by Joanne Pence
“I got a call from Edward Crane.”
“The recipe writer.” He sounded uninterested.
“I’m going to meet him right away in his apartment.”
That got a bigger response. “You’re going to what?”
“The address is 501 Third Street.”
“That neighborhood’s too dangerous. You’re not going down there.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I can’t get away. I’m working on…on Matt’s case.”
“I see. I just thought you could question Crane about Sam.”
“Well, I guess Matt was checking out a lead on Sammy Blade’s murder when he was killed…. Listen, I’ll be right there.” He hung up.
Thirty minutes later she heard his loud knock at the door.
She ran to answer it, nearly knocking Rico over in her haste. She pulled open the door and stood, her heart pounding, face to face with him. She needed to see that he was all right and to tell herself that what had happened to Matt couldn’t happen to him.
She stepped back to let him enter the room. He looked exhausted. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie loosened, his gray sports jacket was open and hung limply off his shoulders. The skin under his eyes was almost blue with fatigue, and his face had a pale, pinched look to it.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She wanted to call off the meeting with Crane. All she wanted to do was to have him take off his jacket and lie down so she could rub his neck and shoulders, and let him relax, let him know he didn’t have to be Mr. Inspector around her. Just himself, just a man. She ached for him, but she knew better than to even suggest he rest. She nodded and went to get her coat.
Paavo was silent as they rode in his Austin to the address on Third Street, an area full of rundown hotels and homeless winos. He didn’t want to think about the woman beside him, or the partner he had lost. Yet he couldn’t think of anything else.
They found Crane’s room on the first floor. Paavo lifted his knuckles to the door, but Angie caught his arm just in time. “He’ll know you’re a cop, Inspector, believe me.”
Paavo was surprised, but let Angie knock instead.
“Who is it?” a voice called.
“It’s me. Angelina Amalfi.”
Crane opened the door a crack and then slammed it just as Paavo’s arm shot out to push it open. The door locked. Angie backed out of the way as Paavo gave it a powerful kick.
He rushed into the empty room. The window stood open.
“Wait here,” Paavo said to Angie as he climbed out the window.
Crane ran down the alley behind the hotel. Paavo was catching up to him when he heard footsteps behind him, stopped, and spun around, his hand on the butt of his Smith and Wesson.
Angie froze in mid-step. Paavo stared at her in disbelief for a moment and then bolted after Crane again. Crane was far ahead of him now, and, like many small men, he had speed. He turned down an outside stairwell into a basement, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Paavo slammed into it just as he heard the deadbolt click into place. He kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried his shoulder and winced with pain.
Angie, gasping for breath, caught up to him. He warned her to stay back as he pulled out his gun.
She held her fingers to her ears, her eyes shut tight as he pointed at the lock and fired.
With his gun pointing upward, he carefully pushed the door open and entered the building. “Wait here,” he ordered her.
He hurried through the basement, then climbed a staircase to the main floor. It was a warehouse, full of unopened crates stacked high. This time, he recognized the footsteps behind him as Angie’s. Didn’t that woman ever listen?
A door on the main floor was open, leading to the street. Paavo caught Angie’s eye, pointed at it, and slowly they walked toward the door.
He lowered his gun, then slid it back in his holster as they stepped outside. The street was empty.
“He’s gone. Damn!”
They crossed to the other side of the street, unsure as to which direction they should go. There was no sign of movement or anything else to give them a hint.
“I’ll take you home,” he said. “Then I’ll go down to the station and do a little investigating on my own about Mr. Edward G. Crane. He looks familiar. I’m surprised he didn’t turn up in the mug shots, though the shaved head may have thrown you off.”
“I’m very good at faces, Inspector Smith,” she said. “I’ll come along and look again.”
He saw the alert, hopeful expression in her eyes and remembered the innocent trust with which she had followed him during the chase. But if Crane, who surely carried a gun, had turned and fired….
“I’m taking you home. I can’t waste any more time. I’ve got other cases to investigate.”
“What do you mean, waste time?”
He strode quickly toward his car, and Angie hurried along beside him, taking two steps to his one. “I’ve got work to do. Some of us have to, you know. It’s the way we bring in money to live on.”
“Why are you saying this to me?”
He steeled himself before he stopped walking, and then he faced her. Her hurt, baffled look was more than he could bear. He turned, scanning the buildings, the pedestrians, the passing cars, anything but her as he spoke. “I want you to understand. I’m a detective. Your case is my work, and so’s Sammy Blade’s murder, and most of all, so is finding Matt’s killer.”
She said nothing until, unable to bear the silence, he looked at her again. Only then did she speak. “This is about more than that.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about last night—”
“Stop.” His face flushed in anger.
“It’s about letting yourself feel and cry—”
“Angie!” He grabbed her arms, furious, unwilling to listen to one more word from her. “That’s far enough.”
She flung her head back to look at him. “No, it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with how you felt. I liked you—”
“You were convenient.” His voice was low and deadly, and it stopped her cold.
“What?”
He let go of her arms. “You were there, easy to use. A soft shoulder when I needed one. Got it?”
