Cook's Night Out (4 page)

Paavo and Yosh headed
for the apartment building in which Peewee Clayton had murdered Sarah Ann Cribbs. Even if the state hadn't officially declared that to be the case, Paavo knew it was true. Yosh drove, which was good because Paavo's mind was light-years away from San Francisco traffic conditions.

In fact, for the first time in his career, conducting a homicide investigation wasn't his primary concern. Instead, it was to find out why a dead numbers runner had his phone number. Even bigger was the second issue: the care and maintenance of courtroom evidence. Specifically, who had handled the two pieces of missing evidence that were causing him and Yosh to reopen the case?

He had learned that Sarah Ann's blouse had been cut off during the autopsy and sent directly to the crime lab for testing. The beer bottle fragments had been dusted for prints at the scene, then bagged and also sent to the lab for blood and hair identification.

Blood, hair, and prints all matched Peewee Clayton's, leaving no doubt that the crime lab had had the true evidence at one point and had run tests on it. That meant the blouse and beer bottle must have been switched after the lab tests were made.

Paavo had interviewed crime scene investigators, criminalists, criminologists, other homicide inspectors, secretaries, typists, janitors, air-conditioning repairmen, telephone repairmen, even the people who supplied the jars and labels for specimen maintenance. He wanted to know who had access to the Property Control Section, who guarded it, and what happened during breaks, lunches, and shift changes. He asked about the procedure for placing new evidence into Property Control, the procedure when old evidence was removed, and whether any of the officers involved had happened to see or hear anything strange over the last three weeks since the crime lab had finished its preliminary study of the blouse.

He had talked to everyone he could find who had worked recently in the vicinity of the Property Control Section. The only ones he had missed were a secretary on maternity leave and an air-conditioning repairman who'd been fired.

But no matter how many people he questioned or how many questions he asked, nothing specific turned up. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary. It came clear, though, that there were times when the onduty person who checked evidence in and out might have left the station for a moment. Since the department was shorthanded, he could have been called away briefly to another task. Or he simply could have taken a bathroom break. No one purposefully left the evidence room unwatched, but since there had never been a problem in connection with the evidence before, security had simply become lax.

Paavo could have gone to the district attorney, Lloyd Fletcher, with his findings, but that might have resulted in some firings and nothing would have been solved. In fact, it only would have made it harder for him to get anyone to talk to him in the future.

Besides, Lloyd Fletcher was far from being one of his favorite people. They'd had problems in the past. Despite years as an assistant DA, once Fletcher had been voted into office on the heels of an unpopular district attorney, he turned into a pure politician.

His main political pitch was that cops should overwhelm criminals with love and tender care in the hope that they might reform. It was a very San Francisco philosophy and, from the police department's point of view, dead wrong. The latest civil grand jury report showed that of the fifty-five thousand felony arrests by the police last year, the DA's office had fewer than two thousand cases going to court. It was all but open warfare between the two departments.

Given that, there was no way Paavo would do anything to make a cop look bad in the eyes of this DA—unless he clearly deserved it.

There was another aspect of the switch, though, that Paavo wasn't about to discuss with anyone.

It was the fact that Peewee Clayton was a nobody—a bad egg who pulled petty thefts and beat up women, old men, and kids. Probably kicked his dog, too, if a creep like that even had a dog. So how would a nobody find anyone powerful enough or clever enough to go into the heart of the Hall of Justice and switch evidence? Even if he did happen to know someone so clever or powerful, why would such a guy bother to help a small-time operator like Peewee?

There was more to this than met the eye. A lot more. Paavo never liked coincidence. Didn't believe in it, in fact. So how could he explain the coincidence of his
case being blown in court at the same time as his phone number was found in a numbers runner's mouth?

Or was he just being paranoid?

