Cook's Christmas Capers (The Angie Amalfi Mysteries)

by Joanne Pence

  "Damn you!" Richie moved forward.

  Rebecca put an arm out, stopping him.

  "Eat me," Leo said with a nasty smirk.

  "Cool it, you two." Rebecca put her gun in the handbag and handed Richie the handkerchief, then faced Leo. "Why did you shoot at us? And why beat up Richie?"

  He looked disgusted. "The first was to scare you away. How was I supposed to know who it was around my warehouse? The second was to show what happens to somebody too stupid to run after being shot at. Officially, however, I thought he was a burglar."

  Rebecca had to admit to a certain logic to that. "I’ll let you go tonight, but stay close to home and to your phone. We can talk tomorrow—"

  "But it’s Christmas!"

  "At eleven in the morning. Have your attorney call me. And don't forget. I don't like it when people forget to do what I tell them."

  Even in the dark, she could see Leo turn pale. She knew his attorney would call and say he and Leo couldn’t be there until December 26th at earliest, but it was okay. Leo wasn’t going anywhere, and her gut feeling told her he wasn’t a murderer.

  Crooked, yes. Murderer, no.

  She did suspect, however, that he knew a lot more about the dead Santa than he was willing to say without some major threats. Too much "coincidence" was going on here. Once she got Punk Leo and his attorney into the intimidating location otherwise known as Homicide's interrogation room, she felt pretty certain he would open up. "What is it they call you?" she asked, directing her question at her so-so suspect. "Punk Leo? Very appropriate, if you ask me. Get out of here now."

  He ran to his car, casting aspersions on Richie’s manhood the entire way.

  Chapter 7

  ANGIE AMALFI LOOKED AT the clock when she heard the knock on her apartment door. It was early for Paavo and besides, the knock was too quiet for him. He had a cop’s "open up or else" knock, even when coming to see her. They were going to go to dinner and then to her parents’ house for Christmas Eve.

  Angie was a petite woman with wavy brown hair streaked with light auburn highlights. She’d been looking forward to this Christmas Eve for some time—the first one for her and Paavo as an engaged couple.

  She opened the door, then her mouth dropped and she stared. Was this a joke? Her mother, Serefina Amalfi, stood in front of her dressed up like a vision of a very w-i-i-d-e sugar plum fairy wearing a Christmasy red dress decorated with large white polka dots, her black coat haphazardly tossed over one arm. Springs of mistletoe formed a corsage. Serefina’s cheeks were fiery red. She’d obviously been testing the eggnog.

  That wasn’t the whole story, though. Behind her were more little old Santa Clauses than Angie had ever seen. "What’s going on, Mamma?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Did you raid the North Pole?"

  "These are my good friends," Serefina’s words slurred as she linked arms with two of them. Her coat fell and Angie picked it up. "We’ve been celebrating, talking about the good old days. And we have a favor to ask of you."

  "Where’s Papà?" she asked, sticking her head out the door to better see through the blaze of red.

  Just then, her neighbor Stan Bonnette, probably because of all the commotion, opened his apartment door, gazed into the hall at the plethora of Christmas spirit, gawked, and then quickly shut the door again. His dead bolt clicked into place.

  "Your papà is home," Serefina answered. "He’s waiting for us, the old fart. He doesn’t like to go out, as you know." She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "And he doesn’t approve of all my friends." She put a finger in front of her mouth and said, "Shush."

  "Mamma, I think you need some coffee," Angie said, pulling her inside.

  "Your father is such an old man!" Serefina wailed. "Not like miei amici!" To Angie, her mother’s friends looked eighty at youngest. "So, are you going to make them stand in the hallway, or are you going to help us?"

  Angie instinctively put her arms up to block the door. It was Christmas Eve and Paavo was coming over soon for their private celebration. This couldn't be happening. With brows creased, she asked suspiciously, "Help you with what, Mamma?"

  o0o

  After Richie’s lip stopped bleeding, he looked at his watch. It was after eight. "Damn! I’ve got to get going."

  "Drop me off at Homicide?" she asked.

  "Sure."

