A Cook in Time Read online

  “Got a pen?”

  The speaker handed him a cheap Bic.

  With painstaking slowness, the man filled out the card, then handed it back and walked away. The speaker glanced at the address—a Salvation Army kitchen. Homeless. It figured. Then at the name—Felix Rolfe.

  Felix Rolfe!

  “Hey there,” the speaker shouted. “Wait a minute!”

  2

  Paavo stayed near the gutted corpse while the coroner’s technicians performed their preliminary tests. Morinaga, one of the techs, made a one-inch-long incision just above the left hip, then attached a thermometer to a probe and inserted it, twisting it toward the liver to record body temperature. “Hey, the liver’s gone, too!” he shouted. At Paavo’s stunned expression, he burst into laughter. Everyone’s a comedian, Paavo thought, even when faced with as vicious a crime as he’d ever seen in the city.

  Later, after the assistant coroner’s examination, as the photographer snapped rolls of film and the crime scene investigators took samples and combed the area, the technicians lifted the body into a black zippered bag made of heavy plastic, loaded it onto a stretcher, and carried it to their van. Paavo turned away from the scene to interview those potential witnesses the patrolmen had gathered together. He’d go back to the most promising of them at a later time. Every so often they got lucky and picked up among the spectators a murderer so fascinated by what he’d done and so arrogant about having covered his tracks that he would hang around a bit too long.

  Paavo talked with the patrolman who had called in the death, and then with Stern Grove’s administrative employees, gardeners, and security team. Following that, he moved from the park to the street and homes facing it, where he did a house-to-house, knocking on doors to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything that morning. He came up with a great big zero.

  As he left the sixth house that had answered his knock, he saw Yoshiwara approaching. Rain was falling again, and Yosh, who had been canvassing on the next block, was struggling to open his umbrella. “I’m ready to head back to the bureau,” he said when he reached Paavo. “I’m striking out here.”

  “Me too.” Paavo scanned the quiet street.

  “Hey, we might get lucky,” Yosh said, holding the umbrella high enough to shelter Paavo as well as they headed for the car. “Missing Persons might have a story on this guy, plus twenty relatives ready to give us all the details.”

  “Sure,” Paavo said without conviction. “They’ll also tell us his uncle Harry is an ax murderer with a dislike for his nephew.”

  “Could happen,” Yosh said. “It’s about time we got a break in a case. My wife claims she’s forgotten what I look like. You got to make sure Angie doesn’t forget you. You don’t want to lose her, pal. She’s a winner. Money and looks.”

  Paavo nodded. His feelings about Angie were too complicated to put into words. She was interested in marriage. So was he, in theory. Maybe more than theory. But something held him back. Innate caution told him to wait, to be sure he wasn’t letting his heart overrule his head—which was an accusation no one had yet leveled against him. He glanced at his watch. It was already two in the afternoon. He faced long hours trying to give this John Doe an identity, along with figuring out who had killed him. So much for his plans to see Angie that evening.

  They reached the car. “Anything else while we’re here?” Yosh asked.

  “Nothing,” Paavo said. He couldn’t let himself think about Angie just then. Despite Yosh’s hopes, they both knew it was going to be a long night.

  “No. Never. No way. Forget it. Is that clear enough?” Connie Rogers jabbed her spoon into her tiramisu, scooped up some of the layered mascarpone, chocolate, and espresso-soaked ladyfingers, and stuffed it into her mouth.

  Angie knew better than to respond immediately. She had shown up at Connie’s gift shop, Everyone’s Fancy, bearing tiramisu, eclairs, and raspberry mousse, not to argue but to cajole. Without comment she took a bite of an eclair and waited for Connie’s inevitable guilt to begin. Despite their outward differences—Connie was a blond, blue-eyed, slightly overweight, divorced owner of her own business, while Angie was a slim, brown-eyed brunette, often unemployed and dating a man she was seriously interested in—the two were close friends. “It could really be a lot of fun,” Angie said with softly voiced encouragement.