They arrived at the apartment building and rang the bell to the manager's apartment. A tall woman with short hair, red at the tips and white at the roots, opened the door. A yellow kimonolike house jacket was wrapped tightly around her waist and a cigarette was wedged in the corner of her lips. As soon as she saw the two inspectors her eyes narrowed and she removed the cigarette. “You two. I heard you let that Peewee off. I thought you were better at your job than that. Sarah was a good girl. Rotten taste in men, but a good girl. She didn't deserve this.”

“That's why we're here, Mrs. Simmons,” Paavo said. “We're picking up the investigation again. We'd like to ask you a few more questions, and also ask you to continue to hold Sarah Ann's apartment just the way you found it. Don't disturb anything.”

She took a long drag on her cigarette, then tilted her head back and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You're late, boys.”

The two cops exchanged glances, and Paavo said slowly, “You might recall that we asked you to—”

“I know what you asked,” she said. “I also know that I got a call a couple days ago giving me the okay to rent the apartment. I had a cleaning service come through, and today my new tenants are moving in.”

 

“The whole idea of a random act of kindness is that it's random,” Reverend Hodge cried petulantly. They stood at the counter at the Senseless Beauty Café. Hodge had decided to buy some coffee and breakfast pastries for his volunteers. Angie had returned to the café the following morning after her talk with Rainbow
and met him as he was going inside. She offered to help carry the goodies. “Auctions aren't random—they're planned. Well planned. Look at all the planning going into this one! What if nobody comes?”

“There's nothing to worry about,” Angie insisted. She was surprised at how depressed and upset the reverend seemed about the whole affair. “Publicity is getting out. People will come—especially if they think they'll be getting a good deal.”

“With an auction, who can tell? It depends on the other buyers.” His shoulders slumped. “I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe I should just stick with random kindnesses and forget all this other stuff.”

“It's not that hard to pull off, Reverend Hodge.”

Hodge turned his small, flat, but effectively hangdog eyes on her. “Easy for you to stand there and criticize!”

“I'm not!”

“She's not,” Rainbow said, giving him a cardboard holder with four cups of coffee. Angie took the box of jelly doughnuts and cinnamon rolls.

As they left the café Hodge continued his complaining. “Explain this one. I hired a catering company, but the owner keeps calling and asking me what I want him to serve. How should I know? Who am I—Betty Crocker?”

They walked along the sidewalk to the mission, the morning sun warm, a crisp breeze coming off the bay just beyond the piers across the wide boulevard. “Did you ask the caterer for suggestions?”

His eyebrows nearly touched his wispy hairline. “Could I do that?”

Was he being purposely obtuse? she wondered. “I can talk to him on the phone if you'd like.”

“Do you know much about food? Besides chocolate, I mean.”

“I know a bit,” she replied. “I studied at the Cordon
Bleu in Paris, and I've worked with a number of restaurants and as a restaurant critic.”

“I knew it!” he cried, jostling the coffee in his excitement. “You're just what I've been looking for…no, praying for. In my profession, I always hope that when I pray I'll get a little special attention. Maybe this time I did.”

“I don't think I'm heaven-sent, Reverend Hodge.”

“I can't imagine you were sent by the
other
place, Miss Amalfi.”

That stopped her.

He pushed open the mission door. “Let's sit here a moment so I can give you some details,” he said, plopping himself down on the edge of the sofa in the entry hall. She took the chair beside him. “We'll have about fifteen hundred people, each paying two hundred dollars to get in, so that's three hundred thousand dollars…. I guess fifty or sixty thousand would be okay to spend on a few hors d'oeuvres and wine.” He gazed innocently at her. “Is that enough?”

Angie couldn't answer for a moment. She had no idea of the magnitude of this event. Her only experience working on a large catered affair was the wedding of her fourth sister. Francesca's marriage to Seth Levine had been a major social event on the San Francisco peninsula. Four hundred people attended, and Angie had thought she'd be worn to a frazzle before it was over. But that was a dinner. This was only hors d'oeuvres. Fifty or sixty thousand dollars? No problem. “I think we can come up with something very nice for that amount of money.”

