Cook's Night Out (6 page)

“We've gone through every piece
of evidence in the Hall,” Paavo said to Yosh as they rode down Harrison. “We couldn't find the blouse and beer bottle from the crime scene. Whoever made the switch got rid of them.”

“It was worth checking,” Yosh said. “We'd have looked like a pair of jerks if the evidence to nail Peewee Clayton was sitting in some locker all the time.”

“Right. Even more foolish than we do now.” And that was plenty foolish. As much as Paavo was checking out others, the other cops were giving him plenty of odd looks in return.

“I wouldn't take anything for granted around here,” Yosh said. “Hey, you got to remember, this is the city where a piece of valuable jewelry placed in evidence was left unattended in a jury room. Then it disappeared. We can't prove a juror snatched it, but we aren't taking any bets that they're innocent.”

“Don't remind me of that.” Paavo shook his head at
the memory of one of the city's more bizarre courtroom incidents. “This fiasco is bad enough.”

“I wonder if you should have tried to bluff your way through the prelim,” Yosh mused. “What if you had simply lied and said it
was
the blouse and beer bottle from the scene? I mean, you had lab tests to back you up.”

Paavo shook his head. “I saw Clayton's eyes. He knew. His attorney would have asked for an evidentiary hearing. It would have taken a little longer, but the result would have been the same. Clayton would have walked.”

They parked the car in the middle of Valencia Street and got out. The buildings on the street were old Victorian flats, most covered with peeling, chalky white paint that obliterated the elegant woodwork on the gables and around the doors and windows. Gentrification hadn't yet reached this neighborhood.

Paavo rang the bell to the walk-up flat. The door buzzed, and he pushed it open—a relic of older times when city dwellers opened their doors without first knowing who was outside them.

“Who is it?” an elderly voice called down.

“Mrs. Clayton?” he called back. He couldn't see her at the top of the stairs. “Police Inspectors Smith and Yoshiwara. We're here to speak with your son.”

“He's sleeping. Leave him alone.”

“It's important, Mrs. Clayton. We need to talk to him.” He waited for her reply.

There was a moment's silence. Then he heard the old woman grumble, “Well, just a minute, then.”

He and Yosh waited a good ten minutes before she called them to come upstairs and led them into her small living room. They sat down on a rust-colored sofa, and she settled into a brown lounge chair. She was a barrel-shaped woman with a flat, round, reddish face
and spidery tufts of gray hair. Turning her head, she shouted into a hallway behind her, “Peewee, hurry up.”

In a few minutes, Peewee came in wearing pajama bottoms and an unbuttoned, mismatched pajama top. His dark brown hair stood on end, his eyes were heavy with sleep, and he needed a shave. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth. Peewee wasn't an especially small man, which led to a lot of speculation as to why he'd been given that particular nickname. But he was a mean SOB, so no one asked. The reality was probably a lot less humorous than the jokes the possibilities gave rise to, anyway.

He was skinny, with small, piglike eyes, a slash of a mouth, and tiny ears resembling corkscrews in the sides of his head. “Ma, get me a beer.”

Mrs. Clayton shuffled off to the kitchen.

“I thought I was through with you guys,” he said as he flopped onto a window seat.

“You're never through with us, Peewee,” Paavo said coldly. “Not when you've killed someone.”

“That's harassment,” Peewee snarled. “You guys can't pull that one on me. I know my rights.”

“Peewee, how can you say that to us?” Yosh said, feigning hurt. “We're your buddies. We want to know how you're getting along, that's all.”

Peewee's mother handed him a beer bottle, the cap already removed.

“Is this what you got me out of bed for?” Peewee asked.

“You don't seem too broken up over Sarah Ann's death,” Paavo said. “I thought she was your girlfriend.”

“So?”

Heartfelt compassion, that was Peewee Clayton.

“Actually,” Yosh said, “we want to ask you about your pal Patrick Devlin.”

“Who?”

“You knew him, Clayton,” Paavo said. “And you probably know he's dead.”

“I don't know who you're talking about.” Clayton was now just mouthing the words. To the cops' experienced eyes, the initial swagger and bravado were disappearing fast.

“No games, Peewee.” Paavo waited a moment for his words to sink in. “When did you last see Devlin?”

“I told you, I don't know the guy.”

“What were you doing Wednesday night?”

Peewee took a long swallow of his beer, burped loudly, then said, “I was here with my mother.”