He watched her proud jaw jut out. “You don’t fight fair, Inspector. That one was below the belt.”
“Look, I’m not some hotshot lawyer or doctor like you’re used to. I grew up on the streets. Don’t try to fight me, or even understand me, because you wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Her cheeks flamed as his words struck. “I don’t believe you, Paavo. I understand much more than you may think.”
“The world isn’t rosy or nice. It’s brutal. And so are the people in it. Keep away from me, and if you’re lucky, you’ll never find out just how savage things really are.”
She folded her arms. “All right, Inspector. I’ve got the message. I think you’re wrong, but heaven forbid I waste your time or get too close to you.” She spun on her heel. “Don’t bother to take me home!”
She marched off. He watched until she got into a taxi, and then he called Rico and told him to get out on the sidewalk, watch for Angie, and get her into her apartment, fast.
16
Angie looked at the clock: it was four-thirty. Paavo had called at ten that morning and spoken only to Rico, telling him to be especially on guard—not even to open the door. The fact that Paavo hadn’t asked to speak to her and hadn’t called back suited her fine. She didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Not ever seeing him again wouldn’t have bothered her in the least.
She spent the morning on the telephone to Bodega Bay searching for a house to rent. Then she packed her suitcases. Bodega Bay, a small fishing village on the Sonoma coast, was isolated and quiet, although only about two hours north of San Francisco.
It was the ideal place to hide, to run away from the whirlpool her life and her emotions had fallen into. She couldn’t possibly continue
, the way things were.
Convenient! Her face burned with pain, rage, and embarrassment all over again whenever she remembered Paavo’s hateful word. How could she have been so mistaken about the man?
The decision to leave San Francisco gave her a feeling of release. Even a little giddiness. She’d be free of this anxiety, this constant tension of worrying about herself—and Paavo. Worrying about some man just didn’t fit into her lifestyle.
She kicked the sofa and threw herself onto it, her face in her hands. A scared, sick feeling churned in her stomach. Paavo’s world of violence, criminals, and ugly, senseless death was still too near to dismiss easily. But she would. And very soon.
At six o’clock, she heard a knock at the door. Rico ordered her back into the bedroom and stood beside the front door, gun poised. “Who is it?” he called.
There was a moment of silence. “It’s…” a meek voice started, and then there was the sound of a throat being cleared. “It’s Stan Bonnette. Is Angie home?”
Angie started out of the bedroom. Rico waved her to stop. He unlocked the bolt, held his gun in front of him, and opened the door a crack.
“Don’t shoot!” Stan yelled. “I’ll go!”
“Come in. It’s okay,” Rico opened the door to let Stan enter.
“Stan!” Angie said, as a rush of relief filled her. He was a figure from the past, when her life had been simple and carefree. She had always wanted to find a man like Stan to marry one day. Not Stan himself—she had never cared for him that way—but like him. Wealthy, suave, with a business free of murders, guns, and crooks. A nice, staid business that wouldn’t interfere with her idea of a good time. She gave her perfect hostess smile. “How nice of you to drop by.”
Stan’s face was ashen. “Hello, there! Well, I don’t want to intrude, so I think I’d better be on my way.”
Rico was already back at the T.V.
“No intrusion.” Angie took his arm and yanked him into the apartment, kicking the door shut as she led him to the chairs by the bay window. “Rico’s my bodyguard.”
“You still need a bodyguard? What’s wrong with the police? Why can’t they do something? Bunch of incompetents!”
Angie’s smile froze as she looked at Stan without saying a word. Not long ago she probably would have joined him, railing against the vagaries of law and order. Now all she could think of was Paavo—and Matt.
Instead of replying, she asked, “Can I get you a drink?”
“Scotch.”
She had just poured a Diet Coke for herself and set the drinks on the table when the brusque rap she’d waited for all day sounded against the front door. No, she corrected herself, she had not waited for him all day. She stared at the door. A wild, silly hope surged in her that, just perhaps, he was here to apologize for his horrible words. Just perhaps he was going to charge in, sweep her into his arms, and whisper words of regret, of remorse, of passion….
“Rico, Smith here. Open up.” The cold, perfunctory voice shattered her fantasy.
Stan groaned as Rico crossed the living room to the door.
A moment later, Paavo strode into the room, taking in the cozy scene with Stan in one sweep before his eyes met hers. The look in them was cold, and maybe something more. Disappointed? Or was he merely resigned?
He appeared even more tired than he had been yesterday. She wanted to greet him casually, to show how little he mattered to her, but the words stuck in her throat. She lowered her gaze to her drink and let silence hang in the air.
“I see Bonnet’s back again,” Paavo said.
Stan stood. Angie looked up as he puffed out his chest. “Listen, Smith, you’ve no right to keep sending me out of here! I think I better stick around and listen to just what you’re planning to do about this situation. It’s intolerable, do you hear, intolerable that Miss Amalfi is still being threatened. I demand you get busy!”
She saw the anger growing in Paavo’s eyes. After his past two days and his exhaustion, he would have no tolerance for Stan’s sudden heroics.
“Stan!” she cried, jumping up.
