The Da Vinci Cook Read online

  But this case was different.

  With Angie and her sister involved, Paavo was already deep into the despair and desperation stage. Boredom, he thought, would be a welcome change.

  Marcello Piccoletti’s papers provided the name of his store, Furniture 4 U, on Mission Street. The store manager’s statement was consistent with that of Audrey Moss: Piccoletti had left for Italy the day before.

  Despite that, Paavo convinced the manager to come to the morgue in an attempt to identify the body.

  They had cleaned up the body quite a bit, and in situations like this, victims were shown on a television screen rather than in the flesh. TV shows presented such garish images that the public seemed to find it easier to take that way—it was less real. Still, the store manager turned jelly-legged at the damage done to the face by the bullet’s exit. When he could breathe again, he said the dead man was definitely not Marcello Piccoletti, and reiterated that his boss was in Italy, at the Hotel Leonardo.

  If the dead man in Piccoletti’s house, carrying his wallet, wasn’t Marcello, then who was he? And why did he have Marcello’s wallet?

  Paavo phoned the Hotel that Piccoletti was supposedly staying at in Rome. In textbook perfect English, the receptionist informed him that Marcello Piccoletti had not checked in yet. He was due later that day.

  In answer to his next question, she had no information on anyone named Rocco Piccoletti.

  Finally, the call-back Paavo had been waiting for all evening came from the Transportation Security Agency, which confirmed that not only were Caterina and Angie on a Lufthansa, from San Francisco to Frankfurt, with the ultimate destination of Rome, but also that Rocco Piccoletti had caught his connecting flight out of Paris to Rome earlier that same day.

  Paavo thanked the agent.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Angie or her sister—it was simply that he’d learned that the Amalfis, all of them, had a tendency to exaggerate or tell only as much as they wanted to. But this time, everything they’d told him was true.

  Paavo’s request for Marcello’s telephone records came through and he was poring over the numbers when he got a call from the Medical Examiner, Evelyn Ramirez. She was pulling an all-nighter, and something told her that he was very likely doing the same. “I can do your John Doe’s autopsy now,” she said, “or he goes into the queue and waits three days. Things are backing up down here pretty badly.”

  “Three days?” Paavo said. “I’ll be right down. And Evelyn—thanks.”

  “No sweat.”

  He took the elevator to the basement. It always seemed darker down there, and much colder. He didn’t know if it actually was or if it was simply his imagination because of the work being done there.

  Ramirez was already gowned and gloved.

  He took a deep breath and nodded to indicate that he was ready for the first cut, which for him was always the worst.

  It was odd, Paavo thought, how the autopsy was going to literally turn the man’s insides out, yet it wouldn’t reveal anything so mundane as his identity.

  Chapter 8

  The Alitalia flight Rocco had been on was long gone by the time Cat and Angie reached the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome.

  It was nearly 6:00 p.m., Rome time, after a tension-laden wait in Frankfurt. Angie tried to explain that it wasn’t her fault they were stopped by customs security—she was a victim here—but Cat just shook her head, pursed her lips, and absolutely refused to talk about the body search.

  Angie hated silent treatments.

  While other passengers headed for the baggage claim area, Angie noticed a couple of policemen step closer to the passengers who had been on their flight, as if searching for someone. Her nightmares of being stopped by the police came back to her. She grabbed Cat’s arm and dragged her into an alcove that was the doorway to the men’s room.

  “What are you doing?” Cat jumped back when she caught the eye of a startled Italian making his way into the lavatory.

  A number of policemen were converging on their area. “Let’s get out of here,” Angie said.

  “You don’t think they’re looking for us, do you?” Cat cried.

  “Who knows?”

  “But Paavo is in charge of the case. He wouldn’t . . . would he?”

  “We don’t know how things progressed while we were in flight,” Angie said. For all she knew, it only took a couple of phone calls for the San Francisco police to contact the police in Rome and ask them to detain two passengers for questioning. They wanted to avoid that.

  “You’re scaring me, Angie.”

  They snuck stealthily along the wall, darting between alcoves and behind free-standing bulletin boards and advertising posters until they spotted an exit.

  They scurried from the building.

  A policeman was standing near the taxi stands, so they fled in the opposite direction. A sign pointed them toward the nonstop Leonardo train to Termini, the main train station in Rome. They hurried in that direction. They had to take a number of up escalators, which gave them a bird’s-eye view of the terminal. It was filled with people, their voices creating a loud din as they bustled about, stopping to hug and kiss or shout and argue with equal enthusiasm. Yes, Angie thought, I’m in Italy again.

  On the other hand, more cops than she’d ever remembered being at the airport were circling around, although the police presence in Rome was quite high. A part of her almost hoped they were looking for terrorists, and not her and her sister. Paavo wouldn’t send the full weight of the Italian constabulary down on their heads, would he? Surely, she was just being paranoid.

  Of course, the last time they spoke he was yelling at her not to leave the country. He’d sounded awfully angry.

  She took out her cell phone to call him. It showed that she had many messages, but the phone itself wouldn’t connect. She belatedly remembered that European phones used GSM, a different service from most American ones, and dropped the phone back into her tote.

