by Joanne Pence
“Now it’s a matter of mixing the two together so that they form a sticky pasta dough for your gnocchi. Remember, even though it’s spelled to look like ‘ga-no-chee,’ it’s pronounced ‘nyohk-key’.” She smiled again.
“Watch those smiles! Television is serious business,” growled the director, who clearly fancied himself the Ingmar Bergman of cooking shows. He’d already interrupted her during take four to explain that this was a cooking lesson, not a lecture on Italian pronunciation or an advertisement for cosmetic dentistry. Takes one, two, and three hadn’t made it to the insults stage. But after that, things had gone from bad to worse.
Stiffening her shoulders, she put the bowl with three cups of flour, one large potato, mashed, and one and a half cups of water under the mixer, hit the On button for the heavy tongs to whir, and jumped back out of the way. At take six the director had upset her so much that she failed to add the water, so when she turned on the mixer dry flour shot all over the studio, burying her and the set in a cloud of white powder. She still had some in her hair. So much for her $175 styling job. Instead of sexy blond highlights, she had aging white globules.
The next take had ended because they hadn’t gotten all the flour off the camera—or the cameraman—and it looked like she was cooking in the middle of a snowstorm. A sneeze ended take eight. The film ran out on take nine. And an attack of giggles from the director’s assistant ruined take ten.
But now the mixer whirred nicely. When the dough looked to be the right consistency, she stopped the blades, grabbed a dollop of the mixture, pulled and tugged at it, and then broke off a tiny piece and tasted it.
“Fine. Now we’re ready—”
“WHAT do you think you’re doing?”
“Testing it.”
“You’re not supposed to play with the product with your fingers!” The director stormed into the lights to face her, waving his hands in the air. “And we certainly don’t advocate eating raw dough on our program. Tell the people what it’s supposed to look like, Miss Amalfi, so that they can see for themselves if it’s ready.”
“But…you can’t tell by just looking.”
He got down on one knee. “Pretend, Miss Amalfi. This is television, after all.”
She wasn’t in the least amused by this man’s histrionics. “Fine,” she said.
He got up and went back to his chair. “Let’s start from this spot.”
In the dark, someone snickered.
“Three, two, one. Take twelve.” SNAP!
“See how the flour and potato have combined to form a dough. Once that’s done, it’s time for you to make the gnocchi. Here’s a simple way to do it. Take about a half cup of dough.” She grabbed a small handful of it. “Then roll it into a long tube, about a half inch around. After that’s done, lay the tube down on a cutting board and cut it into two-inch-long pieces. See these cute little tubes? That’s the way you need to make them. Then, you take that lovely cut glass bowl that’s been sitting in your dining room, probably doing nothing but gathering dust, and you carefully turn it upside down—”
“Stop! Right there! Hold everything!”
The director marched over and planted himself in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest.
She gave him a cold stare. “Yes?”
“You think this is some kind of joke, don’t you?”
“Not at all.”
“You think that because you don’t like the name Angelina in the Cucina that you can come here and make a laughingstock out of this show!”
“What did I do?”
“If you tell people to take that damn bowl and put it on their heads, you’re out of here, lady. Do you understand?”
“All I’m doing,” she explained calmly, “is trying to show my audience the best way to make the gnocchi.” She turned the bowl upside down. “You take one little tube of rolled dough,” she said, demonstrating as she spoke, “and put three fingers along the tube, then press down in the center and r-o-l-l it along the cut glass. This way, you get a hole in the center of the tube, and indentations from the cut glass make a pretty pattern. You can also roll it along a cheese grater, but that’s tacky for television.”
“I’m not going to have you stand here and tell people to poke their fingers into pasta and roll it on the outside of bowls! Television is art, Miss Amalfi. Not play school!”
“But if you don’t form the gnocchi properly, the center will be doughy and heavy and taste horrible!”
“Do it some other way!” he bellowed.
Angie got down off the phony kitchen platform. “I’ll do it right, or not at all. After all, I know what I’m doing, which is more than I can say for you!”
“How dare you! You…you ptomaine pusher!”
“I’ll bet Yan Can Cook never had this kind of trouble.” She picked up her bowl, gave a harrumph, and marched out of the studio.
He sat on a stool in the basement telephone closet just off the garage of Angelina’s apartment building and studied the phone lines and cabling. If only I could show you, Angelina—my Angelina—how truly brilliant I am, you’d be even more impressed with me, he thought. The lines were marked to the different apartments, but to be certain, he used the cellular phone he’d lifted from an unlocked Lincoln Town Car in the garage. The phone book showed an A. Amalfi. He dialed the number.
“Hi. This is Angie. I can’t answer your call…”
Smiling, he attached her phone wire to a large metal box and turned up the volume control to listen to the rest of her message. The very sound of her voice was enough to make him hard with wanting her. Sitting with her at lunch had been an exquisite torment.
Her answering machine beeped, waiting for his message. When none came, it waited patiently for a few seconds, then not so patiently shut itself off.
But not completely. His phone trap blinked knowingly at him, telling him it was on and working. Listening, invading her apartment. Her privacy. Her.