But Stan was on a roll. “When are you police going to get off your duffs, stop visiting this attractive woman, and find whoever’s after her?”
“Bonnet.” Paavo’s voice was a low rumble. “Time for you to say bye-bye.”
Stan’s face reddened with fury. “I said I will not be ordered—”
“Thanks for stopping by.” Angie grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. “Go home now, Stanfield. Please.”
The anger on his face turned into astonishment as he gaped at her. With an indignant sniff, he squared his shoulders and marched solemnly from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Paavo’s cold glare now fixed on Angie.
Fury and pain converged as she looked at him. “You’ll have to ignore Stan. He was just being chivalrous.”
“So I saw.” His mouth curved into a sneer.
“At least he knows how!”
“Fine, now that we’ve established what an ace among men he is, I can get on with business.”
“That suits me just fine.” She plopped down on the yellow Hepplewhite.
He remained standing. “I wanted to give you the latest breakthrough. The man’s name isn’t Edward G. Crane. It’s Edmund Banner. He’s been here about a year, from the East Coast, where he’s been in and out of jail more times than you can count. Small-time stuff. Have you ever heard the name Edmund Banner before, Miss Amalfi?”
Her heart flinched at the formal address. So we’re back to “Miss Amalfi” now, she thought. Why not, now that she was no longer convenient? Anger licked at the edges of her control. “No, I’ve never heard of Edmund Banner, or Edward Banner, or any other Banner, Inspector Smith.” Two could play at this game.
He raised one eyebrow. “I’d like a copy of every recipe Sammy Blade gave you.”
Without a word, she went into the den, where she pulled copies of Sam’s recipes from her files. There were only fourteen items. She made two sets, using her personal-sized copier: one set to bring to Bodega Bay—if Paavo wanted to study them, she would, too—and the other set to give him.
She returned to the living room and gave him his set. He shuffled through the papers. “I’ve had this place patroled all day, in case you were worried,” he said.
“My worries are almost over.”
“Oh?” His attention was on her now.
“I’ve decided I can’t stay here.”
His black brows locked, and he scowled at her. “What do you mean?”
“Just that.” She lifted her chin. “Think of me as a coward all you want, but I’m scared. I don’t mind admitting it.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve rented a house at Bodega Bay. I’m already packed and I’m going there.”
“You’re what?” He slowly circled closer, reminding her of a panther carefully, menacingly, stalking its prey.
She refused to react to him or back down. “I’m going away until things blow over.”
He stared at her without word or expression, his eyes penetrating and his lips drawn in a tight, thin line. “If someone is determined to kill you, they’ll try to find you wherever you go.”
“Once I’m away, I’m sure they’ll leave me alone. I know nothing.”
The ceiling lights outlined his long, lanky figure. He seemed to loom over her. “But you do know something,” he said. “That’s the problem. You’ve been in the middle of this from the time you printed Sammy Blade’s first recipe. You saw his murderer. Crane contacted you. And not only that, the ballistics suggest that Blade and Matt were killed by the same gun.”
Angie hated this Sherlock Holmes act. “Rather ‘elementary,’ is it?”
He shrugged, as if the answer was too obvious to bother with words.
“I don’t care!” She spit her words out through gritted teeth. “I’m leaving.”
His face darkened as he leaned over her. “Right now, Miss Amalfi, you’re my only lead.”<
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Her eyes widened a moment, then narrowed. “So I’m just bait for your trap!”
“That’s not the way it is.”
“Like hell!” She stood, brushed him aside, and then spun around to face him, carefully enunciating each word. “A lead, you said! Your best lead. Well you, and your leads, and your police business, and all the rest of it can be damned! I’m through with all of you.” She marched to the door and placed her hand on the knob, ready to open it and throw him out.
Instead, she watched him walk to the window and look out, his back an unrelenting, rigid outline against the darkening sky. He turned toward her again. “I wouldn’t do anything that might harm you.”
He was so infuriatingly controlled that she wanted to scream. “Of course not. Lose me and the department might look bad. To think that I trusted you, that I cared. My God, I’ve been a fool!”
His eyes dulled and a look—could it possibly have been longing?—flickered briefly in them before they became shuttered and emotionless again. “We need you here,” he said.
She could feel the blood throbbing in her ears, her breathing fast and heavy. He’s a cop just doing his job, she told herself for the umpteenth time.
“I’m driving to Bodega Bay. No one will know where I am. I’ll be able to breathe again.”
“Will you for once just listen to me?”
“No!” She stabbed the air in front of his chest with her finger. “You listen. You’re the one who said we were from different worlds. So you can jolly well think of my going as a victory. Angie’s going to cut and run, just as you always predicted. I won’t be here to be used, to be convenient, for anything, any longer!”
“Enough!” He gripped her hand, her accusing finger crushed in his barely contained fury. But the moment their hands touched, she felt a jolt arc between them like an electric current. An angry, smoldering gaze raked her from head to toe as his hand drew her toward him. But she held herself back, stiff and unbending. Time seemed to stop as he weighed his response. Then his shoulders eased, and he let her go. “All right,” he whispered.