“The Palace of the Legion of Honor is shaped like a U.” He gestured with his hands, building a picture as he spoke, his nervous energy practically lifting him off his chair. “There's a large hall on one arm of the building. It'll be set up for food and drinks, and people will
mingle with each other. That's where the preauction welcome speeches will be given—and that's also where I hope I can persuade people to give generously for the benefit of the mission. The auction will be held across the courtyard, on the other arm of the U.”

Suddenly, for all Hodge's complaints about planning, she got the vague idea that she'd just been had. He certainly sounded very “planned” now. “Sounds very nice,” she said. The Legion of Honor building, on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean, housed a museum and a large meeting hall.

“The people attending—most of them—will know good food and wine.” He clasped his hands tightly. “We've
got
to impress them.”

“Of course.”

“Plus, I want a centerpiece that fits the theme of the auction: doing good works for people. Something lofty. Something inspired.” He stood, his arms outstretched. “Something…global.”

“Wonderful!” Angie cried, picking up his enthusiasm. “What will it be?”

“I don't know.” He sat and looked woeful again. “I've thought and thought, but I can't come up with anything. I should cancel the whole thing!” He put his head in his hands. “I would, too, but the mission's benefactor—a virtuous, generous man—has already given the mission a lot of money. He rented this building, bought new furniture and rugs for it, even paid for the auction's publicity. How could I let it all die?”

“You can't!” she insisted. “Everything will be all right.”

“But it's all beyond me. I can't handle it. I'm such a loser. Why am I even trying?”

She walked to his side and touched his shoulder. “Reverend Hodge, how can you talk this way? Everyone
in the city thinks…knows…what a wonderful, generous man you are.”

He looked up at her. “Do you have a paper bag with you? I feel a panic attack coming on.”

“Stop worrying, right now!” She put her hands on her hips. “I'll take care of the food for you. I'll work with the other volunteers. That's what you have volunteers for. We'll all pitch in and do our part. It'll come together.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so! Please, Reverend, relax.”

“Okay. I'm feeling a little better already.” He pressed his hands against his chest and took deep breaths. “As soon as I can walk I'll introduce you to Mary Ellen Hitchcock. She's in charge of most of the details of the auction. You two can work together.”

“Is she in Auction Central, down the hall?” Angie stood and picked up the coffee and pastries. “If so, I can find her. I'll take the volunteers their coffee before it gets any colder.”

“Miss Amalfi, you are such a gem.”

 

T. Simon Hodge went into his office to be alone. Angie Amalfi was a wise addition to his cadre—she had the right connections and knew food besides. She fit in with the other women like peas in a pod. They were giving him a headache, though, with their enthusiastic good cheer. One could take only so much of that.

Right now, he had other problems to worry about, like where to store some of the goods collected for the auction.

The door to his office opened. He looked up, covering his notes and paperwork with his arms.

“Oh, hello,” he said, shifting back in the chair. He
didn't have to hide anything from this visitor. “Is anything wrong?”

The man opened the box of chocolates that Hodge had kept for himself and spent a moment deciding which to eat first.

“We have a new volunteer,” Hodge said. “One who knows about gourmet food. She made those.”

“I saw her.” He chose a cherry cordial and bit into it. Some of the syrup oozed out of the candy and rolled onto his fingers. “She'll be working with us a while, I hope.”

“Yes, of course. I didn't realize you took an interest in our volunteers.”

The visitor ate the rest of the chocolate, then licked his fingertips. “Did she mention that her boyfriend's a cop?”

Alarms went off in Hodge's head. “You know her?”

“I met her once. She probably doesn't remember me, but I'm glad she'll be around. She might come in handy.”

“Handy?” Hodge felt his mouth go dry. “Yes, I'm sure she will.”

“More than she ever imagined. Be nice to her, Hodge.” He took another chocolate, then left the room.