If Cooks Could Kill

by Joanne Pence

  “Excuse me, Inspector Smith,” said Officer Crossen, the young policeman who had helped Paavo several times over the years. “Wasn’t that your fiancée in the limo?”

  Paavo stared at him. “What did you say?”

  “In the limo.” He pointed toward the passenger door. It had been pulled nearly closed, but not latched.

  Paavo frowned, walked over to it, and swung it open.

  Angie and Connie cowered on the floor, curled up to make themselves as small as possible. Big turquoise-shadow-ringed brown eyes looked up at him.

  “Hi,” Angie said, her voice as meek as he’d ever heard it.

  Angie nervously toyed with her engagement ring after Paavo left. She was glad she still had it. She’d never seen him as furious as he was with her and Connie for going to meet Sid Fernandez.

  How was she supposed to know he was a murderous gang leader? Nobody ever told her anything! She’d assumed he was rich, had a few dishonest financial dealings, but was basically a harmless guy whom Veronica had scammed—sort of like Max Squire, but on the shady side of the law.

  How was she to know Robbery and Homicide had, minutes before, worked out a deal with Raymondo on the limo’s phone, and that was why he’d brought Fernandez back home, saying the limo was overheating? The SWAT team had been called in just in case other gangbangers were at the house, and Fernandez refused to go quietly.

  If a shootout had happened, as Paavo needlessly pointed out several times over, she and Connie would have ended up more holey than Swiss cheese. Angie’s imagination, as she and Connie had hidden in the limo, had been far more vivid and hellish than any words Paavo had used. Keeping herself from shattering into a thousand pieces was all she could manage as he ranted.

  And Paavo never ranted—except when he’d been scared to death, such as this evening, when he’d realized she’d been in the direct line of fire.

  Finally, he left for Homicide to book Fernandez and to begin some of the paperwork.

  Angie had to admit to being relieved by his departure.

  Connie skulked out of the den where she’d been hiding. “Is it safe?” she asked, peeking around just in case.

  “For the moment. Men can be so touchy.”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t start.”

  Angie went to the kitchen and got a bottle of Louis Martini Petite Sirah from the pantry, where she had a small wine collection. She’d been saving it for a special occasion. Surviving a potentially deadly situation was about as special as she could imagine.

  The first glass was to settle their shattered nerves. They soon discovered it took the first bottle to settle them. With the second, they were finally able to talk.

  “We’re two logical, rational people,” Angie began, her head whirling. She put her glass down on the coffee table. “Surely we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “Uh-oh.” Connie drained her glass and poured herself another. “I don’t want to hear it. I simply want to beat the snot out of Max Squire. Is that too much to ask? Nothing else. No more hotels, limos, or shootouts. Got it?”

  Angie paid no attention. “You became involved in this because Veronica Maple made herself up to look like you in the robbery. The question is: why would she do that?”

  “She was jealous of my good looks!” Connie took a long drink.

  “She also framed Max—assuming he’s innocent, which I think is a valid assumption.”

  “Innocent? When I’m through with him, his only use will be as a hood ornament! I’ll pulverize him. Tony Soprano him. Flatline him!” Connie hiccupped and held her glass up for more.

  “I hear he was quite good to her, fell in love, and then she scammed him. She went to prison, and when she got out, she came to San Francisco for God-only-knows what reason. Ah!” Angie sat up tall and faced Connie. “I’ve got it! What if she was jealous? Not of your looks, but of Max…of you and Max together?”

  Connie forced herself to focus. “Helen Melinger told me about a woman she thought was my sister hanging around. That could have been Veronica!”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Angie staggered into the kitchen and grabbed a box of Godiva truffles. “This calls for the big guns.”

  They each took a truffle and ate thoughtfully. Then another.

  “To Veronica,” Angie said, licking her fingers, “it must have been bad enough that Max was seeing another woman. Having you resemble her—somewhat—was that much more infuriating.”

  “But Max and I don’t have that kind of relationship,” Connie said. “At least, not yet. Now, not ever!”

  They both ate more chocolate.

