To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery Page 2

  When he turned, he saw Angie standing in the doorway, her arms folded and her eyes sad as she watched strangers going through her designer clothes and expensive knickknacks and antique furnishings. She loved good clothes, fine food, and beautiful artwork and music. She had the money to support those loves. Even standing there in cream-colored slacks and pink silk blouse with cream piping, to his mind she personified delicate and refined. The strangest thing about her was that for some reason she loved him. Who was it who said a woman was a contradiction wrapped in an enigma? That was Angie.

  He tore his gaze from her and surveyed her apartment, room by room. A nervous prickle touched his spine. It didn’t look like a burglary; it looked like a search.

  He returned to the living room. Angie was no longer in the apartment. She must have gone back to Stan’s.

  “What do you think, Ben?” Paavo asked.

  “I’d worry, Paavo.” Ben Chan had spent years with the S.F.P.D robbery detail. “Between stereo and video equipment, a digital camcorder, a laptop computer, not to mention a Fort Knox worth of jewelry in her bedroom, something should have been taken. But it wasn’t. It seems they were looking for something small, easy to hide. All the disruption was done in drawers and cabinets, and places like the top of her closet where she had boxes of souvenirs and the like.”

  Paavo hadn’t wanted to hear a confirmation of his suspicion, but Ben’s words rang true. This break-in wasn’t random; it was personal. If whoever was behind it hadn’t found what he was looking for, he’d be back. What could Angie have that was worth so much trouble? “Any evidence?”

  “Nothing jumps out. We’ll keep looking.”

  “I owe you, Ben,” Paavo said.

  “No problem.”

  Following the procedure he’d use if this were a homicide, Paavo canvassed the building, talking to neighbors and the doorman. No one had seen any strangers lurking about, or anything at all suspicious.

  Finally he returned to Stan’s apartment. Angie blanched when she saw his expression, and she stood up. He must not have been as good at hiding his emotions around her as he liked to think. “Why don’t you stay at my place a few days?” He tried to sound casual. “Just until we’re sure that whoever came here won’t return.”

  What little color she had in her face disappeared completely. “You think they’ll be back? But why? What can they possibly want?”

  “Most likely they won’t return, but I’ll feel more comfortable if you aren’t here alone in case they do.”

  She nodded and went to her place to pack. “One bag, Angie,” Paavo called. “We can always come back for more later.” He remembered the time they’d gone on a cruise. She’d brought so much luggage that if the ship had listed and sunk, she could have been held responsible.

  Stan folded his arms. “She can always stay with me, Inspector. At least I’d be around to take care of her when she needs me.”

  “Bonnette, go f…fly a kite.”

  It was nearly midnight before Angie finished packing and picking up the mess in her apartment. Although she’d been shocked to arrive home and find it broken in to, that was hardly rare in city life. Nothing was stolen; no one was hurt. Life went on. On the other hand, if Paavo wanted to make a big deal out of it and have her stay with him a few days, she wasn’t about to complain. Look for the silver lining, her mother always said. And moving in with Paavo for a while was pure gold.

  She packed enough to make this a nice, long visit.

  Paavo drove a tiny, very old Austin Healey. Her car was a white Ferrari with a tan leather interior. Using both, they could barely manage to fit all her luggage. Maybe it was time for a more practical car…perhaps even a family-oriented car. She wondered how she’d like driving an SUV.

  Her Ferrari roared to a stop behind his convertible. He was standing on the sidewalk wrestling with a large Fendi suitcase, trying to pull it out of the passenger seat without having to lower the cloth top. The top was temperamental, and one of these days he’d get it down and not be able to put it back up again. She realized that he, more than she, needed to think about a bigger, more up-to-date vehicle.

  She stepped up behind him, holding her laptop computer.

