The Da Vinci Cook (6 page)

Paavo’s gaze never wavered. “I can handle it.”

Eastwood’s face betrayed his suspicions. “Can you?”

To that, Paavo turned and walked out the door.

Chapter 7

Paavo was with her. Angie rested her head on his shoulder and flung her arm across his chest. He gazed down at her, his face, his sensitive mouth, near hers. She snuggled closer. “I want . . . ” she whispered lovingly. “I want . . . ”

“Whatever it is, li’l lady,” a man with a southern accent said. “I’m sure as hell the one to give it to you.”

Angie opened her eyes to find her head on a stranger’s shoulder. Abruptly, she scrambled upright. “Excuse me.”

The big man grinned. “Anytime.”

She faced forward in the narrow airplane seat, her face on fire. She sat near the tail, center section, three seats in from the aisle. Her sister had gotten the last first-class seat and wasn’t about to give it up to spend ten hours worth of quality time with Angie.

As a result, some of the most disgusting hours of Angie’s life had been spent crammed between two gargantuan men who’d grown increasingly smelly as the hours on the hot and stuffy plane crept by. One had fallen asleep and slumped in his chair so that he flopped halfway onto her seat. No wonder her head ended up on his shoulder. The other stayed awake all night long and played video games on a Game Boy. He kept the sound on, low enough that only he—and she—could hear it. She was sure she’d
pow!
whap!
and
oomph!
him before the flight ever touched down.

Earlier, she had used the air phone to call Paavo’s house, not his cell, and had to admit to being relieved when he didn’t pick up. The more she thought about it, the more worried she became about leaving the country with Cat. They never should have done it. She had visions of the Italian police, wearing highly polished black boots and high-crowned caps with shiny black visors, waiting for them as they stepped off the plane to whisk them away to some dank dungeon for questioning.

Unfortunately, the more she thought about it, the more she suspected Rocco was a murderer. Why else was he seen running from the house almost immediately after the gun had been fired, and carrying the chain of St. Peter? Cat had to realize that as well, only refused to admit it. Angie wondered if her sister was having some obscure denial syndrome so she wouldn’t have to face up to the inherent danger of what she was doing.

Angie couldn’t help but suspect that the chain wasn’t nearly as worthless as Cat thought. Men had killed for a lot less than an artifact believed to be “priceless.” Especially since the chain was thought to have been missing, and someone—presumably Rocco—had called Cat’s office manager, pretended he was Marcello, and accused her of stealing it.

The logic of that made no sense, however. Why would Rocco complain about someone stealing the chain if he were stealing it himself? And if not Rocco, who had it been?

All she knew was that the situation Cat was heading into was very likely a lot more dangerous than her sister imagined, and she couldn’t let Cat face it alone.

She was glad she didn’t have to attempt to explain her actions to Paavo. She wasn’t sure she could, except that Cat was her sister, and despite Cat’s brave and annoyingly obnoxious front, she was scared, hurting, not thinking clearly, and hiding something. Angie was convinced of it. Nevertheless, she couldn’t turn her back on Cat. She’d simply need to think clearly enough for the two of them.
Be calm,
she told herself.

The more she tried, however, the more anxious she became.

Somewhere on the plane, a baby cried all night. It seemed there was always a baby crying on overseas flights, almost as if the kid was trying to see how many passengers he could morph into homicidal maniacs.

The food was plastic and tasteless.

The bathroom line long, and
Fat Albert
wasn’t her idea of entertainment.

Given that start, Angie guessed she shouldn’t have been surprised when the situation deteriorated. Security in Frankfurt pulled her and Caterina aside to ask in-depth questions about why they’d suddenly bought one-way tickets to travel to a European Union country and carried no luggage.

The two lied for all they were worth. Angie told a story about going to visit a sick aunt, saying that since they didn’t know how long it would be before she recovered, their tickets were one-way. Cat added that they were going shopping in Rome to buy the latest fashions for fall, which wouldn’t show up in San Francisco until sometime the following winter, if ever. Heaven forbid they bring an out-of-date wardrobe to Italy!

The furrows in the security agent’s already lined brow deepened.

Angie tried to hurry things along, explaining that they only had fifty minutes between planes, and going through customs was eating up all their time. The agent slowly flipped through their passports.

“You’ve got to hurry,” she demanded. “My sister can’t miss her flight to Rome.”

The agent was a thick-boned, hard-faced, blond-haired fellow. He slowly looked from the passports to the ticket. “Why not?” he said with a frown. “The latest fashions will be there whether you arrive today or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Angie shrieked. “You’ve got no reason to hold us here. We’ve done everything right. We’ve told you the truth! Let us go.”

“What if I said I don’t believe you?” Steel was softer than his gaze.

Angie and Cat glanced at each other.

Cat raised her nose high. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

Angie didn’t think that was the best tactic to take. What if he said yes? She jumped in. “We’ve told you everything and now we’ve only got ten minutes to board.” She spoke rationally, and only sounded halfway instead of completely hysterical. “Please! This is a waste of time. Let us go!”

“Waste of time?” The agent puffed out his chest.

“All right, then! We’re just going to Rome to have fun.” Cat scowled as if he were less than stupid. “There’s no rhyme or reason for our trip. Does that make you happy?”

He looked ready to burst a blood vessel. “I’ll tell you what makes me happy—”

“Wait,” Angie said. “I’ll answer all your questions, but my sister doesn’t need to stay with me. You’ve got to understand. It’s imperative my sister be on that plane!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why?” Angie repeated.

Cat looked at her, equally at a loss for a reason.

“Let’s send her on her way, why don’t we?” Angie smiled, the epitome of reasonableness.

