Cook's Night Out

by Joanne Pence

  “It wouldn’t make sense for the banker to be involved,” Yosh said. “He wouldn’t kill his own people.”

  “What if we’re looking at a new banker moving in?” Paavo suggested. “And we’re seeing a turf battle?”

  “Good theory,” Hollins said. “All right, you guys. Enough theory. Enough dead ends. Find me some facts.”

  “It’s a disaster! A complete disaster!” Reverend Hodge wailed. “Only six hundred tickets have been sold so far.” He stood in the doorway of Auction Central. His volunteers stopped working to stare at him.

  “It’s still early,” Mary Ellen ventured.

  “Early? It might be too late—that’s what you should be saying. Can you get the caterers to cut back, Miss Amalfi? If we have to pay for food for fifteen hundred, but only six hundred show up, we’ll be turning our profits into garbage.”

  “But what if the rest of the tickets are sold?” Angie asked. Despite how horrible she felt after refusing to leave the mission with Paavo, she had forced herself to return again to observe Klaw and—she hated to admit it—Reverend Hodge as well. She wasn’t sure whom she could trust. “I think Mary Ellen’s right. You still have time. Besides, you’ll be offering tickets at the door, right?”

  “Nobody sells nine hundred tickets at the door. Going to a fancy charity auction isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It’s not like taking in a movie.”

  Sheila Chatsworth stood up, her back stiff. “We’re going to sell out, Reverend. You can bank on it.” Two volunteers working with Sheila murmured their agreement.

  “Tell people it’s close to being sold out,” Angie suggested, “and that they need to hurry if they want to be sure they get in. Sometimes that strategy works. Of course, sometimes it backfires and people stay home.”

  “Oh, that sounds like a spiffy idea.” Hodge frowned.

  “Well, pardon me,” Angie said. “If you can do better—”

  “We meet again.” Klaw stood in the doorway, surveying the activity, but his words were addressed to Angie.

  “So we do,” she replied. Her knees shook at the sight of him, but she reminded herself that he was the reason she was here. She had to keep an eye on him.

  “You’ve got that deer-in-the-headlights look, Angelina,” he said with a smirk. “Don’t worry. I’m really a nice guy.” He looked over his shoulder. “Isn’t that so? Come and tell Angie what a gem I am.”

  Lili and Van Warren stepped into the room. “Yeah, he’s way bad,” Lili said with a smile. Warren stayed silent.

  Klaw walked up to the table where Angie sat and stood over her. “Did you tell her I’m a man who believes in good works, Hodge?” he asked, his gaze never leaving Angie’s.

  Hodge perked up at his name, then nervously cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr. Clausen.”

  Klaw stared down at her, carefully detailing her hair, her face, her throat. His eyes went back to her hair again, to a lock that strayed near her eye. She held her breath as his hand slowly began to reach toward it, to touch her—

  “Mr. Clausen,” Warren said, “it’s time for you to leave.”

  Klaw jerked his hand back and glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re right.” He turned to leave the room.

  “What gives?” Lili demanded. “Do you have some new babe or what? You disappear at noon, like, every day now.”

  Klaw cupped her chin as he passed and planted a hard kiss on her pouting mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of cheating on you, darling.”

  Angie used every wile she had, real or imagined, to talk Paavo into going out to dinner with her that evening. Including bribery. She picked up a glass Reverend Hodge had used at the mission and put it in her purse. It should have some clear fingerprints on it.

  Angie knew Paavo was upset with her for going back to the mission, and last night, although he’d phoned, their conversation had been short and strained. But this afternoon she convinced him that she was miserable—no, beyond miserable—having him angry at her, that they had to get together to put this behind them. What she didn’t tell him was that, besides all that, she had promised her mother she’d do something about Frankie Tagliaro.

  Since Serefina’s visit, Angie had gone to see each of her four older sisters and talked to them about Frankie Tagliaro’s troubling request to their father. All of them agreed with Serefina: Angie should find out what Paavo thought they should do. Her family didn’t know, though, about the strange business going on connected with his work and how distracted he’d been lately.

