If Cooks Could Kill Part 2

Normally, as a newly released prisoner, she should have checked in at the office of her bald-headed probation officer. Not her, though. She made sure he wouldn't even know she was out until it was too late. Inside a cellblock, a few dollars could work wonders. Having been an exemplary prisoner made such schemes easy to pull off. Exemplary prisoner-that meant someone good at hiding all kinds of prison s.h.i.t, playing the system, and having outside sources of supplies, from cigarettes to shivs, to trade for favors.

An ancient, once-beige, graffiti-marked bus rolled toward her, belching dust and black smoke as it came to a halt in front of the prison. The doors opened with a hydraulic whish. After waiting for the inmates' visitors to step off, she bounded up the stairs and gave a crumpled ten-spot to the driver. To her delight, he handed her change. Her smile spread as she swung herself into one of the black vinyl seats, its seams shredded from pa.s.sengers past. To her, it was the most beautiful bus she'd ever seen.

She pressed her nose to the window and watched the scenery. Highway 99 had been pretty much forgotten when four-lane, divided Interstate 5 was completed as the fastest way through the sun-baked valley, and now, most of its vehicles were local pa.s.senger cars, old trucks filled to overflowing with lettuce and other green vegetables, and once in a blue moon, a bus. When the blinding, thick tule fog descended on the valley, they'd play b.u.mper cars so often along a stretch of road near Fresno that it was called Dead Man's Alley.

Right now, though, it looked beautiful. She even liked the smell of the old bus's blue smoke diesel exhaust. Freedom was smelling whatever the breeze carried your way as you traveled wherever your heart and your money took you.

One quick detour, that was all she needed, then the world was hers. Kathmandu sounded pretty good at the moment.

The bus rolled into Fresno about 10:30 A.M. Veronica hurried from the bus station to the flat-roofed brick post office across the street.

A blast of air-conditioned air hit her. No one was in line, so she walked right up to the counter. "Do you have any letters for Veronica Maple at General Delivery?"

The clerk, a heavy, round-faced black woman with wide-s.p.a.ced protruding teeth, frowned. Post office clerks tended not to like general delivery customers. While at times they were people vacationing in the area, they were more often drifters who looked bad and smelled worse. Veronica wondered how many showed up here still wearing their Chowchilla glad rags.

With a weighty sigh, the clerk stepped into the back room. Veronica held her breath. This was the first real test of how much she could trust him. Everything up to now had been promises, and she'd learned at about age twelve to put no faith in a man's promises.

Five minutes later, the clerk returned with a single envelope. "This is all of it," she said with disdain.

"Thanks." It was exactly what Veronica was expecting. She opened the letter and removed a p.a.w.n ticket.

A p.a.w.nshop, iron bars covering its windows, stood forlornly beside the Greyhound depot. She went in and handed the owner the ticket. From the back room, he carried a j.a.panese chest.

"I remember taking this in last week." When the elderly owner spoke, his missing lower front teeth made his words slosh. "A skinny Mexican-looking guy left it. Had a little goatee. Ugly as sin, if you asked me. He talked good English, though. Better'n me, matter a fact. It's heavy, so be careful." Veronica didn't bother answering, the old fellow seemed to like having someone to talk to. "The guy said it had sentimental value for the family," he continued. "Looks kinda like an antique. Or maybe something brought over after the Second World War, you know. You got the key? I couldn't get it open."

"The family has the key," she said through gritted teeth. "How much do I owe you?"

"That'll be a hundred dollars."

As Veronica gave him the money, she noticed an old hammer among a pile of tools. "What do you want for that?"

"The hammer?" He stroked his chin, looking from the hammer to the way she was dressed. "Five bucks."

She gave him the money and took her possessions into the women's room in the bus depot. Her pulse raced as she used the claw side of the hammer to rip the box open.

