by Joanne Pence
Tommy’s eyes widened, and he turned and ran to his mother.
He punched the Close Door button over and over until the doors finally shut. He leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe and get his heart back in his chest.
On twelve, the doors opened.
The hallway was well lit. There were only two doors on the floor—1201 and 1202. He turned toward 1202.
This would be the hardest part of the whole thing. If Angelina had a normal apartment door lock, he’d be able to get inside in about a minute with his MasterCard. If not, he’d have to try to get the door pick to work. He’d had it explained to him time and again in prison, and had practiced a lot, but it took a calm, cool hand. He would have done fine, except for that damn kid. Now his nerves were shot to hell.
He took out his MasterCard and slid it between the door and the jamb. Holding it almost sideways, he shoved it in farther, so that it bent around the door, then angled it downward until it touched the latch. Carefully, he worked the card until the latch caught, then farther until the card slipped from his fingers—and the door opened.
The apartment was pitch-black. He stood by the door, listening for any noise over the sound of his heartbeat and his own heavy breathing.
He thought again of the woman he’d held in his arms on the dance floor. The inspector’s woman.
He’d make her his own, tonight. Before he killed her. He remembered lying atop the old woman as she’d struggled. How he’d reacted to the friction of her body against his. Just the thought of what he’d almost done with her had made him throw up later that day.
With Angelina, though, it’d all be different. She had wanted him. She’d smiled at him—even at the restaurant, she’d smiled and been friendly. He’d saved himself for her, just as he’d once saved himself for Heather.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see a few shadows in front of him. He eased forward, expecting to find a chair or table blocking his path. Since the apartment remained quiet, he took out his flashlight and flicked it on, and gave the room a quick perusal.
The sight of his bouquet of roses on her coffee table brought a smile to his lips. He picked one up, gently lifted it to his nose, then, smiling, ripped the petals from the stem.
He tossed the rose aside when he spotted the telephone. Taking hold of the cord, he sliced it in two with his knife.
The kitchen was to the left of the living room, and just beyond it had to be her bedroom. He shut off the flashlight and headed for the room.
The air in Angelina’s apartment didn’t smell the way he’d expected. There was a staleness, a masculinity to it. That had to mean she spent even more time than he thought entertaining men.
Now it was his turn to be entertained.
He stood in the bedroom, trying to make out her figure in the darkness. He inched toward the bed. What if she had her fiancé with her?
He hadn’t thought of that before. That would change all his plans.
He could see the form of one person only on the bed. He smiled.
As he watched, thinking about her, he felt himself grow hard and reveled in the power it gave him. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
Still holding his knife, he groped around the top of her nightstand and found the telephone he was sure would be there. With a quick flick of the blade, he sliced that cord in two as well.
Feeling for the edge of the covers, he slowly eased them back. She lay on her side, facing away from him. Stretching his hand out, he let just one finger lightly touch her shoulder. He’d expected the feel of a nightgown, some lacy, fancy thing. Instead he felt bare skin. It shocked, yet thrilled him, and he snatched his hand back.
He lowered his zipper slowly, the metal teeth sounding as loud as machine gun fire in the quiet apartment. She didn’t stir. Then, clutching the knife tight, he placed one knee on the bed, leaned over her, and then pressed his hand to her face, concentrating in the darkness on finding her mouth, stopping her screams. “Don’t move,” he whispered.
But her face was too big…too scratchy…bristly…
He yanked back his hand.
“What the—?” a masculine voice cried.
He slammed the knife down into the man.
The man screeched, arms and legs flailing in a tangle of bedsheets. He stabbed again, and the man gasped, then fell silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The first thing Paavo saw as he stepped off the elevator was the pool of blood on the plush carpet between Angie’s and Stan’s apartments. Angie had phoned him and told him someone had broken into Stan’s apartment and stabbed him. Stan had managed to crawl across the hall and knock until she opened the door. Paramedics were with him, and the police were on their way.
