If Cooks Could Kill (6 page)

Few people knew this was his home, however. And those who did had better sense than to come to call at two
A.M
.

He went to the security video in one corner of his bedroom and looked to see who stood at the door.

He couldn't say his visitor was unexpected. He walked back to the bed, took out the Beretta he kept in his nightstand, and put on a black silk robe.

Holding the gun, he padded downstairs. The bell rang once more as he reached the door.

“Who is it?” he called. No sense letting on that he knew.

“Veronica.”

Hearing her voice was like a knife through the belly. “Are you alone?”

“Of course!”

He opened the door a crack, giving her a quick once-over, then pulled it wider. Her gaze fell to the gun.

“Are you serious?” she said. “Is that any way to greet me?”

“Since when weren't you dangerous?” He slid the gun into the robe's pocket and held open the door as she entered. She looked good, damned good for a woman who'd done time, in a tight silver dress and gray stiletto heels. Her blond hair appeared freshly trimmed and feathered long and sexy. He remembered how silky it used to feel—how silky she used to feel—against his hands.

She perused the living room, slowly walking around over the white carpet, eying the two black sofas with a couple of black and gray checked throw pillows on one of them, the gray loveseat. She lightly fingered the
big screen HDTV, the audio and video entertainment systems, and the entire wall filled with a variety of video game systems and monitors, the usual Nintendos and Playstations, plus more sophisticated arcade equipment. “Still into toys, I see,” she said, her voice curling around him, as husky as he remembered it.

His chin tilted upward. He was glad she could see how far he'd come, but smarted at her criticism. “So? No harm done.”

“You've done well,” she said abruptly. “Extremely well. Almost…suspiciously well, I might add.”

“Don't worry—it's all legit. From football. Not everyone's like you, Veronica.”

“You had me worried there for a minute, but I should have known better.” She laughed aloud as she sat down on the sofa and opened up the onyx cigarette box on the chrome and glass coffee table. “Cigarettes? That's all?” The mocking tone in her voice grated. Lifting out a Benson and Hedges, she held it between long red nails. “You aren't the man I used to know.” She put the cigarette in her mouth and waited for him to pick up the lighter.

“I don't even use nicotine now. That's all I keep in the house, and they're for company.” He held the flame steady as she drew on the cigarette, then sat down across from her. “I'm a respectable member of the community, in case you didn't know.”

Her deep, throaty laughter rumbled inside him, made him want her in his bed. In the past, it had nearly cost him his career.

“Of course you are, lover.” Her head dropped back and she slowly blew smoke high into the air. He eyed her long, smooth neck, the lightly throbbing pulse at the base of her throat.

“How did you find this house?” His words turned
clipped and dry. “I figured you'd phone when you got out.”

“We have a few mutual friends,” she said coyly, “whether you want to remember that little fact or not.”

“I remember,” he said with a frown. “So, when did you get out?”

“Today. Or, considering the hour, yesterday.” She took a deep drag and let the smoke billow around her.

He inhaled it, remembering. “You didn't waste any time getting here.”

“Why should I? I've waited for this a long time.”

He smirked. “For me? I should have known.”

Her red lips slanted into a look that was half-grin, half-derision. “You're such a sick bastard. You know what I'm here for. It's time to hand it over.”

He raked his fingers through his hair and wished he were dreaming. She was more than he could bear. “It's not that easy, Veronica.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I got bills. Lots of them. My career…things…aren't quite as good as they were earlier.”

“I sat in jail three years—”

“I know, but it's been tough. The economy is going south. My contract isn't getting renewed.”

Her face hardened. “What are you saying?”

“I need the money a lot more than you do.”

She jumped to her feet. “Max Squire put you up to this, didn't he? You two bastards think you're going to screw me again!”

“No! I haven't even seen him.”

She pulled a gun from her handbag and pointed it at him. “Where's Max?”