  Earlier that evening he had loosened his gray and blue tie, and unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt. Because of the day’s court appearance, he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit instead of his usual sport coat and dress slacks. Angie admired the view as he bent deeply into his car. He was a handsome man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a slim but physically powerful build. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, his hair dark brown, and dark brows and eyelashes surrounded the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. But there was also a world-weariness lining the corners of his eyes and in the set of his mouth that reminded her he was a man who had seen more than his share of suffering and sorrow.

  A hard tug sprung the suitcase free from the tight space in which it had been wedged. “You really didn’t have to pack so much stuff,” he grumbled. “We’re only across town from your apartment.”

  “I’d hate to discover I’d left something important at home. Besides”—she batted her eyes innocently—“who knows how long I’ll need to stay? Anyway, my suitcases all have wheels.”

  Her gaze swiveled, following his, to the stairs that led up to his front door.

  “Once I put things away, you’ll hardly notice how much I’ve brought,” she said.

  “You’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to figure out where to fit it all. I have to go in early. Yosh is on vacation and Rebecca Mayfield has been helping with some of his cases. She’s still fairly new and needs a lot of guidance.”

  “Hmm, what a little helper bee.” Angie knew all about Rebecca’s crush on Paavo. She especially detested Rebecca’s implications that only another cop could understand and be good for him—and that Rebecca was that cop.

  He lugged the two big suitcases up the steps and set them on the stoop while fishing the house key from his pocket.

  “Actually, I had assumed you wouldn’t be home much,” she said. This was a good time to show him just how understanding she could be about the demands of his job. “I know how hard you have to work, no matter what’s happening in your personal life.”

  He glanced at her quizzically.

  “One of those suitcases is filled with books for me to read while you’re out,” she said. “I wasn’t sure which I’d be in the mood for, so I brought a bunch of them.”

  “Ah…that explains it.” He pushed open the door and stepped aside to let her enter first. “I wondered why your clothes were so heavy.”

  Flicking on the lights, she stepped into the living room and abruptly halted. “Oh, my God.” She backpedaled right into him.

  One glance at her face and he hurried past her. Hand on his gun, he stopped in the doorway, then drew his 9 mm automatic and moved inside.

  Ignoring his whispered demand to remain by the door, Angie followed close as he crossed from room to room. In the living room, books had been strewn onto the floor, sofa and chair cushions ripped open, and desk drawers overturned.

  The bedroom had also been torn apart and the mattress slashed. This was far, far more frightening than what had happened to her own apartment. There was anger here, perhaps hatred.

  “What is going on?” she cried. “Why would anyone destroy your things?”

  “It looks like a search, followed by frustration.”

  As she wandered through the little house, she realized he was right. It wasn’t random destruction as she had first thought, but where the search to her apartment had appeared slow and meticulous, here it was hurried and frenzied.

  “Hercules!” he called. “Herc? Come on, boy, are you all right?”

  Angie’s breath caught. His cat…He loved that cat.

  “Do you see him?” she asked, standing in the bedroom doorway.

  “No. They better not have hurt my cat,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. They looked under the bed, in the closets, and throughout the back
yard.

  She was afraid—and for Hercules, more afraid that they’d find the cat than that they wouldn’t. If he had run and was hiding, scared, he should return home eventually, but if he was nearby, and unable to come when called…

  They couldn’t find him.

  Finally, back in the living room, Paavo bleakly took in the damage, the ugliness before him. “Who’s doing this, Angie, and why?”

  Chapter 3

  The bellboy wheeled in a cart with Angie’s luggage and turned on lamps. Paavo put down his duffel bag and inspected their room at the Huntington, an elegant hotel at the top of Nob Hill. The walls were papered powder blue, and the cream-colored gilded furniture was imitation Louis XIV. The view overlooked Huntington Park and the exclusive Pacific Union Club, from Grace Cathedral to the Fairmont Hotel.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would be much nicer than sleeping on the floor at your place?” Angie asked, clearly pleased with her choice.

  “This is much nicer than my whole house,” Paavo remarked as he tipped the porter and locked the door.

