by Joanne Pence
Given that, there was no way Paavo would do anything to make a cop look bad in the eyes of this DA—unless he clearly deserved it.
There was another aspect of the switch, though, that Paavo wasn’t about to discuss with anyone.
It was the fact that Peewee Clayton was a nobody—a bad egg who pulled petty thefts and beat up women, old men, and kids. Probably kicked his dog, too, if a creep like that even had a dog. So how would a nobody find anyone powerful enough or clever enough to go into the heart of the Hall of Justice and switch evidence? Even if he did happen to know someone so clever or powerful, why would such a guy bother to help a small-time operator like Peewee?
There was more to this than met the eye. A lot more. Paavo never liked coincidence. Didn’t believe in it, in fact. So how could he explain the coincidence of his case being blown in court at the same time as his phone number was found in a numbers runner’s mouth?
Or was he just being paranoid?
They arrived at the apartment building and rang the bell to the manager’s apartment. A tall woman with short hair, red at the tips and white at the roots, opened the door. A yellow kimonolike house jacket was wrapped tightly around her waist and a cigarette was wedged in the corner of her lips. As soon as she saw the two inspectors her eyes narrowed and she removed the cigarette. “You two. I heard you let that Peewee off. I thought you were better at your job than that. Sarah was a good girl. Rotten taste in men, but a good girl. She didn’t deserve this.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mrs. Simmons,” Paavo said. “We’re picking up the investigation again. We’d like to ask you a few more questions, and also ask you to continue to hold Sarah Ann’s apartment just the way you found it. Don’t disturb anything.”
She took a long drag on her cigarette, then tilted her head back and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You’re late, boys.”
The two cops exchanged glances, and Paavo said slowly, “You might recall that we asked you to—”
“I know what you asked,” she said. “I also know that I got a call a couple days ago giving me the okay to rent the apartment. I had a cleaning service come through, and today my new tenants are moving in.”
“The whole idea of a random act of kindness is that it’s random,” Reverend Hodge cried petulantly. They stood at the counter at the Senseless Beauty Café. Hodge had decided to buy some coffee and breakfast pastries for his volunteers. Angie had returned to the café the following morning after her talk with Rainbow and met him as he was going inside. She offered to help carry the goodies. “Auctions aren’t random—they’re planned. Well planned. Look at all the planning going into this one! What if nobody comes?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Angie insisted. She was surprised at how depressed and upset the reverend seemed about the whole affair. “Publicity is getting out. People will come—especially if they think they’ll be getting a good deal.”
“With an auction, who can tell? It depends on the other buyers.” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I should just stick with random kindnesses and forget all this other stuff.”
“It’s not that hard to pull off, Reverend Hodge.”
Hodge turned his small, flat, but effectively hangdog eyes on her. “Easy for you to stand there and criticize!”
“I’m not!”
“She’s not,” Rainbow said, giving him a cardboard holder with four cups of coffee. Angie took the box of jelly doughnuts and cinnamon rolls.
As they left the café Hodge continued his complaining. “Explain this one. I hired a catering company, but the owner keeps calling and asking me what I want him to serve. How should I know? Who am I—Betty Crocker?”
They walked along the sidewalk to the mission, the morning sun warm, a crisp breeze coming off the bay just beyond the piers across the wide boulevard. “Did you ask the caterer for suggestions?”
His eyebrows nearly touched his wispy hairline. “Could I do that?”
Was he being purposely obtuse? she wondered. “I can talk to him on the phone if you’d like.”
“Do you know much about food? Besides chocolate, I mean.”
“I know a bit,” she replied. “I studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and I’ve worked with a number of restaurants and as a restaurant critic.”
“I knew it!” he cried, jostling the coffee in his excitement. “You’re just what I’ve been looking for…no, praying for. In my profession, I always hope that when I pray I’ll get a little special attention. Maybe this time I did.”
“I don’t think I’m heaven-sent, Reverend Hodge.”
“I can’t imagine you were sent by the other place, Miss Amalfi.”
That stopped her.
He pushed open the mission door. “Let’s sit here a moment so I can give you some details,” he said, plopping himself down on the edge of the sofa in the entry hall. She took the chair beside him. “We’ll have about fifteen hundred people, each paying two hundred dollars to get in, so that’s three hundred thousand dollars…. I guess fifty or sixty thousand would be okay to spend on a few hors d’oeuvres and wine.” He gazed innocently at her. “Is that enough?”
Angie couldn’t answer for a moment. She had no idea of the magnitude of this event. Her only experience working on a large catered affair was the wedding of her fourth sister. Francesca’s marriage to Seth Levine had been a major social event on the San Francisco peninsula. Four hundred people attended, and Angie had thought she’d be worn to a frazzle before it was over. But that was a dinner. This was only hors d’oeuvres. Fifty or sixty thousand dollars? No problem. “I think we can come up with something very nice for that amount of money.”
