Something's Cooking (11 page)

Hours later, she awoke to the sound of hushed voices in the living room. The bedroom door opened. In the silhouette defined by the light cast by the T.V., she recognized her detective in the doorway.

He shut the door and crossed the darkened room to her dressing table, stopped a moment, then turned to leave.

“Paavo.” She sat up, barely able to make out his figure in the moonlit room.

“Angie, I…” His voice was hoarse and exhausted. “I didn't mean to wake you.” He took a half step toward her, then stopped and withdrew his foot as if he were about to trespass. “I saw so
much ugliness tonight.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Then I saw something that reminded me of you. I wanted to bring it to you…to apologize for involving you….”

He stopped and rubbed his face wearily. “Now I feel like a first-class fool.”

“Come here,” she said, reaching out her arms toward him. He crossed the room and she clasped his hands, pulling him down to sit on the edge of her bed. “You're anything but a fool, Inspector.”

He sat stiffly, unwilling to respond to her or even to acknowledge her touch. Then he turned his face away and drew back. “Go to sleep now.”

“Paavo, wait.” She grasped his arm, and he looked at her again. As he did, her arms circled his shoulders. “Don't go.”

She pressed her cheek to his, holding him, knowing instinctively that despite his abrupt manner, his coming here meant that he realized, on some level, that he needed her.

He put his hands on her waist as if to push her away, but then they stilled, almost caressingly, against her cool, satiny nightgown. Then his hands clenched, crushing the material within his strong fists.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have come. I don't even know why I did.” He pulled back. Even in the darkness, she could see the agony etched in his face, the torment in his eyes. “Your world is so different from mine,” he said. “Here there's light, there's still hope…”

“You're in my world now. Try not to think about the other.”

“If you saw the other…” He shook his head, his eyes shut, as if trying to forget, but the more he tried, the more he seemed to remember.

“I went there.” His jaw was clenched, as if the words were being dragged from him. “To the street where it happened. I had to see.” He stopped, and the pounding of his heart reverberated through her own body.

She lightly stroked his brow, his cheeks, then lay her hands against his ears as she spoke. “It's all right, Paavo. It's all right to hurt.”

He shook his head. “God, Angie!” It was a cry for her from deep within his soul. Wordlessly, she wrapped him in her arms. She held him tightly, fiercely, achingly, as if through sheer physical closeness she could absorb some of the pain and loss he felt.

His arms tightened like a vice, crushing her against him until it almost hurt. “Christ, Angie, I'm a cop. I'm supposed to be used to these things.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and twined her fingers in his hair, trying to gather him even closer. “You're a man, too. A very caring man, I think.”

He buried his face against her neck, and when he spoke his voice was choked. “Matt was shot in the back, Angie. He was my friend, my best friend, and he died alone on the streets.”

She felt the hot tears fall against her shoulder
before she felt him shake with silent sobs, before his whole body wrenched with grief.

His pain seared through her. Her heart ached for him, for Matt, and tears rolled from her eyes too. She lay back on the bed, pulling him down with her, then wrapped her arms firmly around him, her grip strong as he wept for his partner, his friend. Eventually, his agony seemed to ease, and as the first glimmer of dawn lit the sky, exhaustion overcame him, and he slept.

She didn't remember falling asleep. She didn't remember hearing him leave. All she knew was that when she opened her eyes, the room was bright with sunlight, and she was alone.

For a moment, she wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing. Then her gaze caught the dresser, and Paavo's words came back to her, overwhelming her. What an extraordinary man, she thought, as tears filled her eyes, that in the midst of his own grief, he would think of such a thing.

There, lying on the dresser, was a single red rose.

“
Miss Angelina,” Rico
said, stepping into the den. “You have a telephone call from a Mr. Crane.”

“Crane!” Angie hurried to the phone.

“Brussels sprouts and chocolate sauce? Miss Amalfi, where are my recipes?” It sounded like the man was on the verge of tears.

