Too Many Cooks (10 page)

“No.” She shook her head, then lowered her gaze as silent tears began to fall.

His chest tightened. He remembered how bad it could hurt, how some cases got under your skin, and no matter how much you told yourself this was just a job you had to do, you reacted to it like a civilian, not a cop, and you shut your eyes and saw the ugliness and cruelty that men could inflict on each other. “Hey, you okay?” Paavo took her arm.

She shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

She sounded so forlorn, he placed his hand on her back to lead her to the car. She stopped walking, though, and turned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder as she struggled to gain control.

“They were so young. It's such a waste, so hard to accept. Maybe…maybe I'm not cut out for Homicide.”

“You did just fine. No one ever gets used to seeing something like this. Some of us just learn to stop the
tears from showing, that's all.” You're the lucky one, he wanted to add, but didn't. You can still cry. The rest of us just feel the anger and pain and emptiness.

She glanced up at him, wiped her tears, and got into the car for the ride back to the Hall of Justice to begin the lengthy reports they'd have to complete.

 

It was two-thirty in the morning before Paavo turned his car onto the street where he lived. A white Ferrari was parked in front of his house. He pulled in behind it. The interior light was on, and Angie was curled up asleep, classical music playing softly on the radio. He stood there and watched her, glad he lived on a quiet street where no one would come by this time of night and bother her—and also where they wouldn't come by and see a big hard-nosed detective with what felt like a sappy look on his face.

He couldn't help it, though. It felt too good seeing her here for him to not pause a moment and enjoy the sight.

He sighed as his more responsible self annoyingly tapped him on the shoulder. It was cold out here, and she was twisted like a pretzel on the seat, probably every muscle aching for relief. He had to get her on her way.

“Angie?” He tapped at the window. Across her lap lay a thick book called
Design for the Rebuilding of San Francisco After the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906
. No wonder she'd fallen asleep.

She awoke with a start, then sleep-dazed eyes met his and she smiled. He felt a tug to realize that even half asleep her reaction to him was so warm. As she
unlocked the car door, he opened it from the outside and gave her his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Slowly, she let him pull her to her feet. “Trying to make my class interesting.”

Did that make sense? he wondered. “You were what?”

She blinked a few times and stretched her arms with a big yawn that made him want to hold her tight. In the dim streetlight, she looked sleepy, warm, and inviting, a sanctuary from the bleakness he'd just left behind. He ruthlessly clamped down the urge.

“I was waiting to see you,” she replied.

“Do you know the time?”

“No.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I can't see it in the dark.” She yawned again. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“It's nearly three
A.M
. Don't you think you should go home?”

“Okay.” She turned toward her car, took the key from her pocket, and tried to find the keyhole on the door to unlock it. The door, however, was already standing open.

The befuddled look on her sleep-softened face broke his control. He took the key from her hand, pushed the car door shut, wrapped his arm around her waist, and led her toward his house.

“What's wrong?” she murmured.

“You're sleepwalking. One cup of coffee, and you'll be on your way.”

She snuggled closer and shut her eyes.

Paavo lived in a brown-shingled cottage tucked away in the northwest corner of the city, far from crowds and facing the Pacific Ocean. It was so old it
had no garage and was mere inches away from similar cottages on either side.

Paavo led Angie directly into the small living room with its overstuffed, mismatched sofa and chairs. His big, pugnacious tomcat, Hercules, bounded off the patchwork cushion he loved to sleep on and pattered across the red and blue hooked rug straight to Paavo, where he rubbed against Paavo's leg and meowed loudly.

“Hello, Herk,” Paavo said. He looked at Angie as he shut the front door. “This cat thinks my sole function in life is to open a can of food for him as soon as I walk in.”

“While you do that,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “I'll put on some coffee.”

“Are you awake enough?” he asked.

“Certainly!” She staggered toward the kitchen like a drunken sailor.

Grinning foolishly, he followed her, with Hercules running between his feet.

