To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery

by Joanne Pence

  Whoever brought her here might want to use the SUV for his own getaway. So there was some chance that whoever came with her was still nearby. That she was still alive. That he could find her in time.

  He had never been to this part of the Presidio before, and wasn’t sure which way to go. Instinctively he walked away from the road and toward the ocean.

  The lights of the roadway quickly dimmed, but up ahead the full moon lit an old gun battlement like a ghostly theater. Built along the edge of a bluff, it was about one and a half stories tall, a massive concrete structure upon which, at one time, heavy guns had been mounted to defend the coast against battleship and cruiser attack. Concrete stairs were built into it, and at the top of each staircase was a gun mount. Protecting the guns on the ocean, left, and right sides were tall, wide concrete platforms. Metal ladders led to the tops of the platforms where artillerymen stood with a clear view of the ocean to direct and service the guns. At the lower levels were small rooms where men worked and for gunpowder and artillery storage. Long ago the guns had been dismounted, and now the battlement stood like haunted monuments to a bygone era.

  Moonlight on the salt-air-weathered concrete gave the structure an eerie, whitish glow.

  He walked up a hill to get a better view of the battlement before him, and when he did, he could have shouted his despair.

  Snaking along the edge of the coast, hidden from view of the road, were more and more of the concrete structures, with steps going up two stories to the gun mounts, and little rooms and tunnels tucked throughout.

  How was he going to find Angie in there? And if he found her, would she still be alive?

  In a fit, Bond threw her cell phone, Palm, address book, electronic planner, tapes, and even her camcorder over the edge. Angie had no idea what the structure was, only that they had walked up narrow staircases and tunnels and ladders to the top, and now sat face-to-face near the precipice, pieces of her tote bag and belongings spread all around Tucker Bond. As his frustration grew, so did his anger.

  She heard her belongings crack and bounce on the rocks as they plunged toward the water. The thought that she might be next was the only thing that kept her focused on keeping Bond talking, keeping him distracted and interested in her and her questions. At this point she truly had no idea where the ticket stubs were, and gave thanks that Bond kept searching for them. The gun was at Bond’s side, and she knew there was no way she could stand up and run before he’d pull the trigger and roll her off the ledge to follow her Palm. One way or the other, she’d end up dead.

  “I still don’t understand your role in this,” she said, trying to ease herself away from him. She knew she was on the Presidio—maybe some MP patrols might come by, unless they, too, had been decommissioned. If she could hold out, someone would help her. She had to believe that. “Did you work for Partridge?”

  “Me work for him? Hah!” His hands shook as he shredded her leather-bound pocket notebook, fastidiously ripping out gold-edged page after gold-edged page. “I was one of the few with the insight, the prescience, to see the promise in Silicon Valley, the future wealth there. He just needed a little help, that’s all. The Finns approached him with the idea of swapping computer technology for Russian artwork. He had everything—and was too stupid to see it.”

  She remembered Paavo’s description of his meeting with Weston. “You were the one who realized the possibility of combining some of the innovations of Soviet technology with Partridge’s company, right?” His expression told her she was on the right track. “But the Soviet government controlled the technology. To get the Soviets to work with you and Partridge, you had to give them something in return, didn’t you?”

  “Think, Miss Amalfi! Where are the tickets?” He ripped the pages, his hands fisting around each sheet, his hysteria building.

  “The Soviets wanted more than anything to stop the dissidents in their country,” Angie said, guessing, trying to come up with some scenario to capture Bond’s interest. “That was where Cecily came in. She could give you the names of dissidents in Russia and Finland with West Coast ties. She was young, innocent, and stupid enough to supply you with what you needed.”

  “She wasn’t stupid—she was smart and ambitious,” Bond said. “She could have become a special agent, or grown rich working with me and Partridge.”

  “Was that where the brooch came in?” Angie asked.

  “Exactly,” Bond said. “I was going along, just doing my boring, low-pay job, and then one day Partridge told me about the Tsarina cameo. Suddenly the whole idea came to me, full-blown. I knew Partridge wanted the cameo, but he needed Soviet technology to get a jump on his competitors, to become a power in Silicon Valley with me as his very silent partner. I also knew the Soviets hadn’t been able to infiltrate the particular cadre of dissidents and smugglers working with the Finns, and Partridge and I could help them find those men. So we each had something the other desperately wanted.”