“I'm sorry, I—”

“You're sorry! You don't know what this means!” he whined.

“Let me explain.”

“Please. You're so good to me. I just—sardines over eggs, oh, Miss Amalfi!”

“I'm sorry! Listen, someone stole your recipes.”

“What?” His high-pitched voice nearly broke her eardrums.

“My apartment was burglarized, and someone took them.”

“Took them. I see. Well, thank you.”

“Wait!” She had to talk to him, to figure out a way for Paavo to meet him and question him about Sam. “You can give me more recipes.”

“No. I really don't think I should come by—”

“I'll come to your place.”

“Here?”

“I need those recipes. My readers love them, you know. They're important for my job.”

“Well, I do have copies of what was stolen…”

“That's great. I'll meet you in a couple of hours. Where are you?”

“Just you?”

“Of course.”

“I'm at 501 Third Street, Room eight. Come now. I'll be waiting.”

The phone went dead.

“Oh my God!” Angie rubbed her forehead.

“You all right, Miss?” Rico asked.

She looked up at him. “Yes.” She reached for the phone to call Paavo, and then hesitated and drew back her hand.

All morning she had hoped he would contact her, but he hadn't. Had she been too pushy last night? Did he regret letting her get so close, letting her see his grief? These questions palgued her. She didn't know where he was and she certainly didn't know if he'd want to speak to her.

Now, though, she had no choice but to contact him.

She telephoned the station. As usual, he wasn't there, but he was working, and the police sergeant said he'd reach him right away.

She waited anxiously, wondering if she had done the right thing. It was almost a half hour later when the phone rang.

“It's me,” he said, his voice heavy with weariness.

“Hi. How are you today?” She tried to sound cheerful.

“I'm…fine. Yourself?” His manner was stilted, almost irritated.

“I'm fine. But I wanted to know about you. I care about you, you know.”

She heard his sudden intake of breath, then a pause as he slowly exhaled. “Look, Angie,” he said, his voice flat and expressionless. “That's real nice, but I'm busy.”

“I got a call from Edward Crane.”

“The recipe writer.” He sounded uninterested.

“I'm going to meet him right away in his apartment.”

That got a bigger response. “You're going to what?”

“The address is 501 Third Street.”

“That neighborhood's too dangerous. You're not going down there.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I can't get away. I'm working on…on Matt's case.”

“I see. I just thought you could question Crane about Sam.”

“Well, I guess Matt was checking out a lead on Sammy Blade's murder when he was killed…. Listen, I'll be right there.” He hung up.

Thirty minutes later she heard his loud knock at the door.

She ran to answer it, nearly knocking Rico over in her haste. She pulled open the door and stood, her heart pounding, face to face with him. She needed to see that he was all right and to tell herself that what had happened to Matt couldn't happen to him.

She stepped back to let him enter the room. He looked exhausted. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie loosened, his gray sports jacket was open and hung limply off his shoulders. The skin under his eyes was almost blue with fatigue, and his face had a pale, pinched look to it.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She wanted to call off the meeting with Crane. All she wanted to do was to have him take off his jacket and lie down so she could rub his neck and shoulders, and let him relax, let him know he didn't have to be Mr. Inspector around her. Just himself, just a man. She ached for him, but she knew better than to even suggest he rest. She nodded and went to get her coat.

 

Paavo was silent as they rode in his Austin to the address on Third Street, an area full of rundown hotels and homeless winos. He didn't want to think about the woman beside him, or the partner he had lost. Yet he couldn't think of anything else.

They found Crane's room on the first floor.
Paavo lifted his knuckles to the door, but Angie caught his arm just in time. “He'll know you're a cop, Inspector, believe me.”

Paavo was surprised, but let Angie knock instead.

“Who is it?” a voice called.

“It's me. Angelina Amalfi.”

Crane opened the door a crack and then slammed it just as Paavo's arm shot out to push it open. The door locked. Angie backed out of the way as Paavo gave it a powerful kick.

He rushed into the empty room. The window stood open.