  Angie had arrived at the holiday-decorated gift shop during the midafternoon doldrums—the hours between the lunchtime window shoppers and the after-work rush. She sat at one side of Connie’s desk in the shop’s small back office. The door was left open so they could see and hear if anyone entered the store. No one did. First Connie sipped the Starbucks nonfat lattè that Angie had brought her to wash down the desserts, then she took another bite of tiramisu and chewed slowly, giving Angie glances that said she knew exactly what Angie was up to. Without another word, Angie spooned the mousse into two cups and gave one to Connie.

  “Remember what happened the last time you came up with one of your great ideas?” Connie asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “We ended up as bag ladies. And that was the good part!”

  Charitably, Angie ignored the slur on their last adventure together, which had been for a very good cause, just like now. Besides, what could go wrong with planning a catered dinner? “You know,” she said, “this UFO stuff is all the rage now. Very new-millennium. Not only have I fallen into something new and exciting, but I’m willing to share it with you.”

  “You’ve fallen, all right. Headfirst. It’s insane.”

  “It’s a job,” Angie cried. She sat back, realizing she sounded a little desperate. But she wanted success with her new business. This assignment was just the start she needed.

  After she’d finished the tiramisu, Connie said, “If you want my advice, you’ll start your business with something you understand. What do you know about this Prometheus Group? They might be a bunch of crackpots.” She pushed the cup of mousse back toward Angie’s napkin, as if to show she wasn’t one to be bought by sweets. She peered out the door to see if any customers had managed to sneak in without causing the entry bell to bong. The store remained empty.

  “It’s precisely because I don’t know that much about them or their beliefs,” Angie reasoned, “that I need your help. All I have to do is to create a dinner party for them, not join them. I want it to be a very special dinner. After all, I didn’t name my new business Fantasy Dinners for nothing.”

  Connie fiddled with some envelopes on the desk. They looked like bills. “What did you say your motto was? ‘Your fantasy is my nightmare.’ Was that it?”

  Angie frowned. “I have no idea why you’re taking this attitude.” She tasted the mousse. It might have been made from hair gel for all the enjoyment it gave her. She shoved it aside.

  “And who’s this Algernon guy?” Connie reached again for the cup of mousse Angie had spooned out for her. “What kind of a name is that? It might not be so bad if it was his last name. Maybe not if it was his first name. But his only name?”

  “It’s artistic license. He’s supposed to be very good-looking.”

  “Anyone pretentious enough to use just one name had better be,” Connie said.

  Angie watched her taste the mousse, watched her eyes roll blissfully. Time to try again. “Seriously, Connie, I wish you’d help me. Now that I’ve accepted the job, I’ve got to make something of it. I need to find out about aliens or extraterrestrials or ETs or whatever they’re called. Have you ever heard what they eat?”

  Connie did a double take. “What aliens eat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” Angie thought a moment. “Step one has to be to find out about aliens. Specifically, to find out what they supposedly eat and then serve it—or some edible version of it. Whatever it is. I think that would make a fun fantasy dinner, don’t you?”

  “That depends on what food you come up with,” Connie said, polishing off the mousse.

  “I have no i
dea.” Angie sighed. “All I know about space and food is that the moon’s made out of green cheese.”

  “Green cheese?” Connie cried, reaching for an eclair. “Here I’d always thought moon pies were the real thing.”

  “You know, you may be on to something,” Angie said thoughtfully. “For instance, there are Rocket Popsicles.”

  “I don’t remember those,” Connie said. “But I remember Mars candy bars!”

  “And Milky Ways,” Angie cried excitedly. She was getting into it now. “For those who can’t eat chocolate, there are always Starbursts.”

  “Plus, we could drive there in a Saturn.” Connie beamed, more and more pleased with each contribution.

  “While singing a duet of ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” Angie added.

