Something's Cooking Read online

  “Not a word.”

  “Interesting. Would you ask him to call me if he shows up?”

  “What am I? A goddamned girl Friday or something?”

  “I’ll leave him a note.”

  Paavo brought Angie to a dingy interview room with a wooden table and two chairs. A minute later, Officer Rebecca Mayfield appeared in the doorway, a stack of albums in her arms. She didn’t take her eyes off Angie.

  “Let me help you.” Paavo reached for the albums.

  “No need.” Her tone was icy as she walked to the table and plopped the albums on top of it. Continuing around the table so that she stood behind Angie’s back, she gave Paavo a look that could kill. When he narrowed his eyes, she lifted her chin, marched out the door, and slammed it shut behind her.

  Angie looked from the door to Paavo and back again but refrained from making a comment. He didn’t look like he’d have much of a sense of humor at the moment.

  Paavo placed his palm on top of the albums. “Look at the pictures here carefully, one at a time. Really study them, because I want you to look for two people: Edward Crane and the man that was on the steps. If you see either man, or anyone with a close resemblance, let me know.”

  “Crane’s no problem, but the other man, I told you, I can’t remember.”

  “You might. Look at the pictures. Want coffee?”

  She shook her head and turned to the mug shots, but Paavo put his hand on them. She looked up at him.

  “One more thing.” He sat on the edge of the table and handed her the picture he had kept separate from the rest.

  It was a morgue shot of Sammy Blade.

  “Oh, my God!” She threw the photo down on the table and jumped back, wiping her hand frantically against her slacks. “That’s Sam,” she whispered, every hint of color drained from her face.

  “It’s Sammy Blade, Angie, a two-bit crook way over his head with some guys who deal in guns. Matt and I were trying to find out about Blade and stumbled right into a federal investigation of a lot of automatic weapons that have been illegally hitting these shores. We’re not positive Blade was involved, but it’s as good an explanation as any for his sudden unpopularity. Men involved in these things never do last long.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “By the way, when he was in prison, he usually asked for kitchen duty.”

  She sat down stiffly in the chair, her hands shaking. “May I look at these mug shots now?”

  Two hours later she had gone through not only all the albums in the first pile brought to her but another half dozen as well.

  “How are you doing?” Paavo stuck his head in the doorway.

  “I don’t think I could recognize my own mother.”

  “We’ll try another time.”

  “I didn’t see Crane, but the other man I don’t remember. I wish I did, but I don’t.” She stood and rubbed the back of her neck.

  “But you do remember that he looked startled. That means the memory of his face is in that head of yours. We just have to find a way to trigger it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll take you home now.” He led her through the outer office and past the good-byes and raised eyebrows of his fellow officers.

  They emerged in the late afternoon sunshine. San Francisco was putting on its usual October display of sunny, warm weather. Winter was rainy, summer was foggy, and spring was windy. Fall was perfect.

  Angie stood at the top of the gray granite steps of the Hall of Justice and looked at the sky. Paavo proceeded two steps ahead of her and then turned and waited.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s so beautiful out. I hate the idea of going back to the waiting, for I don’t even know what. Back to being scared and bored at the same time, I guess.” She tilted her head toward the brilliant blue sky. “I wish I could just fade into the day, to go where I want, when I want, do all the things I’d always taken for granted.”

  “You will again.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I heard what Chief Hollins said.”

  Something about the way she looked at him at that moment made him want to wrestle away the ugliness that had entered her world. Strangely, she made him feel as if he could do it. She made him feel as if he could do anything he set his mind to. He could almost hear Rebecca laughing cynically at his weakness.

  But at this moment, he didn’t care about Rebecca’s warning, or even that of his own conscience, reminding him not to become involved with a woman so completely out of his league. He wanted to be with her a little while longer, to bask in the sunshine with her. Tomorrow, he’d be practical again.