  “I was told the cameo had been used to capture a bunch of dissidents and smugglers,” Angie said. “But I don’t see how.”

  Bond snorted. “It was easy. Since the brooch was distinctive and extraordinarily valuable, and since Partridge was working with the Finns to buy valuable pieces for his collection, he asked for them to get it for him. He offered two hundred thousand dollars—which was worth at least five times that in today’s money. Sam Vanse jumped at the chance, and moved heaven and earth setting his contacts in motion.

  “At the same time, I went to the Soviets and offered them the people they wanted in exchange for the technology Partridge needed. The Soviets agreed. They then watched and waited, and when the time was right, moved in and rounded up all the dissidents and smugglers who took part in one fell swoop.”

  “So that was why the Finns got the blame,” Angie said. “The Russian smugglers thought one of them leaked the information to the Soviet government. Or”—she was aghast—“you planted the story that the Finns betrayed them.”

  Bond smirked. “Now you do understand.”

  “But the brooch ended up in this country…,” Angie said, trying to piece together this last twist.

  “Go on, Miss Amalfi,” Bond said with a sneer. “Since you’re so smart, then what?”

  Paavo eased himself through the rugged land to the east of the battlements. He looked for light or movement, listened hard for any sound while staying within the shadows of the trees and brush, hoping against hope that he hadn’t misread the situation.

  Quietly he called Yosh on his cell phone. He needed backup, but not anyone charging in, setting Angie’s kidnapper off, possibly hurting Angie if, in fact, she was here somewhere…and she was still alive….

  “When Partridge called you and said the brooch had reappeared,” Angie said, racking her brain, “he was afraid the story might come out—that you and he were the ones who betrayed the Russians, not the Finns. I’m still missing something, though. I don’t see how the brooch ended up in this country….” She thought back to the information the museum curator had given her.

  “Partridge was in a panic,” Bond said. “He was always a skittish fool.”

  “Did Rosinsky try to blackmail Partridge? Was that it? I suspect he was going to have Jakob Platnikov make a fake to give me, so I’d be happy and not make waves. Did Partridge call you, Bond, telling you about Rosinsky’s phone call? Did you kill Rosinsky and Platnikov to keep them quiet? You knew Paavo and I didn’t have the brooch. Did you go after Aulis, thinking he had it?”

  “I’m tired. You ask too many questions.” Bond’s eyes were wild.

  “He’s just a sweet old man.” Her throat tightened. “Why did you try to kill him? He couldn’t hurt you.”

  “He might have, if he told the cop what he knew.” Bond sounded bitter and disgusted, and Angie realized the coma might have been Aulis’s salvation.

  He kicked the tote. “Enough of this!”

  The woman silently crawled over the battlements, hidden in the dark by her black clothes
. She knew this area well. It was a place she’d come years ago, a good spot to meet in secret. She didn’t know where the cop was now. He’d taken a look at it and turned away.

  She wasn’t about to turn. She could smell her prey. She’d find him now. The weapon in her hand directed the way. For the first time in years she felt a frisson of excitement. Of triumph.

  “You worked with one of the Soviets to sell the brooch ultimately to Partridge. Perhaps a corrupt official who caused the brooch to vanish while the smugglers were being arrested?” Angie stared at Bond as, horrified, she didn’t have to guess any longer, but saw the steps, one after the other, that led to the tragedy. Fear left her and rooted; she gave him her vision.

  Bond, equally fixated, listened with growing fury.

  “Sam found out,” she said, her voice hushed. “Sure—Sam, with all his contacts. They put their information together and must have realized it was an inside job. And when the brooch disappeared, Sam probably thought he knew where it was, with the man who wanted it, the one who put the whole mess into play—Partridge. Is that what happened?”

  “Sam talked to Partridge by phone, and Partridge called me, terrified that Sam had figured it all out. Sam showed up at Partridge’s home with a gun, demanding the brooch, believing it would be proof that the Finns hadn’t betrayed the Russian smugglers. He took it and as he was leaving, Partridge shot him.”

