Cook's Night Out (3 page)

“Chocolates are…well, a bit frivolous,” she admitted.

He was counting the boxes now. “If these are as delicious as I imagine them to be, we'll give them—most of them—to the Senseless Beauty Café, right next door.”

The café's name was jarring—very mellow California. She wondered if Visualize Whirled Peas was on the menu.

“Many top chefs and bakers in the city donate food to the café,” Hodge continued, shaking one of the boxes as if to see how tightly packed it was. “It's sold at high prices, which gives us money to support the needy.”

“Oh, really? That's a wonderful idea,” Angie said.

“It makes everyone happy. We even put a sign up over the sweets—
CHARITY HAS NO CALORIES
. We make a lot more sales that way.”

She laughed. “I like it. Is that where you feed the poor?”

“Ah, Miss Amalfi. You're very practical.” As she watched his face, it reshaped as if made out of Silly Putty. Suddenly, he was sad and downcast. “We don't have the money yet to feed anyone. You have to fertilize the soil before you can plant a garden, you know.”

“You have to what?”

“We need money before we can begin to feed the poor,” he said. “That's why we're holding the auction. It's a lot of work. We need many, many volunteers. I'd be honored to have you join us. We need someone like you.”

His words caught her completely by surprise. “Me? I really don't think—”

“Say you'll give us a try. Just a day or two?” he urged. “If you don't like this type of volunteer work, you don't have to come back.”

Although she was sure his brown eyes were quite common and uninspiring, and in fact were rather shrewd, suddenly they seemed to sparkle. His flyaway wispy hair, the dark eyebrows pointing upward in the center, the thick glasses, and the sorrowful little-boy demeanor all added up to someone she couldn't say no to.

“You've convinced me, Reverend Hodge,” Angie said, completely baffled by her reaction to the man, “I'll be here.”

Paavo sat at his desk in Homicide
,
staring out the soot-dappled window to the freeway that rose like a twoheaded snake from the seedy center of the city to carry cars south to the peninsula or east across the Bay Bridge. Right now, a part of him would have liked nothing more than to be on that freeway heading far, far away. But another part knew he'd have no peace until he figured out what had happened yesterday morning in court.

His partner, Toshiro Yoshiwara, had been horrified when he learned that their carefully documented investigation had been thrown out of court. Yoshiwara, whom everyone called Yosh, had been Paavo's partner for a few months now, since transferring down to San Francisco from the Seattle area. Talkative, outgoing, and amazingly jovial for someone who dealt with homicide day in and day out, he was a tall man, solidly built, with a broad chest and shoulders. His hair was clipped in a short buzz, making his head look almost too small for
his bulky body. Yosh had been with Paavo at the crime scene and later assisted with the arrest. He hadn't bothered going to the preliminary hearing because they believed he wouldn't be needed. They were right, but not for the reasons they'd imagined.

That morning, Paavo had left Angie's place about four
A.M.
after lying awake most of the night. He'd arrived at work so early he was able to talk to the night security force and the janitorial staff.

The bulk of the morning had been spent learning all he could about the care and maintenance of courtroom evidence. He'd visited the Property Control Section and reviewed the property request forms and the court logbook for every piece of evidence connected with the murder of Peewee Clayton's girlfriend, Sarah Ann Cribbs. Each piece of property in the section was numbered, identified, and controlled on the computer system. Each time any piece moved, someone had to sign it out with their name, star number, and destination.

Given all that, having the know-how, let alone the chutzpah, to switch evidence meant it had to be an inside job.

“Paavo.”

Startled out of his thoughts, Paavo looked up to see Luis Calderon standing in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, and his unruly black hair, usually heavily pomaded, was all askew. Paavo figured he must have been working all night.

“Hello to you, too,” Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield called from her desk.

“Yeah, right,” Calderon grumbled. “Can you join me, Paav? Me and Benson got to talk to you about a case.”

