Too Many Cooks (13 page)

“I see.” She felt sick. When he found out what she'd done with the photos he might die of a stroke or kill her. She wasn't sure which she preferred.

“I have to get dressed.” She hurried toward the bedroom. “Then we'll go to the basement and get the photos.”

“The basement?” he called.

“I threw them down the garbage chute.” She slammed her bedroom door shut but could still hear his mutter of pure fury.

She put on her Liz Claiborne denims, coordinated white-and-blue striped cotton blouse, and Versace boots and ran into the living room. “Let's go.”

They rode down on the elevator, each too aware of the nearness of the other. He got in the back and she stayed near the front, keeping her eyes on the floor indicator as they descended. She could feel his gaze on her neck the whole time and was sure he wanted to wring it.

She walked to the dumpster and looked in. It was empty. The Sunset Scavenger Company had just tolled her death knell.

Paavo looked ready to explode. “Damn it, Angie.”

“Wait!” How in the world was she going to retrieve those photos? Pay someone to go through the garbage dump for the whole city and county? More likely, she'd have to hire a small army. Oh, God, why didn't she think before acting? If she couldn't get the pictures back, she was sure she'd lose Paavo forever. There was no way he'd forgive
this. “Don't worry,” she said, proud she could still bluster while her knees knocked. “Mrs. Calamatti probably has them.”

“Or the dump.”

“No, really. She gets up early before pickup day and hunts for things. Pictures are a real favorite. She's always looking for ones of her daughter.”

He stared at her a moment. “No way she'd mix up family photos with porn.”

“Maybe she doesn't see it as porn,” Angie said. “Maybe she doesn't remember.”

“Nobody's
that
old. Let's go see her.”

“No! She's not home.”

He gave her one of his infamous cold stares. “How do you know? You were asleep when I arrived.”

“Today is Wednesday. Her daughter-in-law picks her up Wednesday, very early, right after the garbage-men come, in fact. She'll spend the whole day with her daughter-in-law. Maybe she'll even spend the night.”

“Oh?” He eyed her suspiciously. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely. I know her schedule.” She was lying through her teeth and suspected Paavo knew it.

They walked back to the elevator. Paavo pushed the call button. “Why don't we go double-check?”

“Oh, no. I don't want to waste any more of your time. I'll just go back to my place, you go to work, and I'll call you when I get your pictures back.”

“You seem pretty sure of all this.”

“I know Mrs. Calamatti.”

The elevator arrived. “That time we found her in the basement,” Paavo said, “we took her to apartment three-oh-one. I think I'll stop by there.”

“No need to bother.” She pushed him into the back of the elevator. “Let's go to my place.”

He stepped forward and hit the button with the big 3.

Angie swallowed hard.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Anything wrong?”

“Wrong? No, not at all. I was just wondering if Mrs. Calamatti will see the absence of clothing in those photos as proof that the Depression's already hit.”

Paavo gave her a strange look.

They knocked on the door, once, then again. No answer. I must be living right, Angie thought. “See?” She raised her forearms, palms up.

He glanced at his watch. “I have to get to work. Now listen, you call me just as soon as you get your hands on those photos, understand? Not one minute later, and no funny business. Is that clear? Absolutely clear?”

She saluted. “Aye, aye, Inspector.”

 

After seeing Paavo off, Angie raced back to her apartment, ran into the den, found the telephone book, and began calling every Calamatti in South San Francisco, hoping to find Mrs. Calamatti's daughter-in-law so she could learn where Mrs. Calamatti had gone today. Also, she wanted to make sure the old lady
didn't
have the pictures. Angie dreaded having to go to the city dump. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack—which reminded her of the kinds of needles that would be lurking in the dump of a city like San Francisco. She wondered if she
could rent suits of mail along with that army to search for Paavo's photos.

She finally located the correct Calamatti family: Mrs. Calamatti had gone to the doctor that morning and would be home around 10
A.M
. A second call to the Sunset Scavenger Company told her that her building's trash was, as she feared, already in the dump.