  They began to laugh, but then their eyes met and the laughter turned to groans. It really wasn’t such a hot idea, Angie decided. Her gaze fell over the tiny office: the gray steel file cabinet in the corner; the microwave, half-size refrigerator, and four-cup Mr. Coffee; boxes of gift supplies in all sizes and shapes stacked in six-foot-high piles. She turned her head, looking beyond the office to the shop as she pondered her situation. Maybe Connie was right. Maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew, so to speak—and she didn’t even know if aliens have teeth. Maybe—

  She noticed a man standing out on the sidewalk, peering into the store. He wore dark glasses, yet the way his head was cocked, the direction of his face, he might have been staring straight at her. Something about him gave her the distinct, unnerving feeling he’d been watching her for some time.

  The man was a study in black. Thin, with short black hair, a black suit, white shirt, and black tie—even his sunglasses were black. Sunglasses in the rain? His skin was a sickly white.

  “What is it?” Connie asked.

  Startled, Angie faced her friend again. “The man in black at the window.”

  “Really?” Connie got up and walked to the office door to get a better view of her shop and the window. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “It was probably nothing.”

  “Probably,” Connie said dejectedly. “That’s the story of my life with men these days.”

  Angie knew Connie was feeling lonely. Since her divorce she hadn’t found a man she hit it off with. Angie imagined it was especially hard on her during this time of year, with the holidays fast approaching. All the more reason to involve Connie in something fun and exciting—like a fantasy dinner.

  “I was probably just imagining someone was there.” Angie cast a woeful look in Connie’s direction. “I guess I’m so worried about my new business that I’m seeing things. Don’t feel guilty, though, it’s not your problem. I understand. I’ll figure something out. Alone.” She gave a long, loud sigh.

  “Here’s to your business success.” Connie cheerfully ignored her and held up her paper lattè cup in a salute. “You’ll be able to handle it on your own just fine.”

  “Thanks,” Angie murmured. She slid a dish of tiramisu in front of her and picked up her spoon. Her plan to involve Connie had failed miserably. Time to eat. It tasted like crow.

  Paavo Smith wearily dragged himself up the front steps of his small house in San Francisco’s Richmond district, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  Two days’ worth of mail lay piled on the floor. As he scooped it up, Hercules came over to greet him. “Hey, boy, good to see you.” The big yellow tabby rubbed against his legs, demanding to be petted. Paavo ran his hand a few times over the cat’s thick coat, relieved to be home at last.

  Stiffly he straightened up and flipped through the bills and advertisements that made up his mail. Tossing it all onto a lamp table near the door, he walked over to the sofa that sat in the center of the room facing the stone fireplace, took off his sports jacket, and laid it over the back. Without missing a beat, he continued toward the small central hallway. There he unbuckled his nylon shoulder holster and put it and his 9 mm Smith & Wesson on the top shelf of the linen closet.

  The light on the answering machine was blinking. He hit the play button and increased the volume. From the hall he turned into the kitchen, Hercules running between his feet as he went. The whole process was a ritual. Paavo would be forgiven for his long absences if Herc got a can of 9-Lives to make up for the dry Meow Mix he’d put up with in the interim.

  Paavo took the cat food from the cupboard and a can opener from the drawer.

  The first call had been recorded about one that afternoon and was from Angie, wondering where he was. He half listened as she prattled on about wanting him to try to find time to go with her and a couple of her nieces and a nephew to the Nutcracker on Sunday. He had scarcely remembered that Christmas was fast approaching. What in the world could he give Angie? The woman who had everything.

  He needed to call her. He hadn’t expected to be on duty nearly thirty-six hours without a decent break.

  This latest round of investigations had begun the previous morning, when Homicide received a call. A cab driver had been killed the night before, the body dumped in a back alley. The break in the case came because the killer stupidly decided to use the taxi as his getaway car. That night an outraged citizen called the Yellow Cab company to complain about a taxi sitting in front of a house and not taking any fares. In a matter of hours, Paavo and Yosh made an arrest. The idiot perp had even been surprised. Go figure.