  “Very funny.”

  Now, in the hotel room, she looked exhausted. No wonder; it was nearly four o’clock in the morning. They’d spent hours waiting for the police to arrive. During that time, he’d packed a few things and changed out of his suit to Levi’s, a maroon pullover, and a brown leather jacket.

  “Tomorrow I’ll contact my cousin Richie,” she said, flopping into a chair. “He might have a house or apartment on the market we can use for a few weeks.”

  “Let’s wait until we see what’s going on.” He unzipped his duffel bag. “Most people get new locks or a burglar alarm after a break-in, not a whole new place to live.”

  She watched him a moment, then walked to his side and touched his shoulder, stopping him as he unloaded underwear into a bureau drawer. He straightened, and she eased herself against his chest.

  “I think it’s wise to be prudent—just as you said when you suggested I stay with you for a while. Oh, maybe I didn’t think it was necessary at first, but now I do. My house, then yours? It’s bizarre.”

  Paavo’s arms tightened protectively around her. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to Ben Chan, get him to check out my place for fingerprints and signs of entry.” And I’ll look for Hercules.

  She seemed to study him. “Once he knows it’s safe, Hercules will come home,” she said, making him wonder once again if she could read his mind or his expression. Most people called him stone-faced, but not Angie.

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead and ran his thumb lightly along her cheek, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes. She was so beautiful, so soft…and this hotel room was theirs to share…

  “You’ll be fine here,” he said, setting her from him. “I’m going to take a shower, eat breakfast, and go to work. It’ll be morning soon and I’ll feel worse if I try to sleep for just an hour. This way, you can get some sleep.”

  She firmed her jaw and nodded. “All right.” Her voice was a little too husky. She opened a suitcase and pulled out a satin nightgown when suddenly she threw it back into the case. “Just a minute!” Hands on hips, she marched toward him. “On second thought, it’s not all right at all. Not at all. Someone broke into both our homes, made your furniture look like it’d been ground up by a Cuisinart, and you’re going to work? You’ve got better things to do, like getting some sleep so you’ll have enough energy to find the crook who did it and pulverize him.”

  “Angie—”

  “Even if you’re not worried about this, I am. Especially for you! What happened to your home, your things…I can’t get it out of my head. If anything happens to you—”

  He gripped her shoulders. “Take it easy.” Moving his hands to her back, he drew her closer. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, or you. I’m sure it’s not that serious. We’ll catch whoever’s behind it soon. Heck, I needed new furniture anyway.”

  He kissed her once, twice, then more, wanting to kiss away her anxieties. He thought of how she’d gone to Stan when he wasn’t able to be with her after the break-in. Was he really going to be such a jerk as to leave her alone again? “Maybe that stuff I was going to do at work can wait a few hours.”

  Her arms circled his neck and she held him tight, kissing him back while a fearful shudder rippled through her.

  He led her to the king-size bed and lay down beside her. There was no way he could leave her now. Instead, he held her, loving her as dawn lit the sky. She fell asleep before he did. As his own eyes shut, he gathered her close, and tried to keep the nightmares from them both.

  Even after thirty years, the view from his office window caused Harold Partridge’s narrow chest to swell with pride. The world’s cleverest engineers, computer scientists, and programmers strode briskly through the Silicon Valley complex, their minds ticking with the latest inventions and the next enhancements to the worldwide business that was Partridge Industries.

  His private phone began to ring. Finally!

  He held it to his ear. “Well?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Skinny arms began to shake. “Impossible! You missed it! You cretins! Imbeciles!”

  “We didn’t—”

  A pulsating pain crossed his brow. “Do you think I’m doing this just for fun? It’s important, goddamn it!”

  “We understand, Mr. Partridge.”

  The words, so cloyingly spoken from these sycophantic fools who couldn’t follow simple instructions, made his overly acidic stomach curl. “Don’t call me again until you are successful.”

