The Da Vinci Cook (5 page)

Paavo turned his head to look at him, his expression blank. “They’re going to Rome. The two of them are in flight, as we speak. . . .”

Disbelief rendered the big guy speechless for nearly a full minute, then he choked out, “Rome . . . as in Italy?”

Paavo nodded as the ramifications of what they’d done hit him. Angie had told him they were following Rocco Piccoletti, the home owner’s brother, that he’d taken a three p.m. flight to Rome and had the relic Cat had been accused of stealing with him. Angie seemed to think that all she and Cat had to do was to track down this Rocco Piccoletti in Rome, tell Paavo and he’d ring up the Italian police and ask them to send Rocco back to the U.S., where he’d immediately clarify everything, turn over the relic, and leave Caterina free and clear.

But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He’d been about to explain to her that there were rafts of laws involving extradition, and that, to begin with, he’d have to get all the higher-ups in the SFPD involved, not to mention the State Department, Justice Department, and the various embassy staffs. What she wanted—without clear proof that Rocco Piccoletti was the murderer—was practically impossible. But he didn’t get any of that out before she had to hang up because their plane was taking off.

“Get off the plane!” he’d shouted into the phone. “Don’t go!”

But it was too late. She’d already disconnected.

Now, Yosh faced Paavo. “Is it possible that Caterina doesn’t know that she’s wanted for questioning in connection with a murder investigation?”

“She knows,” Paavo said haltingly.

“Holy shit!” Yosh shook his head with dismay. “That means Caterina’s skipped the country! And since Angie helped, she’s now an accomplice.”

Paavo banged his head one more time.

Chapter 6

Paavo and Yosh returned to the Sea Cliff district and the Piccoletti house. They spent the day canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone besides Audrey Moss had seen or heard anything, and to find out all they could about Marcello Piccoletti. All they got for their efforts was a ringside seat in a game of see, hear, and touch no evil. None of the neighbors knew anything. Most didn’t even know Piccoletti’s name, let alone a brother or other relatives he might have. The sad part, Paavo thought, was that he believed them. So much for big-city neighborliness.

The only out-of-the-ordinary information they learned was that several people had noticed a strange black truck a half block from the Piccoletti house. They had no idea what it was doing in that neighborhood.

One neighbor’s gardener thought he recognized the man sitting in it as being the person who had installed Piccoletti’s security system. He’d waved to say hello, but the man looked at him as if he didn’t know him. The gardener described the truck driver as looking like a bear—overweight, not too tall, young, and with curly brown hair.

Two women, both au pairs from down the block, near where the truck was parked, noticed a priest walking in the direction of the Piccoletti house, but lost sight of him shortly.

It wasn’t much to go on—a black truck, a priest, and a bearish looking fellow who resembled a former workman on the property—but it was a start. Piccoletti’s neighbor had speculated that the reason he was selling his house was because he could no longer afford it. That, too, was an angle worth pursuing.

Cat opened her eyes to a blinding headache. It couldn’t possibly be a hangover. She’d never had one in her life.

As she settled into her first-class seat, the flight attendant offered drinks, and she took a scotch and soda. The whiskey was warming and calming. So much so that against her better judgment she ordered a second. This was an extraordinary circumstance. She fell asleep halfway through it.

Even asleep, all that had happened that day plagued her.

She was certain she had no choice but to go to Rome after Rocco. Angie didn’t know what he looked like, so how could she follow him to take back the chain of St. Peter or to talk to Marcello? Marcello, Cat was sure, knew exactly what his brother was up to. And she had to find out as soon as possible. Especially now that it involved murder.

That was when her head began to throb, waking her.

She buzzed for a flight attendant, who handed her a couple of Tylenol and coffee. The caffeine coursed through her veins, clearing the cobwebs and fuzziness.

Settling back, she shut her eyes again. The plane was quiet as most people tried to sleep. Whether it was the peacefulness, the coffee, or simply having a moment to think, the heavy cloud of confusion and despair that had swirled around her since her boss accused her of stealing Marcello’s relic, worsened by the horrible shock of seeing a dead body, suddenly lifted.

The day flashed before her with clarity, in Techni-color.

Her eyes sprang open, and she didn’t think she’d be able to sleep anymore that night. Maybe never again.

As much as she needed to find Rocco and straighten out everything with Marcello, in the eyes of the police she could well be seen as a fugitive from the law.

They wouldn’t look at her that way, would they? Anyone could tell she was a good person. But there was that damned witness . . .

She’d have to get Charles to talk to his lawyer friends after all. If they got involved, however, they could find out about her and Marcello. She couldn’t let that happen.

What in the world was she going to do? She lay her head back, trying to relax, trying not to let this upset her any more than it already had, then bolted upright.

A monogrammed handkerchief? Satin?

Wasn’t that what Angie had said?

A strange and horrible thought came to her, and with it a chill, the kind that caused old women to say someone had walked over your grave.

No,
she told herself,
it can’t be
.
. . .

Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood, the new chief of the homicide bureau, was pacing the halls when Paavo and Yosh arrived back at the Hall of Justice.

The wide, marble-covered corridors of the government building usually teemed with employees and those members of the public called there by the city’s municipal and superior courts, by the District Attorney and his staff, by the administration and special bureaus of the police department, or by the coroner’s office or the city morgue. Now, though, all was quiet Almost everyone had gone home.

But not Paavo and Yosh’s new boss.

The old chief, Ray Hollins, a forceful, knowledgeable, yet unpretentious man, had been reassigned to be head of the Traffic Division to make room for a virtual celebrity.

“It’s about time,” was Eastwood’s only greeting. He turned and marched into Homicide. The two inspectors followed.

