by Joanne Pence
She thanked God her parents were in Palm Springs. It had been difficult enough to tell them by telephone that some stranger had left a bomb outside her apartment. Face to face, it would have been impossible. Her mother had sounded half hysterical at the news. Eventually, Angie had gotten her parents to see it in the same light as poison placed in an aspirin bottle—a random, one-in-a-million bit of bad luck. Still, it was all she could do to convince them to stay in Palm Springs and not worry about her unnecessarily.
Everyone who called was given the same story, that the bomb was a random attack. The package was sent to Occupant, after all, and she’d never done anything interesting enough to make anyone want to kill her. She really hadn’t ever done anything, interesting or otherwise. She wasn’t even married at age twenty-four, which her family considered a more serious failing with every passing day. Her mother was convinced none of this with the bomb would have happened if Angie were married. Angie had asked if that meant the bomb had been sent by a frustrated wedding caterer, but her mother had found no humor in her words.
The attack was random. It had to have been. No one had meant to harm her.
Still, the night before, she hadn’t been able to sleep. At the slightest sound she’d bolt upright in bed, listening, her heart pounding, and when she did doze off, her dreams were bizarre and nightmarish. Never before had she worried about being alone in her apartment. Suddenly, she did.
The plumbing noises, constant callers, and lack of sleep made her head pound. Finally, she gave up and pushed her chair away from the computer. She was working on her history book, a light but historically accurate study of the bawdy bowery of San Francisco in the 1890s. It was a task she could usually continue for hours, but not today. On top of everything else, the Shopper editor, George Meyers, was irritated that she had missed her last column. She promised to give him a headline story for his next issue: “Food Columnist’s Kitchen Blows Up—Recipe On Page 7.”
Her apartment made her nervous. Every time someone came to the door, she flashed back to the previous day. Even the ringing of the phone made her jump. She considered going shopping to lift her spirits, but the thought of the downtown crowds made her stomach knot.
Maybe just a short walk around the block or over to the park? That sounded good. It was just a matter of getting over the initial shock, she decided. That’s all. She grabbed a red suede jacket, walked to the front door, and then paused and stared at the door, unable to touch it.
She steeled herself a moment, then swung the door open. No problem. It was just as she’d told the inspector yesterday when he kept trying to frighten her. Her getting the bomb had been a mistake. She pulled the door shut behind her. Just a mistake.
She stepped onto the sidewalk. The day was warm and placid, the October sun bright upon the cars parked bumper to bumper along the quiet residential streets. Sparsely leafed trees stood in tubs, every fifty feet or so, along the sidewalk. Only one or two vehicles drove past her, and no pedestrians were around.
How could there be any danger here? Still, she found herself looking over her shoulder as she walked, unable to shake the eerie feeling that someone was watching her.
She walked toward the hillside park, two blocks away, where she usually met her friend Sam. It was strange that he hadn’t called her about missing their meeting yesterday. In the aftermath of the bomb, she had forgotten all about him.
She loved the view from the top of Russian Hill, of Chinatown to the right and North Beach to the left, of lofty churches and low neighborhood shops, all framing the white column called Coit Tower. Beyond were the blue waters of the bay.
She walked down the steps on Vallejo Street. The top of Russian Hill was so steep that the sidewalk had a cement stairway paved into it.
The park was just ahead of her, across an intersection. It was a place of peace and beauty, a place, she knew, where there couldn’t be anything amiss.
As she stepped into the intersection, a large, blue American car pulled out from its parking space down the street. She continued forward across the street.
The engine roared as the car sped up and headed straight toward her. She stopped, shocked, and then ran. The sidewalk seemed immeasurably far away. Each step, each lifting of her leg and meeting of the pavement with her foot, took an eternity as the car gained on her.
She reached the sidewalk, but the car swerved in her direction, bounding up onto the curb. She screamed and then lunged toward the first tree she saw. She clutched the tree and scooted around to the far side of it, hugging the trunk, trying to breathe even though her lungs didn’t seem to want to work and her heart was beating so fast she thought she’d faint. The squeal of brakes rent the air.
A half-block away, Paavo was methodically going door to door to question people who lived in the vicinity of Sammy Blade’s murder. Other than the ID of the victim, he and Matt were having no luck with the investigation.
He had been at it for over an hour when a call came over his car radio that another attempt had been made on Angelina Amalfi’s life. He dropped the microphone back onto the hook. He didn’t relish facing Saks Fifth Avenue’s pinup girl again. Still, after what he had learned about the bomb, he’d half expected to hear about another attempt. He slammed the transmission into drive and left the murder investigation to go to her apartment.
Meanwhile, at Angie’s apartment, the plumber had finished his work and all was quiet. After her narrow escape, she’d hidden in the park until she saw a police car drive by. She had chased after it, yelling and waving her arms until the policemen noticed her. They had escorted her to her apartment, then called in the report.
Now, shaking and close to hysteria, she telephoned her father’s lawyer, Marty Galquist. She asked him to recommend a bodyguard but made him swear he wouldn’t tell her parents. Her father had a heart condition, and she didn’t want to cause him any more worry than the bomb blast had already.