The inside was stuffed tight with cloths. Frantically, she yanked them out until she felt the object she'd hoped for. Even through the cloth the shape was recognizable. She smiled at the familiarity, at the heaviness, at the sense that now, she was the one with the power and that no one could push her around anymore.

He'd come through for her; now, she had to do what she'd promised. She looked forward to it.

She hid the Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic at the bottom of her backpack and threw the chest and wrappings in the trash. Tossing her backpack over her shoulder, she sauntered up to the Greyhound station attendant and flashed him a big, s.e.xy smile. Why not make his day? "I'd like a ticket for San Francisco," she cooed breathlessly. "One way, on the next bus out of here."

Angie Amalfi drove her immaculate new silver Mercedes-Benz CL600 coupe down West Portal Avenue looking for a parking place, otherwise known as a fool's mission in San Francisco. An unoccupied yellow loading zone beckoned, and she eased right into it, much to the irritation of the people behind her who were most likely also eying the illegal spot. She didn't care. Let them honk and glower and pound their steering wheels. Life was good; luck was with her; and the world was a panoply of baked Alaska straight from the oven, a pouffy dark chocolate souffle, and flaming crepes suzette.

She was engaged.

The to-be-married kind of engaged.

And she still couldn't believe it.

After an eternity of wishing, hoping, praying, hinting, and wondering if she'd have to resort to conjurers and mojo pract.i.tioners, one week earlier San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith had proposed.

Before turning off the ignition, she glanced at her hand on the steering wheel. Her engagement ring, a unique half-carat Siberian blue diamond in an elegant marquise cut and a Tiffany setting of white gold, gave her gooseb.u.mps each time she looked at it, and then everything but Paavo and love flew right out of her head. Maybe she was being silly, but so what? This was a life-altering, karma-enhancing, family-churning event, and besides, she'd never been engaged before.

She kept pinching herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. And looking at her ring. And hugging herself. And looking at her ring. She'd gotten two manicures in two days, trying to find the perfect accompaniment for Siberian blue. A natural French manicure was winning at the moment, since it didn't distract from the ring in the slightest. And her pale green Nina Ricci suit enhanced both.

G.o.d, but she loved being in love. She picked up her cell phone to call Paavo-just to say "hi" and to wish him a happy lunchtime, admiring the way her ring sparkled as she hit the phone's b.u.t.tons.

The ring was especially precious because she knew he'd bought it with money he'd been saving for a new car. His Austin Healey was beyond ancient. If it was in good shape, it might be a collector's item. But the bailing wire and glue that held it together had destroyed any value beyond sc.r.a.p metal.

Paavo wasn't at his desk, and Inspector Bo Benson answered the phone. Benson told her Paavo and his partner were called to a job in j.a.pantown at Bush and Scott Streets, and it wasn't a homicide.

That gave her an idea. A brilliant idea, in fact. Gleefully, she made another phone call, and then, after rubbing a smudge off the dashboard, got out of the car. She was a little woman, with big brown eyes, and short brown hair with eye-catching red highlights, thanks to her favorite Fairmont Hotel beauty salon. Now, as she hurried up the quaint block lined with specialty shops and delis to Everyone's Fancy to hear all about Connie's blind date-holding her hand out in front of her to catch the sparkles of sunlight on it as she went-a quick halt stopped her from barreling smack into the closed front door. She tried the latch handle, but it was locked.

Why was the store shut down at this time of day?

She knocked and peered through the lace curtain behind the gla.s.s door. Nothing moved inside. Maybe Connie was in the back room, sick or something. She'd talked to Connie yesterday, and she'd sounded upbeat and healthy. Why wasn't she at work?

Angie backed up and examined the store. Under a brick red awning, the window display hadn't been changed for at least three months. Boredom was hardly the way to entice neighbors into a shop they pa.s.sed by every day. Connie needed to use a display with pizzazz, one that shrieked, "Buy me!" to window-shoppers. The linens, lace, doilies, and gla.s.s bottles gathering dust didn't even whimper.