“Guard!” the agent yelled. “Take this woman to be strip-searched!”

Angie and Cat looked at each other, horrified.

“Me?” Angie asked in a shaky voice.

“No.” He pointed a thick finger directly at Cat. “Her!”

“I—” was the only sound that squeaked from Cat’s mouth as she was whisked away down a long, long hallway.

Angie stared open-mouthed at the agent who had shoved her passport and ticket back into her hand and already gone on to the next couple.

She went over to the gateway and sat, waiting for Cat to come out of the search area.

Before long everyone else had gone through security. The door to the jetway was locked.

The plane left for Rome.

And still Angie waited.

Paavo sat at his desk in Homicide. It was the middle of the night, and he was alone.

He’d left off the overhead lights, and only a desk lamp illuminated his computer and paperwork. The office seemed emptier than usual.

Earlier that day, being with the rookie officer, Justin Leong, had made Paavo remember that Homicide was considered the top rung in the Bureau of Inspections, and that it used to be a place young ambitious officers worked toward. These days, with budget cuts and a D.A. who believed it was better to coddle criminals than to prosecute them, every division in the police department with the exception of the horse patrol in Golden Gate Park (tourists loved them) had been cut to the bone. They were down to only six homicide inspectors—five, in fact, since one of them, Never-Take-a-Chance Bill Sutter, was near retirement and did all he could to avoid any work and any danger.

Not even Jim Eastwood’s posturing could make this department what it once had been.

Darkness and shadows fell over the remainder of a room crammed with desks, file cabinets, computers, and binders making up “homicide books”—files that captured every step taken to find justice for the dead. Ghosts of the detectives who came and went working those cases, and of the victims themselves, seemed to fill the bureau on nights like this, casting a cold and heartless pall.

Usually when he was feeling this way, his thoughts could turn to Angie, safe and secure in her comfortable apartment, and that soon he could be there with her, surrounded by her warmth and her love. The stabbing realization that she wasn’t there, that she was on her way to Europe, struck anew. It seemed like a bad joke—or nightmare. Knowing Angie and understanding her desire to help her sister, the best way to get her home quickly and safely was to find out what really happened today in the Sea Cliff house.

Paavo went back to work with renewed vigor. On both Piccolettis, he ran AutoTrack, a private enterprise that pulled together all kinds of public records into an enormous database. Marcello Piccoletti came up completely clean. The AutoTrack records showed he was in Key West, Florida, ten years ago, then at an address in the south of Market area of San Francisco, and five years later at his current address on Scenic Avenue in Sea Cliff. It indicated he’d gotten a California driver’s license about five years earlier. Why, then, was he carrying an old one from Florida? Finally, the system also showed he had two cars—a black Volvo and a new red Ferrari.

Marcello’s brother, Rocco Piccoletti, had been in the system until about six years ago. His last record, off a car registration, showed him in Florida not far from Marcello’s earlier address, but then the information stopped.

Paavo sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead in weariness and frustration. Along with these searches, he’d also spent a lot of time calling Catholic priests in the city to try to locate the one seen on Scenic Avenue that afternoon. He needed to talk to the potential witness. He’d had no luck there either.

It went without saying that the best chance to catch a murderer happened within the first forty-eight hours after the crime was committed. That’s when the trail was hottest, memories were clearest, and everyone had the time, energy, and will to find the perpetrator. After that, despair, desperation, and finally boredom set in. For that reason, Paavo and Yosh usually worked their cases round the clock the first two days.

But this case was different.

With Angie and her sister involved, Paavo was already deep into the despair and desperation stage. Boredom, he thought, would be a welcome change.

Marcello Piccoletti’s papers provided the name of his store, Furniture 4 U, on Mission Street. The store manager’s statement was consistent with that of Audrey Moss: Piccoletti had left for Italy the day before.

Despite that, Paavo convinced the manager to come to the morgue in an attempt to identify the body.

They had cleaned up the body quite a bit, and in situations like this, victims were shown on a television screen rather than in the flesh. TV shows presented such garish images that the public seemed to find it easier to take that way—it was less real. Still, the store manager turned jelly-legged at the damage done to the face by the bullet’s exit. When he could breathe again, he said the dead man was definitely not Marcello Piccoletti, and reiterated that his boss was in Italy, at the Hotel Leonardo.

If the dead man in Piccoletti’s house, carrying his wallet, wasn’t Marcello, then who was he? And why did he have Marcello’s wallet?

Paavo phoned the Hotel that Piccoletti was supposedly staying at in Rome. In textbook perfect English, the receptionist informed him that Marcello Piccoletti had not checked in yet. He was due later that day.

In answer to his next question, she had no information on anyone named Rocco Piccoletti.

Finally, the call-back Paavo had been waiting for all evening came from the Transportation Security Agency, which confirmed that not only were Caterina and Angie on a Lufthansa, from San Francisco to Frankfurt, with the ultimate destination of Rome, but also that Rocco Piccoletti had caught his connecting flight out of Paris to Rome earlier that same day.

Paavo thanked the agent.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Angie or her sister—it was simply that he’d learned that the Amalfis, all of them, had a tendency to exaggerate or tell only as much as they wanted to. But this time, everything they’d told him was true.

Paavo’s request for Marcello’s telephone records came through and he was poring over the numbers when he got a call from the Medical Examiner, Evelyn Ramirez. She was pulling an all-nighter, and something told her that he was very likely doing the same. “I can do your John Doe’s autopsy now,” she said, “or he goes into the queue and waits three days. Things are backing up down here pretty badly.”

“Three days?” Paavo said. “I’ll be right down. And Evelyn—thanks.”