If Cooks Could Kill

by Joanne Pence

  They say love is blind, and he was more blinded by Veronica than ever a man should be. She cut her hair short and sophisticated—much the way Connie wore hers—threw away her cotton dresses for business suits, and got to know his clients’ affairs as well, or better, than he did.

  A few times he walked in unexpectedly to hear her talking cheerfully to one of them. He didn’t question her, though, and pushed aside his suspicions, especially when she’d tell him how magnificent he was and that the luckiest day of her life was when he hired her.

  He wanted to get married, practically begged her, but she refused. He didn’t know why. Only much later did he learn she’d had lots of lovers, including several of his clients, like Dennis Pagozzi. Ironically, if she’d married him, he wouldn’t have been able to testify against her.

  It was his deposition that had caused her to plead guilty and bargain her way down to a three-year prison term, with five additional years of probation. The case never went to trial.

  He’d been furious. Three years was a slap on the wrist for what she’d done to him, to his business and reputation. To his heart. He’d loved her with a passion and intensity he’d never felt for anyone before and hadn’t felt since. The day he realized she’d betrayed him was the day he’d lost interest in life, along with his faith and self-respect.

  Although she was the embezzler, and he wasn’t criminally guilty, since she’d been in his employ, civil lawsuits against him were very real. At first, he’d cared about his clients, even though they were so rich their losses wouldn’t have mattered that much. Hell, with the tax write-off it gave them, they might have made a profit, for all he knew. But instead of showing him support or understanding, they sued him. They ruined him. He would have worked hard for them, too, had they not been like sharks at a feeding frenzy, taking all they could, destroying any sense of regret, obligation, or even basic humanity he felt for them.

  Everything he’d worked for, everything he owned, went to pay his lawyers and pay off the clients. He’d been insured, but what he owed was far more than the insurance and much more than he had saved, so a lien was placed against his future earnings as well. Since his capital would be taken away from him the minute he amassed any, he soon realized he would never be able to build up his assets. He was, in a word, screwed.

  A few of his clients, like Pagozzi, stuck by him for a while, but he was changed. Long before the creditors lined up at his door, long before the last of his clients took their business elsewhere, he’d ceased to care. Some days, he would find oblivion in a liquor bottle so that he didn’t have to wonder why she’d done it, and if she’d lied about everything. For months after the betrayal, he would wake up out of a nightmare with her name on his tongue and tears in his eyes. He hated her then as he hated her now. It was the only honest emotion he’d felt for the past three years.

  The life he’d known, his business, his love, were gone, all destroyed by the woman on the telephone.

  And damn it, as much as he wanted to kill her, he also wanted to see her again.

  “If you don’t have the money,” he asked, “where is it?”

  “I didn’t say that, exactly. In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good. Let’s meet at Ghirardelli Square, under the clock tower. Be there at three o’clock, and no funny business.”

  “That’s a great one, coming from you.”

  “It’s perfect, coming from me. And…I suggest you don’t tell your new girlfriend anything about this. I’d hate to fill her in on what you’re really like. It could ruin a good thing for you, don’t you think?”

  He hung up the phone, hating her even more than he thought possible.

  Was she referring to Connie? How could she possibly know anything about Connie? Maybe it was just a stab in the dark.

  He hurried out of Wings and dashed along the city streets to Ghirardelli Square. He’d be early, but that was okay. He wanted to be sure he saw Veronica before she saw him, just to get ready to face her again.

  He didn’t want her spooked, didn’t want her to do anything other than trust him and talk to him about where she’d put his damned money!

  He wanted it back for himself. He wanted enough to live somewhere that wasn’t squalor. He deserved that. Didn’t he? Well, didn’t he?

  He also wanted to know why Veronica had contacted Pagozzi when she got out of jail. What did they mean to each other?

  Suddenly, he staggered as a completely new thought struck him.