“Sure.” Paavo tossed aside his pencil and followed Calderon past the inspectors' desks overflowing with papers and folders, into the hallway to the bank of elevators.

“What's up?” Paavo asked.

“I'll explain,” Calderon replied. “Let's get some coffee first.”

They met Bo Benson in the Hall's cafeteria. He looked every bit as tired as Calderon. His dark skin had taken on an ash gray cast, and lines of weariness across his brow made him look older than his thirty-eight years. He tilted back in his chair, the two front legs lifting off the floor as his gaze darted between Calderon and Paavo.

Paavo knew something strange was going on by the way the two men were acting. They'd worked together too many years for them to put anything over on him. Gone was Bo's lighthearted banter, and gone too—surprisingly—was Calderon's excessive grumpiness. Instead, they both looked subdued and troubled.

“Last night,” Calderon began, “Benson and I were called to a homicide out at Ocean Beach, a murder. A big guy, garish dresser. We ID'd him this morning. His name was Patrick Devlin. You know him?”

Paavo was surprised by the question. “No.”

“Ever heard of him?” Benson asked.

“Should I?”

Calderon continued. “He ran a small numbers operation with drop sites in a few bars and restaurants out in the Richmond and Sunset districts.”

“Numbers? I didn't think we had numbers in this city,” Paavo said.

“According to the guys in Vice, it's hardly big enough to pay attention to. They hope it stays that way.”

None of this told Paavo why these two were talking to him. “Okay, so how does this involve me? Did you find a connection with one of my cases or something?”

Calderon's hard black gaze fixed on Paavo. “We found something on the body. A phone number. It'd
been stuffed in his mouth, like maybe he was trying to hide it from someone. Maybe he was shot before he had a chance to swallow—who knows? Why he wanted to hide the number, though, we can only guess.”

“A phone number?” Paavo studied them, trying to read what was going on behind their words. “Did you call the number to find out who it belonged to?”

“No need, Paavo. We already knew.” Calderon's eyes were penetrating, wary. “That's why we wanted to talk to you. We didn't want you to feel we'd gone behind your back. Also, we wanted to give you a chance to explain it all to us.”

“Explain? Explain what?”

“He had your home number, Paav,” Calderon said softly. “Not the pager number that the dispatchers and everybody has these days. Your unlisted home number.”

Paavo looked at the two of them as if they were crazy, and then as if they were joking. They weren't. “Are you sure it was mine?”

Benson pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Three seven one five five four six.”

They hadn't made a mistake. The thought of some dead gambler having his home phone number was chilling. His mind leafed through the gamblers and racketeers who'd crossed his path over the years. There were plenty. “Do you have a mug shot on this guy?” Paavo asked.

“Here you go.” Calderon handed Paavo a four-year-old booking photo, plus four-hour-old morgue shots.

Paavo studied Patrick Devlin's pictures a long while. “I've never seen him before,” he said quietly. When he lifted his gaze to them, though, he felt as if ice water had been poured through his veins. “You two think I have something to hide?”

“No!” Calderon said. “That's why we're here with you instead of giving this to the chief. The only prob
lem is that this is coming up right after the court fiasco with Clayton. And everyone knows Clayton's involved in all kinds of gambling. It doesn't look good.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Paavo said wearily.

“How many people know your home phone?” Calderon asked.

“How many…What are you getting at?” Paavo didn't like this one bit. They didn't need to question him like some suspect. “To hell with your questions!”

“Relax, Paavo,” Benson said, gripping his shoulder. “We're just trying to help you out here.”

“Give us names, Paavo,” Calderon said. “Your father, your rich girlfriend. Who else?”

Paavo shrugged off Benson's hand. “Angie's mother knows it as well.” His voice was clipped and icy. “But she doesn't make it a habit to consort with numbers runners.”

“Look.” Calderon paused, his gaze locking with Paavo's before he quietly continued. “We could lose the note we found. No one else knows about it but a couple of patrol cops—and they don't know what it means. It's obvious that you're not the type to get mixed up with this kind of skank.”