  “That aside,” Angie said, as she knelt down beside the coffee table and poured more wine to wash down the truffles, “Veronica needs money, right? So what does she do? She finds her old friend Sid Fernandez. They scheme to steal diamonds. She’ll fence her share and get cash, and in the meantime, she’ll set up you and Max to take the fall for the heist!”

  “Me and Max. What might have been. Why do I fall for these losers?” Connie stretched out on the sofa, candy in one hand, wine in the other, and her head on the backrest.

  “Max seems to think Veronica hid the money she embezzled, but he must be wrong,” Angie said, sitting cross-legged on the carpet and munching another candy. “Or, for some reason, she couldn’t get her hands on it. If I had millions, I’d own a lot more than one Liz outfit. And I’d be on the first plane to Rio.”

  “You’re the big matchmaker. How about a match with a guy who’ll take me to Rio!”

  “I got it!” Angie waved her wineglass. “She was stuck, needed money, and was jealous, so she stole the diamonds, then called the police, and said you had them.”

  “I don’t have any diamonds. Only a zircon or two. Kevin was too broke to give me an engagement ring. That should have warned me.” She slugged back more wine. “I’m gonna kick his ass, too!”

  “That’s why Veronica made herself up to look like you,” Angie murmured. “So Zakarian would identify you at the lineup.” She backed up against the sofa, her legs straight out, ankles crossed, and then slid down so that her head lay on the seat cushions. She balanced the wineglass on her stomach, lightly holding it in place with one hand as she groped for the Godiva box with the other.

  “Then, somebody killed her,” Connie said, generously passing the box over after she plopped another truffle into her mouth. “Who would have done that?”

  Angie noticed the edge of a piece of paper under the sofa. It must have dropped. She pulled it out and saw the letter from Bon Appétit. “Hey, look at this. I got a job offer.” She sipped more wine as she read. “A good job offer.”

  “Max might have killed her to get even for ruining him,” Connie reasoned, as best she could after so much wine.

  The words seemed to jump all over the letter as Angie stared at it. “I kind of remember several good job offers, come to think of it. How strange”—she yawned—“that people seem to want my help now. Where were they when I needed them?”

  “Or Dennis,” Connie offered, also yawning. “He might have been jealous of her and Max, or angry that she came back.”

  “Or some other man in her life,” Angie said, rubbing her eyes. “But which?”

  “How could one woman have so many men, and here I am…the men in my life are so screwed up. Maybe it’s me. I think I’ll become a nun.” Connie put the wineglass on the end table and rolled to her side, her lips smacking a couple of times.

  “You haven’t met the right guy, that’s all,” Angie murmured sleepily. “Anyway, you aren’t Catholic.”

  “You’re Ms. Matchmaker, and you came up with worse losers than I did on my own.” Connie suddenly giggled.

  Angie was irked. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I would!” She giggled again, then fell silent.

  Angie, thankful she was no longer being laughed at, also set down her wineglass. “I was just thinking, I’ve got a cousin…Connie?” she murmured, her eyes shut.
>
  Connie’s answer was a snore.

  Angie responded in kind.

  Chapter 28

  Angie awoke with a dry mouth, upset stomach, and splitting headache. The one eye she could open read 7:55 on her clock radio. All the ugliness of the past few days rushed at her and she sat up. This situation needed to be settled now. It was ruining Connie’s life, it was unjust, and in part, she’d gotten Connie into it by her meddling.

  She stumbled down the hall to the den and shook her friend awake. Connie sat on the edge of the bed in a stupor. Her eyes had dark circles, her skin was green, and her hair looked spiked. “We’re going to go find Max,” Angie declared. “Time to move it.”

  “I feel sick.” Connie lay back down and pulled the covers over her head. “Anyway, I’d rather hear about your cousin,” she murmured, then began to snore again.

  “What cousin?” Angie asked, tugging at the blankets. “Let’s go.”

  Connie held the blankets tight, twisting them around herself. As Angie tugged, Connie slid along the sheets and nearly tumbled onto the floor. “Okay, okay! I’m up already.” She stood, blinked a couple of times, then gawked at Angie. “You look like hell!”