Paavo would have loved to ram the beer bottle down the murdering bastard's throat. He tamped down his anger, his tone chilling. “Word on the street is you and Devlin ran numbers together. Now he's dead, just like another numbers runner—Haram Sayir. Two dead men. That should worry you, Peewee.”

Peewee's piggy eyes twitched at the news about Sayir. “Nothing worries me. I don't give a damn.”

“Others saw you and Devlin together, Peewee,” Yosh persisted. “Lying about it makes you look like you're guilty of something.”

“Anybody said I was with that guy is wrong.” Clayton sounded mealymouthed. “Or trying to set me up.”

“Set you up for what?” Paavo prodded.

“I don't know, but it's gotta be something bad or you guys wouldn't be lookin' so happy.”

“We're just happy to be here sharing your company, Peewee,” Yosh said.

“Screw you, man.” Peewee slammed the beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. He turned his back to the cops, his chest rising and falling with his deep breaths.

Paavo waited, then broke the silence. “Tell us about your numbers-running gigs, Peewee.”

Peewee spun around. For a second, his expression gave him away; then his tiny eyes became hooded once more. “I don't play the numbers.”

“We heard you do.”

“Numbers is for suckers!” His cheek twitched. “It's small-time except for the banker. The banker pulls in money big-time, but everybody else is just a patsy. The runner takes the chances and gets no payoff. That's not for me. I'm nobody's patsy.”

“Was Devlin a banker?”

“I told you, I don't know him. But if I did, I'd say he was no banker. He was just a small fish.”

“Where were you Wednesday night?” Paavo asked again.

“I already told you.” Peewee somehow reined himself in. “I was here, with my mother.”

“Friday?”

“Same thing.” Peewee turned to face the window, as if suddenly interested in what was going on in the street. “You want anything else, you talk to my lawyer.”

Paavo stood. “I don't think I'll waste my breath.”

 

Tall glasses of ice water, open windows, and a long rest in the living room helped ease Angie's chocolate overdose.

Connie took another sip of water and walked over to the view of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. “I don't get it,” she said after a while.

Angie gave her a quizzical look.

“Here you've got all this—great apartment, a killer car, money, good looks—and you want to knock yourself out making chocolates. It doesn't make sense.”

Angie pushed her hair off her face, then leaned back in the chair. “Lately, I've felt like the Jonah of the business world. Every job I've had, something has gone
wrong and I've ended up out of work. So this time, I decided to become my own boss.”

Just then, a peppy shave-and-a-haircut knock on the door interrupted their discussion.

“Oh, no,” Angie groaned. She went to the door and looked through the peephole to confirm her worst suspicion. It was confirmed.

“Hi, Stan,” she said, opening the door a little way. “I've got company.”

“Oh, the cop?” Stan, a tall young man in white jogging shorts and a T-shirt with a Hard Rock Cafe logo, peered over Angie's head into the room. When he saw that the company wasn't Paavo, he smiled broadly. “The more the merrier, I always say.” He scooted his lanky body around Angie and stepped into the apartment, giving a quick toss of his head to flick back his silky brown hair. The Hugh Grant look, he called it.

He stopped halfway into the living room and gave Connie an appreciative smile. “Hello there.”

Angie shut the door and followed him. “Connie, this is my neighbor from across the hall, Stanfield Bonnette. Stan, meet Connie Rogers.”

“Hi, Stanfield.” Connie held out her hand.

He pumped it hard. “Call me Stan. Angie's mentioned you to me. I'm always pleased to meet one of Angie's friends.” He sat next to her on the sofa, too close. “I work for a major bank in the city. I'm one of those hotshot young executives. Rising fast. Of course, I haven't been able to work since I was horribly attacked a while ago. Life grows more hazardous every day.”

“It does. Are you going to be able to go back to work?” Connie asked, concern heavy in her voice.

“Oh, sure. But I'll milk it for all it's worth. Play the system,” he added with a knowing nod. “That's me, just a concerned, caring, nineties kind of guy.”

Connie eased back from him. “You're amazing.”

“I know.” He smiled proudly, then turned to Angie. “I couldn't help but notice the wonderful smells coming from this apartment, Angie. It's like walking by a See's candy store. Excuse me a minute,” he said to Connie as he got up and headed for the kitchen. “Wow! It
is
a candy store!”

“Help yourself,” Angie called out drily.