  Was it mere chance that Veronica had walked into his office when he needed clerical help three years ago, or had something else been going on between her and Pagozzi even then?

  Paavo tried to bury himself behind his computer and ignore the chaos going on around him as Elizabeth and Bo Benson made lattes and cappuccinos for Homicide, Robbery, and any other inspector who wandered into room 450, following their noses and the aroma of good, strong espresso. Angie had rented an espresso machine and sent it over, along with biscotti and cannoli, as afternoon coffee-break treats.

  “Inspector Smith.”

  Paavo started at the sound of Lt. Hollins’s voice. Hollins was the head of Homicide. Age fifty-plus, gray-haired, heavyset, and usually found holding or chewing on an unlit cigar. Right now, his tone was harsh and his expression a severe frown. And he never used his men’s title unless there was a problem.

  Paavo jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come into my office.” He marched off, and Paavo followed.

  The office was no more than a partitioned section in the corner of the bureau. For several years, the lieutenant had been promised a real office, but whenever he’d get one, the mayor would create a new commissioner or department, and the boss—usually a friend—would, of course, need his own office. People would be juggled around to accommodate the political appointee, and Hollins would be booted out of his new office, the supposedly temporary partitions put back in Homicide.

  “Have a seat,” Hollins said.

  Paavo sat down.

  “I don’t know quite how to put this.” Hollins didn’t sit, but walked around the little space, then stopped in front of the window. “I appreciate that you’ve just gotten engaged, and that your fiancée is thrilled by it, and she has money…but she’s going too far.”

  “She is?”

  “Nothing’s getting done. The inspectors are all hanging around the office waiting for their daily delivery of food rations.” Hollins’s face began to redden. “Is this an office or a soup kitchen? The problem is, the food she’s sending is great. I can’t pass it up either. It’s delicious, and fattening. I’ve gained five pounds just this week!” Each word was more agitated than the last. “I can’t keep this up. I won’t be able to fit into my clothes. My wife is wondering why I don’t eat much dinner anymore. She thinks I’m stepping out on her or something. I can’t take it!”

  “I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stop her!”

  Paavo kept silent. He’d have more luck locating Jimmy Hoffa. He wondered grimly what would happen when the lieutenant found out Angie had matchmaking plans for his fellow cops as well.

  “You don’t understand temptation!” Hollins cried. “That’s what’s going on. Many of us, er, them, are weak around such temptation. Especially the pizza.” His eyes rolled heavenward. Instead of agony or anger, he almost seemed to be in bliss. “And the Italian deli foods—the coppa, galantina, Gorgonzola, pepperoncini—”

  “I understand, sir,” Paavo said, standing. “I’ll talk to Angie soon.”

  “The caponata, dry olives, bruschetta.” Hollins raised his handkerchief to the corner of his mouth, aware that he was starting to drool. He blinked, forcing himself back to the task at hand. “Good, Smith. I expect you to take care of it.”

  Paavo hurried out of the office and back to his desk.

  Chapter 15

  Sid Fernandez sat in the van’s passenger seat and watched as a youn
g female courier drove into the Sutter Street building’s underground garage. She looked bored. This was just a job, one she’d done over and over, despite the supposed danger of it, and the danger in becoming blasé about it.

  She should have listened to her boss’s warnings, because as she shut and lock the truck’s door, Julius Rodriguez stopped the van, sprang out, and hit her on the head with an iron bar. He caught her as she crumpled.

  In under ten seconds, Julius had lifted her into the van. While he broke the courier’s neck to make sure she wouldn’t wake up and cry out, Veronica changed into the uniform stripped from the woman.

  Fernandez watched as the two double-checked the company’s ID to confirm that the one made for Veronica was the same as the IDs currently being used by Couriers Unlimited. It was.

  Veronica took the courier’s package, carefully removed the mailing label, and taped it onto a large padded envelope with heavy cardboard inside so it wouldn’t bend. She had to be sure Isaac Zakarian would open the door to receive it.