At 10
A.M
. she was standing outside her building, waiting for Mrs. Calamatti to show up. There was just enough time to talk to her before she had to go to KYME to do Henry's show.

Eventually, a taxi pulled up to the sidewalk and the old lady got out. Angie ran up to her.

Mrs. Calamatti looked startled. “Angelina. Is anything wrong?”

“No, not at all. How was your doctor's visit?”

“No problems that youth couldn't cure.”

“That's good. I'd like to talk to you about something, if you've got a minute.”

“Of course, dear. Let's have a cup of coffee.”

Angie knew it would be the height of insult not to accept. “That sounds very nice.”

She sat on the avocado-colored Sloan's sofa with its white antimacassar over each arm and waited as Mrs. Calamatti poured coffee into paper-thin china teacups and then placed a small platter of some hard, circular Italian cookies with white icing on the coffee table. The only way to eat the cookies without chipping a tooth was to dunk them into the coffee. Angie did so, just as she'd done with those cookies when she was a little girl.

“I was wondering,” Angie said, after listening to a
recital of Mrs. Calamatti's current ailments, “if you happened to find any pictures in the dumpster this morning.”

“Pictures?”

“Photographs, actually. They were in a manila envelope.”

Mrs. Calamatti's face flushed red. “I did see something like that.”

Could she be so lucky? “You did? You're sure?”

“I think I did.”

Angie mentally crossed her fingers. “And did you—uh, pick them up by any chance?”

“Me? Pick up something that belongs to someone else?”

“Oh, they didn't belong to anyone. I did throw them away—but it was a mistake, you see.”

“What I saw couldn't possibly have been yours.”

“Actually, they belong to a friend of mine—for his work. I misunderstood, and I shouldn't have thrown them away.”

“His work? My sister's boy does work like that too. It breaks her heart. He used to be such a good boy. An altar boy, even. And now?” She shook her head.

“My friend…it's not like that. Anyway, do you have the photos?”

“Don't believe him, Angie! Just like my sister's boy. She thought he was a fashion photographer. Hah! Some fashion.
Un
fashion, they should call it.”

“My friend needs the pictures back, Mrs. Calamatti.”

“I know why men need pictures like that!”

Angie was ready to writhe on the floor. “Please! Tell me if you have them!”

“Oh, all right.” She got up and got the pictures from a bottom drawer in her bedroom. “I didn't want them out where anyone could see them. I didn't want anyone to think I like things like this. I'm surprised you looked at them, Angie. What would your mother say?”

Angie nearly dropped to her knees in thanks. She held the pictures tight, swearing she'd never let them go, would never do anything so dumb as to throw away Paavo's, or anyone's, belongings ever again. Thank you, Lord!

She looked at Mrs. Calamatti, and suddenly everything the woman had been babbling about her nephew came together. “Mrs. Calamatti, is it easy for your sister to contact her son?”

“Her son the zucchini brain? Sure. He's not married, so she makes sure she knows where he is. Even though he's a jerk, she still has to be sure he eats right.”

“Could you call her and ask her to ask him a question? A very important question?”

“I guess so.”

“Ask him if he knew which studio took photos of a woman named Sheila Danning.”

“This Sheila, is she someone he should know?”

“He might. She was murdered. It's her in most of the pictures here. Someone ought to know who took them. Tell him I won't say who gave me the information, and I don't even want to know his name. Okay?”

“All right. Let me write this down, then I'll call Ma—”

“Stop! Don't even tell me your
sister's
name.”

Mrs. Calamatti nodded conspiratorially and whispered, “Okay, Angie.”

Angie got up to leave. She had just time to drop the photos off in her apartment and go on to work. “Thank you. I'll talk to you later.”

“All right, Angie. Oh, Angie?”

“Yes.”

“After we solve this problem, maybe we can figure out how to solve the Depression.”