Both apartment doors stood open. Paavo’s heart contracted painfully at how close such horror had come to Angie’s quiet, elegant home. He glanced quickly into Stan’s apartment. A patrolman had secured it until the crime scene investigators and the Crimes Against Persons detail arrived. He looked over the apartment, at the trail of blood from the bedroom to the front door and into the hall. Then his gaze fixed on a rose petal lying on the ground, and to the bouquet on Stan’s coffee table. Roses. Another knife attack and roses.
He glanced over the room quickly once more. Robbery didn’t seem to be the motive here. His eyes returned to the roses. Could it be coincidence? Lots of people had roses, after all. No, this was no coincidence.
He hurried into Angie’s apartment. She was speaking quietly with a patrolman. Her hands, arms, and face were bloodied. Although he knew she hadn’t been hurt, that the blood had to be Stan’s, seeing her that way made him weak. She turned, and their gazes met.
In a moment, she was in his arms and he held her tight against his chest. He saw no tears, but her face wore a scared, hollow look that tore at him.
The patrolman walked up to Paavo, ready to question him, when he pulled out his badge. “Smith, Homicide.”
“Gribbs, Central.” The policeman sent a questioning glance from Paavo to Angie, and stepped back.
“Are you okay?” Paavo asked Angie, even as he ran his hands over her to assure himself that she was.
She nodded, then took a deep breath. “I was asleep when I heard a banging on my door.” She shivered, and Paavo helped her to the sofa. He kept his arms around her. “I looked out the peephole, but couldn’t see anything, then I heard someone moan. It was Stan, Paavo.” Her voice broke. “It was awful.” She put her face in her shaking hands. Paavo hugged her closer.
He looked at Gribbs. “Did you see the wounds?”
Gribbs nodded. “The cuts looked pretty deep. High, on his shoulders, front, and back.”
“I’ve got to go to the hospital,” Angie said, then glanced down at her bloodstained bathrobe. “I’ve got to dress.”
Paavo helped her walk toward the bedroom. Her legs were wobbly as her adrenaline diminished, and the shock of finding her friend that way began to settle in. “I’ll drive you there when you’re ready,” he said.
“Paavo, do you think that patrolman will let you into Stan’s apartment to get his address book from his desk? I’d better telephone his parents. They live somewhere in Nebraska.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Why, Paavo?” she looked up at him.
“Why?”
“Why would anyone want to hurt Stan?”
The question hung between them, unanswered, as Paavo drove across the city to San Francisco General. When they arrived, Stan was already in surgery, and they were directed to the waiting area. Earlier, while Angie dressed, Paavo had phoned Yosh and asked him to get over to Stan’s apartment. It wasn’t a homicide, yet, but it was connected to the two they already had. He’d stake his life on it.
When he’d gone to get Stan’s address book, he’d told the robbery inspector that Yoshiwara would be on his way to take over the investigation.
Now, as they sat and waited for the doctor to let them know how Stan came out of t
he surgery, Angie gradually calmed down and Paavo asked the question he’d been wondering about since his quick look around Stan’s apartment.
“Did Stan tell you who gave him the roses?” Paavo asked.
“Roses? I didn’t know he had any.”
“Okay.”
“Is it important?”
“It’s nothing.” He kissed her forehead as she rested her head on his shoulder. She was exhausted by the whole experience, physically as well as emotionally. He’d ask her more about the roses later, when she was more focused.
It was 7:00 A.M. before they got word that Stan was out of surgery and in intensive care. He’d lost a lot of blood, but nothing vital had been hit. With any luck, the prognosis was excellent. Paavo would try to question him, but he’d be surprised to find Stan coherent in much less than twenty-four to thirty-six hours.
Paavo took Angie back to his house. Something was going on that was very, very wrong, and much too close to Angie to suit him. He worried about her being alone. There was no logical reason, though, why he should worry about her.