“The Palace of the Legion of Honor is shaped like a U.” He gestured with his hands, building a picture as he spoke, his nervous energy practically lifting him off his chair. “There’s a large hall on one arm of the building. It’ll be set up for food and drinks, and people will mingle with each other. That’s where the preauction welcome speeches will be given—and that’s also where I hope I can persuade people to give generously for the benefit of the mission. The auction will be held across the courtyard, on the other arm of the U.”
Suddenly, for all Hodge’s complaints about planning, she got the vague idea that she’d just been had. He certainly sounded very “planned” now. “Sounds very nice,” she said. The Legion of Honor building, on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean, housed a museum and a large meeting hall.
“The people attending—most of them—will know good food and wine.” He clasped his hands tightly. “We’ve got to impress them.”
“Of course.”
“Plus, I want a centerpiece that fits the theme of the auction: doing good works for people. Something lofty. Something inspired.” He stood, his arms outstretched. “Something…global.”
“Wonderful!” Angie cried, picking up his enthusiasm. “What will it be?”
“I don’t know.” He sat and looked woeful again. “I’ve thought and thought, but I can’t come up with anything. I should cancel the whole thing!” He put his head in his hands. “I would, too, but the mission’s benefactor—a virtuous, generous man—has already given the mission a lot of money. He rented this building, bought new furniture and rugs for it, even paid for the auction’s publicity. How could I let it all die?”
“You can’t!” she insisted. “Everything will be all right.”
“But it’s all beyond me. I can’t handle it. I’m such a loser. Why am I even trying?”
She walked to his side and touched his shoulder. “Reverend Hodge, how can you talk this way? Everyone in the city thinks…knows…what a wonderful, generous man you are.”
He looked up at her. “Do you have a paper bag with you? I feel a panic attack coming on.”
“Stop worrying, right now!” She put her hands on her hips. “I’ll take care of the food for you. I’ll work with the other volunteers. That’s what you have volunteers for. We’ll all pitch in and do ou
r part. It’ll come together.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so! Please, Reverend, relax.”
“Okay. I’m feeling a little better already.” He pressed his hands against his chest and took deep breaths. “As soon as I can walk I’ll introduce you to Mary Ellen Hitchcock. She’s in charge of most of the details of the auction. You two can work together.”
“Is she in Auction Central, down the hall?” Angie stood and picked up the coffee and pastries. “If so, I can find her. I’ll take the volunteers their coffee before it gets any colder.”
“Miss Amalfi, you are such a gem.”
T. Simon Hodge went into his office to be alone. Angie Amalfi was a wise addition to his cadre—she had the right connections and knew food besides. She fit in with the other women like peas in a pod. They were giving him a headache, though, with their enthusiastic good cheer. One could take only so much of that.
Right now, he had other problems to worry about, like where to store some of the goods collected for the auction.
The door to his office opened. He looked up, covering his notes and paperwork with his arms.
“Oh, hello,” he said, shifting back in the chair. He didn’t have to hide anything from this visitor. “Is anything wrong?”
The man opened the box of chocolates that Hodge had kept for himself and spent a moment deciding which to eat first.
“We have a new volunteer,” Hodge said. “One who knows about gourmet food. She made those.”
“I saw her.” He chose a cherry cordial and bit into it. Some of the syrup oozed out of the candy and rolled onto his fingers. “She’ll be working with us a while, I hope.”
“Yes, of course. I didn’t realize you took an interest in our volunteers.”
The visitor ate the rest of the chocolate, then licked his fingertips. “Did she mention that her boyfriend’s a cop?”
Alarms went off in Hodge’s head. “You know her?”
“I met her once. She probably doesn’t remember me, but I’m glad she’ll be around. She might come in handy.”
“Handy?” Hodge felt his mouth go dry. “Yes, I’m sure she will.”
“More than she ever imagined. Be nice to her, Hodge.” He took another chocolate, then left the room.
Hodge waited until he was alone. Only then could he relax enough to take a piece of candy for himself.
CHAPTER SIX
Angie was not pleased. Paavo wasn’t even on call this week, yet he was ignoring her. If he was on call—which meant that he had to investigate any homicide that took place during his shift, either weekdays from Monday to Friday morning, or weekends from Friday to Monday morning—he scarcely had time to go home, and sometimes slept at the Hall of Justice.
On off weeks, like this one, he was supposed to put in a nine-to-five—or six or seven or eight—shift, and afterward spend some time with her.
But his being incommunicado for four days in a row was too much to put up with. She hadn’t seen him since the evening he’d come to her house upset about the bizarre evidence switch in court. Evidence switching might be a problem at the moment, but she needed to talk about the future—about them. Her career, his career, and their life together. She had arranged a lovely, romantic evening for the two of them to share, and now she had to get Paavo to agree to spend it with her. Of course, if he said he was too busy to go with her, he’d find out that little Italian-American women in a bad mood were not to be trifled with.
She roared into one of the twenty-minute parking spaces outside the Hall of Justice, marched through the metal detectors, and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Her peach-colored Carole Little suit with its short straight skirt, fitted jacket, linen shell top with a low scoop neck, and matching high-heeled pumps caused heads to turn. She hoped she’d get that kind of reaction from Paavo.