  Zakarian’s, a very exclusive diamond jewelry shop, was located on the third floor. It had a small public area, where customers could view the unset diamonds and settings, and a back room where the diamonds were stored in locked display cases. Each day, the office closed between twelve and two, and between one and one-thirty when his assistant went to lunch, the owner was alone. The only people he would open his doors for were couriers. And one or more came each day with a package for him.

  Initially, Julius was going to handle the robbery, but when El Toro found out Veronica would be getting out of prison, he thought she would be less likely to arouse any suspicion on Zakarian’s part. Their scheme required him to relax enough to open the door from the public area to the back where the diamonds were kept.

  He and Julius would wait until she was in—giving her exactly one minute from the time she stepped onto the elevator. She’d send the elevator back down to the basement, and they’d hold it there, waiting, until the minute was up.

  If they showed up on the cameras that scanned the hallway outside the shop, the owner would never open the inner office door for her. Once she knocked him over, they’d enter, clean out the store, take out the cameras, and simply ride down in the elevators, leaving the way they’d got in.

  It was a simple, straightforward plan, and in his experience, that was the kind that worked best. Too many of his compadres came up with complicated robberies only to have some little something go wrong and end up in jail. Just like what had happened to Veronica three years ago.

  Once, he’d thought he could trust her with this job, but now he questioned that. She’d changed her hairdo—cut short and dyed a light blond—and she wore blue contacts over the gray of her eyes.

  He didn’t like to question the loyalty of his people. He didn’t like it at all, but the robbery was set, and to change plans now would only create more delays.

  Delays always brought bad luck. El Toro hated delays.

  He’d also lined up an airtight alibi and made sure his fingerprints would be nowhere at the crime scene. Afterward, if she and Julius were being as disloyal as he thought, as he’d seen with his own eyes, he’d take care of the problem. Permanently.

  They waited until Zakarian’s assistant walked through the garage to his car and drove off. They now had a half hour to complete the job.

  Veronica gave Fernandez a backward glance, then stepped into the elevator.

  Veronica walked to the entry room and rang the bell. An older man with a round face atop an equally round body, receding gray hair, and oval glasses perched on the end of a nose with enormous, fleshy nostrils came to the bulletproof window.

  “Delivery,” she called.

  He didn’t say a word, but opened the slot. “Give it here,” he ordered gruffly.

  When she placed it against the slot and it wouldn’t fit, she tried to fold it with no luck. “What the hell did they send me?” Zakarian complained. “Let me see it.”

  She held it up to the window so he could read the label. “Okay, okay! Bring it to the door.” He stood. “Hold it, you! Show your ID. Don’t you know procedure?”

  She held the ID against the glass.

  “Cut your hair,” he said. “Looks better now.”

  She kept her expression taut as she tucked the card into her back pocket.

  He opened the door just a crack and was waiting for her to slip the package through when she hit the door hard, knocking him backward onto the floor. As soon as she did, she drew her gun. “Don’t touch a thing!” she ordered, knowing there were panic buttons all over, on the floor as well as the walls. She grabbed the shoulder of his shirt, lifting and spinning him around so he didn’t face her. At the same time she pulled him to his feet. “Keep your head down. Don’t look at me!”

  He raised his arms up even though she didn’t tell him to. He’d seen lots of movies. “What the hell is this?”

  “Unlock the cases and grab those trays.” She handed him a pillowcase to put them in. “We’re going out the back way. Fast!”

  “Okay,” he squawked. “Anything you say.”

  She knew he was thinking about the alarm on the back door, which, if opened when not deactivated, would cause the office to be surrounded with security, and soon after, the police.

  It was all right. She’d be out of there by then. With the diamonds. And if Fernandez and Julius were caught lurking around the hallway, so be it.

  He stuffed a bunch of trays into the pillowcase. She looked at the time. Fifty-five seconds had gone by.