“Wait here,” Paavo said to Angie as he climbed out the window.

Crane ran down the alley behind the hotel. Paavo was catching up to him when he heard footsteps behind him, stopped, and spun around, his hand on the butt of his Smith and Wesson.

Angie froze in mid-step. Paavo stared at her in disbelief for a moment and then bolted after Crane again. Crane was far ahead of him now, and, like many small men, he had speed. He turned down an outside stairwell into a basement, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Paavo slammed into it just as he heard the deadbolt click into place. He kicked the door, but it wouldn't budge. He tried his shoulder and winced with pain.

Angie, gasping for breath, caught up to him. He warned her to stay back as he pulled out his gun.

She held her fingers to her ears, her eyes shut tight as he pointed at the lock and fired.

With his gun pointing upward, he carefully pushed the door open and entered the building. “Wait here,” he ordered her.

He hurried through the basement, then climbed a staircase to the main floor. It was a warehouse, full of unopened crates stacked high. This time, he recognized the footsteps behind him as Angie's. Didn't that woman ever listen?

A door on the main floor was open, leading to the street. Paavo caught Angie's eye, pointed at it, and slowly they walked toward the door.

He lowered his gun, then slid it back in his holster as they stepped outside. The street was empty.

“He's gone. Damn!”

They crossed to the other side of the street, unsure as to which direction they should go. There was no sign of movement or anything else to give them a hint.

“I'll take you home,” he said. “Then I'll go down to the station and do a little investigating on my own about Mr. Edward G. Crane. He looks familiar. I'm surprised he didn't turn up in the mug shots, though the shaved head may have thrown you off.”

“I'm very good at faces, Inspector Smith,” she said. “I'll come along and look again.”

He saw the alert, hopeful expression in her eyes and remembered the innocent trust with which she had followed him during the chase.
But if Crane, who surely carried a gun, had turned and fired….

“I'm taking you home. I can't waste any more time. I've got other cases to investigate.”

“What do you mean, waste time?”

He strode quickly toward his car, and Angie hurried along beside him, taking two steps to his one. “I've got work to do. Some of us have to, you know. It's the way we bring in money to live on.”

“Why are you saying this to me?”

He steeled himself before he stopped walking, and then he faced her. Her hurt, baffled look was more than he could bear. He turned, scanning the buildings, the pedestrians, the passing cars, anything but her as he spoke. “I want you to understand. I'm a detective. Your case is my work, and so's Sammy Blade's murder, and most of all, so is finding Matt's killer.”

She said nothing until, unable to bear the silence, he looked at her again. Only then did she speak. “This is about more than that.”

“Oh?”

“It's about last night—”

“Stop.” His face flushed in anger.

“It's about letting yourself feel and cry—”

“Angie!” He grabbed her arms, furious, unwilling to listen to one more word from her. “That's far enough.”

She flung her head back to look at him. “No, it's not. There's nothing wrong with how you felt. I liked you—”

“You were convenient.” His voice was low and deadly, and it stopped her cold.

“What?”

He let go of her arms. “You were there, easy to use. A soft shoulder when I needed one. Got it?”

He watched her proud jaw jut out. “You don't fight fair, Inspector. That one was below the belt.”

“Look, I'm not some hotshot lawyer or doctor like you're used to. I grew up on the streets. Don't try to fight me, or even understand me, because you wouldn't know where to begin.”

Her cheeks flamed as his words struck. “I don't believe you, Paavo. I understand much more than you may think.”

“The world isn't rosy or nice. It's brutal. And so are the people in it. Keep away from me, and if you're lucky, you'll never find out just how savage things really are.”

She folded her arms. “All right, Inspector. I've got the message. I think you're wrong, but heaven forbid I waste your time or get too close to you.” She spun on her heel. “Don't bother to take me home!”

She marched off. He watched until she got into a taxi, and then he called Rico and told him to get out on the sidewalk, watch for Angie, and get her into her apartment, fast.