“Take it to Lieutenant Hollins,” Paavo said. He didn't have to think about the choice before him. Although he was touched by the support and solidarity Calderon's words revealed, it wasn't the right choice—not the one he would make. “I've got nothing to hide.”

“What if IA gets involved?” Benson asked. “It won't take Internal Affairs long to learn that this guy worked the Richmond and Sunset, and that you live in the Richmond. After the Clayton mess, they'll be all over you like locusts.”

“They won't get involved,” Calderon said. “Paavo hasn't—”

“I don't want this buried,” Paavo interrupted.

The two looked at him curiously.

“I don't know how this guy Devlin got my number, and I don't really care,” Paavo said. “But I
do
want to know what he planned to do with it.”

The next morning
,
Angie once again took a cab to the Random Acts of Kindness Mission. She wasn't quite sure, though, why she felt drawn there, and from the time she'd gotten out of bed she had argued with herself about returning. Even now, standing on the Embarcadero, she was hesitant about going back in. The Reverend Hodge, after all, wasn't anything like she'd expected him to be. Nor, for that matter, was the mission itself.

She'd have to think about this, and doing so over a cup of coffee seemed like a good plan. She turned on her heel and went to the Senseless Beauty Café and Pâtisserie.

It was small but charming, with five small round tables, two chairs at each, and a large glass display case filled with pastries, croissants, and muffins. A green chalkboard listed the soups and sandwiches of the day, and behind the counter were a variety of coffee-making machines.

She was the only customer at the moment. A woman with straight blond hair, wearing a plum and white Senseless Beauty Café smock, took her order.

“Do you know the people over at the Random Acts of Kindness Mission?” Angie asked as the woman made her a double latte.

“Very well.” The woman's smile was open and guileless. “Are you a volunteer there?”

“I'm thinking about it,” Angie confessed.

“You couldn't find a better person than Reverend Hodge,” she said earnestly. “He helped me start this café. My name's Rainbow—Rainbow Grchek.”

The conservative-looking café owner didn't appear to be a “Rainbow” at all, but Angie didn't comment. Anyway, she was sure Rainbow had already heard all the comments that could be made.

“He did? How nice,” Angie murmured. Being helped by a man of the cloth was one means of getting a job she hadn't considered yet. A source of constant interest and wonder for her was that so many people managed to find, and keep, jobs they seemed to enjoy. It was a skill she hadn't mastered yet. But if her angelinas became a success, she wouldn't have to worry about it any longer.

Rainbow carried the latte to a table for her.

“I'd love to hear how he helped you,” Angie said, “if you've got a moment.”

“Oh, sure.” Rainbow sat at the table. “I think you'll find it an interesting story. You see, Reverend Hodge found me standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, he found me sitting on the rail of the bridge, ready to jump.”

“You're kidding me.” The idea of the woman before her, who had such a pleasant smile and seemed so happy, being suicidal was hard to imagine.

“It's true,” Rainbow said. “I thought my life was
over. The man I loved had left me for someone else. I waited until the middle of the night. No one else was anywhere near. Or so I thought. I sat on the rail and then—this is strange—I thought I had let go of the railing. I even had the sensation that I was falling, but instead I heard a voice saying, ‘He's not worth it.' To my surprise, I was still holding the rail. I turned to see where the voice had come from, and there was this little man looking at me with sad brown eyes. ‘I promise you,' he said, ‘that if you talk to me tonight, when you see the sun rise your pain will be gone. If it isn't, then you can jump, and I won't try to stop you.'”

“He was there?” Angie asked. “In the middle of the night?”

“It was like a miracle for me,” Rainbow said, her large gray eyes capturing Angie's.

“What did you do?”

“Well, first of all, I didn't believe him one little bit. ‘Trust me,' he said. ‘You'll be dead for all eternity, so what difference can a few more hours of life make?'”