The kitchen was as old as the house, and so big Angie felt a twinge of envy every time she saw it. It had high shelves—not one of which slid out or rotated, like those in a modern kitchen, and in which things got buried and lost forever. Judge Crater, Ambrose Bierce, and Amelia Earhart could all have been tucked away in there. The refrigerator had a freezer that required defrosting, and the old gas stove needed a match to light a burner, just like Angie's parents' kitchen when she was growing up and before her father's business started to make money.

Going to Paavo's house for Angie was like going home again, in more ways than one. She liked the feel
of the homey surroundings, the easy lifestyle where comfort and function mattered more than looks and price, where a big affectionate cat slept on cushions and trimmed his claws on throw rugs and sides of chairs and no one cared. She liked…Paavo.

She'd given him a bag of gourmet Italian roast coffee when she learned he had nothing but Taster's Choice in the house. It lay in the tiny freezer, the seal unbroken. She rubbed her eyes, still yawning. In a cupboard under the counter she found a nearly new-looking Melitta coffeepot, but there were no filters anywhere. Taster's Choice it was.

Paavo put a bowl of 9-Lives on the floor for Hercules. As soon as the coffee water boiled, she made them each a cup and they took them into the living room. As they sat side by side on the sofa, Angie folded her arms against the cold.

“I'll put the heater on,” Paavo said, standing and walking toward the wall heater.

“A fire would be nicer.” Angie loved the big stone fireplace, the one fine architectural amenity.

He looked at her a long moment, as thoughts of warming themselves before a cozy fire stirred a growing warmth within him. On the other hand, Yosh and Calderon had been doing a pretty good job of warning him about getting any more involved. His practical side told him they were right. “It's a little late,” he said finally.

She dropped her gaze to the hooked rug, studying its colors. He'd said what she feared he might. All she wanted to do was to spend some time with him. She'd planned to surprise him with hard-to-get tickets to “Beach Blanket Babylon” at the Club Fugazi, but he
hadn't even phoned. So she decided to show up here, and what happened? He wanted to boot her out anyway. She almost laughed, but it wasn't funny. Looking at him, it was all she could do to stop her hand from reaching out to touch his face, the high angular cheekbones, the way-past-five-o'clock shadow on his cheeks, chin, and upper lip, the big baby-blue eyes that made her heart thrum. This must be what withdrawal was like. Was she addicted to Paavo? “Nearly three-thirty,” she said. “Some people might call it late, but for others it's very early.”

He took her hands in his.

Why not ask her to stay? he thought. His friends and their concerns be damned. “I don't know what to say.”

She drew back her hands and folded them. “My goodness, all this angst just because you can't decide if it's too early or too late to build a fire in the fireplace? Next time, I'll bring a Presto-log.”

“All right, home with you.” He stood, pulling her to her feet, then gave her a quick kiss. She'd shut her eyes for just a moment as their lips met, then opened them again, startled. “What are you doing wearing Passion?”

“Wearing what?” He drew back.

“Elizabeth Taylor's perfume. Department stores used to reek of it. You smell like you took a—” Her eyes narrowed on the sports jacket he'd tossed over a chair as they'd walked into the house earlier.

He looked at it and saw a single long blond hair on the shoulder.

“I thought you were working tonight,” she said.

“I was.”

“Comforting grieving widows? Passion-wearing blond widows?”

“I—”

“You don't have to say anything.” Her cheeks felt on fire. “I feel like such a fool! But you could have told me!”

“There's nothing to tell.”

She eyed him. “All right. I'll listen to your explanation.” She sat back down.

His thoughts turned to Rebecca and how he'd comforted her tonight. She was a nice woman, but not one he was the least bit interested in. Would Angie understand that? No way. “There's nothing to explain.”

Angie stared at his face a long time. “Inspector, that's a bald-faced lie if ever I heard one. Just hope you never get arrested for something you're guilty of, because it's written all over your face.”

As she stormed toward the door, the phone began to ring.

He glanced at the phone, then back at her. “Wait. I'll tell you about it.”

“Don't bother! It's hardly my business.”