  When Paavo came by to pick her up, she gave him the glass, but neither of them spoke much. She could see that he was still hurting, and she wasn’t about to agree to stop going to the mission. They left her apartment quickly.

  “The Isle of Capri?” he asked incredulously as he drove past the restaurant she’d selected, in search of a place to park.

  She understood his surprise. Even from the outside, the restaurant had an air of sleaze about it that you could cut with a knife. No wonder it was losing money. “I understand the food’s excellent.”

  He frowned. “You can cook rings around any Italian restaurant’s food, Angie. Why bother to go there? Wouldn’t you rather try the new Scandinavian restaurant you were talking about the other day?”

  He knew her better than she’d thought. “I’m not in the mood for fish tonight.” What a lie. Just then, a car pulled out of a parking space up ahead. “Ah! What luck. Obviously, we were meant to eat here.”

  “Okay.” Paavo took the spot, his lips pursed with resignation. “If this is what you want.”

  As they walked back along Geary Street toward the restaurant, Angie saw a man double-park, run in, and, a moment later, run back out again.

  Crooks!

  “Oh, dear,” she said, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for what they had just witnessed. “I hope that doesn’t mean we need reservations.”

  Paavo glanced at her dubiously. She could all but see his suspicions rising about the place, and they hadn’t even stepped in the door yet.

  The restaurant, a dark, drab room in need of a complete remodeling, was empty.

  On the other hand, at the bar, every stool was taken. The area was alive with talk, laughter, and the distinctive clatter of liar’s dice.

  “Two?” The cocktail waitress put down the small tray she’d been carrying and picked up two menus.

  Paavo nodded, still eying the bar scene.

  The waitress led them to the dining room. “Is the owner here tonight?” Angie asked.

  “He’s in the back,” she replied. She held out a chair, but Angie walked to the opposite side of the table. From there, she had a view of the bar and Paavo didn’t. She sat.

  “I’d love to meet him,” Angie said. “I sometimes do restaurant reviews for Haute Cuisine magazine, and it helps to personally get to know the city’s successful restaurateurs.”

  “Really?” The waitress squealed with delight. “Mr. Tagliaro’s gonna wanna meet you right away. I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

  She hurried off.

  “This restaurant is successful, Angie?” Paavo was clearly uncomfortable at having his back exposed while he faced a wall with a huge connect-the-dots-style painting of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He started to turn around.

  She clutched his hand in both of hers, stopping him. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” she said quickly. “I appreciate your coming here with me so much, Paavo. I know how stressed you’ve been by seeing Klaw again, by whatever this madness is that’s going on at work. I don’t want to cause you any more anxiety.”

  His gaze turned wistful. His fingers curled around her hand, and his thumb lightly rubbed her knuckles. “I’m glad you called today.” Big blue eyes captured hers. “We’ll make tonight just for us.”

  She would have been ecstatic at his loving words if she hadn’t been so nervous about facing Tagliaro. “Anytime, Paav.”

  He gawked at her with amazement.

  “Uh, excuse me. My name’s Frank Tagliaro.
I heard you’re a restaurant critic.” Her father’s tormentor was medium height, darkly tanned, with black eyes and black curly hair slicked upward and piled high above his forehead, like a middle-aged Dean Martin during his Rat Pack days. He wore a shiny black shirt, the top three buttons open and showing a thick gold link necklace against a hairy chest.

  Angie shook the sleazeball’s hand. “My name’s Angelina Amalfi. This is my friend, Inspector Paavo Smith.”

  Paavo stood as he and Tagliaro shook hands. “Inspector? You with the police department?”

  “Homicide.”

  Tagliaro smiled. “Oh, good. Good. A lot of cops stop by here pretty regular. Not that we offer them free drinks or anything—we don’t want to get them in trouble, you know. Ha, ha! But they keep an eye on the place for me.”

  “I’m sure they do.” Paavo sat back down.