In a moment he was back with a plate of chocolates. “I've died and gone to heaven,” he enthused, finishing one piece and starting a second as he walked into the living room. Draping himself over an antique Hepplewhite chair, he turned to Connie again.

“So,” he said, licking his finger, then taking a moment to decide which piece to try next, “you're one of Angie's friends. Are you…uh…also a cook?”

“No,” Connie said, “I run my own business. A gift shop. Everyone's Fancy.”

“Aaaaahhhhhh, one of those filthy rich self-employed people.” He laughed uproariously, as if it was a joke. Neither woman joined him. His laugh died and he bit into another piece of candy. “You know, Angie, all the candy is good, but these little squares with the chopped dates and nuts and caramel, why, they're simply outstanding.”

Angie and Connie both stared at him as if he were crazy.

“Well,” he said, standing up, a chocolate melting over his thumb and forefinger, “I guess I'll leave you two alone. Mind if I grab another couple of chocolates, Angie?” He was already halfway into the kitchen when he asked.

When he came back out, his plate was overflowing.

“You're going to be sick, Stan,” Angie said. “How can you eat so many?”

“What can I say?” he said. Then his smile vanished and he gave a soulful sigh as he glanced furtively at
Connie. “My love life hasn't been the greatest lately. Not bad, but just not as outstandingly terrific as it usually is.” He turned his gaze toward the plate of candy. “At least chocolate never complains when I leave the toilet seat up.”

Angie and Connie glanced at each other, then burst out laughing.

“All I want to do is talk to him
about our future.” Angie sat in the Senseless Beauty Café having a caffè latte with the Reverend Hodge. They had decided to take a break from working out new ways to publicize the auction, and she somehow found herself talking about Paavo. “But his cases keep getting in the way. And now, people he works with seem to be suspicious that he's involved with things he shouldn't be. They're making him feel awful. The whole situation is terrible, Reverend Hodge. Just terrible.”

“What was it you wanted to say about your future?” The way Hodge asked made her feel he was truly interested. She'd seen him do that with others, too. “Are you thinking of getting married? Living together? What?”

“I don't think he's quite ready to discuss marriage yet,” Angie confessed. “Although he's getting close, I'm sure. Or at least I hope. I've thought about living together, but my father already doesn't much care for Paavo. That would make it worse. My father's the
old-fashioned type. But then, I guess most fathers are, aren't they?”

Hodge chuckled. “How do
you
feel about living with him?”

She lightly stirred her latte a moment, then ate a spoonful of cream off the top. “Being very practical,” she began, “if we were to live together, I don't know where we'd live.”

Hodge's eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I can't see Paavo being comfortable moving into my apartment. He owns his own home—and his cat would hate it even more than he does.”

“Ah, being practical…oh, yes, that's so
very
like you,” he exclaimed. She was surprised he'd said that—not many people recognized her practical side. “So it seems”—he gave a clap of his hands—“that you need to move into his house.”

“I couldn't!” she blurted. “I mean, he's got only one closet. No dining room, and a kitchen badly in need of remodeling. Reverend Hodge, I don't know what to do. I don't
fit
in his house.”

“Ah! Well,” Hodge said after studying her awhile, “that takes care of that. Whether your father approves or not, you don't fit. Case closed.”

“Isn't it awful?”

“Sounds like the only answer is marriage and a new home.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.”

She felt curiously relaxed. “Well, if you say so. Now I just have to hope that someday Paavo sees things as clearly as you do. I'm starting to doubt he ever will, though.”

“Don't give up so easily, Miss Amalfi.” He waggled a finger at her.

“Why not? Whenever I try to bring the subject up, I
may as well be speaking in tongues for all the good it does me.”

She expected him to laugh, but instead he answered with intensity and emotion. “You and your cop friend will get married someday, if you both want it enough and if you, Miss Amalfi, have patience. Right now, he's got to resolve whatever these problems are with his job. He sounds like a man who needs peace in his soul—the peace you can give him—before he can think clearly about the state of his heart. You need patience if you're going to see this through with him. It'll be worth it, though, and in the end, when you're together, it'll seem that all this time actually went by quick as a wink.”

“Quick?”

“As a wink.”

“No way!”

He shook his head and sat back, suddenly looking as deflated as a punctured tire. “That's the way it often is, Miss Amalfi. At the time, especially when you're young, it seems you wait and wait for things to happen. But in later years, when you look back, it seems it all went by quick as a wink. Life's that way. It's all amazingly short. Too short, I think.”

