The Da Vinci Cook (27 page)

“Now?” Paavo asked.

“Serefina says.” His dark eyes had a hang-dog look. “I guess Angie’s at it again.”

Paavo tucked his gun into his shoulder holster and put on a jacket. “She tries to say it was Cat’s idea.”

Richie snickered. “I can’t see Cat putting herself in danger. That idea has Angie’s fingerprints all over it.”

Paavo just shook his head as he got into Richie’s Cadillac.

“She’s always been that way,” Richie added, as if that might be some consolation.

“I hate that she’s out of reach.” Paavo shuddered.

Richie started the car, and then, hands on the wheel, he faced Paavo, his dark eyes sympathetic. “You want to stop somewhere for a beer or something first?”

“I’m okay.” Paavo’s mouth was a thin, tense line. “I want to see what Serefina’s set up this time.”

Richie headed down Geary Boulevard. “Serefina came up with this latest after learning that Marcello’s dead. With the chain of St. Peter gone, she put two and two together, and wants us to meet a good friend of hers. He’ll help us.”

“Who is it?”

“Alfonse Lorentino. You might know him as Alfonse Cement.”

Paavo’s head snapped toward Richie. “Serefina is friends with Al Cement?”

“Sounds like you know him. Or know of him.” Richie gave a toothy grin. “He controls all the cement in the Bay Area. If you want anything built, you gotta go to Alfonse Cement, ’cause if you don’t, you might not get good quality cement in your foundation and then you know what happens.”

Paavo’s jaw tightened. “The building comes down.” He’d heard more than that about Alfonse Cement’s exploits, but he kept his mouth shut.

Richie smiled. “Exactly. It’s a sad, sad thing when people don’t go through Alfonse Cement. Serefina phoned him and told him what’s going on. He thinks Angie’s great. She’s his favorite of all Serefina’s girls. He’ll help us.”

Richie led Paavo to a nice home in the Marina district. An elderly woman opened the door, greeted Richie with a kiss and a squeeze of his cheeks, and frowned at Paavo. Instead of leading them up into the house, she took them to a room off the garage. It had a plush sofa, easy chair, big screen TV, Bose radio, and small wet bar.

A white-haired man, his dark olive skin crisscrossed with wrinkles, sat on the sofa and peered at them through eyes like thin slits as they entered.

Richie made introductions.

“I can tell you some stuff, if you want,” Alfonse said. Under the slits of eyes were three layers of bags. “But it’s all just hearsay.”

“That’s fine,” Paavo said.

He lifted a gnarled forefinger. “I’m telling you what I heard and nothing more. Don’t plan on me coming down to court and testifying. That ain’t gonna happen in this lifetime or any other. Anyway, not even you coppers use hearsay these days, do you? That law hasn’t changed with all this Piracy Act shit, has it?”

Paavo thought a moment. “You mean Patriot Act?”

“Yeah. Whatever. You guys can get a lot more info now. Like with RICO—not Rocco.”

Paavo wanted to get on with it. He still hadn’t been able to reach Angie at Da Vinci’s and was feeling more than desperate. If this kept up, he was going to Rome himself. “I won’t expect you to testify about hearsay.”

“Good. And these guys are ones I heard of, not ones I actually know,” Alfonse clarified.

Paavo nodded.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Alfonse began. “There’s some guys. They got a lotta money, but they done some bad things in their lives. When they heard that there was this holy relic, they wanted it.”

“How did they hear about it?” Paavo asked.

“This kid, he owes them money. A lot. But he can’t pay it. Wife wants to buy a lot of stuff. New baby. Meth habit. The guy’s broke. Busted. But he’s on the job one day, and he hears about this holy chain, and it’s supposed to be real valuable. He’s thinking: the guys he owes money to, they’re religious. He goes to them, and they want it. They want him to steal it, but he convinces them that they ain’t gonna save their souls if they steal something, right? So they make an offer to Rocco. But Rocco, he’s a greedy son of a bitch. He wanted top dollar—five million. They wouldn’t go no higher than two.”