Jim Eastwood was in his late forties, and had transferred to San Francisco from Los Angeles to take a promotion. He’d made a name for himself working the murder of a movie star’s wife—a case that had actually resulted in the star’s conviction, to everyone’s amazement. From all Paavo could tell, Eastwood was ambitious and planned to use his new job as nothing but a PR opportunity. He liked seeing his picture in the newspaper, and it was obvious that he wanted to be Chief of Police. His first day on the job he gave a rah-rah talk and announced to his team that they’d be the best damn homicide detectives in the city. They didn’t bother to remind him that, as opposed to the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, which had an immense police force with detectives doing homicide investigations in every large precinct, San Francisco was physically small, and homicides were handled centrally by the Bureau of Inspections in the Hall of Justice. That meant they were the only homicide inspectors—as they were called in the city, rather than detectives—in town.

Eastwood’s first job as the new boss was to build himself what he considered to be a proper office. Hollins had used a small area separated from the inspector’s desk by floor-to-ceiling partitions. Eastwood wanted one about twice the size—an expansion that resulted in the main homicide room, where all the inspectors sat with their desks, files, and bookcases, becoming even smaller.

The workmen had gone home for the day. Two-by-four studs for the walls had been put into place, and now Sheetrock was being cut and attached. White dust hung in the air, floating like an ominous cloud of fallout.

When Eastwood pushed the door to his small temporary office open, it banged against the wall.

The room had been Homicide’s supply closet. With the renovation, all the supplies were moved into an electrical closet off the women’s room. Since there was only one female inspector and one female secretary in the bureau, retrieving the necessary forms and papers was now difficult—if not awkward and embarrassing.

“A murder in the Sea Cliff is the biggest thing to hit this department since I’ve been here,” Eastwood roared as Paavo and Yosh joined him. “And I’m left in the dark.” He stood behind his desk, his expression haughty and arch. The room was beyond claustro-phobic.

Paavo had nothing to say in response. To explain that he was too busy working the case to rush back to Homicide to give Eastwood a briefing would have sounded like sarcasm. With good reason.

Eastwood sat down. Nodding at a small leatherette guest chair, he said, “Have a seat, one of you.” Only one extra chair fit in the closet. Yosh immediately backed up against the wall, leaving Paavo the hot seat.

The two quickly briefed Eastwood.

“I’d like to request that the Italian police be asked to find and hold Rocco Piccoletti,” Paavo said in conclusion. The airline had confirmed for him that the suspect was on the flight.

Eastwood leaned back and regarded the detective a long moment. “On what grounds?”

“He left the country after leaving the scene of a murder that took place in his brother’s home. I understand the brother is also in Rome. I have a number of questions for them both.”

Eastwood steepled his fingers. “The murder, you said, occurred at about one-thirty. Piccoletti’s plane left at three. Aside from the fact that you need to arrive at the airport two hours early for international flights just to get through security, it would take him at least forty-five minutes to get from his house to the airport, and then he’d still need time to park. It would have been practically impossible for him to be home at one-thirty and still make the flight unless it was delayed . . . Was it?”

“No. But it is possible, barely.” Paavo knew how quickly one could board, as he’d figured out Angie’s movements earlier that day. Damn! Who would have thought she’d leave the country with Cat to chase a murderer! It made him all but physically ill to think about it, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to be working this case, not sitting in a closet answering asinine questions.

Eastwood was addressing him. “ . . . do you know when he bought his ticket?”

“Last week,” Paavo admitted. The airline had that information.

Eastwood stroked his chin. “So, a man has a ticket, goes to the airport, leaves for Rome, and in the meantime, someone is murdered back in his brother’s house. The victim has the home owner’s wallet in his pocket, and meets the owner’s physical description. At the same time, a woman is seen leaving the house immediately after the murder—a woman who is the sister of your fiancée, Inspector Smith. Strangely, she’s the only person who claims the victim is not the home owner, and the only one who places this Rocco Piccoletti anywhere near the house at the time of the murder. Interesting, isn’t it, that no one else saw him?”

Paavo’s back stiffened. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Yosh glanced his way and shook his head. They’d left any mention of Caterina’s identity out of the briefing. How did Eastwood know? “That has nothing to do with anything.”

“Given the sensitivity of the situation, I’d like to question her myself,” Eastwood said. “Bring her in.”

“She’s . . . on her way to Italy.” Paavo’s jaw snapped shut.

Eastwood stared at him. “You have insufficient cause to contact the Italian police about Rocco Piccoletti, Inspector Smith. I see no reason to grant your request.”

Rage building, Paavo stood to leave. “Yes, sir.” He had to get out of there fast. “Thank you.”

“However,” Eastwood thundered, also standing, “the woman is the one the Italian police have got to hold! I want her questioned and sent back to this country immediately. In fact, given the prominent location of this murder and this ‘other’ circumstance, I’ll handle it myself.”

Paavo’s teeth clenched. “I believe Caterina Swenson was only at the house because someone called and accused her of stealing a valuable religious relic. She went to express her innocence to the owner—her client—and saw the body.”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps she did take the relic?” Eastwood was barely able to contain a snarl. “And perhaps killed the home owner when he discovered she was a thief, and then dreamed up this entire nonsensical story because she knew that you, as her future brother-in-law, would believe her?”

“No,” Paavo said pointedly. “I would not consider such a scenario credible.”

Eastwood’s face reddened. “I’ve been told that you were my best inspector, Smith. I’m sorry to see that you’re allowing your personal life to get in the way of this investigation. It makes me think I’m making a mistake in allowing you to continue with this case.”