  “That’s enough. Move it!” She shoved him toward the back of the store. “Listen, old man. My friends expect me to kill you then let them in, but I’m not. I’ll let you live. Got it?”

  He nodded, quivering.

  “I want you to run right down the stairwell to your car. If you don’t run fast enough, my friends might catch us. Then we’re both dead. Understand?”

  He turned a pale shade of green and nodded again.

  “Now. Run!”

  He ran, faster than she thought he could, literally jumping from stairs to landing as he descended the three flights to the garage. She stopped him as he got there, stuck her head out, and didn’t see El Toro or the others. They should be riding up on the elevator by now, or even waiting in the hall.

  “Now!” she ordered, and he ran, dripping sweat, to his car, a blue Buick.

  They jumped in, and he tore out of the garage, using his key card to open the door and get out.

  One good thing about silent alarms even in jewelry shops was that so many people tripped them by mistake, nobody took them as seriously as they should. There was always a delay—an “is-it-real-this-time-or-just-another-false-alarm?” moment—which she was counting on to give her the additional seconds she needed to escape.

  “Hey!”

  She didn’t know if it was a security guard or one of El Toro’s men who yelled, but she ducked and told Zakarian to head for Ghirardelli Square.

  He kept staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel, his foot like lead on the gas pedal. “Slow down!” she yelled. “Do you want to get a ticket?”

  “You’ve got the diamonds. Let me go,” the old man pleaded as they neared Ghirardelli Square.

  “Shut up and drive.”

  Max stood beneath the clock tower, just as he’d said he would. “There. Stop the car in the bus stop,” she ordered.

  “The bus stop? But what if a bus comes?”

  She waved at Max, and he nodded back. She watched Zakarian stare unblinking at Max while not daring to glance at her again. He remembered her warning. His voice quaked as he whispered, “Please let me go.”

  “Ask him—he’s the boss.” She swiveled toward the jeweler and smacked the butt of her Smith and Wesson hard against his temple. He slumped against the driver’s door.

  Clutching the bag with the diamonds, she jumped out of the car and ran down the hill. Max stared in horror at the old man, the blood now gushing from his hea
d, then ran after Veronica.

  People in the busy tourist area began to put together what had happened, and several yelled for Max to stop. Veronica reached her Ford Escort and in seconds was pulling away. She wove around the busy traffic, ran a red light, and somehow managed to find enough space open on the roadway to leave quickly. In the rearview mirror, she could see Max’s diminishing figure, and she started to laugh.

  The idea came to Angie from weddings in which each table of guests was given a disposable camera to take pictures—their point of view, so to speak. A number of people who worked with Paavo had witnessed his proposal to her in an old abandoned church after an insane killer had been stopped. To them, she had sent inexpensive tape recorders along with a blank tape, instructions, and a return envelope, and asked that they tell her what they saw, from the time Paavo proposed and she fainted, until she woke back up and her compos became mentis again. She hoped for a lasting memory of that wonderful moment since, unfortunately, she’d missed most of it.

  They did as she’d asked, and now, the tapes were in front of her. With great anticipation, she picked up the first one, Yosh’s, placed it in the tape recorder, and hit “Play.”

  “Paavo rushed off without me. When is he going to learn not to do that? We’re partners, damn it. Supposed to depend on each other, not go it alone. I should have been with him the whole time. You tell him, Angie. You want me there. If he’d told me what he was going to do, I could have had a glass of water in my hand, then when you passed out, I could have splashed it on you, right? But did he ask my help? No! He went and asked all by himself, and look at how it ended up. When will he learn? I give up.”

  Whew! She put on Calderon’s tape.

  “You keeled over, then you woke up. So what?”

  Next, she picked up a tape from Officer Crossen, a cop Paavo had asked to protect Angie. She wondered about it when he wrote “to Angie” and instead of a dot over the i, there was a . She hit “Play.”