Something's Cooking (3 page)

He didn't even sit down now. He took one look at how upset she was and, making himself at home as usual, walked into the kitchen to fix them each a brandy and soda. While he did that, Angie called the bodyguard service, Hallston and Sons.

Stan placed their drinks on the coffee table and sat on the yellow Hepplewhite chair. He looked comfortable in it. She'd never realized before how very slight he was.

“What's with the bodyguard, Angie?” Stan leaned forward and took her hand in his, his slim fingers wrapped lightly around hers. “Is there anything I can do to help? You know I'd do anything for you. Just name it.”

“Stan, I'm scared. I don't understand what's happening, but I just—”

In one quick motion he slid to her side on the sofa and put his arm around her. She told him about the car trying to run her down. While one part of her registered that he was taking advantage of the situation, another part appreciated the comfort too much to resist.

They hadn't yet finished their drinks when there was a loud knock at the door.

“That must be my bodyguard. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd get here fast.” Angie started to get up when Stan lightly touched her shoulder to stop her.

“Let me get it. You never know.” He tried to sound macho, but she noticed his Adam's apple bob a couple of times.

She curled up on the sofa, wondering if she'd feel this frightened every time someone came to her door. She led a busy life. She didn't have
time
to be a shrinking violet. She wanted to get back to the way things were two days ago.

Stan peered through the peephole in the door. Angie realized she had never bothered to use it before. She would now, for sure.

Stan pulled the door open all the way, nearly flattening himself against the wall.

Inspector Paavo Smith strode slowly into the room, his brow knitted, taking in everything before him. He wore a gray sportscoat, gray slacks, and a white shirt. A Sherlock Holmes trench coat and deerstalker hat would have been more appropriate, Angie thought.

“You here again?” the inspector asked as he passed by Stan. He glanced at the brandy glasses
side by side on the coffee table and at Angie huddled on the sofa. He turned back to Stan. “Stanfield Bonnet, right?”

“That's, um, Bonnette.” Stan emphasized the second syllable.

Despite feeling suddenly safer with the inspector in the room, Angie was annoyed at the way he had marched in there as if he owned the place. “I suppose you were in the neighborhood again, Inspector.”

“As a matter of fact, I was. I'm trying to work on a murder case that's getting colder by the minute. Nonetheless, Miss Amalfi, I do have a few questions about today's incident.”

He was going to upset her again, she thought, bracing herself. He was probably thinking how stupid it had been for her to go out that day. She folded her arms. “I thought you worked in Homicide. No one's dead here.”

“Not yet.”

“Thanks for the small comfort.”

“Speaking of which.” His gaze fell on Stan. “Were you with Miss Amalfi this afternoon?”

Stan cleared his throat. “No.”

The inspector looked at Angie. “Was anyone with you?”

“No!”

“Any witnesses at all?”

“Sorry. I was too busy hiding to ask for references.”

He glanced at Stan again. “You don't need to remain here, Mr. Bonnet, thank you.” It was a statement of dismissal, not choice.

“That's Bonnette,” Stan muttered. He hurried out the door and slammed it shut.

Angie stiffened her back. She really didn't need this. “You do get your way, don't you, Inspector?”

His eyes narrowed. “Always.”

“You make it sound like a challenge.”

“It's a fact.”

Her gaze traveled from the tall detective to the small antique chair. “Since you're staying,” she said, gesturing toward it, “you may as well sit.”

Instead, he took a step toward her. She fought the urge to step back. “Your cheek is scratched,” he said. “Did that happen today?”

Surprised, she touched her face and felt a small, raised welt just below her left cheekbone. “It must have.”

He nodded, then proceeded past the small chair to the sofa and sat squarely in the center of it.

She turned, her gaze following his steps, her fingers still on her cheek, surprised both that he'd noticed such an insignificant thing and that Stan hadn't.

He spread his arms across the back of the couch. “All right, Miss Amalfi, tell me about it.”

She dropped her hand. “I already told the policeman on the phone.”

“And now you get to tell me.”

Maddeningly, tears filled her eyes. She fought to hold them back, unwilling to let him see any weakness in her. “I don't need you to scare me, Inspector. I'm afraid now. You can feel relieved,
you've done a fine job.” She lifted her chin, daring him to criticize her again, daring him to exclaim that he'd been right and she wrong about the danger.

Surprise flickered in his eyes, then his mouth tightened. He dropped his gaze and began fishing through his pockets, finally pulling out a pen and the same small notebook he'd used yesterday.

“When are you going to say ‘I told you so,' Inspector?”

“It's not my job to criticize or frighten you, Miss Amalfi.”

“What a pity when you do both so well!”

“It wasn't my intention—”

“What is then? What is your intention around here?”