  He held out his hand. “Let’s go for a ride. We’ll look at the city. Forget about all this, for a while, at least.” For a second she didn’t move, and then in a move of utter trust, she placed her hand in his. They continued down the steps toward his car. It was an old sports car, an Austin Healey. In deference to the good weather and Angie’s low spirits, he took a minute to wrestle down the canvas top.

  “That’s heavenly.” She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the head rest, feeling the sun on her face.

  His chest constricted as he looked at how vulnerable she was, how readily she had placed herself in his power. “Yes,” he whispered, wanting to warn her not to trust so easily—not to trust anyone, not even him.

  She opened one eye to see him watching her rather than the sky. “Yes, Miss Amalfi,” she corrected him pertly.

  He grinned as he pulled out of the parking space into the stream of traffic.

  “Any place in particular you’d like to go?”

  “There is, in fact. You said you grew up in the Mission district. I’m not very familiar with it. What if we went there? You could show me Mission Street, Mission Dolores, Mission High. Even the Paavo Smith ancestral home. How’s that?”

  “That’s easy enough to arrange.” He took a left turn. A shadow fluttered across his sharply delineated features. “Except for the latter. There is no Paavo Smith family. Just me.”

  “Oh? And you sprang full-blown from the air? A regular miracle?”

  “Maybe so, Miss Amalfi.”

  They rode down Mission Street, once the heart of the finest neighborhood in San Francisco. Over the years, though, as the houses grew older, the area had deteriorated into inner city shabbiness. Now, it was a mostly Latin American neighborhood. Mexican groceries, restaurants, and people filled the street.

  “Se habla español, Paavo?”

  “Si. I had to survive.”

  “What else did you have to do to survive?”

  A slow grin formed on his mouth. “Plenty.”

  He stopped the car. “Have you been inside Mission Dolores?”

  “Never. Of course, the nuns at school told us how Father Junipero Serra built his missions all along Highway 1 in California. I thought that was awfully considerate. It made it easy for tourists to visit.”

  He wrinkled his mouth. “Funny. Want to go in?”

  She pulled a scarf out of her jacket pocket. Living in San Francisco, she was always ready for a change for the worse in the weather. She saw his surprise as she put the scarf on her head.

  “My mother taught me the old way of being a Roman Catholic. I even say my prayers in Latin: Pater noster qui es in caelis, Sanctificetur nomen tuum….”

  “You’ll like the mission. You can almost hear the first padres still at work.”

  They entered the nave. Angie placed two fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. Paavo hung back, but she felt him watching her as she walked along the far side of the pews to a small alcove with a statue of Mary and a rack of candles in front of it. She put a dollar in the box and lit two candles, then knelt before the statue and bowed her head in prayer. A short while later, she walked toward the altar, genuflected while making the sign of the cross again, and sat in a pew.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the church and letting its tranquility settle over her.
All old Catholic churches had a similar smell, a combination of the wax used to keep the pews and floors glistening, incense, flowers, and burning candles. The familiarity of the scent reminded her of when she was a little girl. She looked at the statues, the peaceful expressions on their faces, and tried to absorb the hope they offered.

  She glanced surreptitiously behind her. Paavo leaned against a wall watching her, one foot crossed over the other. Policemen must have enormous patience.

  He was an intriguing man. She’d seen flashes of warmth and wondered if there wasn’t much more carefully hidden behind that cold, reserved veneer. She had seen a hint of his life today, but his parents and background remained mysteries.

  Maybe all she felt toward him was curiosity. But even as she considered this, she knew it wasn’t true. She knew that deep within her she felt a strange affinity with Paavo Smith which disturbed her as much as it intrigued her. She glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary. There were times when she could swear she could read his mind, even though they barely seemed to speak the same language. Still, whenever she seemed to get at all close to the man, Inspector Smith appeared, putting a quick stop to it.

  She shook her head in disgust for thinking about some man while sitting in church. Sister Mary Ignatius would turn in her grave.