Paavo stayed close to his
phone most of the day waiting for Angie to call to tell him she had his photos. When evening approached, he grew more and more worried that she couldn't get hold of them. As angry as he was with Angie for throwing them away, he was angrier with himself for letting her distract him so thoroughly he'd gone off and left his briefcase. Of course, he had thought it'd be safe in her apartment.

How in the world could he ever explain to Yosh and Chief Hollins why important evidence had disappeared? That was all he needed. He might as well quit his job right now and save the police department the trouble of firing him.

This investigation was getting broader and stranger at every juncture. The press kept up the clamor about the dangers of being a restaurant owner in the city, making it sound as if getting gunned down was as common as getting stiffed with a bad credit card.

The only lead Paavo and Yosh had was that the gun that killed Greuber was also used to kill Chick. Every other aspect they pursued came up empty, even including Wielund; they found no known associations with criminals, no known enemies, no police records, no family troubles, no financial troubles, and no bizarre habits, hobbies, or associations beyond his interest in pornography. But now, if the woman in the photos did turn out to be Danning, that would link her, Wielund and possibly Albert Dupries. But why was Marcuccio killed? Or Greuber?

The press quizzed the mayor and the police chief daily on what was happening. They would question Hollins, and he, in turn, would grill Paavo and Yosh.

Paavo had requested all the account books from both Wielund's and Italian Seasons. Often, when all else failed, following the money trail led to a chink in an otherwise baffling case. Money had been called the root of all evil, and in Paavo's mind that held doubly true for homicide cases.

He pored over the books, carefully studying the income and outgo, looking for patterns, odd sums, imbalances, too much money, he wasn't sure what—but anything that was odd.

“Need help, Paavo?” Rebecca asked.

He glanced up. Ever since the dinner at Yosh's and their investigation of the gang murders, Rebecca had been friendlier than ever, and she'd always been pretty friendly. They got along well, he had to admit. Yosh, Calderon, and the others constantly reminded him of how stalwart Rebecca was. She was a woman he could understand and who understood him. She certainly wasn't the type who'd become angry for no
good reason or who'd throw away evidence without realizing what she was doing. She wasn't the type to jump first and ask questions later, nor was she impulsive, whimsical, or zany. She was cautious, logical, and serious. In short, she was much like him.

“I've studied accounting,” she said. “I could be helpful.”

Was there anything practical this woman hadn't dabbled in? “I didn't know that.”

“It was too dull, so I dropped it for this.”

“Let's see how much you remember. But first, I wanted to ask about Shelia—”

His phone rang. “Smith here.”

“A Miss Farraday to see you, Inspector.”

“Give me a minute.”

Before he even hung up, the door to the squad room opened and Nona Farraday sauntered in. She spotted Paavo immediately. She wore a plum-colored suit with a short skirt and a V-necked cream silk blouse that showed off her tall figure to perfection. Her long blond hair glistened and swung freely as she walked. Every eye in the place turned her way.

Rebecca picked up the set of books. “Later,” she whispered and went to her desk.

Paavo stood. “Miss Farraday, this is a surprise.”

She gave him her hand. “Call me Nona, Inspector Smith.”

“Won't you have a seat?”

She sat by the side of the desk, flicked her mane of hair, then crossed her long legs, letting her skirt ride up well above her knee. “I have some interesting information for you.”

“Oh?”

“Tell you what.” She leaned forward, her elbow on her thigh. “It must be near your quitting time. Why don't we go somewhere for dinner and I'll tell you all about it?”

From the corner of his eye, Paavo saw Rebecca staring at him. Benson gave him a thumbs' up. Calderon rose from his desk and, on the pretense of searching for something, moved closer to Paavo. “You can tell me about it now,” Paavo said.

“But this is a long story, and I have a restaurant to review. Arbuckle's, on the wharf. It'll be my treat.”

Greg McAndrews, owner of Arbuckle's, was one of the restaurateurs at both Wielund's and Chick's memorial services. Might be worth going. He glanced up to see that Calderon's frown had grown deeper. Yes, Paavo decided, it was definitely worth going. It'd give Calderon more to fret about, and it'd help pass the time waiting for Angie to call. If she hadn't left a message by the time dinner was over, he'd stop by her apartment and probably strangle her.