“I intend to keep you alive.”

His simple words caused her stomach to clench.

“And then,” he continued, “I intend to find whoever's behind this.”

Her chin trembled. Her embarrassment at the things she'd said warred with her anger over this whole situation. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean…” She couldn't go on.

His expression softened ever so slightly at her apology. Slowly his gaze drifted over her face and held her eyes for the briefest moment. Then he abruptly flipped open the notebook and clicked the push-cap on his pen. His voice, as he spoke, was firm and matter-of-fact. “I need to know what happened this afternoon.”

“If only I knew!” She squeezed her eyes shut
for a moment, then opened them and gazed at the Cézanne hanging over her stereo system, the brilliant blues and yellows of the carefree, pastoral scene.

“Can…can I get you some coffee, Inspector?” Her voice shook. “My oldest sister, Bianca, brought some
biscotti
over this morning. They're fresh, and…” She rubbed her forehead, then dropped her hand and looked at him, waiting for his answer.

“I'd like that,” he replied.

She fled to the kitchen to make some coffee and compose herself.

She set a mug before him and a small plate of cookies and then sat on the Hepplewhite and began her tale.

As she was telling him how she had hid under some bushes in the park until she was sure the car that had chased her was gone, a tap at the door interrupted her. She jumped at the sound and spun toward the detective.

She caught his gaze and clung to it. Without a word, he stood and walked to the door. Angie followed close behind. He glanced through the peephole, then stepped back, inviting her to take a look.

Her mouth dropped open. Before her stood the biggest man she had ever seen. She looked at Paavo and shook her head.

He gestured for her to step to the wall behind him. “Who is it?” he called through the door.

“The name's Joey.” The man sounded as if he
had a terminal sinus condition. “Nicky Hallston sent me to work for Miss Amalfi.”

“My bodyguard!” she whispered to Paavo.

“Bodyguard?” he mouthed, looking as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or sneer.

He opened the door to let the large man enter.

Angie's gaze traveled over six and a half feet from the man's buzzed haircut to his round face, no neck, bulging biceps under gray gym clothes, to surprisingly small running shoes. “I'm glad Nicky's a friend,” she murmured with awe.

Joey carried a shopping bag. “My dinner,” he said. “Me and Rico'll take this one. Twelve hours on, twelve off. Okay?”

She blinked in astonishment. So there really were people who talked like 1930s Warner Brothers movies. “I won't argue.”

“Huh?”

“Fine!”

She introduced him to Inspector Smith.

“Don't worry about her,” Joey said. “I done this a long time. Ain't lost nobody yet.”

“Sounds good. She's all yours then.”

“Now, just a minute, Inspector—” Angie began.

He gazed at her, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“I don't plan to have a bodyguard the rest of my life, you know. I expect you to get this settled.”

“Right.”

“Soon.”

He arched one eyebrow.

“I mean, I don't want you to forget about me here, just because I'm safe now.”

“Miss Amalfi,” he said with a sigh, “I couldn't possibly.”

She gasped and put her hands on her hips, daring him to say more.

He crossed the room and settled back against the sofa, with what she could have sworn was a hint of smugness in his cold expression. She couldn't remember the last time she'd encountered such a completely irritating man.

As Joey put his dinner away in the kitchen, Angie continued to tell the inspector the conclusion of her story.

She was describing running down a police car to get an escort back to her apartment when the telephone rang. It was an old boyfriend of hers, an actor with the San Francisco Conservatory Theater. “Lewis! It's so good to hear from you!…I'm fine, thank you…Yes…Yes…Oh, that sounds wonderful…No, I'm afraid it's no better. The police haven't turned up one single thing yet…”

She looked up to see the inspector scowling at her.

“Well, it's true, you know!” she said to him and then went back to the phone call. “I'm sorry, Lewis. I was talking to a detective here with me…. Oh sure, they'll investigate family, friends, you know…. What? You have to go right now? But…Wait!…Lewis? Lewis?”

She glanced at Paavo. “He hung up.” Her shoulders sagged as she stared at the phone, the
hum of the broken connection filling the quiet of the room.

Paavo tucked his notebook in the breast pocket of his jacket. “You've given me enough information for now, Miss Amalfi. I suggest that, for a time, you refrain from too much socializing and stick close to home.”

“That was almost an invitation to the theater, Inspector. I've always loved the theater…”

“Remember Abe Lincoln, Miss Amalfi. Good day.”

The next morning
, Paavo pondered the paucity of information he and Matt had turned up so far on Sammy Blade. They had located the small studio apartment where Blade had lived for the past six months, but his landlady knew nothing about him except that he paid his rent in cash and that he was very “sweet.” Sure, Paavo thought, as sweet as cyanide.