“It was horrible, absolutely horrible.” Angie stood in front of Paavo’s desk and burst into tears.
He jumped to his feet. He’d rather face a murder suspect any day than Angie crying. “What is it?”
“Oh, God. They were so mean, so…so evil!” Her sobs grew louder. “He even called me a ptomaine pusher!”
The other detectives were watching. Even without looking their way, Paavo could feel their grins, their knowing glances at each other, their curiosity as to what Angie was involved with now.
He hustled her into an interview room, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from Inspector Mayfield’s desk as he went by.
“Here.” He handed Angie the tissues and shut the door. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Angie wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to carry on like this, but I tried so hard. I wanted everything to be so perfect. I even cut my fingernails for the gnocchi, and now…”
He pulled one of the chairs out from the metal table and helped Angie sit. “Does this have anything to do with your audition this morning?” he asked, standing before her.
She nodded.
“It didn’t go well, I take it.”
She shook her head, wiping the tears that had started once more.
“Wasn’t this your first audition, Miss Amalfi?” he said, keeping his expression serious, his tone professional.
She glanced at him. “Yes.”
“Do you know how many times even the biggest TV stars had to audition before they got a show?”
“No.”
“Well,” his voice grew soft and gentle, “I have it on good authority that Leno went through dozens of auditions, and no one would touch Letterman for years. Julia Child wore out an oven before anyone would pick up her show.”
She gave a half smile. “You’re just saying that.”
“Would I lie?” He sat in the chair beside her. “Nobody expected you to be perfect the very first time you tried it.”
She used more Kleenex. “I did.”
“I know.” He covered
her hand with his. “Did they tell you specific things they didn’t like?”
“Just about everything.”
“But some things more than others.”
She had to think about this. “I guess so.”
“Good. That’s a place to start. Think about what they didn’t like, what you can do to change or improve what you did, and then get out there and try again.”
She dropped her gaze. “I couldn’t do that. I feel like such a fool.”
He lifted her chin and looked into her teary brown eyes, trying to gauge the extent of her disappointment. “You’re no fool, Angie. You’re clever and beautiful. If you want it enough, you’ll probably be on TV some day, and then there’ll be no stopping you. You can be anything you want.”
Her arms circled his neck, and she pressed her cheek to his. “I wish I believed in myself half as much as you believe in me, Paavo.” Then she raised her head again and sighed. “I know I try to talk big, but sometimes I feel like such a fraud.”
He stroked her back. “You’re no fraud, Angie. Not at all. The only problem you have is being impatient. Have patience, and believe me, you’re going to do just fine.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so.”
She hugged him a long while, her eyes teary for another reason now. “What would I do without you?”
“Probably quite well.”
“Never!”
He stood and helped her to her feet, then glanced at his watch. “Why don’t we get out of here and have some lunch? I think a nice dessert in particular will make the world a much brighter place for you.”
“Lunch? Oh…I…I can’t. It’s Lent.”
“Forget the dessert, then.”
“Well, I’d like to, but I’m…busy.”
“Oh?” He frowned. “Something important?”
“No. I mean, yes. My…my mother. I promised Serefina I’d meet her. I’d better get going.”
“I see.”
“Maybe dinner?” she suggested.
He hesitated. He knew he could get away for a while now, but by tonight, he wasn’t sure. “I’ll know better later. I’ll call.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’ll get some help in one of these cases soon,” she said with a sudden cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile.
“It would certainly help.” Especially help us, he wanted to add.
“See you tonight.” She gave him a kiss that scorched, then slipped from his arms, left the interview room, and headed out the door, waving a cheerful good-bye to the men in the office. He knew he was going to be in for a lot of ribbing about this little visit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Paavo went to the computer center and asked for his printout. The new supervisor told him the job was still running.
“What do you mean, it’s still running?” he asked. “There’s never been this kind of delay before.”
“It’s a big job,” she said huffily.
“Not that big.”
She gazed pointedly at him. “You want us to be complete, don’t you?”
“Where’s Mr. Liu?”
“Myron has gone home.” The supervisor picked up a stack of printouts and loudly rapped their edges against the desk top to straighten them. Also, Paavo figured, to let him know he was being dismissed. “I’ll handle this,” she said curtly.
“Can you get me the printout right now?”
“That’s impossible.”
“I want Liu here in twenty minutes.”
“You can’t order me around like that!”
He stared at her. He didn’t bother to reply. Or to leave.
“All right.” She sniffed. “I’ll phone his house. But I’m not guaranteeing anything.”
A half hour later, Myron Liu contacted Homicide.
“I’m at my computer, Inspector,” he said to Paavo. “Tell me exactly what you need, and I’ll get it for you right now.”
“I want a list of any cases that Judge Lucas St. Clair and DA Lloyd Fletcher worked on together, in any capacity at all. Got it?”
“Yes. Give me ten minutes.”
“I’ll be right down,” Paavo said.
Angie stood with Earl near the entrance to The Wings Of An Angel.
“Now, you sure you ain’t gonna be alone wit’ dis guy?” Earl asked again.