  “Partridge did?” Angie asked. “But Mika would have recognized him, he owned Omega Corporation where Mika worked.” The death report Paavo had relayed was making more sense. “Sam had a superficial wound to his arm—that was from Partridge, wasn’t it? And since Mika didn’t recognize Sam’s killer, it couldn’t have been Partridge. It was you, wasn’t it, Bond? You went there after getting Partridge’s phone call, and hid, waiting to see what happened. And ended up murdering Sam. I bet you never told Partridge, but let him think he was the killer. Was that part of the hold you had over him?”

  “You’re raving!” Bond cried.

  Angie’s eyes never left his. “Mika tried to get Sam to the hospital. He gave Mika the brooch, but didn’t live to tell him its significance. You must have gone half-crazy trying to find the brooch. Searching crime scenes—probably even the evidence from Mika and Sam’s murder. Did you finally assume it ended up on the bottom of the ocean with Cecily?

  “She knew about a safe house.” Angie could scarcely go on as the full force of Bond’s evil turned her stomach. “She told Mika to go to the Cypress Motel while she met with you in secret, her children in the loges or elsewhere in the theater. She trusted you, Bond, told you about Sam and Mika, and the result was, her husband died.”

  The quiet roll of the surf could be heard in the distance.

  “You killed them both, didn’t you?” Angie asked, heartsick.

  “Partridge called me in sheer terror, ready to crack.” His voice was emotionless. “I assured him I would take care of it. After all, the Finns were mostly here on student and work visas; a word from the FBI ought to send them back to Finland where the mob would have a hard time finding them.”

  Angie stared at Bond. “But something went wrong.”

  Bond snorted. “That asshole shot Vanse. I was outside when it happened. Vanse came out of the house, wounded, and I knew then it wouldn’t be possible to convince him to keep his mouth shut. I had to save Partridge’s ass. So I followed him.”

  Angie cringed at the visions Bond’s words conjured, feeling them as body blows. “You shot Sam in a spurt of anger—and Mika saw you!”

  Bond smiled mirthlessly as he picked up the gun at his side. “I didn’t know he was there. Partridge thought Vanse was alone. Up to that night, Vanse apparently hadn’t told anyone Partridge was his contact in this. I was caught off-guard, and had to get away. But then I found Turunen. I had no choice, you see. Just like now.”

  A cold voice came out of the darkness. “All those years. I never knew why you killed them.”

  Bond’s face went white, his eyes dilated as they searched the darkness. With a half sob, half laugh, he lunged at Angie and, as she screamed, whirled her around, pulling her to her feet in a stranglehold, her arm twisted and her spine tight against his chest.

  Chapter 37

  Paavo’s blood froze at the sound of a cry, a woman’s cry. It echoed through the walls, the tunnels, the myriad chambers of the battlements. Where was she? What was happening to her?

  “Drop your gun, Bond,” the voice said.

  “No!” He searched the darkness in vain, then pressed the gun to Angie’s head. “Leave here or I’ll kill her.”

  A woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and thin, dressed in a black flak jacket, black slacks, and boots. She ripped the black cap from her short, gray-streaked hair. As she moved closer, in the moonlight, Angie could see her cold, green eyes; stern, narrow face; and the large automatic pistol she pointed at Bond.

  Bond spoke, not in recognition, but a curse. “You!” He gulped air, tightening his grip on Angie, causing her to press closer to him. “I suspected it was you who ran over the Russian, and shot the other one when he was trying to put the bomb in the bitch’s car. Even you who stopped Partridge’s hired sniper from killing the cop.”

  The woman’s smile was wolflike. “Nice fireworks, weren’t they?”

  Bond backed up, clutching Angie in front of him like a shield.

  The woman followed, her footsteps soundless. “All these years of waiting. Of needing to know the truth. Why you killed Mika. Why! And all because of Partridge. You see, Mika didn’t know about the cameo, what it signified. But you, after you shot Sam, you must have recognized Mika from my surveillance photos.”