  Tagliaro turned his attention back to Angie. “Amalfi, did you say? You aren’t related to Sal Amalfi, are you?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He’s my father. Do you know him?”

  “Do I know him? Like a brother. So you’re his daughter. Come bella! He’s got to be real proud of you.”

  “He’s proud of all five of us.”

  “Five? Oh, yeah, that’s right. So, what can I tell you about the restaurant?”

  She folded her arms. “Has it been here long?”

  “Three years last February.”

  “Interesting. Most restaurants don’t last half that amount of time. You’ll have to let me in on your secret.” She smiled sweetly.

  “Secret?” he asked.

  She continued her inquiry. “Who’s your cook?”

  “My brother-in-law, Pietro Castagnola. Ah, I can see by your face you never heard of him. He’s still young, but a good cook. He cooks like my mamma used to, God rest her soul. You want to meet him?”

  “No. Meeting you is quite sufficient. I’ll let his food provide his introduction.”

  “The food…” He pulled the menus from their hands. “I’ll do the ordering for you. For la figlia di mio paisano Salvatore, nothing but the best. Bene?”

  “Molto bene,” she replied.

  “Susie, come with me,” Frankie said to the waitress. “I got to pick out a bottle of wine for these people from my own private stock. A good one.” Tagliaro winked at Angie, then hurried off toward the kitchen, the waitress running behind.

  Paavo eyed her. “What’s this about, Angie? Did you know he was friends with your father?”

  She drummed her fingers on the table. “I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.”

  “No. That was obvious. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Frowning, she peered at the kitchen door Tagliaro had disappeared through. “I just hope we can enjoy the meal.”

  Before long, the waitress brought out a bottle of fifteen-year-old Robert Mondavi cabernet sauvignon—not outstanding, but acceptable—along with a rather routine antipasto platter. They next moved on to crab cioppino, manicotti, and roast lamb with a side of sautéed zucchini. Although Angie had eaten considerably better prepared food, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared it might be. Often, just a little more salt and pepper helped tremendously.

  The meal was strained, though, with Paavo being quiet while Angie chattered about nothing in particular. They were having dessert, cannoli and espresso, when the bar turned still.

  Paavo turned to see his friend from Vice, Joe Nablonski, Joe’s partner, and two Richmond station cops walk into the bar.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” Tagliaro proclaimed. “I run a clean place. No problems, officers. Won’t you have a drink? On the house.”

  “Here’s our warrant to search the premises. We’ve got a complaint about gambling going on here,” Nablonski said.

  “Look,” Tagliaro said, turning him away from the bar and toward the restaurant. “A homicide inspector’s been here the whole time. He’s having a nice meal with his girlfriend. Come with me. You know Inspector Smith?”

  Nablonski’s eye caught Paavo’s as Tagliaro pushed him into the dining room.

  “What’s going on?” Paavo asked, standing.

  “We got a tip about this place,” Nablonski replied. “Search warrant, the works. We’re closing it down while we check it all out.”

  Paavo looked surprised. “Fast work. What’s the problem?”

  Nablonski opened his mouth, then hesitated just long enough to show his discomfort. “Gambling. Specifically numbers. Seems this is a numbers drop.”

  Paavo glanced piercingly at Angie, at the bar.

  Nablonski self-consciously tugged at his ear. “Listen, Internal Affairs is on their way over, too. I don’t know why all this is coming down in quite this way, but why don’t you and the lady get out of here?”

  “Internal Affairs doesn’t show up at raids,” Paavo said.

  The two cops stared at each other a long moment. “I agree.” Nablonski frowned. “Something smells real bad. I’ll cover. Get going.”

  Paavo looked from Nablonski to Tagliaro to the two young patrol officers who came into the bar with Nablonski. Something about them was familiar. He walked over to them. “Do I know you two?” he asked.

  “Officer Kellogg, sir,” one man answered, standing straight and stiff, chin up.

  “Officer Rosenberg, sir,” the other said, standing even more rigidly than his partner.