“I promise.” She smiled. It was kind of cute seeing him act the Dutch uncle with her.
“I don’t even like you doin’ business wit’ him.”
“Shhhh! Here he comes.”
Carter walked into the restaurant. A hard look flashed across his face when he saw Earl, but it softened immediately as his gaze met Angie’s. In that instant, as she noted his quick cover-up, all her own misgivings about the man revived. She was glad she was meeting him here and nowhere less public.
This was a business transaction. Nothing more. And she wanted it over with.
They sat at a table, Earl hovering nearby.
“This piece needs to be hidden in the egg,” Carter said, showing her a tiny round piece of metal. “Then you take this monitor”—he patted a black box with colored lights on it—“and it homes in on the pager. It blinks green as you get closer and red as you back away.”
He carried the chip to one end of the restaurant and demonstrated how the monitor worked. Sure enough, the red and green lights blinked as he moved forward and back. She nodded sagely.
“Put the chip in the egg,” Carter went on, “then take the control home and hit this reset button. When—if—the egg starts to move, the control box will blink if it moves closer to or farther away from you.”
“That seems easy enough,” Angie said, deliberately giving a cool, businesslike edge to her voice.
“It is. But how about I come along to make sure it works.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve written a check for a hundred dollars. Who should I make it out to?”
“Oh…Carter Westin is the name.”
She wrote out his name. “Here you are.” She gave him the check and picked up the device. “Thank you.”
“Shall we have some wine?” Carter suggested. “A little something to eat?”
“Miss Angie,” Earl said, “Butch is waitin’ for your lesson about da rigatoni.”
“Thanks, Earl. I’m sorry, Carter. Good-bye.” So saying, Angie turned and hurried to the kitchen, Earl bustling along right behind her.
The computer listing had fourteen names on it. They were all dated seven to fifteen years ago—covering the time Fletcher presented cases as an assistant district attorney for the city, up to St. Clair’s retirement. Paavo glanced over the names, then handed the list to Yoshiwara.
“Let’s see,” Yosh said. “Darrin Alonzo, Percy Alexander, Dan Barrett, Peter Callahan, Wesley Carville, Manny Dain…lots of names here, pal. How do you want to handle this?”
Paavo frowned. None of the names meant anything to him. “Do you want the first half of the alphabet, or the last?”
Before pulling the criminal records for his half of the names on the list, Paavo drove over to the hospital and questioned Stan, still heavily medicated, but able to mumble a few words. Paavo could just make them out. Stan hadn’t seen his attacker, but somehow he knew the man was muscular.
Paavo asked about the roses. Stan couldn’t remember anything about them, not who had sent them or why. That was strange—how often did a man get flowers? He’d ask again later.
Back in Homicide, the files waited for him.
Alonzo and Hurley still in jail. Forget them.
Alexander, vehicular manslaughter, out six months.
Barrett, dealing heroin. Out for four years. Seemed to have gone straight.
Callahan, in and out a half dozen times for robbery, drugs, pimping. Latest release last December. Career criminal.
Carville, second-degree murder. Out since late February. Model prisoner, no priors.
Dain, in for rape, skipped out on parole three months earlier. Still not located.
&nb
sp; Paavo moved Callahan and Alexander to his highly doubtful stack. Career criminals and drunk drivers rarely turned into sexual psychopathic killers. Barrett—four years straight. A maybe. That left Carville and Dain as probables. Dain would be his sole likely candidate if it wasn’t for the timing of Carville’s release. Carville got out just a short while before the first murder was committed.
Also, Carville was the only murderer on his list.
Paavo looked up at the city map hanging on the wall, on which Calderon had posted the Fabergé egg robberies. From the address in his file, Carville was living in a cheap hotel in the Tenderloin district. He probably didn’t own a car yet.
What was he supposed to have done, ride the Muni to commit murder? Ride a smelly bus with food wrappings, undefinable crud and wads of gum all over the floor…
He jumped up and hurried to the map. Could it be? It was too simple, he thought. But on the other hand, why not?
The first robbery—the one during which Nathan Ellis had been killed—took place one block off the Geary bus line on Post Street. The next, farther west, a block off the bus line on O’Farrell. Number three was west again, this time on Sutter Street. The fourth jumped all the way to the Richmond district’s Clement Street, a block off Geary, and very close to the city’s Russian immigrant community, centered around a large, beautiful Russian Orthodox church…located on Geary Street.
In fact, if the pattern held up, then on Tuesday—today—the next robbery would be somewhere on the Geary bus line to the west of the spot where the last one occurred.
Paavo called the Holy Virgin Cathedral and asked when they held services. Daily, eight in the morning and six at night.
That meant morning service ended about nine. Since it took a city bus nearly an hour to get from Twenty-sixth and Geary through traffic down to the Sans Souci Jewelers, a bus-riding thief would arrive at 10:00 A.M., when the store first opened.
Two robberies had occurred between 10:00 and 11:00 A.M., and two between 4:00 and 5:00 P.M.
The idea of a church-going thief was too crazy. Paavo didn’t know if he believed this idea of his or not.