“Sounds good.” He picked up his jacket and led her past gaping looks as they walked out of the squad room.

Arbuckle's Seafood Restaurant was small and intimate. After Greg McAndrews greeted Nona lavishly, they were given a secluded table, with a view of the bay, and two waiters who hovered nearby to fill their every whim. Paavo saw what it meant to be a well-known restaurant critic in this town.

Nona perused the menu. “I've been told the food here is elegant. I'll order, if you don't mind.”

Paavo shut his menu and leaned back in the chair. “Fine.”

“For soup,” Nona began, causing the waiter to spring to attention, “we'll have the seafood bisque.”

“Ah, excellent choice, Miss Farraday,” the waiter declared.

“What do you recommend as a salad?”

“The smoked mussels. Definitely. Served on a bed of arugula with warm goat cheese and roasted red peppers. It is…uncompromising.”

She smiled. “Fine. For our shellfish, how are the grilled scallops today?”

“Perfection. Wrapped in cucumber, with caviar and saffron sauce.”

“And for the main entrée you suggest…?”

“Striped bass filet, sautéed and served with citrus sauce and braised fennel.”

She shut her menu. “I leave it up to the discretion of the house to bring wine to best complement each course.”

“
Naturellement
. May I recommend our desserts, Miss Farraday? The perfect ending to a perfect meal.”

“Dessert! How could I forget?” She opened the menu again and glanced at Paavo, a sly smile toying at her lips. “I think the passion fruit
bavarois
sounds promising. Don't you agree, Paavo?”

He wasn't used to feeling like something on a menu. “Right,” he replied.

In no time, the waiter had served wine and brought their seafood bisque, which Paavo discovered was minced squid and tiny brown shrimp swimming in a thin, milky soup. It was going to be a long meal. Where was Angie when he needed her?

He took a few bites and put down his spoon. “What was it you came to the office to tell me?”

She patted her lips with the napkin, then leaned close to him. “Have you heard what Mark Dustman is up to?”

“No.”

“He didn't get to keep Wielund's open. The lawyers for Karl's brothers back in Germany shut it down immediately, even though anyone should know an operating restaurant with a large clientele is worth far more than an empty building with a large kitchen. And Wielund's was on the verge of being the best, the number-one restaurant in the city…for the moment. Nothing's permanent in this town. All it needed for its fifteen minutes of fame was a truly world-class chef. But the lawyers want to sell it with the least possible trouble. Eileen Powell tried to explain to them what was best, but she's given up.”

From his interviews with Mrs. Powell, he thought she'd care more about her life with her husband and young son than how much money Wielund's estate made.

“And Dustman?”

“He's taking a job with LaTour's.”

Paavo couldn't hide his surprise, especially imagining Angie's reaction to a respected cook like Dustman going to work for Henry LaTour.

Nona laughed. “Bravo, Inspector! I see you've learned enough about our little restaurant world to be shocked, yet amused, by Mark's behavior. Isn't it ludicrous?”

“It is ludicrous. Why is he doing it?”

“He needs the money. These days, even in San
Francisco, there aren't many openings for a creative chef. For his career, LaTour's is a step backward, even if he can turn the place around.”

Paavo shook his head. “You seem to know Dustman pretty well.”

“Not really. But I knew Karl Wielund
very
well.”

“You did?”

“I spent several days with him practically 'round the clock, a week before he died. I was doing a special article for
Haute Cuisine
. After he died, though, they didn't want to publish it.”

“You still have the article, then?”

“It's at my apartment. I can give it to you tonight. After our passion fruit.”

 

Lunch with Henri
had been mercifully uneventful that day, and as soon as it ended, Angie telephoned Mrs. Calamatti.

“This is Angie. Did you talk to your sister?”