  Angie stood and walked to the aisle. Before turning to leave, she gazed once more at the statue of Mary. Her candles burned brightly. “Someday, I’ll return, Holy Mother,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  “Where to now?” she asked as they climbed back into Paavo’s battered sports car.

  He looked thoughtful. “I don’t have a family home, as I said. But there’s someone you might enjoy meeting. And I’m overdue for a visit. It’s been a few weeks.”

  He was soon driving on Mission Street, heading south.

  “Who is he?” Angie asked.

  “His name is Aulis Kokkonen. He’s Finnish—the one responsible for the name Paavo. He raised me and my sister.”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Had. She’s dead.”

  He said the words so quietly Angie hardly heard him. It took a moment for their meaning to hit her. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she thought of how cavalierly she had paraded her own sisters before him.

  “It was a long time ago, Angie. She was feisty, little, kind of like you. In temperament. Not in looks.”

  She waited and then broke the silence. “What happened to her?”

  He shrugged. “An accident.” His tone didn’t invite further questioning.

  He turned off Mission, and two blocks later the car stopped in front of a white building, large enough to house three or four apartments. Paavo didn’t go up the stairs to the front entry. Instead, he walked along the side, between the garage and the neighboring house. Just past the garage was a door. He knocked.

  After a short while the door opened. A frail-looking old man with snowy white hair, a beard, and eyes the color of Indian turquoise peered cautiously from the doorway. When he saw his visitors, his face broke into a huge smile. “Paavo, my boy, good to see you. Come in, come in.”

  He reached out and grasped Paavo’s arm with a firm grip, despite the pale thinness of his hand. Then he looked in Angie’s direction and squinted. “A young lady, too. Good.” He shuffled back into the room after Paavo made the introductions.

  Paavo had to lower his head to get past the doorway. The room was small, with a bed in the corner, a wooden table and four chairs around it, a T.V., and a dresser. A small kitchen and bathroom completed the living quarters.

  Angie sat at the table while Aulis Kokkonen produced a bottle of wine and Paavo set out three glasses.

  “Me and my friends made this,” the old man said to Angie, pointing at the bottle. “Bet you never had homemade wine before.”

  “I wouldn’t make that bet if I were you. My grandfather made great wine. The only trouble was, he’d be so impatient to ‘test’ it, it was never quite ready when he poured it. Great three-week-old stuff.” Angie smiled and relaxed in the warm presence of this frail old man.

  Aulis chuckled. “I know the fault. Yes, I know it well.”

  He turned to Paavo. “You work too much, boy. I’m glad to see you taking a day off.”

  Angie spoke up. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Kokkonen. I’m just another case.”

  Aulis looked surprised. “Is that so?” His eyes danced. “Is that a fact, now? Well, I should be glad Paavo turned out so dedicated to the law. There was a time I’d never take up that bet either, believe me.”

  “Hey, Papa, we don’t have to go into that,” Paavo said.

  “Of course, we do!” Angie’s curiosity bubbled over.

  The old man seemed amused at her reaction. Glancing quickly at Paavo, he leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell you, the main reason Paavo is such a good cop is because he learned all their faults as a teenager. Oh, did he give them a merry chase around this neighborhood, him and his buddies. What a group!” He chuckled. “One wilder than the other. They never did anything seriously wrong, they had better sense than that, but they surely thought they were big shots. Paavo got escorted home by the police more times than I can count.”

  “You’re kidding.” Angie looked at Paavo. Well, if the mighty Inspector Smith didn’t look uncomfortable, even sheepish!

  “How’s your rheumatism doing?” Paavo asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

  The old man winked at Angie. Soon, the three had settled into warm companionship, Aulis pulling Angie into the conversation with a wealth of anecdotes about old times and old friends. As she sat at the table, she witnessed, in Paavo’s every gesture, the gentle love and respect he had for the man he called “Papa.” For the first time, she saw Paavo relaxed, allowing his own dry humor and wit to appear. The change fascinated and charmed her.