Connie woke up to a raging headache and black circles under her eyes.

Most of the night she'd lain awake berating herself for having been such a sucker. When she saw Squire lying on the street two nights ago, she should have called the cops and had him arrested for vagrancy! How far would he have gotten trying to steal out of their wallets, hmm?

When she finally fell asleep she dreamed she tracked him down. After devastating him with her charms into a mass of quivering unfulfilled desire, on his knees, pounding the floor with frustration, she picked his wallet from his back hip pocket, took out all his money, rolled it up, and slid it into her ample cleavage.

“Connie, forgive me!” he begged.

“Die, worm.”

She sashayed away in a blaze of day-glo pink and matching four-inch spike heels. Comfortable ones. Definitely a dream.

She got up, showered, and used half a tube of Max Factor's Erase trying to hide her bags before putting on the rest of her makeup.

Yesterday, she'd searched her apartment for something, anything, Squire might have left behind to give her some clue of where he was living, but she'd found nothing. Big surprise. He didn't
own
anything to leave behind.

He'd told her he was staying near Wings of an Angel. She wondered if even that was true. Heck, maybe he didn't even know Dennis Pagozzi, and the whole thing was a scam to get a free dinner, a free night's lodging, and some ready cash.

What a stupid, schmaltzy, ignoramus sap she was! She was going to swear off men forever. She'd had it. End of story. Finito.

She was almost out the door to head for work when Angie phoned, singing the praises of Dennis Pagozzi.

“I'd like to know why you met him when he was supposed to have been my date,” Connie snapped.

Angie's reply was measured. “He was sorry he missed you, and he's going to call.”

Like this girl was born yesterday. “Well, let's forget about my job,” Connie mewled. “I'll just sit here by the phone all day.”

“He's handsome, and a sharp dresser. You'll be gaga over him, trust me in this,” Angie urged.

“If gaga is close to nuts, I don't have far to go,” Connie muttered.

Angie tried to change the subject. “Anyway, what's this I hear about you having dinner with some stranger? Earl told me about it. Some bum who was looking for Dennis as well? What was that about?”

“Damned if I know,” Connie said brusquely. “Earl was right. He was a bum. I don't know, and don't care anything about him. Now, I'm going to work.”

Connie hung up the phone, in no mood to hear any more about how great her missed blind date was, or
how much Angie was in love, and definitely not how Angie thought everyone else in the world should be in love as well. Sometimes she could be really hard to take.

Before stepping out of her apartment, Connie looked at herself in a mirror to make sure no one had taped a sign to her back that said “Sucker.” How did guys like Squire even find her?

Right then and there, she was determined to find
him
, and when she did, he'd be one sorry bastard. His ribs might not be broken now, but just wait.

Helen Melinger was sweeping the sidewalk when Connie approached. “Hey, there!” Helen barked in her usual gruff way. “So, you finally decided to get your butt back to work!”

“Buzz off!” Connie unlocked the door and slammed it behind her.

Helen leaned on the broom, gawking at her usually cheerful neighbor.

 

“Hello?” Angie said into the telephone as she shut off the Cuisinart. Ground pork, veal, and pork fat were swirling around with eggs, seasonings, and a heavy splash of cognac.

“Angelina Amalfi? This is Don Evans. I'm Director of Production at Sara Lee, Incorporated.”

With the phone wedged between her ear and neck, she cut a whole goose liver into tiny one-quarter-inch squares. “As in Sara Lee cakes?”

“Exactly. We've heard wonderful things about your Comical Cakes, and—”

“I don't own that business anymore. I'm sorry.” She would have hung up, but her hand was slimy and she reached for a napkin first.

“Wait!” the voice cried. “It's not the business, it's the
creativity we're interested in, and that's
you
. We'd like to start up our own line of festive and holiday cakes—some humorous, and all of them whimsical. The sort of thing you, we've been told, excel at.”