“Wait.” Paavo stopped him. “You said Rocco. They went to Rocco, not Marcello?”

“You think these guys don’t know who’s who? Of course they know who’s Rocco and who’s Marcello.”

“How?”

Alfonse Cement rolled his eyes and looked at Richie as if to ask what the hell kind of idiot cop did he bring him? Richie just shrugged.

“Here’s the story,” Alfonse said. “Marcello got himself in trouble with . . . I’ll call them the Boys. They didn’t want him dead, they just didn’t want to see his face around here no more. He went to Belize or someplace like that. Some place cheap, you know? But he’s got a couple businesses. His brother, Rocco, has nothing, so the mother, she tells Rocco to run the businesses so Marcello won’t lose it all until this problem with the Boys gets straightened out. Rocco does as told. More than that. He buys a house with Marcello’s money, lives high on the hog, and if anybody questions him, he leans on them. Or Flora does. If you know the Piccolettis, you don’t question them if they say Rocco is King of England,
capishe
?”

“I understand,” Paavo said. “These men who wanted the chain of St. Peter were negotiating with Rocco but getting nowhere.”

“That’s right. So they find Marcello and say if he wants all to be forgiven, he’ll help them out. He agrees, comes back to the U.S. and goes to see Rocco.” Al Cement stopped talking to make himself another whiskey and water. So much talking was drying his throat.

“Then what?” Paavo shook his head in response to Alfonse’s silent offer of a drink.

“Then? I don’t know.” Alfonse poured himself three fingers. “Next thing we know, Marcello’s dead, and Rocco and the chain are gone.”

“What about Flora Piccoletti?” Paavo asked. “Any idea what happened to her?”

“No. That’s bad. I mean, what kind of jerk kills someone’s mother? It wasn’t the Boys. They wouldn’t do that. Nobody knows.”

Instinctively, Paavo felt he was telling the truth. “What about Caterina’s husband, Charles Swenson? Is he involved?”

For the first time, Alfonse smiled. It looked like his face might crack from the strain of it. “Involved? Charles? You’re shitting me. He’s no more involved than a puck is in a hockey game—just something everybody else knocks around.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t know. I got my suspicions, but I can’t really say.” Alfonse started to cough. “I gotta take my medicine and lay down. Things aren’t always what they seem. Remember that, and I think you’ll find him.”

Chapter 32

The men chose to go after the leather box and chain. They climbed over Cousin Giulio’s high fence into his neighbor’s yard.

Cat and Angie ran shrieking like banshees to the house.

Giulio opened the door immediately. “What’s all the noise? You woke up my dog.”

The dog looked miserable. His voice was completely gone now.

Cat and Angie rushed inside. “Call the
carabinieri
!” Cat screamed. “Some men want to kill us.”

“What men?” Giulio cupped his hands to the window and peered out. “I see a couple of men running from my neighbor’s yard.”

“Are they carrying a black box?” Cat asked.

“They have something. What the hell’s going on?”

“Damnation!” Cat sat down, fanning herself with her hand. “At least we’re safe, Angie. We can hide here until it’s all straightened out. I give up.”

“Hide here?” Giulio yelled. “You
are
crazy!”

“I don’t think we should,” Angie said, her voice quavering.

Cat looked at her crossly. “Why not? Those goons won’t want anything more to do with us. They have the chain now, thanks to you!”

“Uh . . . Cat,” Angie began, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Cousin Giulio insisted that they leave his house immediately, which wasn’t such a bad idea since the goons would probably be furious and come looking for them as soon as they discovered Angie had put a dog’s choke chain in the leather case.

Giulio gave them money for a taxi and asked that they never darken his doorstep again.

They took a cab to Marcello’s house, Angie protesting the entire way and Cat swearing they could trust him.

He wasn’t there.

The front door lock had been ripped from the jamb, so they walked in with no trouble.