  They rode in silence except for the time he asked her what she was looking for in her purse. She told him it was her key card to get into Homicide after hours. Actually, it was one half of a homing device that she planned to stick under the Porsche’s passenger seat. The other half remained in her purse. She wasn’t about to let him ride off, possibly to meet with the killer she was looking for, without doing anything about it. She could tell from the way he drove, constantly checking side and rearview mirrors, that he was far too paranoid about being followed for her to tail him the normal way.

  The magnet on the homer make a little "dink" as it met the metal bars under the seat and she coughed, trying to cover the sound. He glanced her way. She patted her chest. "Sorry."

  "Look, Inspector," he said, "I’m sorry about this, too. The day didn’t go quite the way I’d planned. I didn’t mean to put you in danger. Or myself, for that matter."

  "I know. For me, it goes with the territory."

  He stopped just outside the Hall of Justice parking lot. Her seven year old Ford Explorer with four-wheel drive, a V8 engine, and a CD player, perfect for when she went up to the mountains or to some remote beach for vacation, was the only auto remaining in the center of the lot. A couple of security guard cars were right next to the building.

  "Looks like just about everyone’s gone home for Christmas Eve," she said.

  "Yeah. Guess so," he murmured, facing her. "Rebecca—"

  She immediately opened the car door and practically jumped out of the Porsche. "See you around, Richie Amalfi."

  His dark eyes perused hers and held a moment, but then he simply nodded. "Okay. Be careful out there, Inspector."

  "Will do." With that, she shut the door, and he drove off.

  Hurrying to her car, she set up her half of the homing device on the dashboard. It whirred for a moment, not doing a thing, then began a steady, pulsating beep. Success!

  She started out, heading left as she’d seen him go. She’d ridden with others as they’d used one of these devices to follow a suspect, but she’d never done it on her own and it was trickier than she’d imagined. Richie would turn a corner, and she’d go straight, only to realize her mistake when the beeps grew weak and slow. It’d be a matter of U-turning when possible, if not racing madly around a block to pick up the strong steady pulse once again.

  To her surprise, he drove to the hilly high-rent area in the center of the city known as Twin Peaks. They zigged and zagged their way up its curvy streets and were nearing the top when the beeps stopped completely.

  How could she have lost him here? Rebecca wondered. She slowed to a crawl and continued to drive along the winding roads with its many smaller side streets and dead ends.

  Soon, she reached the very top of the hill. If he came up here, he must have had a destination in mind. But what? Who?

  She slowly traveled along the streets, driving around and around, in and out of side streets and cul-de-sacs, listening for a ping, and looking for his car. Maybe he lived here and had pulled into his garage. But the homing device would still beep.

  What if he realized what she had done? And then led her here to a wild goose chase? He might have disabled the device, knowing she would waste her time driving in circles, just as she had done, and…

  Was that a ping?

  She froze, listening. Then she heard another … and another. They seemed to be coming a bit faster, a bit louder, which meant he was approaching. She shut off the car’s lights then backed off the street she was on into a small side street and waited.

  The homing device grew louder and less than twenty seconds later, Richie's black Porsche flew down the street, leaving Twin Peaks b
ehind.

  As best she could, she followed.

  o0o

  Presidio Heights was an area filled with mansions of the rich and famous, including politicians and some of the top medical specialists and lawyers in the country. She expected Richie to drive straight through it and keep going, when the beeps began to grow faster and faster.

  He must have stopped, she thought. But why here?

  She pulled over. This was one of the few parts of the city with street parking readily available. It was because there were few apartment dwellers vying for space, and many of the mansions had added underground parking to keep the owners' expensive cars safe from the elements and thieves. For a moment, she could scarcely believe she was still in San Francisco.

  She got out of the Explorer and hurried to the street corner to look for Richie's car.

  To the right, in the center of the block was a brightly lit mansion with many cars parked nearby, the Porsche among them.

  She phoned dispatch to find out who lived in the house. To her surprise, the answer wasn’t readily available. A search had to be performed before she got a name: Giorgio Boiardi.

  "My God," she muttered. The name was familiar. She took Richie's iPad mini out of her purse and prayed its wireless Internet would work in this area.