The frightening words of the inspector came back to her. “Someone doesn’t like you, Miss Amalfi.” She almost laughed at how understated the words seemed now.
She thought about leaving the city. She could buy an airplane ticket for some far-off place, or simply go to her parents’ home in Hillsborough. Since they were in Palm Springs, the house was empty. But how long would she have to hide? How long before whoever was after her would find her again?
Her father was friends with the mayor and the police commissioner. The police wouldn’t dare let anything happen to her. This was her home, in her father’s building. Surely she’d be safe if she just stayed put. She had to believe that.
She heard a knock on the door and froze. “It’s me,” her neighbor Stan called. Don’t scare me like that, she wanted to shriek, but she admitted him and even managed some enthusiasm. It was one of the few times she was genuinely happy to see him.
Stan was more of a pest than a companion, she had to admit. He was twenty-nine, thin and wiry, with brown hair and eyes. He considered himself an up-and-coming young bank executive. At least he did when he bothered to go to work, which wasn’t nearly often enough to suit Angie, or, apparently, his bosses, who hadn’t given him a Christmas bonus. He suffered from numerous mysterious ailments—laziness, mostly—and called in sick whenever he thought he could get away with it. On such days, he’d stop by Angie’s place for tea and sympathy. She’d give him a cup of the former and a thimbleful of the latter and make it clear that even though she was home, she had work to do. Stan, impervious to subtlety, would stay until Angie kicked him out.
He didn’t even sit down now. He took one look at how upset she was and, making himself at home as usual, walked into the kitchen to fix them each a brandy and soda. While he did that, Angie called the bodyguard service, Hallston and Sons.
Stan placed their drinks on the coffee table and sat on the yellow Hepplewhite chair. He looked comfortable in it. She’d never realized before how very slight he was.
“What’s with the bodyguard, Angie?” Stan leaned forward and took h
er hand in his, his slim fingers wrapped lightly around hers. “Is there anything I can do to help? You know I’d do anything for you. Just name it.”
“Stan, I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I just—”
In one quick motion he slid to her side on the sofa and put his arm around her. She told him about the car trying to run her down. While one part of her registered that he was taking advantage of the situation, another part appreciated the comfort too much to resist.
They hadn’t yet finished their drinks when there was a loud knock at the door.
“That must be my bodyguard. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d get here fast.” Angie started to get up when Stan lightly touched her shoulder to stop her.
“Let me get it. You never know.” He tried to sound macho, but she noticed his Adam’s apple bob a couple of times.
She curled up on the sofa, wondering if she’d feel this frightened every time someone came to her door. She led a busy life. She didn’t have time to be a shrinking violet. She wanted to get back to the way things were two days ago.
Stan peered through the peephole in the door. Angie realized she had never bothered to use it before. She would now, for sure.
Stan pulled the door open all the way, nearly flattening himself against the wall.
Inspector Paavo Smith strode slowly into the room, his brow knitted, taking in everything before him. He wore a gray sportscoat, gray slacks, and a white shirt. A Sherlock Holmes trench coat and deerstalker hat would have been more appropriate, Angie thought.
“You here again?” the inspector asked as he passed by Stan. He glanced at the brandy glasses side by side on the coffee table and at Angie huddled on the sofa. He turned back to Stan. “Stanfield Bonnet, right?”
“That’s, um, Bonnette.” Stan emphasized the second syllable.
Despite feeling suddenly safer with the inspector in the room, Angie was annoyed at the way he had marched in there as if he owned the place. “I suppose you were in the neighborhood again, Inspector.”
“As a matter of fact, I was. I’m trying to work on a murder case that’s getting colder by the minute. Nonetheless, Miss Amalfi, I do have a few questions about today’s incident.”
He was going to upset her again, she thought, bracing herself. He was probably thinking how stupid it had been for her to go out that day. She folded her arms. “I thought you worked in Homicide. No one’s dead here.”
“Not yet.”
“Thanks for the small comfort.”
“Speaking of which.” His gaze fell on Stan. “Were you with Miss Amalfi this afternoon?”
Stan cleared his throat. “No.”
The inspector looked at Angie. “Was anyone with you?”
“No!”
“Any witnesses at all?”
“Sorry. I was too busy hiding to ask for references.”
He glanced at Stan again. “You don’t need to remain here, Mr. Bonnet, thank you.” It was a statement of dismissal, not choice.
“That’s Bonnette,” Stan muttered. He hurried out the door and slammed it shut.
Angie stiffened her back. She really didn’t need this. “You do get your way, don’t you, Inspector?”
His eyes narrowed. “Always.”
“You make it sound like a challenge.”
“It’s a fact.”
Her gaze traveled from the tall detective to the small antique chair. “Since you’re staying,” she said, gesturing toward it, “you may as well sit.”
Instead, he took a step toward her. She fought the urge to step back. “Your cheek is scratched,” he said. “Did that happen today?”
Surprised, she touched her face and felt a small, raised welt just below her left cheekbone. “It must have.”
He nodded, then proceeded past the small chair to the sofa and sat squarely in the center of it.