Was there?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Angie sat at a table in The Wings Of An Angel, drinking a cup of coffee and trying to pull herself together after the horrible night she’d had. Paavo had left for work before she woke up, so she took a cab back to her apartment. But thoughts of Stan plagued her, and she decided to go out for an hour or two.
She vaguely recalled Paavo’s question at the hospital about roses, but everything had been in such a muddle she wasn’t sure. Still, even today, she didn’t remember Stan mentioning roses. He had said something about a strange deliveryman, though, hadn’t he? What was it? When was it?
A customer walked in—the man with the lopsided glasses and the puppy-dog eyes she’d met a couple of days earlier. Earl showed him to a nearby table.
“You’re crying.” Puppy-dog eyes stopped as he passed her, his voice soft. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you? Some water, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
Earl pulled out a chair and waited impatiently until the customer sat. But he immediately turned in his chair and faced her again. “Would you like to talk about it?”
She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and shook her head.
“I’m sorry.” He folded his hands. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t really,” she said. “A friend of mine was…was hurt last night. He’s in the hospital.”
“How terrible! I’m so sorry. Will he be all right?”
“The doctors say so.”
“Was it an accident?”
She sat up straight in the chair. The man was probably simply trying to be nice, but there was something about him she didn’t care for. “No. He was attacked by someone. Some monster of a human being.”
His eyes showed surprise. “Maybe it was a mistake.”
“I don’t care what it was. Whoever did it was evil, horrible!”
He reached for his water glass.
“Miss Angie.” Earl stepped up to her with some coffee and a piece of pound cake. “Me an’ Butch was hopin’ dis might make you feel a little better. I tol’ him how your friend was hurt an’ dat you went up to da church dis mornin’. He said you was a good woman.”
“I don’t know about that, but thank you both. You’re very thoughtful.”
“You must be a regular here,” the customer said, interrupting again. “Miss…Angie, is it?”
Earl stepped between the two tables. “Miss Angie don’t wanna be distoibed. Is dere somet’in’ you wanna eat or not?”
“Uh, yes. I do.”
Earl handed him a menu. “I’d recommend da spaghetti an’ meatballs.”
He handed the menu back. “Fine.”
Once Earl was back in the kitchen, the customer smiled at her. “My name’s Carter, by the way.”
She nodded and went back to reading the newspaper she’d brought in with her. The North Beach Shopper was new, a local advertiser that was given away door to door and left on sidewalk racks. She’d had a food column in an advertiser once. Didn’t work out too well, though.
“I see you reading a neighborhood paper. I live near here myself,” Carter added. “It’s sure nice to have an inexpensive restaurant nearby.”
“Yes, it is.” She tasted the pound cake. As she suspected—straight from a grocery store shelf to her plate. Well, at least Butch and Earl had tried. She’d come here for nothing more than to spend a moment pulling herself together before calling Paavo and telling him that she was doing fine and was going back to her apartment. The attack on Stan had affected her deeply, but she understood that Paavo needed to concentrate on his cases and couldn’t do it if he felt he’d have to hurry home to play nursemaid to her. The attack wasn’t on her, after all. She had to get over the shock of Stan’s being attacked. It was just that there were people in this world you never expect anything bad to happen to. Stan was one of them.
“Do you live nearby, Angie?” Carter interrupted again. “You seem to come here a lot.”
“Not far.”
“Maybe we’re neighbors?” He gave her another of his puppy-dog smiles, yet his eyes had a hardness to them, a knowing glint at odds with the affable slackness of his mouth and jowls.
Something about the shape of his lips, the tone of his voice as he said her name was disarmingly familiar. Why? Where could she have met him previously?
They’d talked here once before. That must be what she was remembering. She tried to shake off the uneasiness she felt.
“I know all my neighbors,” she said, making it clear the subject was closed.
“Oh, but—” He glanced past her, then turned around, suddenly finding the need to study his cutlery.
Peering over her shoulder, she followed his gaze to see Earl frowning fiercely at Carter. Earl walked over to her. “Miss Angie, I t’ink Butch could use a little help”—he cocked his head toward Carter—“if you’d like to come back into da kitchen.”