  It connected. Within seconds, Google verified her memory and added to it. Giorgio Boiardi, mobster, headed West Coast operation 1959-1988, in prison 1989-2005 when released due to old age and infirmity.

  Curious, she searched for his birth date, and when she found it, looked again to make sure she was reading it right. He was born exactly ninety years ago. It was his birthday!

  This must be a birthday party. And all the old men ... could they all have been ...?

  She had to swallow hard. Had she stumbled upon a group of old criminals gathering in one place to celebrate the birthday of the capo di tutti capi? The Don? Is that what was happening?

  No wonder Richie wouldn’t tell her what was going on. How many of the guys he was looking for had outstanding warrants? How many could she pull in to finally serve time for the crimes they’d committed? That was the reason for the Santa suits. Not that they were a bunch of do-gooders, but because they were wanted men! They needed to hide their faces. What better way than as Santa Claus the day before Christmas?

  And Richie Amalfi was in the middle of it all. The big softie was trying to help old men—old crooked men—to have one more birthday and Christmas celebration together. She shook her head at the thought.

  Now what? One person who was a cop and yet understood the Amalfis came to mind—Paavo Smith. They needed to talk. She tried his cell phone, but it went straight to messaging.

  Intuition sparked and she flipped through the stored addresses on her cell phone.

  A cheerful, feminine voice answered the call. A few minutes of conversation yielded more information—and surprises—than she ever imagined.

  She sped across the city. The city was tiny, but between traffic jams and traffic lights, it could easily take a half hour to go a few miles. Fortunately, on Christmas Eve, even in San Francisco, the streets were fairly empty.

  Most people were home or visiting friends and families, not racing around hoping to make a career-establishing, big time arrest.

  When she reached her destination, she saw the white Econoline parked across the street. She all but rubbed her hands in glee. She was on the right track after all.

  Impatiently, she waited for the elevator to bring her up to the top floor of the apartment building. She had never been there before, but she heard about it often enough to know not only how to find the building, but exactly what it would look like inside.

  The door opened. Angelina Amalfi looked prettier than ever in a red silk dress with matching shoes and gold and pearl jewelry. Rebecca had never even owned dyed-to-match shoes. She felt frumpy as she realized what her once white blouse and crisp black slacks must look like after the day’s exertions. And she’d never even put the barrette back in her hair. She buttoned her jacket, hoping that might help.

  "Come in," Angie said. "We’ve got eggnog and lots of cookies. The last batch of biscotti is still baking—and Paavo's back from the grocery now, too. We used a lot of sugar tonight."

  Rebecca’s gaze swept over the apartment taking in everything at once, and all but gasping by what she saw. The living room was much more attractive than she expected it would be. The furniture was a mixture of antique and modern. She had imagined it would be gaudy with dark wood and Victorian curlicues as far as the eye could see. Instead, it was light and peaceful, much simpler and more tasteful than she had thought ... or, than she had hoped.

  Santas sat around the dining room table, on the petit-point sofa, antique Hepplewhite chair, and across the room on a pair of wingbacks. A couple of them stood in the kitchen. They still wore their suits, but their hats and beards were off. Even sitting, she could tell that most of them were stooped and frail. Perhaps once large and forceful, they were now quite elderly.

  Finally, her gaze settled on that of her fellow inspector. Paavo was standing in the dining area talking to a heavy-set older woman. He excused himself and approached, a drink in one hand, the sleeves on his white shirt rolled back, his tie slightly loosened, and with a smidgeon of flour on his brown slacks. He looked relaxed and ... happy. Not the stern, serious man he always was at work. Her heart contracted.

  "What’s the problem, Rebecca?" he asked, knowing she wasn’t there on a social call. "I heard you were looking for me."

  Earlier, when she called simply to ask for Paavo to talk over with him all she had learned, she could hardly believe what Angie told her—fortunately, Angie was a bit of a chatterbox. That was what brought her to Angie's apartment.

  She came rushing over here because she had a duty to perform, but now, she wondered about the wisdom of doing it.