  Bond chuckled viciously. “So you finally put it all together, Cecily.”

  Cecily. Angie’s heart thudded. Paavo’s mother. The resemblance came as a jolt, but once she saw it, she wondered how she had missed it before. She could blame the disguises, she thought with a twinge of the same hysteria she knew Bond was feeling. Colored contact lens, wigs, clothes, padding, all clever disguises, so clever she never recognized that Irene Billot and the nun—the nun who watched over Aulis and kept him safe from this killer—were the same woman, were this woman. But the resemblance that Angie should have caught went beyond disguises. They were there in the height and breadth of the brow, in the firm set of the mouth, even the quiet, pantherlike way she and her son moved.

  Bitterness and hatred filled Cecily’s eyes. “It was all a setup from the meeting in the theater. Mika was terrified on the phone. I told you that, didn’t I? He’d seen Sam die in the drive to the hospital, but he thought you were part of the mob. He never knew that you were my boss. You sent us to the safe house to be killed by your Russian goons.”

  “It’s too bad they missed you and your brats. We found the kids, by the way. About two years after you disappeared. Using the name Smith! How prosaic. But I admit, you had me fooled. When you didn’t deign to show up at your own daughter’s funeral, even I figured you were dead. Such a good mother!”

  There were no tears, only an icy, brittle hardness and implacability in her. “I knew there were others involved besides you. But nothing I did in the past ever told me who or why. Not until this time. Not until I followed Paavo and his woman, followed the clues to Partridge. He was your weak link. And you killed him.” She trained her gun on Bond. “And now I’m going to kill you.”

  Both Angie and Bond spoke at the same time.

  “Drop the gun, Cecily, or I’ll kill the little bitch!” Bond yelled.

  “No! Wait!” Angie cried. “We can prove he’s guilty.”

  Paavo recognized Angie’s voice, and felt a relief so profound that tears came to his eyes. He heard Bond’s voice. And another voice. A woman’s. Eerily familiar.

  “I don’t play games, Cecily,” Bond shouted. “Drop it now or I’ll put a bullet in your son’s girlfriend.”

  “No!” Angie was frantic, trying to wriggle free, but Bond’s lock hold on her arm and neck only tighte
ned.

  Cecily didn’t flinch, and the bitter realization that the woman didn’t care hit Angie with a paralyzing force. Suddenly she was more afraid of Cecily than Bond. Bond needed her, but Cecily…

  “Listen,” she cried. “We’ve got Jessica’s ticket stubs! That has to mean something or why is he so desperate to get them from me? With them, along with whatever we find in Partridge’s records—and we’ve found Sawyer, too; he knows a lot about all this—together we’ll be able to convict Bond. He’ll go to jail. He’ll pay!”

  Cecily didn’t even look at her, but kept malignant eyes boring into Bond. Her voice was inexorable as death. “I didn’t come back to put him in jail. I needed to know why he killed Mika. The whole truth, everyone who took part. I waited for the truth so I could kill him.”

  A rush filled Angie’s ears. Cecily was going to shoot. She was going to kill Bond, and he, in turn, would fire.

  “Put down the gun…Mother.” Paavo stepped out of the shadows.

  “Paavo!” Angie struggled harder, but Bond’s hold cut off her air and nearly tore her arm from its socket. No, she wanted to cry, straining to breathe. She saw Paavo’s gun trained on his mother. Not this way, please God, she whispered.

  “Yes, Cecily, do as your son says,” echoed Bond. “Do it or I swear I’ll kill her.”

  Cecily didn’t avert her eyes. “Stay back, Paavo. Don’t get in my way.”

  Paavo stared at the woman in front of him, at the gun she pointed at Bond.

  She was quite different from the photos he’d seen, not only in age, but much harder, much more world-weary. He had always wondered what color her eyes were. Now she was close enough that he could see they were a light grayish-green color, and that her once-auburn hair was almost completely gray. But the shape of her face was the same as in the photos, as was her nose, her mouth. He should have noticed them earlier, even with the wimple. He should have realized why the sound of her voice in the hospital had such a strange effect on him. He should have known immediately—rather than merely suspected much later on—who the nun really was.