  At the Fiumicino train station, they stopped at an ATM for euros, a tobacconista for train tickets, and ran down a binario to board the train about to depart. Inside, they leaned against the walls of the train’s corridor to catch their breaths. All the seats had been taken.

  Angie had ridden this train many times in the past. After spending a year in Paris at the Cordon Bleu culinary institute, she had moved to Rome to perfect her knowledge of Italian food. Or, at least, that was her story.

  The real problem was that she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her culinary education. She loved food, and loved its preparation, but the more she had learned about the life of a chef, the less she wanted it. The hours were incredibly long, and the work physically demanding. It was hard enough to serve a large dinner for friends and relatives—trying to cook a variety of foods for strangers, all arriving at different times, many demanding slight changes to suit their own tastes or medical conditions, was nerve-racking.

  So, she didn’t want to be a chef. Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet found the right outlet for her education. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. Paavo often told her she tried too hard.

  If it wasn’t that her parents expected her—the youngest child and the one given the most financial assistance by them—to make something of her life, to do something with her talent, education, and ability, she’d have been perfectly content to simply become Mrs. Paavo Smith.

  Or would she?

  He worked long hours at an interesting job he valued. Sometimes, when a case was new, he’d work around the clock and she wouldn’t hear from him for a couple of days. She knew she couldn’t make him her entire life. That would stifle them both. She needed something stimulating that was hers alone . . . but what?

  “Angie, did you hear a word I said?” Cat’s glare was frightening.

  “Oh, sorry. Guess I dozed off.”

  “I said,” Cat repeated tersely, “where are we going?”

  “You’re asking me? You’re the one who rushed off to find Rocco and M
arcello. I’m supposed to be following you, remember?”

  “I know, but you lived here. You know Rome better than I do. Besides, I had trouble sleeping. The pillow the stewardess gave me was lumpy, and I wasn’t about to use the blanket. Do you know how many germs live in blankets?”

  “They wash them, I’m sure.” Angie didn’t want to hear a single complaint from Cat about first class after the night she’d had.

  “I wasn’t about to take a chance,” Cat declared. “It’s my theory that it’s the blankets, not the air system, that cause the illnesses on planes.”

  “In that case, the pillows are probably much germier than the blankets,” Angie said, aware that a sadistic streak was not a positive trait, but unable to help herself. “After all, it’s harder to wash and dry them.”

  Cat paled and raised a hand to her forehead as if checking for a fever.

  Angie leaned her head back against the wall of the train once more. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d expected.

  At eight in the morning, Paavo was jarred awake by the ringing of his phone. Normally, he was up long before then, but due to the autopsy and then lying awake trying to figure out what to do about Angie and Caterina, he hadn’t gotten to sleep until after four.

  “Paavo, this is Serefina.” It was Angie’s mother. He bolted upright, instinctively pulling the covers up to his waist.

  Last evening, when he hadn’t heard from Angie except for an apologetic message on his home phone, and couldn’t get through to her cell, he’d spoken with Charles Swenson, Caterina’s husband. Charles had had no better luck reaching his wife. The two men promised to keep each other posted. Charles didn’t ask if Caterina was in any legal trouble, and Paavo thought it best not to break it to him.

  Now, though, he feared Serefina might have heard something, and the news might not have been good. Cold fingers clutched at his heart. “Is everything all right?”

  “All right? All right? Hah!” Serefina all but shouted into the phone. “My girls, le mie bambine, are running around Italy looking for God only knows what. Madonna mia! Nothing will be all right until they’re home.”

  “We’ll get them back soon,” Paavo hurriedly promised. “Have you heard from them yet?”

  “Dio mio, ma che figlie!” Serefina cried. “I’m only their mother! Why should they call and let me know that they’re still alive?”

  “Do you know where in Rome they’ll be staying?”

  “If they don’t tell me they’re alive, would they tell me where they’re staying?”

  “You must have relatives or friends they can go to,” Paavo said hopefully.

  “In Rome itself, I only have a cousin, but they won’t go there. We don’t talk about him. Tell me, Paavo, why this is happening?” Her tone had changed from cranky to pleading. “No matter how old your children are, you still worry about them. You must know something about all this.”

  Maybe it was because his own mother disappeared when he was a young boy, or maybe it was simply the force of Serefina’s personality, but he could never refuse a request from her without feeling like the lowest form of life. As much as he’d have liked to shelter her, he told her what had happened. He knew that much of it would come out in the newspaper. A murder didn’t occur in the Sea Cliff without the newspaper and every TV and radio station in town being there. Reporters were already hounding him.

  “Marcello Piccoletti?” Serefina gasped when he’d finished. “Why would she be so crazy as to get mixed up with that family? Even Marcello’s mother, pazzato. Crazy.”

  “You know Marcello Piccoletti’s mother?” Paavo was astounded.

  “Of course—Flora. Flora was okay when she was younger,” Serefina went on to say, scarcely taking a breath. “But then—dio!—that Marcello. Even when he was a little boy, he was wild. When he got older, it was even worse. Too good looking, for one thing. He had a way with women that wasn’t good. Not that his mother would ever say anything bad about him. She spoiled him rotten.”