Angie purposefully hadn't telephoned this morning, even though she was dying to find out all about the date, because they'd agreed to meet at one P.M. Had Connie forgotten and gone to lunch without her? Or...

What if something had happened to Connie on her date? What if she'd been in an accident?

It couldn't possibly be that she'd been so enthralled with that jock, that Dennis Pagozzi, or whatever his name was, that she'd gone home with him and decided not to come to work today, could it? A long night of wild, pa.s.sionate, raw s.e.x? No way.

That wasn't Connie's style. Or, to be more precise, it wasn't her kind of luck.

"Angie!" Helen Melinger, a broad-shouldered, well-muscled woman who owned the shoe repair shop next door, lumbered onto the sidewalk. "I saw you standing out here. Where the h.e.l.l's Connie?"

"You don't know, either?" Angie asked. "Hasn't she been here at all today?"

"No." Helen folded her thick, muscular arms and scrunched her bulldog face. "I'm ready to p.i.s.s my pants I'm so G.o.dd.a.m.ned curious about that date she had last night. What the h.e.l.l's wrong with her, doing this to me? Where could she be?"

"Good question," Angie said.

"Aagh, it's probably just that she's got a hangover. You know Connie around booze. She never could hold her liquor."

"True, but she doesn't drink much when she's nervous. She knows it goes straight to her head. I don't see that as being the problem." Angie was suddenly worried. "I think I'd better go over to her apartment."

"If you run into her, tell her I don't give a d.a.m.n how sick she is, she'd better come to work tomorrow, or I'm coming to get her, understand?"

"I got it," Angie said, wanting to smile, but not quite sure if Helen was joking or not.

"And congratulations," Helen added gruffly. "Connie told me you were getting married."

"Yes. My cop friend finally proposed." She held out her hand to show off the engagement ring. Everyone she came in contact with had it stuck under his or her nose at some point before the conversation ended.

Helen took hold of Angie's finger, twisting it this way and that in the sunlight. "Look at that ice! Beautiful. Ring's got good fire and saturation. I like it." She dropped Angie's hand. "So, when's the big day?"

Angie was speechless for a moment, not expecting the gruff shoe repair woman to know the stone was a diamond, let alone its excellent qualities. "Well, I'm not sure yet," she murmured finally. "There's a lot of planning to do."

"Yeah. I guess so. Not that I've ever found out." She gave a raspy whiskey-and-smoke-laced laugh.

"Oh? You're single?" Angie eyed the woman. Forty-ish, self-employed, strong, motivated. In other words, exactly the kind of woman for her neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. He could use some discipline, motivation, and hard work in his life. At thirty-something, he kept a job with a bank only because of his father's influence, not his dedication to the world of high finance. Helen and Stan. She liked it! Made for each other, and she could be the little Cupid who'd brought them together. Just as some good fortune had brought her Paavo. She smiled at Helen, starry-eyed. Ah, amore!

"Never found a man I could abide long enough to marry," Helen confessed. "Probably better off for it, too."

"You never know what might turn up when you least expect it," Angie said, her mind working. She was sure she could get Stan out to Helen's shoe repair shop on some pretext or other.

"Got to get back to work. Remember to tell Connie she'd better be here tomorrow or I'll kick her a.s.s."

"Don't worry," Angie said. "There's no way I'd forget."

"I'm getting too old for this stuff, Paavo," Homicide Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara groaned and huffed as he climbed down from the rafters in an abandoned garage.

"Come on, Yosh. It wasn't that high." Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith offered a hand as his partner leaped off a rickety wooden ladder, bypa.s.sing the last few worn-thin steps.

"I'm not complaining about the climb," Yosh said. "It was trying to speak j.a.panese after all these years. You'd think the police department would have someone else on the payroll to do it."