The kind of man Blade was and the way he was killed were signs that this case would become another unsolved homicide. Blade wasn't the kind of man anyone cared about when he was alive, and it was the same way in death. A smart cop would mark the death a suicide; a bad cop would toss it in a dead file. Paavo figured he was neither. He wanted to find Blade's killer.

It was time to hit the streets. Men like Sammy Blade were known in certain parts of every big
city. The trick was to find someone who'd admit to having known a loser like Blade.

Paavo would make some contacts in the rough, gang-infested area south of Market Street where Blade's apartment was located. It was an area Paavo knew too well.

Matt was also going out tonight. He'd take the Tenderloin, a red-light district in the heart of the city, adjacent to the theater district and just blocks from the civic center and the high-priced hotels of Union Square.

Right now, Matt was home sleeping. The Tenderloin didn't come alive with the people he needed to see until long past midnight.

Paavo decided to finish writing his report on the Amalfi bombing before hitting the streets.

 

“It's Rico,” Joey called out to Angie, as he looked out the peephole before pulling the door open. “His shift now.”

Rico stepped into the room. He looked like a slightly older version of Joey: big and muscular, with short, gray hair, brown eyes, and the same cork-shaped head sitting on an oil-drum body. He held his shopping-bag lunch with one hand and, with the other, a shoebox with a white handkerchief in it.

“What you got in the box?” Joey asked.

“Look.” Rico put down his lunch. “I found it in the hall.”

Angie stepped out of the den holding her next
Shopper
column. She was going to ask Joey to fax
it to the paper on his way home. Just four blocks down, on Polk Street, there was an office supply store with a fax machine, but she was in such a state these days she didn't want to go herself. Even reams of paper, pens, and rolodexes seemed threatening.

As Joey hovered nearby, Rico moved to lift the handkerchief that covered the box. It took a second for her mind to register the scene before her.

“Don't!” she cried, a sense of
deja vu
striking her.

The two men started. Joey blanched, and Rico lowered the handkerchief. Both tried not to meet her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing to worry about, Miss Angelina. We'll take care of it.”

“Let me see.”

Rico and Joey exchanged glances, and then Rico slowly lifted the edge of the hankie. “Oh, God!” She spun away, her stomach turning over.

The remains of a gray pigeon were in the box, its head split open and its body smashed.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Smith was at Angie's apartment. A patrolman came with him, picked up the “evidence,” and left. Paavo would quiz Joey and Rico about their finding, but most important, he had to work carefully with Angie. He knew she'd be upset, but he needed to solicit any hint of what the image of a pigeon might mean to her. This case so far was nothing but
frustrating, with no clues or apparent motive for any of these threats.

Angie sat at the dining table, her hands folded on the table top.

He took a step toward her. She was pale, her face the sallow-alabaster shade of so many Mediterranean women, devoid of the pink ruddiness of the north. Her lips were colorless as well, and her almond-shaped eyes were puffy from crying. Their eyes met, and for the first time he felt as if he could see past her sophisticated facade and straight to her heart. His insides twisted at her look of fear, at the realization that the bold, carefree woman he had met two days ago was being systematically beaten down. He put his hands on the back of the chair across from her. He wished for a moment that he were the type who could lie to her, tell her not to be frightened, assure her that he'd take care of everything. But he couldn't do that, couldn't find any comforting words to say, so he said nothing.

His fists clenched as he stood there far too long, watching her, sensing her disappointment, yet feeling awkward and tongue-tied, not knowing how to ease her distress. He didn't even know why he thought he should ease her distress. To be fearful and therefore careful was what he wanted of her, wasn't it?

Two days ago, when he first saw the “exploding dishwasher,” he couldn't believe anyone meant to harm her seriously. A nasty reminder sent by a jealous boyfriend, he had suspected. The report
on the bomb had changed his opinion, and now the case was taking on a sick cast.

He couldn't find any rationale for what was happening here. It wasn't logical, which made it all the more dangerous. There could be some maniac behind it all. He ran his fingers through his hair.

Angelina Amalfi was just a little thing, as easy to crush as that bird. He thought of what could happen to her, recalling what he'd seen happen to other women who'd been hunted this way, stalked, tormented, and then captured…. He forced away the images as he looked at the woman before him. Somehow, he had to protect her. He was thankful that she hadn't had his experiences, that she didn't really know, the way he did, what it was she should fear.

He walked around the table toward her and tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. He lifted it away quickly, but not before he had felt the fuzzy warmth of her sweater, noticed the fragile delicacy of her bones, and smelled the light, tantalizing scent of roses that always lingered in the air around her. His fingers tingled from the feel of her as he continued toward the windows to look out at the bay and to try to make sense out of all that was happening here.