  "I ... um ..." She looked from one Santa to the other. Canes were everywhere. At least no one used a walker. Hauling them all into jail was going to be a bit more awkward than she’d imagined. She lowered her voice. "I’ve got to question the old Santas about a strange death I'm investigating—a death of another old Santa!"

  "I see," Paavo said with a grimace. He understood her problem. "Do you think they're involved?"

  "Not really, but they very probably have information I could use."

  "They were planning to go somewhere for a Christmas Eve party, although I get the feeling none of them know how to get there."

  "Really? I believe I know exactly where the party is," she said.

  "Sounds like you've got a bargaining chip," Paavo told her with a nod.

  Rebecca faced the group and asked for their attention. She began by introducing herself, then said, "I'm sorry to inform you that Cockeyed Lanigan was killed this morning. I'm here to ask if any of you can help in my investigation of his death."

  Joe the Pistol turned to Serefina with a scowl. "If I’da known you was so chummy with all these cops, I never woulda called you!"

  The others told him to shush.

  Rebecca knew what was going on: they'd spent a lifetime learning not to talk to or trust a cop. "Listen, I know where you’re supposed to be tonight," she said. "And I can take you there, but not until I learn something about Cockeyed Lanigan. Now, who wants to start?"

  As one, they all turned their backs on her as they began to put on their beards and hats.

  "I don’t know why I’m bothering with this get-up," Lorenzo the Slug muttered to Guido Cucumber. "We’re already at a goddamned cop convention."

  "Damn right," the Cucumber said with a sneer. "We gotta get the hell outta here!"

  "Hold it, everyone," Paavo said. "Rebecca’s okay. She just needs answers to a few questions."

  "Easy for you to say," Joey Zoom grumped.

  "Wait! He’s my son-in-law to be," Serefina protested. "You trust me, you trust Paavo."

  "We trust Paavo. Just not her." Joey Zoom waved his thumb at Rebecca. "She comes here threateni
ng. The hell with that!"

  Rebecca realized the folly of her completely wrong approach with these men. "Look, I’ve just got a couple of questions."

  "Tell the girl," Serefina urged. "Nobody liked Cockeyed anyway, so why not tell her about him?"

  The Santas eyed each other.

  Finally, Joey the Pistol spoke. "Okay, if you really want to know. Cockeyed was bad. Word was he hated a Big Somebody. Real big. Maybe he wanted to ice that Somebody. Thought he could follow us around, find out where the party was, and then sneak in wearing a Santa suit. Now, I ain’t saying that’s what was going to happen, but it might be what he planned."

  The others nodded.

  Rebecca didn't buy it. "So Cockeyed was going to somehow use you guys to get to this Big Somebody, but then he just happened to get himself killed?"

  The Santas all shifted nervously. "Look, we saw Cockeyed following us when we was out at the airport," Lorenzo the Slug said. "Joey Zoom took care of the van so we'd get rid of Richie. But then, when Joey Zoom pulled off the freeway, Cockeyed tried to follow. But it seems he made a little mistake and drove off the overpass instead."

  "He did what?"

  At Rebecca's startled expression, Joey the Pistol explained, "Cockeyed didn't get his nickname for nothing! Nobody wanted to ride with him driving, not ever. We figured he musta got rattled, and did a swan dive."

  The others agreed, some loudly.

  Rebecca and Paavo traded glances. "Wait a minute!" she said. "If Cockeyed's death was an accident that happened right near the airport, how did he end up miles away in the middle of the Stonestown Mall?"

  The Santas all turned expectedly to Joey Zoom. "As I see it" he said, "Punk Leo spilled the beans to Cockeyed about Big Somebody's birthday party and about us with our Santa suits so nobody would recognize us. But then Punk Leo must have got wind of Cockeyed's plans to get even with Big Somebody. He realized if Cockeyed hurt the big man, then Leo would be toast. So, Leo followed Cockeyed to try to stop him. He musta seen when poor Cockeyed was called by His Maker. Maybe it scared him, who knows, and he didn't want to leave the body where there might be questions about Cockeyed wearing a Santa suit. Word could get out, you know, and Big Somebody—well, let's just say he's good at puttin' two and two together."