"They do-but not someone else who happened to be right around the corner when needed. You did a good job. The kid was scared, and now he's back with his mother." Paavo watched the young j.a.panese woman tearfully hugging her son, yet obviously torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to tan his backside. Earlier, the five-year-old had gotten angry with her and run away from home. Around the corner from their apartment was a boarded up, dilapidated three-story building, the top two floors flats and a garage at ground level. In the back, a window leading into the garage had a loose board that could be pulled open wide enough for a child to squeeze through.

The police had been called to help find the missing boy. With the help of a bilingual neighbor, the mother explained what had happened. The police soon located the child, but he wouldn't obey the neighbor or his mother, and the cops didn't speak j.a.panese. He huddled on a flat piece of old, rotten wood that had been placed across some rafters at the top of the garage. It could hold a five-year-old's weight, but not an adult's.

Paavo and Yosh happened to be two blocks away investigating an apparent suicide when the call went out for j.a.panese-speaking a.s.sistance. As Yosh climbed up the ladder, he'd tried to remember the words and expressions he'd learned as a child. At nearly six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and legs, a thick neck, and stubbly hair, he looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and the lead in a samurai movie.

When he reached the top of the ladder, the boy gawked at him and shrieked, and before Yosh had finished saying, "Konnichi-wa. Omawari-san desu," or "h.e.l.lo. I'm a cop," the child began to scramble toward his mother.

Now that the boy was safe, Paavo grew curious about the run-down building he found himself in. "Who owns this?" he asked one of the uniforms who had stood under the rafter, ready to catch the boy if he slipped or the board broke.

"The neighbors say its been abandoned for property taxes-a victim of rent control. The city owns it now but hasn't decided what to do with it," the young cop replied. "The upstairs flats are infested with rats, and people never see anyone go in or out."

Eight s...o...b..xes, arranged in a stack, were the only things in the garage that weren't coated with inches of dust and cobwebs. Paavo glanced at Yosh. "I wonder what's in them."

Yosh took out his pocketknife. "Let's find out."

Inside were baseb.a.l.l.s. Yosh lifted one out and gawked at a valuable Roger Clemens autograph. "What the h.e.l.l?"

Lifting out other b.a.l.l.s, they found signatures from Barry Bonds, Pedro Martinez, Mark McGwire, and a number of lesser known players. Paavo and Yosh opened the other boxes and found the same thing. Several ballplayers had signed more than once.

"I wonder if this is someone's baseball collection," Yosh said. "Why here, though? Unless they're hot."

"Or fakes. Let's get them out of here. We can check them out-contact Robbery." He glanced at the neighbors gathered. "They won't last if we leave them."

After instructing a patrolman to send the boxes to storage, Paavo and Yosh left the garage and headed toward the city-issue Chevy. As Paavo took out his cell phone and called Robbery, a short, chubby man with a pencil-thin mustache and wearing a black suit with a red carnation in the lapel walked up to them. A fireplug with a flower.

"Inspector Paavo Smith?" he asked.

Paavo glanced at him, still on the phone. Yosh gave the strange guy an incredulous once-over before pointing to his partner.

Immediately, the little round fellow burst into a loud, operatic version of "O Sole Mio."

Paavo froze. What the h.e.l.l? Then it struck him.

She wouldn't, he thought. As the octaves rose higher and the volume louder, he was forced to admit the awful truth: she would. He jabbed a finger in his ear, and spun 180 degrees, trying to finish his phone conversation. The singer followed, bellowing the tune with grandiose gestures, sobs, and catches in his throat at the heartfelt Italian lyrics, whatever they were. The fireplug had morphed into a singing windmill. A loud singing windmill.

People stuck their heads out of windows, cars stopped on the street, panhandlers forgot to ask for spare change, and a bus missed a turn and ended up on the sidewalk.

Paavo quickly ended the call and fled toward the Chevy. The tenor chased him down the block, still singing and gesticulating. Yosh was already in the driver's seat, his vision blurred by tears of laughter, while the other cops added a chorus of guffaws to the serenade.