“Not only that. Her son knew a little about it. He thinks the place you want is in Berkeley. The upper floor of a brick building on Dwight Way near Telegraph.”

Bingo! That was easy. Why couldn't the police do as well? “You're a doll! See you later.”

Angie could have simply given Paavo this news along with the photos, but considering the trouble she'd caused him, she wanted to be sure the information was correct. How long could it take to find out?

Her Ferrari would have broken the speed limit, crossing the Bay Bridge and then heading north on 1-80 to Berkeley, except that there was too much traf
fic. Berkeley was a place where anything goes, as long as it was politically correct. Compared to Berkeley, San Francisco was John Birch Society country. Angie felt like a fish out of water here; her Italian-Catholic upbringing didn't prepare her for this kind of place.

She rode down Telegraph Avenue until she spotted a parking garage on a side street. It was worth the big tip to the attendant to be sure he'd keep a watchful eye on her Ferrari.

Telegraph Avenue was a 1960s nostalgia lover's dream. Angie had been told by older friends that little had changed there in thirty years. It was a place where the Grateful Dead were still young, Janis Joplin still hung around with Bobby McGee, and the Free Speech Movement was considered the height of daring. Although college bookstores, coffee shops, and very nineties students existed side by side with small colorful shops that sold used records, books, sandals, tie-dyed T-shirts, and all kinds of psychedelic funk, it was the latter that drew her attention. Angie thought the street looked like something one should find in Disneyland. Between Frontierland and Tomorrow-land there should be an old-fashioned Hippieland. It could look just like this.

She wove her way through the mass of students and street people and the cacophony of sounds that filled Telegraph day and night.

“Spare change, lady?”
Lady?
Did she look that old already? But then, the girl who spoke to her looked about fourteen. The girl's chubby-faced healthy looks told Angie she was in no imminent danger of starvation. She was the sort who gave beggars a bad name.

“Hari krishna, hari krishna.”

Angie glanced at the group of chanting middle-aged men in their saffron robes and Birkenstock sandals. She wondered if these same people had danced in circles on this street years ago. Their shaved heads would hide any gray or bald patches. Maybe that was the secret of their popularity?

“Free abortions,
now!
”

“Got any change?”

“Save the Berkeley Five! Give donations!”

“Falafel! The taco from Morocco. Get your falafel!”

“Love one another, brothers and sisters. We must learn to love, to dedicate ourselves, our bodies…”

“Hari rama, rama, rama…”

“Sexism sucks!”

“Gimme some change, lady!”

She scurried even faster toward the building on Dwight Way. It was a square two-storied building with a brick facade. The downstairs had storefronts, and a glass side door showed a steep flight of steps.

She pushed open the door and went up the staircase. At the top, in what should have been the hallway, a thin man sat behind a high counter. He looked up and stared at her through black-framed eyeglasses thick as cola bottles. He had a mustache and beard, and his black hair was practically gone on top but long and bushy on the sides. He had it tucked behind his ears, making it look as if he had a whiskbroom stuck to the back of his head.

What in the world is this? Angie wondered. She was expecting some kind of a photography studio, but this looked like a factory office. Past Whiskbroom
Head, a long doorless hallway disappeared in a bend at the far end.

“Hi!” she said.

The man remained expressionless.

“Do you take pictures here?” she asked, stepping closer.

He frowned. “Could say that.” The ends of his scraggly mustache reached below his top lip and into his mouth when he spoke, but since his teeth were kind of green, she decided that, all in all, covering them was for the best.

“I was thinking of having some photos taken of me for my boyfriend,” she said.

Thin eyebrows popped up over the tops of his glasses. “Oh?”

“Some special photos, if you know what I mean.” She held her breath.

He smirked. “Sure. I know.”

She could have jumped for joy. This must be the place.

“They cost, though,” he added.

“A lot?”

He tugged at his beard. “Sure. Takes a special talent to take photos like that.”

“Oh. Well, that's all right. My boyfriend's worth it. And he'll be so happy to get those photos.”