“I’d love to.”
“Just in time,” Butch said as she entered. He stood over a large kettle with a wooden spoon. “I’m tryin’ some polenta like you suggested.”
Angie looked at the huge pot of golden polenta. He’d made enough to feed half of Italy. “Good. We’ll use just a small batch of it to start. Did you roast any peppers?”
“They’re in the oven right now.”
Angie opened the oven door and found six large Fresno chilies. They’d softened nicely. She took them out and easily peeled off the hard, outer skin.
“You don’t hafta let dat guy bug you none,” Earl said, dishing out some spaghetti and meatballs.
“I don’t want to be rude to your customers, Oil.”
“What oil?” Butch asked.
“Him.” Angie pointed.
“Earl?” Butch asked.
“Earl?” Angie repeated.
“Yeah, Oil. You was pronouncin’ it jus’ right, Miss Angie,” Earl said.
She nodded. “Ah. I see. Anyway, I can handle that guy Carter.”
“He’s a bad egg, Miss Angie.” Earl stated. “You keep away from him when I ain’t around to look after you, okay?”
Butch hurled himself at the back door. “’Ey, Vinnie, get up here quick,” he yelled. “You gotta come hear this!”
“Who’s Vinnie?” Angie asked, stirring the polenta. “And why is he in the basement?”
“Yeah, Butch,” Earl said. “You’re so smart, tell da lady what’s he doin’ in da basement.”
“It, uh”—Butch looked at the door to the basement then back at Angie—“it ain’t a basement. It’s an apartment. We stay down there to save money on rent.”
“Oh? How clever. Restaurants are expensive to start up, that’s for sure.”
“What’s all the yellin’?” Vinnie stepped into the kitchen.
“This is the Fed we was tellin’ you about,” Butch said. “Angelina Amalfi, meet Vinnie Freiman.�
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Vinnie frowned as they shook hands. “You called me to meet a Fed? Thanks, Butch. Just what I always wanted to do.”
“Yeah, well, wait ’til you hear Earl. He’s protectin’ her from the other customers.”
“Yeah?” Vinnie looked from Earl to Angie. “But if she’s a Fed, maybe the other customers need protection from her?”
“I just don’t like da looksa dat guy,” Earl protested.
Angie mixed the pepper and polenta in a bowl. “You think he’s some kind of crook?”
“Takes one to know one,” Butch muttered, whereupon Vinnie stomped on his foot. Butch yelped.
Earl poured a glass of red wine and put it on the tray he was preparing.
“So,” Vinnie said to Angie, “you teachin’ Butch here how to cook?”
“I know how!” Butch grumbled.
“He’s not bad,” Angie said. She put some of her polenta and pepper on a plate, heaped grated Romano cheese on top, then spooned some of Butch’s special spaghetti sauce over it and handed the plate to Vinnie. “Try it.”
He took a spoonful. “Hey, this is good.”
“What a screwball! Didn’t I tell you dat guy’s no good?” Earl came back into the kitchen, the tray still full of food. “Here I do all dis woik an’ he takes off wit’out eatin’. He shoulda tol’ me he was tireda waitin’.”
Paavo walked into Homicide and tossed his notebook on his desk. Frustration was evident in every step he took.
“I guess it didn’t go so well,” Yosh said.
“No. St. Clair couldn’t pick out anyone in the mug shots who resembled the guy he’d seen outside his place. We doubted he could. Sometimes I don’t like being right.”
“I’m not having any luck either,” Yosh said. “The car registration was filled out a couple of weeks ago in San Francisco. We tried to lift prints off the form, but it’s been through too many hands. A handwriting analyst is looking over the writing, for whatever that’s supposed to be worth.”
“It’ll give the chief something to say at the next briefing—police bring in handwriting expert to help solve vicious murders. Why does the public think some quack can do it better than us?”