The phone kept ringing. “Will you wait one minute?”

“Why? It's probably Ms. Passion Perfume wanting to come over!”

He picked up the receiver and cupped the mouthpiece. “Please?”

She could never resist a homicide detective who said please. “Oh, all right.” She sat down on the sofa.

“Smith here.”

She watched as his face formed a deep frown. He
glanced at her once, then back at the ground. Only an “I see” or “Um-hmm” punctuated his conversation. Finally, the conversation ended with the words she'd dreaded hearing. “All right. I'll be right there.” He hung up the phone.

“It's so late,” she said. “They can't expect you to go back to work now.”

He sat beside her. “The night inspector called because she thought I'd be interested. She's right. I want to see what happened and where it happened.”

Angie didn't like the way he was looking at her, as if he had to tell her something but wasn't sure how. “What's wrong, Paavo?”

“A man is dead. A friend of yours.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry. It's Chick Marcuccio.”

“No!” She stared at him. “What happened?”

“They said he was shot.”

It couldn't be. Chick was like an uncle to her. She'd known him all her life. When she was little, she'd go over to play with Terry, and her father would take them to Swenson's for ice cream, or over to the Helen Wills playground for kickball. Even after he and Flo got a divorce, Chick was always around when Terry or Joey needed him for anything. The thought of his not being there, of being dead…

“No one would shoot Chick!” Even as she spoke she could feel the world begin to spin.

Paavo pulled her against his chest, and she shut her eyes as thoughts not only of Chick but of Terry, Joey, and even Flo came into her mind. And her father. He and Chick were the best of friends. Her father had been doing so well since his bypass
surgery, but how would he handle news like this? What would it do to him?

“I have to go. I'll see what I can find out.” He felt her shiver as he held her. There was no way, now, that he was sending her home. “Angie, wait for me here. I'll come back tonight, okay?”

She nodded. “He was like family, Paavo. Find out who did this to him. For all of us.”

 

Angie tossed and turned, scarcely sleeping, thoughts of Chick, her family, and her childhood rushing through her mind. She remembered how, in the old days, before Christopher Columbus became persona non grata, the Italian community would always celebrate the arrival of Columbus Day with a big parade down Columbus Avenue in North Beach. It would end right in front of Ghirardelli Square, at the small beach known as Aquatic Park, where every year Columbus would “discover” America.

One year, Chick played Columbus and Angie's father was an improbable Indian. Chick wore a purple-and-silver floppy feathered hat, purple tunic, and white tights, a Columbus in need of a diet. Sal was bare-chested and bare-legged, wearing only a pair of brown shorts, sandals, some bargain-basement beads, and two pigeon feathers because they couldn't find turkey. The two of them sat in a tiny gray rowboat on the far side of a pier, out of sight of the beach, drinking firewater, supposedly to stay warm, while they waited for the parade to end.

By the time the crowd had gathered at Aquatic Park, Chick and Sal were unsure if it was 1492, 1992,
or any date in between. Since there was no wind and no sails, Sal was supposed to row them to shore. Instead, Sal rowed the boat in circles while the crowd hooted. Chick's heroic pose dissolved into a flurry of arm-waving and pleas to heaven. The crowd shouted mock encouragements, along with a few obscenities, as the two landlubbers braved the six-inch waves.

Finally, Chick decided to wade in the rest of the way, but he staggered and pitched head first into the water. Sal tried to pull him back into the boat, only to join his friend. Dripping wet and sick to their stomachs, they crawled to the beach. “Columbus” had to be held up to receive blessings from “Il Papa,” while his “Indian” companion began loudly to sleep it off. Angie was eight years old before she realized Columbus didn't land in San Francisco when he discovered America.

The sun was lighting the sky when she heard the key in the lock of the front door. Half asleep, she sat up, holding the blanket against her, waiting for the sound of Paavo's footsteps. What if it wasn't him? What if it was a burglar, or whoever had killed Chick, coming to look for her? But why would she even think of such a thing…unless Chick's killer was someone she knew?