  Paavo had been finishing up his report on that murder, thinking about going home and getting some sleep, when the call came in that sent him out to Stern Grove.

  He still had no identity on the victim. No missing-person report had been filed. A thorough search of the park hadn’t turned up any clothes or identification. Fingerprint searches were being made of the SFPD, National Crime Index, California DOJ, and INS files. It could take weeks for a reading to come in unless the victim had gotten a driver’s license recently or had an arrest record.

  Paavo had read over the crime scene unit’s preliminary report twice. Not only had the body been drained of blood, but it had been washed clean. Dried soap residue had been found on the hair and in the ear canals—since the fleshy parts of the ears themselves had been removed. The assumption was that the victim had been bathed, then wrapped in plastic sheeting of some kind and transported to the park. Not a single stray fiber or hair had been left behind. Paavo had never dealt with a Mr. Clean or Molly Maid as killer before.

  The autopsy would be held at one o’clock the next afternoon. Normally, it would take a couple of days, or longer, before the coroner’s office found time to do an autopsy for some John Doe. But it had taken no work at all to convince the assistant coroner to move the case up on the schedule after she saw the victim. A determination as to the cause of death would help give some idea of the type of killer they were dealing with. Since no defensive wounds were observed on the body, it was fairly certain the killer hadn’t stepped up to the victim and started carving. The victim had to have been subdued, maybe even dead, before the mutilations began. The question, therefore, remained: How was he killed?

  So far, the only clues Paavo had to work with were the bizarre style of mutilation, the number 7 on the man’s chest, and the mysterious goggles. He’d commissioned a couple of uniforms to get military gear catalogues and manuals for him to go through. If they didn’t give him answers about the goggles, he’d get the techies in the crime lab to see what they could come up with. Morinaga owed him one after that sick joke about the vic’s liver being gone.

  The second message was also from Angie, sounding a little anxious. He’d spent so many years without anyone caring where he was, it was still hard for him to realize that Angie not only cared but worried about him. The novelty of knowing her—loving her—still hadn’t worn off. It was a good feeling.

  He definitely needed to give her a call. Looking at the kitchen clock, he was astonished to see that it was nearly two in the morning. He dumped the whole can of food into Here’s bowl and broke it up with a fork.

  Hi
s message machine was still clicking and whirring. Two hang-ups followed Angie’s calls. Probably just people trying to sell him something. He didn’t have time for any long-winded messages, anyway. He had come home to shower, catch a few hours of sleep, and change clothes. Then back to work. He knew the hours right after a murder occurred were the most likely to result in the crime’s being solved.

  But something more than his usual need to find the killer was at play in this case. He centered his thoughts on the steady hand needed for the pristine cuts of the mutilation, the ability to wash off a body after inflicting such devastation on it, the pure absence of emotion in a murderer of that sort.

  He rubbed his eyes, impatient with the fatigue that had forced him and Yosh to leave the bureau to get some sleep. The callousness of the murder preyed upon him. Some of his past cases had involved deaths from rage or passion against the victim. This one had an almost ritualistic tinge to it. And rituals had a way of repeating themselves, over and over.

  He put the cat’s bowl on the floor just as the next message began.

  It was nothing but static. Loud, ugly static. Hercules went over to his food and began to eat.

  The static abruptly stopped and a few quick tones sounded over the recorder, then a loud, high-pitched squeal. Hercules stopped eating, arched his back, and emitted a low growl before he ran across the kitchen, through his cat door, and out into the night.

  It was probably another automatic dialer or fax machine running amok—the year 2000 computer bug struck again.

  3

  The next morning, Angie was no closer to an idea for an out-of-this-world dinner party than she had been the night before. She sat on the sofa in her living room, her coffee on an end table, the morning’s Chronicle on her lap. From her apartment high atop Russian Hill, she could see the northern part of the city. Rain was falling again, casting a gray gloom over the sky.

  She wished Paavo was with her. Listening to the patter of rain was always nicer with someone. Alone, the sound had a bleakness that was almost sad.