  “Gee, thanks!” Angie’s head felt as if drum majorette tryouts were being held inside it. “I’m just trying to help, here.”

  “Well, you’d have been more help if you’d listened to me earlier,” Connie snarled as she headed down the hall. “I told you we needed to find Max, but would you listen? Nooooo. So we nearly got our hair parted by flying bullets!”

  Her words stung. “Keep complaining,” Angie said, “and I’ll cook you some soft-boiled eggs for breakfast.”

  “Yuck!”

  “With a great big glass of buttermilk.”

  “All right.” Connie stuck her fingers in her ears. “I’m sorry.”

  “Topped with extra thick whipped cream!” Angie shouted.

  “Stop!” With a groan, Connie ran toward the bathroom.

  Angie rubbed her own stomach. Her irritation had backfired, and now she felt as queasy as Connie. In the kitchen, she made them both tea and dry toast. If she never saw red wine or chocolate again, it would be too soon.

  After showering and downing several aspirin, they both felt a little more civilized. Each donned a pair of Angie’s oversized dark sunglasses, more to ease their headaches than to be incognito, and then they were off in pursuit of Max—slightly battered guerrilla fighters this time.

  Three homeless shelters and two food kitchens later, they sat in Angie’s Mercedes, ready to give up.

  “He must have changed his name,” Connie said, adjusting the glasses to better protect her eyes from the sun’s glare. “Max Shithead, maybe.”

  “He was going to do Wings’s tax statements. Maybe they gave him a few dollars in advance to get a room somewhere,” Angie suggested. She wondered if wearing two pairs of sunglasses at once would help.

  “He might be at Dennis’s house,” Connie said. “Let’s call and ask.”

  Angie started the engine. “And take the chance he’d lie? No way.”

  “Go for it, girlfriend. Let’s bust balls!” Almost immediately, though, Connie rolled down the window for a blast of crisp air. The rumbling of the car was playing havoc with her stomach. Angie rolled down the driver’s side window as well.

  By the time they reached Dennis’s, both women were hanging their heads out the windows. It made driving difficult, but not as hazardous as the alternative. Anyway, their temporary misery would be well worth it if they could confront Dennis and Max.

  Their spirits sank when they found the drapes closed at the house. It was nearly noon. Dennis might still be asleep, Angie thought. He seemed to keep pretty late hours.

  She rang the ball, and after a wait, knocked on the door. No answer.

  She and Connie stepped out onto the street. The windows were all shut tight. To the left of the house was a gate to the backyard, but it was solid wood and five feet tall. Neither was good at pole vaulting.

  “We can come back later,” Connie said, rubbing her temples, “and try again.”

  “That means we’d have to ride all the way back here,” Angie wailed. Carsickness was nowhere on her how-to-have-a-good-time list. The potted ferns that adorned the front entryway gave her an idea. “Start looking,” Angie said, lifting one plant and peering under it.

  Three plants later, Connie found a key. She waved it at Angie. “Let’s see if it fits.”

  “Try it.” Angie watched Connie slide the key in the lock. “Only don’t—”

  She froze as Connie pushed the door open. “Don’t what?”

  Suddenly a loud shriek sounded, lights flickered, and an alarm clanged, making their already aching heads jangle so badly a guillotine would have looked like an angel of mercy.

  “Don’t set off the house alarm!” Angie cried, too late, as the two clutched their heads and scrambled to her car to make a fast getaway.

  “Have a seat,” Paavo said as he and Yosh sat across from Pagozzi in Homicide’s interview room, a plain, windowless rectangle with only one four-by-eight table and four aluminum chairs around it.

  They’d invited Pagozzi to visit Homicide—and then had given him an hour to get there. He’d made it in fifty-nine minutes.

  “We have a few questions,” Yosh said.

  Dennis’s face went white. “About what?”

  “We want to ask you about Wallace Jones,” Paavo answered for Yosh.