Room 450 was quiet. The secretary had left for the day, and most of the homicide inspectors had either gone home or were out on a case. Past the reception area the room was cluttered with computer terminals, books and papers all askew atop desks, bookcases, and file cabinets. At a far desk, near windows facing innercity blight, sat Paavo, so lost in his papers he hadn’t even heard her come in.
She’d only taken one step into the room, though, when he looked up. The top button of his pale blue shirt was unfastened, his tie was loose, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Beneath his large blue eyes were shadows of weariness; his face looked drawn and his dark brown hair was mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Her anger evaporated as she wondered how he was feeling, if he’d eaten today, and when he’d last had a good night’s sleep.
“Angie,” he said, surprised.
“Grab your coat, Inspector. I’m springing you from this joint.” She forced a cheerful note into her voice.
“I’d like to, but I’ve got a lot to do—”
“Are you and Yosh on call tonight?” she asked, her arms folded.
“No, but—”
“No buts. You’ve worked hard enough, long enough. A movie, then dinner. I’m going to get you to relax if it kills me.”
“Angie, I don’t have time for a movie.”
“Look around, Paavo.” She gave him a moment to do as she asked. “The place is empty. It means other people have things to do besides sit here and work. You can leave for a little while. It won’t fall apart without you.”
She walked up to him, moved to the side the papers he’d been working on, then sat down on top of his desk blotter. He eased back in his chair, his lips twitching slightly at her audacity. Ignoring his expression, she lifted his pen from his fingers, put its cap on, then tossed it to a corner of the desk. “It’s a short movie. A classic. Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast. I couldn’t get dinner reservations until nine anyway.”
“I already know how Beauty and the Beast ends,” he said.
He could be maddeningly practical. “That’s not the point, Inspector.”
“The point is the time.”
“One evening won’t matter.”
“Angie…” He sounded exasperated.
“Paavo…,” she mocked, imitating his tone.
He stared at her, then shook his head. Slowly his mouth spread into a grin. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured. Relief washed over her.
He placed his hands on her knees, his fingers stroking her sheer silk hose. His touch made her toes curl.
“So, Miss Amalfi, you’ve come to rescue me, have you?” His voice took on a deep huskiness.
“That’s right. I’ll drag you out of here kicking and screaming if I have to.”
“Is that so?” He slowly rose out of his chair and, leaning forward, moved his hands to either side of her thighs, his large, square-shouldered body towering over her. The absurdity of trying to force this big man to do anything he didn’t want to do wasn’t lost on her. So she kissed him.
His arms circled her, and as their kiss deepened he pulled her hard against him. She slid off the desk, taking the blotter with her and causing papers, pens, and notebooks to tumble to the floor.
“Oops,” she said.
He let her go and gathered up his materials. “I give up. Let’s get out of here.”
By the time the movie was over, Paavo had visibly relaxed. To Angie’s pleasure and relief, he’d found the film intriguing and enchanting—her words, not his. Only a few times did he seem to slip into thought.
She had made reservations at Moose’s on Washington Square, near her church and only a couple of blocks from a small café owned by three friends of hers. She had deliberately chosen not to go to their place. Tonight she wanted to eat a special meal and didn’t want to be interrupted by well-meaning friends while she tried to help Paavo forget, for a while at least, his sticky cases.
Their appetizer of hickory-smoked salmon with a warm cheese blintz, baby lolla rosa, and red-onion-and-caper relish arrived as they talked about the movie. “Here’s to fairy tales and mythology,” Angie said, raising
her glass of sauvignon blanc. “May they always point out the truths of life.”
Paavo touched his glass to hers, then held her with his gaze. “And may beauty always love her savage beast.”
“She does and she will,” Angie replied softly.
Percatelli pasta with fennel and spring onion marmellata was served next.
“You were right about coming here this evening, Angie,” Paavo said between mouthfuls of food. “It’s a lot better than brooding over a dead numbers runner.”
“Numbers? That’s gambling, right?”
“An illegal lottery,” he explained.
“Why would anyone bother? There’s a legitimate state lottery every week.”
“For one thing, the odds of winning are much better. Fewer players, fewer numbers. You need to guess only a couple of numbers right to win something in most games. Also, whatever you win, you keep. Tax free.”
She ate some pasta, nicely al dente, as she pondered his explanation. “Tax free? No wonder it’s popular. But what does that have to do with you?”
“My phone number was found on a piece of paper in the mouth of a dead numbers runner.”
She was stunned. “You can’t have said what I thought you did.”
“I said it, but I can’t explain it.” His lips tightened. “Calderon and Benson found it. We went to the chief together.”
“So why did the dead man have your number?”
“That’s what they asked me.”
“They can’t possibly think you’re involved with someone like that.” She was scarcely able to believe he’d have been questioned by men he had worked with for so many years.
He was silent for a moment. “It’s the kind of incident that makes some cops real nervous.”
“Then they’re fools,” she said bluntly.
It was his turn to look surprised, then he grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The main course, grilled five-pepper beef filet and portabello mushrooms, was served next.