  “That”—the caller coughed nervously—“that might require more than you said the first time.”

  “I don’t care! Do whatever it takes!” He slammed down the phone but kept his gaze fixed on it as he nervously cracked his knuckles one by one. The time had come to do what he must, what he should have done immediately, much as he loathed the idea. Fighting the tremor in his body, he picked up the receiver again and began to dial.

  Chapter 4

  “You’re going to get us thrown out, Angie.” Connie Rogers leaned across the table and spoke in a loud whisper. Angie’s best friend was in her early thirties, blond, divorced, the owner of a small gift shop, and a grudging accomplice in too many of Angie’s screwball schemes. Like now.

  The two of them, dressed to kill—Angie in a Rena Lange burgundy brocade embroidered jacket and matching skirt, and Connie in an emerald-green silk dress from a mall shop’s fifty-percent-off rack—sat in Pisces, an elegant restaurant high on Nob Hill, newly opened and filled with a young and hip clientele. Angie was running her camcorder. So far, she’d taped a sweep of the restaurant, their table, the menu, and the wine list.

  “If I walked in with a camera,” Angie explained calmly, “no one would object. It’s the same thing.”

  “People with cameras take pictures of each other, not the food, the tables, and the help.”

  “Look, restaurant reviews have to be made incognito.” Angie placed the camcorder on the table. “If the reviewer is known, it defeats the whole purpose. So we’re here pretending to be casual diners who happen to have a camcorder. This way, instead of me taking notes and verbally describing everything I eat, we’re simply discussing the meal as we go along, and I’m taping it.”

  “And then showing it to thousands of viewers on TV!” Connie scrunched her lips to the side like some gangster as an unsuspecting waiter sailed by.

  “Shush! Not so loud.” Angie looked from one side to the other. “What’s the big deal? Taped TV restaurant reviews are a fabulous idea. They’ll catch on in a big way—in other words, I’ll make it big. The public will love them much more than bland old newspaper articles.”

  “We could be sued!”

  “Don’t worry. As I said, restaurant reviews are always written in secret, and all I’m taping is our dining experience, which is my right. You can also look at this as investigative reporting—photos and film are often used. Besides, I plan to only go to good restau
rants with good food, ones that should appreciate the publicity. And if I do find something wrong, to sue because of a bad review would give a restaurant even more negative press. That’s the last thing they’d want.”

  “Somehow, this seems wrong.”

  “It’s fine. Quiet, now. Here comes our waiter.” She snapped open the camcorder viewer and aimed it at him.

  “What are you celebrating?” The waiter grimaced into the lens as he served a salad of arugula, shaved Parmesan, and sliced artichoke with olive oil and lemon to Angie. Connie’s salad consisted of radicchio, scallions, and olives in a balsamic dressing.

  “I’m going to buy a new car,” Angie said promptly. It wasn’t a lie. She had been thinking seriously about it ever since the problem of fitting her luggage into the Ferrari.

  “Oh? Is that why you’re taking movies in this restaurant?”

  She chose not to answer. “Haven’t you seen it done before?”

  He peered down his nose. “No. I’ve never seen anyone do such a thing.”

  “Oh…in time, you will. Just like cell phones.” She smiled. “Soon these will be all over the place. People talk on the phone everywhere, so why not film everything, too? You’ll get used to it. This is a great little recorder. It’s got sound and it’s digital, so you just talk into it.” She centered the viewer on him. “Tell me, do you enjoy working here?”

  His eyes shifted left and right. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid some of the other customers are bothered by your filming.”

  “They are?” Sure enough, everyone was staring at her.

  “If you don’t mind…” the waiter said.

  With a weighty sigh, she shut off the camcorder and laid it beside her plate again. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  The waiter sniffed, and then marched away.

  “See what I mean?” Connie whispered.

  “It’s none of their business! Next time I’ll be a little more subtle, that’s all.”