes softened, questioning. Should he trust Veronica and her prison cronies over Dennis? Had he forgotten that Dennis had been the only one to help him in any way three years ago?

“I'm on your side in this,” Dennis said. “I always have been.”

Max ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “She's still got the money. Most of my clients were paid off like you were. The insurance company did right by you, didn't it?”

“Hey, Max. Calm down. They did okay.”

“It's just me. I'm the one she ruined.” His fists clenched. “I can't wait to get my hands on her!”

“You've got to forget about her. This isn't going to do you any good. Leave the city. Keep away from her.”

“I won't do it. She's got what I want!”

“Max, let me give you some money.” He pulled out a wad from his pocket. “How much do you need? Five hundred? A thousand?”

“It's not what I need now. It's the whole thing. She stole eight million dollars from my clients! Do you know what that did to me? To my reputation?”

“Here. Forget the eight million. It's a thousand. It's all I got with me—except to pay this restaurant—but you need more, you let me know. You were the greatest, Max. You helped me invest my money and make nearly twenty percent return on it. You stopped me from doing a lot of stupid stuff I wanted to do. If it weren't for you, I'd have nothing.” Dennis placed it on the table by Max's plate.

Max stared at the money. “Tell me this. Did she contact you?”

Dennis waited a long time before he whispered, “No.”

Max's eyes bored into him, colder than Dennis had ever seen them. “Tell me how to reach her.”

Dennis slowly shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Damn it, Dennis! If you're lying!”

Dennis noticed that the other customers looked up, concerned. “Forget her! She'll only cause you to do something that'll get you into more trouble.”

“Like what? Kill her? Believe me, I'd love to. Once I get my money back.”

“Max, listen to me.” Dennis picked up his money and held it toward Max. “Take this money and leave town. Do it.”

Max stood and knocked the money away, sending the bills flying across the restaurant. “I don't want your goddamned money! I want what's coming to me!”

Dennis stood as well, as Max stormed from the restaurant.

“I'm so sorry,” Scott said, crawling around the floor picking up hundred-dollar bills. “Was he threatening you?”

“No. Not at all. He's just very upset.” He left two hundred on the table to pay for lunch and a substantial tip. “When the pre-season games start, call the 'Niner office. There'll be couple of tickets waiting for you.”

“Oh, wow. Oh, man!”

Dennis hurried from the restaurant and looked up and down the sidewalk for Max.

 

Connie's college helper was scheduled to work at Everyone's Fancy, so Connie took the opportunity to go to Angie's. She wanted to tell her about her date with Dennis.

Had Angie ever been right about the guy. All morning she'd been unable to keep still, leaping around the shop as if it were a step aerobics class, thinking about him. He was so cool.

Angie wasn't home. Didn't that just figure? The one time she had something exciting to tell her best friend about, said friend skipped out on her. What nerve!

Connie got in the car to go back home. The weather was clear, crisp, and warm, and going back to her solitary apartment wasn't her idea of a good time. She drove, enjoying the day, and soon found herself in North Beach, driving down the street where she'd found Max Squire passed out.

Whenever she thought about him, she still felt like a dork over the way he'd snookered her. Nothing like that had happened to her since high school, and then it had been over sex, not money.

Of course, her ex-husband had been the champion at really screwing her. Compared to him, Max was a piker.

Even in her family,
B.M.
, or before men, it was her beautiful younger sister, Tiffany, who got all the attention and love from their parents. Tiffany had been no
more than a secretary, but a secretary in San Francisco's City Hall, where she hobnobbed with local politicians. That made all the difference.

Such a job was far classier than working first as a Bank of America teller or later as an insurance agent for All Farm, like Connie had done. Tiffany talked to their folks about political intrigue. Connie talked about the need for liability insurance. Who was she kidding? She was dull, even to herself.

During that time she met Kevin Trammel. Like her, he had only a high school education, but he belonged to a construction workers' union, made good money, and was handsome as sin. Even Tiffany could scarcely keep her eyes off him.

Connie knew he'd had problems with drugs earlier in his life, but he told her he'd been clean for over six months when they met. They dated another four months, then went to Reno and got married.

Soon after, winter came, and construction slowed. Kevin spent more and more time at home, while Connie went off to work. Money was tight. Two couldn't live as cheaply as one, especially when Connie's pay was low, and when he worked, Kevin's was comparatively high. He was used to buying what he wanted, without a wife or anyone else to answer to.