  “Do you know Rocco Piccoletti?”

  “Rocco? He’s Flora’s second son. Always in Marcello’s shadow. First Marcello, then Rocco, then a daughter, Josie.”

  He’d never worked a case this way before, but this was too good an opportunity to save time, and time was of the essence to get Angie home. “Do you know where Flora Piccoletti lives?”

  “Sure I do. Russian Hill. Not too far from Angie, come to think of it. I’ll find the address and get back to you. But first, listen to me, Paavo. This is important. . . .”

  She paused, waiting for his assurance. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “You will not tell Salvatore about this,” she said, referring to her husband. “If he asks, the girls are . . . I don’t know . . . in Las Vegas. Angie went to a wedding convention—designers and wedding planners from across the country—and convinced Caterina to go with her. If Salvatore hears the truth, he’ll try to do something about it. Maybe go to Italy himself. With his bad heart, that could kill him! This is our secret. All right?”

  “That’s fine,” he replied. The last thing he needed was for Salvatore to get involved. Serefina, he was sure, was going to be quite bad enough.

  Chapter 9

  Angie and Cat got off the train at Termini, the central station in Rome. It was a cavernous structure, overwhelmingly gray from both its concrete walls and floor to the soot and grime from the cars and taxis that converged there.

  As she emerged from the station, Angie’s heart skipped a beat just being in Rome again. She immediately took in everything—the masses of people, the noise, the warmth and sunlight of an early evening in June. Where San Francisco was a pastel city, the colors light, the sky often white if not gray from the fog and haze cast by water on three sides, Rome’s sky was bright blue, and the buildings colorful. If San Francisco could be likened to silver, Rome was pure gold.

  Cat knew Marcello owned a small restaurant in town, Da Vinci’s, and routinely stayed at the Hotel Leonardo nearby. Between the two, she was confident they’d find him easily. She’d tell him what had happened, and he should be able to lead them to Rocco.

  Cat assured Angie that there was no danger from Marcello. Angie trusted her judgment. Cat couldn’t have succeeded for years as an interior designer if she wasn’t an excellent judge of character. Also, no way would Caterina Amalfi Swenson do anything that might muss one hair on her head, let alone endanger it.

  Angie, whose Italian was better than Cat’s, called the Hotel Leonardo and asked to speak to Signore Piccoletti. He’d checked in a short while earlier, but wasn’t answering.

  “Let’s get a hotel and try again later,” Cat said, marching toward a taxi. “The St. Regis is lovely.”

  “Wait a minute.” Angie grasped her arm, stopping her. “We’ve got to think about this.”

  “What’s to think about? I’m tired, achy, and want to soak in a bath for an hour. They have nice dress shops nearby for us to pick up some clothes. I’ve got it all worked out.”

  Angie looked over her shoulder at the armed, tough-looking carabinieri milling about outside the train station. One noticed her and stared.

  She pulled Cat down the crowded street, past rows of magazine and newspaper vendors, in the direction of the metro, Rome’s subway. They found it quite warm as they walked, and took off their jackets.

  “Have you also worked out what happens when we show our passports in order to get a room?” Angie’s voice was low, her head bent toward Cat’s. “You know that’s the rule here. What if the police are looking for us? They’ll have gotten word out, and as soon as anyone sees our passports, they’ll grab us.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic, just as you were with security in Frankfurt, and then at the airport in Rome.” Cat held her purse close as she tried to avoid being bumped or jostled by the masses of humanity rushing toward the metro. This was the most dangerous spot in Rome for pickpockets, and on top of that, Cat detested public transportation. She was a taxi person. “I’m through lis
tening to your wild ideas, Angie. The police never act that fast.”

  “How do you know?” Angie jumped onto a down escalator. Cat hesitated, and got knocked from behind. She hurried to the same step as Angie. “Do you want to take the chance that, instead of a four-star hotel, you end up in an Italian prison? I’ve heard scary things about Americans getting locked away in foreign prisons. Everybody fights about jurisdiction and what laws were and weren’t broken. Then the American embassy comes in and starts throwing their weight around, which pisses off the other country’s government, which then digs in its heels, and the poor American pays the price!”

  “You know that isn’t the sort of thing we’re facing. This is Italy! The police don’t act that way.”

  “Which police? Between the carabinieri, the polizia di stato, the finance police, the antimafia police, and the antiterrorist police, we could get caught up in an internal fight that would be worse than an international one!”

  They were off the escalator now and walking down a long underground corridor.

  “Stop, already! Let’s just get out of this horrible subway.” Cat looked for a way up, back to street level, but didn’t see anything.

  Angie hurried her along. “We simply need to make sure nobody stops us. We need to find Marcello, let the police know, spend some time checking out a few things in Rome, and then go home. I miss Paavo already!”

  “That, I can agree to,” Cat said.

  “Good. Now, we used our ATM cards at the airport, but that was okay. If the police were alerted about us, they knew we landed there anyway. We can’t make that mistake again, however.”

  Cat sucked in her breath. “What are you suggesting?”

  Angie stopped at a wall map of the metro system. “You have a lot of cash on you, don’t you?”