“You sound as if you're ancient,” she said. “But you look like a fairly young man. How old are you?”

His eyes twinkled. “Age, my dear, is a matter of mind.”

“I'm serious. Forty? You couldn't be much older than that. You're not fifty yet, right?”

“Ah, youthful curiosity—and impatience. God love it. But patience is rewarded. Things will work out for you and your cop friend. Just don't give up.”

“I sure hope you're right, Reverend Hodge.” She was suddenly too weary to try to get any answers out of him.

“I am. Just remember what I said.” Then he winked.

 

Angie left the mission that afternoon feeling much better after her talk with Reverend Hodge. He was a curious little man, but despite herself, she was coming to like and enjoy his company.

She opened up her Ferrari as she drove down Highway 280 to Hillsborough, an exclusive community on the peninsula, where her parents lived.

Now, sitting in the library of her parents' somewhat modest mansion, she took in her mother's troubled expression. “Is anything wrong, Mamma?”

Serefina Amalfi heaved a sigh. Angie's mother was a little over five feet tall, a couple of inches shorter than her youngest daughter, and many inches wider. Her hair, jet black with only a little assistance from her hairdresser, was pulled into a tight bun. “A man your father scarcely knew years ago, Frankie Tagliaro, showed up yesterday. I never liked Frankie back then. I like him even less now.”

“Why was he here?”

“To make trouble. That's all he was ever good for. Him and his cousin Trecuppa.” She leaned close to Angie. “They liked to gamble. Ran around with bad people. If I'd known he was here, I'd have thrown him out. But your father, he's too nice. He invites him in.
Sciocco!
Heaven only knows what your father would do if I didn't watch him every minute!”

“What did the guy want?” Angie asked.

“I don't know. Your father wouldn't tell me, can you imagine? But he was upset after Frankie left, and last night I heard him pacing the floor all night. I couldn't even sleep.”

“Would you like me to try talking to him?”

“You?” Serefina looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. “If I can't get it out of him, nobody can.”

That put Angie in her place. “Fine, then,” she murmured.

The housekeeper came in carrying a tray with a snifter of sherry for each of them and a plate of biscotti. “Anyway, Angelina,” Serefina said after a sip of her drink, “what have you been doing? You haven't called me for days.”

Angie held the globe of sherry in her hand. It was time to begin to break the news about her business plans to her parents. “I'm sorry. I've been busy. I'm close to figuring out what I want to do with my life.”

“
Congratulazione!
So, Paavo finally proposed?”

“No, Mamma. I mean my business life. My career.”

“Ah. Your cousin Gina sent me these biscotti. She made them from scratch.” Serefina took one. “Pretty good. Not as light as mine, but she'll get better. That's what married life does for you.”

Angie drank some sherry, then put the glass down. “I already know how to make biscotti. I'm learning something new. I've decided to go into business for myself.”

“Your own business?”

“I want to become a chocolatier.”

Serefina's brows crossed. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“It's someone who makes chocolates,” Angie said, a little too firmly. “That's what I want my business to be.”

“Chocolates? My daughter, a chocolate maker?” Serefina pressed her hands to her chest. “
Dio!
You should be making babies—you and Paavo.”

“I'm working on it.”

“
Madonna mia!
” Serefina jumped up. “Is that the kind of thing to tell your mother? I raised you to be a good girl, to save yourself for marriage, and now you tell me—”

“Mamma, wait!” Angie flung her arms outward. “I meant that I'm working on us getting married.”

“Oh,” Serefina sat. “You nearly gave me a heart
attack! You have to get married in white, you know. Otherwise, what will my friends say?”

“I'll get married in white…someday. Right now, I'm working on my career, on something to do with my life.”

“First you get married.” Serefina jabbed the tabletop with her finger. “Later you worry about careers. That's what I did.”

Angie gulped more sherry. “You helped Papa with his store. I can't help Paavo be a homicide inspector. I need my own career.”

“It seems you get involved in his work too much already. You need to settle down. You're not going to find what it means to be a wife and mother by making a chocolate mint patty!” Serefina folded her arms. “The world doesn't need any more chocolates, anyway. We're already too fat.”

That does it!
Angie stood. “I really don't want to discuss this, Mamma. I'm going home. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“
Vai, vai
.” Serefina dunked the biscotti in her sherry. “Maybe by tomorrow you'll come to your senses!”