She turned, her gaze following his steps, her fingers still on her cheek, surprised both that he’d noticed such an insignificant thing and that Stan hadn’t.
He spread his arms across the back of the couch. “All right, Miss Amalfi, tell me about it.”
She dropped her hand. “I already told the policeman on the phone.”
“And now you get to tell me.”
Maddeningly, tears filled her eyes. She fought to hold them back, unwilling to let him see any weakness in her. “I don’t need you to scare me, Inspector. I’m afraid now. You can feel relieved, you’ve done a fine job.” She lifted her chin, daring him to criticize her again, daring him to exclaim that he’d been right and she wrong about the danger.
Surprise flickered in his eyes, then his mouth tightened. He dropped his gaze and began fishing through his pockets, finally pulling out a pen and the same small notebook he’d used yesterday.
“When are you going to say ‘I told you so,’ Inspector?”
“It’s not my job to criticize or frighten you, Miss Amalfi.”
“What a pity when you do both so well!”
“It wasn’t my intention—”
“What is then? What is your intention around here?”
“I intend to keep you alive.”
His simple words caused her stomach to clench.
“And then,” he continued, “I intend to find whoever’s behind this.”
Her chin trembled. Her embarrassment at the things she’d said warred with her anger over this whole situation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” She couldn’t go on.
His expression softened ever so slightly at her apology. Slowly his gaze drifted over her face and held her eyes for the briefest moment. Then he abruptly flipped open the notebook and clicked the push-cap on his pen. His voice, as he spoke, was firm and matter-of-fact. “I need to know what happened this afternoon.”
“If only I knew!” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and gazed at the Cézanne hanging over her stereo system, the brilliant blues and yellows of the carefree, pastoral scene.
“Can…can I get you some coffee, Inspector?” Her voice shook. “My oldest sister, Bianca, brought some biscotti over this morning. They’re fresh, and…” She rubbed her forehead, then dropped her hand and looked at him, waiting for his answer.
“I’d like that,” he replied.
She fled to the kitchen to make some coffee and compose herself.
She set a mug before him and a small plate of cookies and then sat on the Hepplewhite and began her tale.
As she was telling him how she had hid under some bushes in the park until she was sure the car that had chased her was gone, a tap at the door interrupted her. She jumped at the sound and spun toward the detective.
She caught his gaze and clung to it. Without a word, he stood and walked to the door. Angie followed close behind. He glanced through the peephole, then stepped back, inviting her to take a look.
Her mouth dropped open. Before her stood the biggest man she had ever seen. She looked at Paavo and shook her head.
He gestured for her to step to the wall behind him. “Who is it?” he called through the door.
“The name’s Joey.” The man sounded as if he had a terminal sinus condition. “Nicky Hallston sent me to work for Miss Amalfi.”
“My bodyguard!” she whispered to Paavo.
“Bodyguard?” he mouthed, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sneer.
He opened the door to let the large man enter.
Angie’s gaze traveled over six and a half feet from the man’s buzzed haircut to his round face, no neck, bulging biceps under gray gym clothes, to surprisingly small running shoes. “I’m glad Nicky’s a friend,” she murmured with awe.
Joey carried a shopping bag. “My dinner,” he said. “Me and Rico’ll take this one. Twelve hours on, twelve off. Okay?”
She blinked in astonishment. So there really were people who talked like 1930s Warner Brothers movies. “I won’t argue.”
“Huh?”
“Fine!”
She introduced him to
Inspector Smith.
“Don’t worry about her,” Joey said. “I done this a long time. Ain’t lost nobody yet.”
“Sounds good. She’s all yours then.”
“Now, just a minute, Inspector—” Angie began.
He gazed at her, his eyes heavy-lidded.
“I don’t plan to have a bodyguard the rest of my life, you know. I expect you to get this settled.”
“Right.”
“Soon.”
He arched one eyebrow.
“I mean, I don’t want you to forget about me here, just because I’m safe now.”
“Miss Amalfi,” he said with a sigh, “I couldn’t possibly.”
She gasped and put her hands on her hips, daring him to say more.
He crossed the room and settled back against the sofa, with what she could have sworn was a hint of smugness in his cold expression. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered such a completely irritating man.
As Joey put his dinner away in the kitchen, Angie continued to tell the inspector the conclusion of her story.
She was describing running down a police car to get an escort back to her apartment when the telephone rang. It was an old boyfriend of hers, an actor with the San Francisco Conservatory Theater. “Lewis! It’s so good to hear from you!…I’m fine, thank you…Yes…Yes…Oh, that sounds wonderful…No, I’m afraid it’s no better. The police haven’t turned up one single thing yet…”
She looked up to see the inspector scowling at her.
“Well, it’s true, you know!” she said to him and then went back to the phone call. “I’m sorry, Lewis. I was talking to a detective here with me…. Oh sure, they’ll investigate family, friends, you know…. What? You have to go right now? But…Wait!…Lewis? Lewis?”
She glanced at Paavo. “He hung up.” Her shoulders sagged as she stared at the phone, the hum of the broken connection filling the quiet of the room.