If Cooks Could Kill (8 page)

Veronica Maple sat in a coffee shop across the street from Wings of an Angel. When she'd first arrived in the city, she'd rented a Ford Escort—cheap, easy to park, and unmemorable—and she used it now to follow Dennis, to see if he'd go straight to Max Squire. Instead, he went first to a run-down apartment building in the rough China Basin area, where he picked up a sleazy-looking little guy with a pinstriped suit and an eye tic, and then to the restaurant.

Before long, the skinny guy left, but not Dennis. When he finally did, he walked out with some stacked blonde. They took separate cars, and judging from the directions the cars went off in, they weren't going to reconvene at some love nest.

From the outside, the restaurant looked like little more than a dump, although it did a decent business, especially in take-out. She'd peeked in the window and seen that it was clean and kind of cute, if you liked the cozy and intimate look. Definitely not what she'd consider a Dennis Pagozzi go-to place.

She had to find out what Dennis was up to. He wasn't nearly as malleable as when he was younger,
and she didn't like his new assertiveness. He had the nerve to say “no” to her. Nobody said no to Veronica Maple. She thought he'd learned that years ago.

The three years she'd been in jail must have been long enough for him to forget. Or perhaps he thought her time there had softened her. If anything, it'd made her harder and tougher than the girl she once was.

They'd been clever. Neither one of them could simply take what they wanted—it was their way to keep things straight between them. No schemes, no double-crosses.

Now, though, it was working too well. Now that he was balking, she had to find a way to get him to go along, or find a way around him. Somehow, she would. No matter what it took.

Max Squire was the one she had to keep out of this, by one means or another. He knew too much, and he'd do anything he could to screw her over.

She'd prefer to get out of the city before he found her. Dennis swore he didn't know where Max was. For his sake, she hoped he was telling the truth.

The more she looked at the restaurant, the more she decided to check it out. What if Max was in there? What if the blonde was just a ruse?

She entered and stood at the door, looking around cautiously, peering at every corner, her right hand inside her large shoulder bag, her fingers wrapped around the handle of her Smith and Wesson. Inside, the restaurant was filled with the smells of Italy, cloth-covered tables with candles and single roses, wooden chairs, bottles of wine, and frilly white lace curtains adorning the tops and sides of the large window facing the street.

“You wanna table?” the waiter asked from his stand a little past the front door. Behind him were a couple of
tables and swinging double doors to the kitchen. Most of the tables were to the right, as was the window.

She didn't see Max, or anyone else she knew. “I'm looking for Dennis Pagozzi. Do you know him?” she asked, stepping back from the disgusting little man.

“Sure. He's da cook's nephew. He just left, though. I don't t'ink he'll be back—”

“Butch is the cook here?”

“Yeah. You know him? He's—
hey!
”

She slipped past the waiter, toward the kitchen. He tried to step in front of her, but she ground the heel of her boot on his instep. As he hopped around in agony, she shoved the swinging double doors open and marched in.

She'd know him anywhere. Short, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair, a pugnacious grimace to his mouth, and an upturned nose, the only difference between the fleabag before her now, and the one she'd met years ago, was that his hair was no longer black.

Butch glanced up at her and stuck one hand behind his back. “What the hell are you doin' in town?”

“Isn't this interesting,” she murmured, looking around the all-stainless-steel kitchen with its commercial-size ovens, sinks, and refrigerator, until her perusal hit the take-out boxes. She flipped open a Styrofoam lid and smirked.

“Hey!” the waiter yelled, and pulled the box away from her, too late.

“What're you doin' lettin' her in here, Earl?” Butch demanded.

Just then, another man bounded up the stairs from the basement at the noise.

“I didn' do not'in', Vinnie!” Earl cried. “She ran past me. I tried to stop her!”

Vinnie, wheezing from his dash up the stairs, was
short like Earl and Butch, but where Earl was stocky and Butch was wiry, Vinnie sagged all over—cheeks, jowls, chest, stomach, even his feet seemed to splay all over the floor. If a pear could melt, it would end up shaped like Vinnie.