She scooped up the foie gras and put it into a sauté pan with minced onions and butter. “What a nice compliment,” she finally managed to say, as she wiped her hands and stirred the mixture.

“Miss Amalfi.” He was sounding exasperated. “You don't understand. We were hoping you'd consider joining our team as a consultant as we start up this venture.”

He was the one who didn't understand! If the liver cooked much more than a minute it would become rubbery, and her plans to surprise Paavo ruined. “Excuse me, but—”

“You've had experience in what the public is looking for along these lines—very successful experience,” he continued. “Would you be willing to talk to us—”

“My liver is stiffening! I really must go.” Her head cocked further and further as the phone began to slip. She placed it on the counter, then hurried to remove the liver from the heat and put it into a bowl.

“Your what? I'm not…anyway, Miss Amalfi, we'd love the opportunity to work with you, and we have an office right in San Francisco—”

A handful of pistachios went into the Cuisinart and she turned it on High. As she began to sauté the ground meat, the nuts clattered loudly and the blender whirred.

“Hello? Miss Amalfi? What's that strange noise? Hello? Hello?”

 

The Women's Facility was an oppressive cement monolith. Max almost felt a pang of pity for Veronica's
having spent three years there. Almost. A sour-faced female guard led him through security to the visitor's area for the cellblock Ronnie had called home.

He sat on a stool facing a thick glass wall with phones on both sides. After some ten minutes, a jailer led a young black-haired woman to a chair opposite his.

“Who're you?” the woman asked. Her acne-scarred face was hard and the glare she cast made it even fiercer.

“I'm a friend of Veronica's,” he said quietly. “I was supposed to meet her, but she isn't at the hotel.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “You Dennis?” she asked.

Dennis?
The past came at him in a rush. He wobbled dangerously on the stool, his head light and dizzy. After Veronica had been sent to prison, he'd gotten the impression that she'd once had an affair with Dennis, among others. He had no idea, though, that their relationship was at all serious, or that it had continued.

Dennis had been one of his few clients who'd been kind to him and offered help. He'd thought it was because Dennis had considered him a friend. Now, he wondered if it wasn't guilt.

“I'm surprised,” he said finally. “I didn't think she'd tell anyone my name. She must trust you a lot.”

The woman shrugged. “Guess so.”

He tried to look worried. “I waited all day yesterday for her. She was released yesterday, wasn't she?”

“Yeah. Lucky bastard. Me, I got four more years here. She told me you're rich. Can you do something for me? Help me get out?”

“I'll see what I can do. But first, I've got to find Veronica.”

“Why don't you ask her PO?” she said.

“I did. He didn't know where she was either.”

“She said she was going to San Francisco, man. You should try her there. Isn't that where you live? Maybe she's at your place, waiting for you.”

Maybe so, Max thought bitterly. He could imagine her there, with Pagozzi, laughing over what a lovesick fool he'd been. It shouldn't be too hard to find Pagozzi's home, to visit her there with the Saturday night special he'd picked up with Connie's money.

Damn them both!

He smiled warmly at the woman. “To think, I came all the way down here to meet her. Did she say she was going to San Francisco right away?”

“That's what I thought. Why the hell would she want to stay in this crappy town one minute longer than she had to?”

 

Connie's mood wasn't any better when she returned to her apartment that evening, especially after Mrs. Rosinsky, her landlady, confronted her on the stairs and demanded to know if she had a man living in her apartment. She should be so lucky.

Of course, she denied it vehemently, wondering if the landlady had seen Max leave. But that wasn't the case. Instead, apparently, some strange kind of police officer was looking for a man and thought he lived in Connie's apartment. He'd contacted her landlady, who had denied it, but now wanted to make sure she was right.

It was all too weird. On top of everything else, had she given sanctuary to a man wanted by the police? Even if he was, how would they know he'd spent one night there?

She kicked off her Hush Puppies as she flipped through the mail. Two bills, four advertisements. At least the numbers weren't reversed.