“That's chilling.” Angie shuddered.

“It was. Maybe that was why I sat there on the rail and cried and talked to him. I told him about my life, the bad parts, my disappointments, my son-of-a-bitch cheating lover. Then, when I'd gotten through with my tears, he asked me if there had ever been anything at all that went right for me in life. Had there ever been a moment that I had enjoyed? Well, of course there had been. I told him about those, and as I did, I remembered more of them.

“Then the sun cast a golden glow over the city and the bay, over Alcatraz and Angel Island—even over Oakland. I realized that if I jumped, I'd never see that sight again. I thought of all the other things I'd never see—simple things, flowers, raindrops…a rainbow.
For the first time, I even understood my name, what my parents had been trying to say to me.

“That was when I realized that his first words to me were true—Bill wasn't worth it. I got off the rail, followed Reverend Hodge here, and have been with him ever since. I think of him as my angel. My guardian angel. That's the only way I can explain it.”

“That's a wonderful story,” Angie said.

“Reverend Hodge is a wonderful guy,” Rainbow added.

 

“Hello, Reverend Hodge.” The door to his office stood open, and Angie stuck her head in.

Papers were scattered over his desk. He'd been scribbling a note but looked up, startled, when he heard a voice. Behind the oversized glasses, his surprisingly young face spread into a wide grin. “I've been waiting for you, Miss Amalfi,” he said.

“You were that certain I'd return?” she asked, stepping into the room. She found herself staring at him. He just didn't seem to be the guardian angel type, despite Rainbow's heartfelt words. What was she missing?

“Here, please, let me find you a chair.” He darted to the corner and pulled a chair to the middle of the room near his desk. “Those with a good heart always return to where they're needed.”

“Fools also return to their folly,” she said, taking the offered seat.

“One man's folly is another man's fortune,” he countered.

“Well, who can argue with that?” she asked with a laugh. “I just met Rainbow Grchek, by the way. She spoke very highly of you.”

His small mouth turned up with delight. “She's very kind.”

“Have you been a minister long?” she asked.

He pushed aside his many papers and folded his hands on his desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world for her. “Oh, yes. A long time.”

“Where were you before you came to San Francisco?”

“Here and there. Minnesota. Just outside Minneapolis.”

“Really? I spent a month there with a cousin one summer. Where—”

“Your chocolates were extraordinarily delicious, Miss Amalfi. Tell me about your candy-making business.”

She wondered why he didn't want to talk about Minnesota, but since his change of subject was to one dear to her heart, she went along. “Not so good, I'm afraid. I can't seem to find the right confection. I want my angelina—which is what I'll call it—to be something special.”

“Ah!” He nodded sagely, then his brow wrinkled in confusion. “But why?”

“So that people will notice. So that my business will be unique and valued.”

He studied her. “What does the young man in your life think about all this? I'm assuming there is one.”

“There is. He's a homicide inspector for the city.” She couldn't say Paavo was bursting with enthusiasm over her idea, but he didn't criticize it, either. “He said if it's what I want, I should go for it.”

“A homicide inspector?” His dark eyebrows rose at the news of Paavo's job, and she doubted he'd heard anything else she said. “I would have thought a business executive or corporate lawyer was more your type.”

“You should meet my father.” She couldn't stop a grimace as she thought of the arguments she'd had with her father over her relationship with Paavo.

“That explains a lot,” he murmured, then leaned
toward her, capturing her gaze in a way that was almost mesmerizing. “When things get tough, Miss Amalfi, you be sure to come and talk to me. It's not the first time I've heard of the incompatibility between being rational and being in love.”

His words, his voice, his demeanor were so filled with empathy and understanding that suddenly she saw another side of Reverend Hodge, a side that people responded to, a side that caused them to give him their money and their time.

“Thank you so much,” she said, a little breathless and yet a little perplexed at that observation.

“Now,” he said, giving her his most impish grin, “let me tell you all about my plans for the auction.”