His hair was straight, deeply receding at the forehead and with a bald spot at the pate. He looked at the situation in the kitchen and ran his hand over his hair as if to make sure the bald spot was covered. It wasn't.

“Who is she?” he asked the other two.

“If you're lookin' for my nephew,” Butch growled at her, “he ain't here. He ain't in town, even. An' he don't wanna see you. You keep away from him!”

She laughed. “Do you really think your Dennis is so clean?”

“What's goin' on?” Vinnie asked.

Butch ignored him. “His only mistake was gettin' involved with you!”

“Funny man.”

She took a Benson and Hedges out of her purse and grabbed a book of matches. “You always hated me, didn't you? Maybe that's because you were jealous. You wanted me for yourself, but I belonged to Dennis.”

“You're sicker than I thought!”

She laughed, blowing smoke in the air. “You've got a nice place here, Butch. With a couple of your friends, I see. Friends from San Quentin, right?”

Vinnie's and Earl's heads swiveled from Butch to the woman.

“What you gettin' at?” Butch asked.

“I think you know. Dennis's told me about you, Uncle Butch. You got caught twice, didn't you? First time was just a little thing—auto theft, right? Still, it's a felony. And then the second time. Burglary, wasn't it? Another felony. That makes two strikes, Butch. You get
a third, and you know what that means in California—the jailer will throw away the key.”

“Butch!” Vinnie yelled so loud his face turned beet red. “What the hell is this about?”

Butch glared at her. “She's an old girlfriend of Dennis's. She just got outta jail.”

“An ex-con?” Earl muttered.

“I'd hate it if Dennis's uncle got into trouble.” She smiled coyly at Earl and Vinnie while walking around the tabletop, her fingers lightly touching the take-out boxes, one by one. “It's too bad all of you left so much evidence laying around. It's my civic duty to tell the police, don't you think?”

“Get the hell out of my kitchen!” Butch rushed at her. Earl grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “The only thing I want to go to jail for is killin' you! It'll be worth every minute I'm there!”

“Easy, Butch,” Vinnie said. “Nobody's gonna believe nothin' from her.”

“You stay away from my nephew!” Butch bounded on his toes, like in his old prize-fighting days, unsuccessfully trying to yank his arm from Earl's grip. “So help me…”

“It's too late for that, sweetheart.” Veronica smirked.

“Damn you!” Butch lunged again, but before he could break free, Vinnie hustled her out of the kitchen and out the door.

Instead of being angry at him, though, her reaction was even more chilling. She laughed.

 

The full moon cast a ribbon of white on the ocean just beyond the wide, gritty sand of Baker's Beach. Paavo and Angie took off their shoes and socks and walked barefoot. It was a rare night in San Francisco, no wind, no fog, only a peaceful stillness. To the north, the
Golden Gate Bridge spanned the narrow entrance to the bay, and to the south, high, steep rocks supported the posh neighborhood known as Sea Cliff. Waves from the Pacific lapped at their feet.

Angie was restless. Connie was going out with Dennis tonight, and she was wildly curious about it. She hoped Connie would have a good time. She deserved it. Life hadn't been easy for her.

Between anxiety and dreams of matchmaking, Angie was afraid that if she and Paavo had gone out to dinner, she couldn't have resisted staying away from Wings. Instead, she'd suggested they eat at his place and then bundle up and go for a walk on the beach. In early spring, San Francisco's beaches were usually cold and windy, if not foggy and rainy. Except for a few weeks each year, usually in September and October, only tourists went there without heavy jackets.

The cold water stung as it hit Angie's toes and she ran, lifting her feet high, to dry ground. Paavo chuckled at her. “Sissy,” he said.

“You never told me if Homicide liked the pâté I made,” she said suddenly, apropos of nothing. Paavo was used to that kind of thing.

“They thought it was…quite romantic of you.”

She beamed at him. She couldn't help herself. Everywhere, all the time, with nearly every breath, she thought about him, and ideas would pop into her head, ideas that she absolutely knew would please him and let him know how much she loved him. Also, after the gut-rot motor oil the guys at the Hall of Justice drank, and the greasy doughnuts they ate, gourmet coffee and tea sandwiches had to have been a wonderful change.