  “Jonesy?” Dennis’s Adam’s apple worked, and sweat broke out on his brow. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “He was arrested last night,” Paavo said. “We looked at his phone records. Lots of calls between you and him.”

  Dennis looked as if his tongue were stuck to the roof of his mouth. “He’s a friend. What’s this about?”

  “A stash of sports equipment was found not long ago and traced to him. Mr. Pagozzi, did you know his stuff was all counterfeit?” Yosh asked.

  “My gosh!” Dennis cried.

  Paavo had seen bad acting before, but this guy was beyond dreadful. “You thought it was real?”

  “Sure.”

  “He was going to be your supplier for the sports bar you were talking about opening,” Paavo said.

  “Hey,” Pagozzi was all wide-eyed innocence. “I wouldn’t try to sell fakes in my uncle’s restaurant, would I? I didn’t know! If I ever found out, I wouldn’t have gone through with the deal, all right? It’s not against the law to trust a friend, is it?”

  “That’s what we’re asking you,” Paavo said.

  “Tell us about your marriage to Veronica Maple,” Yosh suddenly interjected.

  Dennis’s head whipsawed between the two inspectors, his forehead glistening. “Christ! Why do you want to know?”

  “Why did you lie about knowing her?” Paavo asked.

  “Is that what this is about?” His eyes clung to one, then the other. Finally he sighed. “It’s ancient history. We were in Mexico. It was for fun, that’s all.”

  “Not if there’s a valid Mexican marriage certificate,” Yosh said.

  “It was annulled, all right?” Dennis cried. “It meant nothing. Nothing! I was only seventeen. I had a football career ahead of me. What would I want with a screwed-up pothead for a wife?”

  “She did drugs?” Yosh asked.

  “She sure did. Why do you think she spent so much time in trouble? She got mixed up with Fernandez and his gang. I couldn’t handle it. I tried to get her off my back, but she kept coming around, and coming around…”

  There was more to it. Paavo could tell he was holding something back. “She was under your skin, wasn’t she?”

  Dennis’s lips tightened into a white line. “There was something about her. What can I say? I don’t know the word, but almost…feral. Yeah, that’s what you call it. Like a wild tiger. Or better, a leopard. Sleek, sexy, smart. And when she set her mark on a man…” He shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  “Sounds like
you still love her,” Yosh said.

  “No!” he answered too quickly, too vehemently.

  “You knew what she was up to with Max Squire?” Paavo asked.

  “I never imagined she could do what she did! I was the one who told her about him. How he was handling my money, and lots of other guys. Before I knew it, she’d taken him for millions.” Once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. “She was good that way, using men. All men.”

  “Who else?” Yosh asked.

  “How the hell should I know? She was in prison for three years. Ask the guards. She had all of them by the balls—literally. The same with Max and his clients.” His mouth twisted. “Rich clients. Lots richer than Max or me. She could have had any of them, but she wanted money and independence, and Max saw to it she went to prison.

  “She knew how to use you, all of you,” Paavo said, pondering Pagozzi’s words, Max’s reaction to her, even El Toro’s admission that he “cared” about her. “And then, she double-crossed you.”

  Dennis nodded, then shut his eyes against his memories.

  “When she got out of prison, why didn’t she just leave the country?” Yosh asked. “Everyone seems to think she had millions hidden.”

  “How should I know?” With his elbows on the table, shoulders tight, he leaned forward, his hands clenched.

  “You spoke with her,” Paavo said. The strange way Butch, Earl, and Vinnie had acted, it was a good guess that Veronica Maple had spoken with all of them.

  Dennis started, clearly not expecting the cops to know that. “Look, we were kids together. When she got out of jail, she came here just a couple of days. Had to put her feet on the ground, you know? I let her hang out, then she split. I don’t know more than that.”

  “Where’d she go?” Paavo asked.

  Dennis chewed his tongue. “Why don’t you guys ask Max Squire? Maybe he can tell you.”

  Paavo and Yosh stood. The interview was over.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” Yosh said.

  “Don’t go too far,” Paavo added. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions to ask you.”