  Finally, Paavo stood. “I think it’s time we get going. I want to get Miss Amalfi home before it’s late—and before you tell her so many stories she demands a new detective on the case.”

  Angie quickly finished her wine. It did taste a lot like her grandfather’s, and it brought back memories of the wonderful times she had had with him as a child. She was sorry to leave the warmth she had found in this tiny apartment.

  “Bring her around again, Paavo. This one I like,” the old man said as Paavo gave him a quick hug. “Be careful, son,” Angie heard him add in a whisper as she and Paavo walked towards the street.

  “Thank you, Paavo,” she said softly once they were seated in his car again. “For letting me meet him.” And for letting me know another part of you, she thought but didn’t dare say to him.

  He smiled. “Where to, m’lady? Home?”

  Home. The word weighed heavily. Night was falling, and the lights of the city shone with a promise of excitement that only big cities could offer. “I guess so.”

  She looked up and saw that the yearning in his gaze echoed her own.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go to my place so I can change into something better than blue jeans, and I’ll take you out to dinner.”

  Slowly, she smiled. “Just don’t order any champagne…or squab!”

  14

  Inspector Paavo Smith’s home was in the northwest corner of the city, facing the Pacific Ocean, bordering the lush greenery of the Presidio. He turned up the driveway of a brown-shingled cottage.

  “There’s no garage,” he said. “This place was built before cars were even a twinkle in Henry Ford’s eyes.”

  Angie looked at the trim house lit by the tall streetlamps and the warm, shaded lighting of other homes on the block. “This is quite a change from the hectic pace of the Mission or downtown.”

  He unlocked the front door, switched on the lights, and stepped aside for her to enter.

  The door opened directly into a tiny living room. The sofa and chairs were mismatched, overstuffed, and inviting. Multicolored patchwork cushions were scattered over them, an autumn-toned afghan was draped over the back of a c
hair, and a red and blue hooked rug lay in front of the fireplace. Books and magazines sat stacked beside an easy chair and on top of the coffee table; cassette tapes and compact disks filled the shelves around a stereo system. One wall had a fireplace with overflowing bookshelves on each side of it, while on other walls hung Impressionist and early Modern prints. It was a comfortable, practical room, Angie thought, except for the surprising touch offered by the prints.

  A loud meow greeted them. An enormous yellow tabby was curled on a chair. A scar ran from the end of his nose up to his forehead, and he had the most pugnacious face Angie ever saw on a cat.

  “That’s Hercules.” Paavo grinned at the big tom. “Terror of all dogs in the neighborhood. His morning sport is beating up the German Shepherd down the block.”

  Hercules jumped off the chair, stretched, and rubbed his body against Paavo’s leg. Paavo bent and scratched the cat behind the ears before heading toward the kitchen. Hercules ran between his feet, mewling loudly.

  Angie followed them to the doorway of the kitchen. The aging appliances were all white, and the five-foot-high refrigerator had only one door. She hadn’t seen a kitchen like this since her early childhood, when her father’s shoe business had needed every cent of profit plowed right back into it.

  Paavo opened a can of 9 Lives. “I leave him dry food all the time. I’m never sure of my hours, but when I’m home, he knows he gets a special treat. Okay, Herk, chow time.”

  He put the bowl of cat food on the floor.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked Angie as he opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “I’ve got…beer.” He held it up. “One can.”

  She smiled. “We’ll split it. I’m not very thirsty anyway.”

  He reached for two glasses from the cupboard and carried them to the living room, placing them side by side on the coffee table.

  She sat on the sofa. Hercules leaped onto her lap, and then flopped down. She laughed and stroked his head. Purring loudly, he wriggled onto his back to get his tummy scratched. He was big and tough-looking but also as gentle and affectionate as a kitten. Her gaze lifted to Paavo, who put the one can of beer and a package of Oreo cookies on the coffee table. A warmth tugged at her.