With a diving leap into the pa.s.senger seat, Paavo glared at his partner. "Are you going to drive?"

As Yosh sped off, Paavo turned to see the tenor in the middle of the street, hands over his heart, mouth opened wide in song, eyes shut. A large truck was bearing down on him. Just then, Yosh turned the corner...

Chapter 3.

Connie peeked into the living room around one o'clock. Max was still asleep. So much for going to work today. She might trust the stranger to sleep on her sofa, but no way would she leave him with all her possessions. They might not be much to others, but they were all she had, and she loved them. Besides, she'd let her renter's insurance lapse.

The last man to use her sofa that way had been her ex-husband whenever she'd thrown him out of the bedroom. Lots of big rumpled cushions made it comfortable, and the color was a practical brownish-gray. Years ago, a salesman, who could have taken lessons from her no-nonsense mother, had told her it would go with anything, and he was right-from the small house she'd rented with Kevin, to this little one-bedroom apartment in an older building filled with mostly long-term elderly neighbors.

Dark hardwood floors in need of refinishing ran through the hall, living room, and bedroom, and the walls in those rooms had floral wallpaper that had faded and yellowed with age. She knew better than to paint over it, and she didn't have the time or energy to remove it, so she lived with it, trying to brighten up the apartment with lacy white curtains over dark wood window frames, posters of plays and art exhibits, and of course, her one completely impractical pleasure-the one her mother had called "junk"-her stuffed animal and old-fashioned doll collections displayed on shelves, windowsills, and the backs of bureaus and tabletops throughout the apartment.

And now, as a finishing touch-a man in the living room.

Not that Max Squire was a particularly good-looking man, or anything like that. He was no Pierce Brosnan, that was for sure. Not even close to a Brad Pitt. His face was much too narrow, and the curls on his dark blond hair were too tight to look good in today's casual climate. His nose was too long, his nostrils too high, and his eyes too closely set. Even his mouth was perhaps a shade too well-defined for a man.

Her ex, frankly, was a whole lot handsomer. Both men were tall and blond, but Kevin had often worked construction jobs and had the bulk and strength of a man who did such work. Max, though broad shouldered, was lithe. Maybe she hadn't been so far off when she'd said he sounded like an accountant.

Last night, when he'd gotten into her car, he'd nearly pa.s.sed out again, so she'd brought him to her home. Thank G.o.d she'd cleaned, vacuumed, and dusted the place the day before. Even changed the sheets-whether simply because they needed it or out of wishful thinking about her blind date, she wasn't sure. Well, actually, she was sure.

The sheets hadn't been that dirty.

Once they reached her apartment, Max told her he'd been mugged earlier that day. When he fell, he'd managed to protect his head, but the kids who'd robbed him-little Dennis Pagozzi wannabes in Forty-Niner jackets-had taken perverse pleasure in kicking him. He was sure he'd been badly bruised, but nothing more.

They took his money, and that was why he'd been looking for Dennis to borrow more. She decided not to question his story too closely. Since he didn't know how to reach Dennis by phone, and had to rely on hearsay from someone at the Forty-Niner gym to tell him how to locate the guy, Dennis hardly sounded like a close friend. Why turn to him when mugged unless Max had no other friends at all?

She'd run a warm bath for him and ordered him to take it after handing him a large terrycloth robe and the razor she used for her legs. She'd even put a fresh blade in it.

As he bathed, she'd covered the comfortable sofa with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. Normally, she wouldn't have dreamed of allowing a strange man into her home, let alone to her bath and to sleep on her sofa, but he seemed in too much pain to be harmful.

Besides, something about him touched her. She had no idea why. How many women ended up dead because a pitiable stranger had appealed to their compa.s.sion? Was she crazy, or what?

When he'd come out of the bath, with his absurdly white legs protruding from the bottom of the robe and his feet bare, he'd looked so exhausted that she was sure she would be safe that night. Her life as well as her honor.