They found few clothes and even less food. Luckily, no blood. It looked as if Marcello had taken off, presumably in one piece. The house had no phone.

They put a chair under the front doorknob to keep it shut and sat down to consider what to do next.

Before long Cat stretched out on Marcello’s bed to think better, and Angie did the same on the sofa.

Soon they were sleeping like the dead.

Paavo’s home phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He’d left Richie, and was going to pick up his car then drive to Homicide to check up on Alfonse Cement and his cohorts, and see what ties he could find to the Piccolettis.

He hurried to the phone, hoping against hope that it was Angie. His hope died with Bianca’s greeting.

“Paavo, you’ve got to help me! I’m in North Beach, at The Leaning Tower bar. I’m with Maria and Frannie. Frannie was here with some cop, but he left after we showed up.”

She sounded strange. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes.” She sniffled loudly. “But what if something happens to Trina and Angie? We’re all worried, and we feel so helpless.” Her sniffling turned to blubbering. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Paavo pressed the phone closer to his ear. The slurring, weepy voice hardly sounded like the-world-is-wonderful, always controlled, motherly Bianca. She said they were at a bar. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Me? Nothing! Not much, anyway. It’s the others. You’ve got to help us! I just can’t do it! I give up, Paavo, I really do!” She started crying harder.

“Bianca, what’s wrong?”

“The drinks made us feel better for a little while. Forget how upset we were and all—”

“I’m sure,” Paavo interrupted impatiently. “What do you want me to do?”

“Could you come and get us? I can’t call our husbands. They’ll have conniptions. I need you! Maria was ready to duke it out with every man in sight before—God have mercy—she passed out under the table, and Frannie’s flirting with the bartender.”

He couldn’t handle this. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right there. Just sit tight.”

“Ohmigod!” Bianca murmured.

“What is it?”

“Frannie. She just climbed up on a tabletop. And my concerned-and-caring sister is now shouting that she doesn’t give a damn about saving any goddamned whales!”

It’s not really an Assurance van.

The realization hit Paavo like a tsunami.

He wasn’t asleep and he wasn’t in bed, but sitting in his dark living room after taking care of Angie’s sisters. The stress on them of worrying about Cat and Angie at the same time as trying to placate their mother and simultaneously not doing anything to give away how they felt to their father had caused them to all but collapse.

It made him appreciate even more the strength Angie always showed in the face of challenges. She might concoct wild schemes, but she wasn’t one to give up or act completely out of character. She was just Angie—sweet, tough, brave, and optimistic. The sisters seemed one way, but underneath . . . underneath . . .

And that was when it all came together for him.

The van! He’d stood right next to it.

He could have kicked himself. He phoned the owner of Assurance Security, waking her from sleep. With a start he realized it was 3:30 a.m.

The company had four vans to be used by their installers, and all four were accounted for. They all looked like the one Paavo had seen when he went to talk to the employee, Ray Jones.

The van he’d seen parked next to Ferguson’s house, however, was different—much older, the lettering far less professional. At the time, had he given it any thought, he would have probably assumed it was one of the company’s earliest vans.

But he knew better than to assume anything in this job.

He drove to Ferguson’s. The van was gone, the house empty.

He put out an APB.

Five hours later the call came in.

The van was going east on Bay Street when he and Yosh caught up with it. The patrol officer who’d called in the number and had been trailing the vehicle put on his siren as they converged. Suddenly the van took off through a red light, zipping between other cars. It turned onto Hyde Street, one of the longest, steepest streets in the city. It was a stupid move on Ferguson’s part because the police car and Paavo’s Corvette were both able to go up the hill a lot faster than the old van. Reaching the hill was the hard part, however. Bay Street was filled with traffic as usual, and the van running a red light had caused a major tie-up. Cars attempted to get out of the way, but it took a while.

As Paavo drove up Hyde, a cable car was in front of him. He was forced to swing into oncoming traffic to go around it.