“I'm so glad,” she said, relieved. “Isn't it great to share the romance with your friends at work?”

Paavo looked a little stricken. “It's different,” he admitted. He continued to walk through the cold waves while Angie darted back and forth out of their reach, but then, he was part Finnish. After learning that Finns enjoyed jumping out of a hot sauna to roll around in the snow, Angie knew she'd better be prepared for just about anything from Paavo. Her Italian blood couldn't begin to understand it, however. Just looking at his blue toes made her shiver.

“It's the happiest time of my life,” she admitted, beaming at him.

He walked to her side on dry land and put his arms around her. “For me, too,” he admitted, with a kiss that sent her head spinning. Then he tucked her close by his side as they continued their walk.

“I just wish I hadn't passed out when you proposed,” she said.

He laughed aloud. “You didn't miss much.”

“Hmm, I wonder…” An idea was beginning to form.

“You know, now that we've got this being engaged thing down, and we both like it,” Paavo said, “have you ever thought about eloping?”

“Eloping?” She stopped dead, her jaw dropping. “Are you joking? I've dreamed all my life of a big, beautiful wedding. I just sent in subscriptions to
Bride, Modern Bride
, and
Bridal Guide
. I've bought an armful of books, including
Priceless Weddings, Planning a Wedding to Remember,
and
How to Set Your Wedding to Music.
I've already checked out four wedding boutiques and have seven more to go, from Carmel to Tiburon. I even tape the Lifetime channel twenty-four hours a day so I won't miss any of their wedding specials!”

After a long wait, he quietly said, “I always thought eloping would be romantic.”

Hopefulness filled his voice, and she repressed a laugh. “It is, but not nearly so romantic as what I want. I can already see it in my head…”

“Oh?”

“You'll be standing at the altar, looking so handsome, and I'll be wearing the most beautiful gown in the world. At least a dozen bridesmaids will lead the way—”

“A dozen?”

“And my father will escort me to your side—”

“Scowling the whole way. The guy hates me, Angie.”

“We'll have a Mass as part of the ceremony—”

“Not just quick ‘I do's'?”

“With a children's chorus singing traditional hymns, several of them—”

“Angie, are you sure you don't just want to go to Reno? Or, maybe Las Vegas?” Paavo asked one more time.

His question pulled her out of her reverie. He just didn't get it. “Positive,” she replied succinctly.

“That's what I was afraid of.”

 

“This is a picture of the woman I'm looking for.” Chuck Lexington handed Veronica Maple's mug shot to Luis Calderon. Calderon and his partner Bo Benson were the on-call inspectors at Homicide this week, which meant that any murders, suicides, or mysterious deaths that took place in the city and county from six
A.M
. Monday morning to six
P.M
. Friday night were theirs. A separate team took the weekends.

It was nearly midnight. Benson was home catching up on sleep, and Calderon was at the bureau, handling paperwork and writing reports until a call came in. And one would. In a city the size of San Francisco and
with its crime stats, there was a homicide at least once a week, and a “suspicious” death about three times as often.

Calderon took the photo, then glanced at the probation officer hovering near his desk. “Sit down. Begin at the beginning.”

Lexington gave him a brief summary of Maple's background and prison term.

“How do you know she's in the city?” Calderon asked when he was through.

“She bought a Greyhound ticket to here. I thought I had a lead on her whereabouts, but so far it hasn't panned out. That's all I can tell you. That, and the fact that she killed a pawnshop owner. I don't know what she got at the pawnshop. A ticket stub with her name on it was in the owner's pocket, and the item was gone. We suspect she picked up her item, killed him, then left town. I want her.”

“So, you're here to find a skip?”

“She's more than a skip—she's a murderer. And I'm responsible for her leaving Fresno. There was a mix-up with the paperwork, and she was out of there before I knew it. An innocent man is dead as a result.”

“If she's still in this city, we'll find her,” Calderon said, steely-voiced. He didn't need any soft, over-weight parole officer getting in his way. “You asking for an APB to go out on her? Where's the Fresno PD? We always work with them on cases like this.”