Tossing her jacket on a chair, she went to the refrigerator for a Lipton diet lemon tea and to ponder the food situation for tonight's dinner. It wasn't pretty.

The few customers who'd come into the shop that day were picky and didn't buy anything. Many more days like that, and she'd end up back at the Bank of America as a teller. Standing on her feet for eight hours giving money to other people was not her idea of a good time.

The hundred-eighty dollars Max had stolen from her was important. Most of it was grocery money. As she sprinkled some food into Goldie Hawn's bowl, she wondered if she might be reduced to eating fish food before her business turned around.

Goldie Hawn was lucky she was so small. Any larger, and she might end up battered and fried.

Connie cooked some instant rice, then sautéed onion and garlic in a frying pan and added about a quarter pound of hamburger, crumbled, a half can of peas, and a little powdered ginger. When it was cooked, she mixed it together with the cooked rice, sprinkled soy sauce over the concoction, and voilà, “Connie's Fried Rice.” Okay, so it wasn't anything she'd serve company—and she wouldn't dare mention it to Angie—but it was easy, filling, and most important, cheap.

With each bite, irritation at Max Squire grew. How many times is one burnt so badly? She should track him down like a crazed bloodhound, then glom on like a rabid pitbull until he coughed up her money.

Dennis Pagozzi supposedly knew Max. Old friends, wasn't that what Max had said they were? Maybe
Dennis could tell her how to reach him. If she called Butch, he could give her Dennis's phone number.

God, but she hated the thought of phoning a man who'd stood her up! On the other hand, she was desperate, financially speaking.

She was steeling her nerve to punch in the Wings of an Angel number when the telephone rang. She was sure it was Angie again, wanting to get together “to talk.” Why did people who had everything going well for them think that other people's problems could be solved by talking? God knows, if it was that easy, she'd talk so much she'd rival Oprah.

“Hello.” She all but spat out the word.

“Is this, uh, Connie?” a man's deep voice asked.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“I'm Dennis Pagozzi. I called to apologize for missing you the other night. I was knocked out cold in a pick-up game. Spent the night in the infirmary.”

Dennis Pagozzi! He'd actually called her. Was on her telephone. Right now.

She swallowed hard, thoughts of all the movies and books she'd enjoyed recently in which women had sexy Italian boyfriends swimming in her head. Maybe it was finally her turn.

It took a moment for her to find her voice. “How awful!” she croaked, then nervously cleared her throat. “Did you get a concussion?”

“It's no big deal. I'm okay. I was wondering if we could try again.”

To hear him say those words was even more of a shock than the call, no matter how nice Angie had claimed he was. Cautiously, she said, “What did you have in mind?”

“How about dinner tomorrow night? I'll come by to pick you up. My uncle didn't like the way you ended
up sitting there all alone with no one but a guy who knew me years ago to keep you company. It was pretty cold. I never treat my women that way—not any woman. I feel bad about it.”

Something about his pat little speech grated. On the other hand, the way he said “my women” with that growling, masculine voice caused her heart to beat a little faster. God, what was with her? “Tell you what,” she said, taking a couple of deep breaths. “I'll meet you there, but I'll get there on my own.”

“Don't trust me?” he asked, sounding hurt.

“Why should I?” was her quick retort. Despite his sexy voice, he was a long way from being anyone she wanted to depend on for anything. Of course, she did want information on Max Squire's whereabouts, and perhaps he could give it to her.

“Hey, you're one tough woman.” He chuckled. “I like that.”

She smiled. “Maybe, if you're lucky, I'll feel the same about you someday.”

“You will, Connie. You can bet on it.”

After arranging a time, they said good-bye. Connie hung up the phone, but instead of feeling elation at the call, despite Angie's assurances, something made her uneasy.

Maybe she was gun shy because of her rotten experience with Max. Or maybe she just wasn't blind date material.