  “Kellogg…Rosenberg. You two were the officers who found Sarah Ann Cribbs’s body, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. We were quite surprised when you wouldn’t identify the evidence and Peewee Clayton got off, sir,” Rosenberg said.

  “What’s that?” Paavo chilled at the implication of Rosenberg’s words.

  “We were also there, sir,” Kellogg said, “when Patrick Devlin’s body was found. We saw the two homicide inspectors take something from his mouth. We learned what that something was, sir.”

  Paavo scrutinized both men carefully. He’d never forget either one again. “You’re both pretty new to the force, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” they both responded. Rosenberg added, “We graduated four months ago.”

  “It’s never a good idea to jump to conclusions in police work. If something appears too obvious, it’s smart to get suspicious fast. Remember that.” He left them standing stiffly, with shoulders squared, their mouths set in grim determination as they pondered his words. He shook Nablonski’s hand, then took hold of Angie’s arm and left.

  “I don’t understand what happened,” Angie said, practically running as Paavo took long-legged, angry strides down the street to his car. “That young policeman sounded like he was accusing you of something.”

  Paavo unlocked the passenger-side door for her and opened it, then hurried to the driver’s side and climbed in. “He was,” he said grimly.

  “But…” Puzzled, she glanced back at the restaurant as Paavo pulled into traffic. This didn’t make sense. She frowned, studying him. “Internal Affairs, they said. Paavo, Internal Affairs wasn’t going there to check up on you, were they?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “But why?”

  “Because they’ve connected me with the numbers racket, that’s why.” He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And the restaurant is apparently a numbers drop.”

  She felt light-headed. “Numbers…?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But it was my idea to go to the Isle of Capri!”

  “Maybe we could convince IA of that eventually.”

  “Will your being there”—her throat nearly closed as the implication of what she’d done hit her—“get you into trouble?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, his expression bitter. “It seems everything has that effect these days.”

  She folded her hands and forced her eyes straight ahead, trying to stay calm despite the pounding of her heart. “I’ll explain all about the restaurant to them.”

  “They won’t care,” h
e said.

  “What do you mean?” She clenched her fists. “I’m not going to let you be in trouble because I wanted to go someplace!”

  “It’s not important.” As he spoke he gave a defeated shake of his head. She’d never seen him like this before. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for all of it—for Klaw and the mission, and this and…and I was just trying to help my father!”

  “Don’t cry, Angie.” He sounded terribly weary, then reached over and touched her hand. “It’ll work out. But what did you mean, help your father?”

  She pulled a wad of Kleenex from her purse and wiped her eyes. “My mother told me Tagliaro went to see my father. He wanted to borrow money, said he was in trouble. I wanted to see him, to find out what kind of man would bother my father, whom he scarcely knows. I didn’t want to hurt you!”

  Paavo puzzled over this new information. “Do you know if Tagliaro mentioned gamblers or numbers running?”

  “I’m sure my mother would have told me if he did. I just figured he’d borrowed money and was being strong-armed to pay it back, that’s all.” She shook her head. “Numbers. God, after all the other trouble you’ve had, I make it even worse for you. And I even forgot to tell you about Brother Tweeler! I mean, I didn’t really forget, but I believed Reverend Hodge that it meant nothing, and then we hardly talked after seeing Klaw until tonight, and I forgot because I was so glad to see you, and—What are you doing?”

  He pulled over into a parking space, shut off the engine, and faced her. Taking the balled-up Kleenex, he wiped tears and smeared mascara from her face. “Now, start over,” he said gently. “Who in the world is Brother Tweeler?”

  “He came running into Reverend Hodge’s office with a gun, demanding money. He said he had won at numbers, but no one would pay him. He said there were numbers players at the mission. Hodge didn’t know anything about it. I believe him, Paavo. I really do!” Her eyes welled up again.

  She felt the tension in him build as he listened to her story. He seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Then he gazed down at her and the hard, rigid lines around his mouth softened, the firm set of his jaw eased. “It’s all right, Angie. Don’t cry. None of this is worth a single tear, believe me.”