Cooking Most Deadly

by Joanne Pence

  What had she been up to?

  He went through the kitchen, living room, bedroom, into the den, looking for a note or message that might give some clue to where she’d gone. Nothing.

  Maybe she’d gone to her parents’? He picked up the phone to call. It was dead. Of course, what was he thinking? He put the receiver back on the hook.

  He went back into the den, took Angie’s appointment calendar from her desk drawer, and opened it, flipping to today’s date.

  The page was empty. Where now?

  He looked around her apartment again, feeling helpless, furious, and scared for her. It was eerie being here without her bubbling through the place, filling not only the rooms, but all the dark places of his soul. He had to find her.

  Carter cranked the ignition switch.

  Her eyes were open now. He had pushed her off his lap to the floor of the small, four-door car, and she lay on her side, wedged between the front and back seats, her legs bent. She was still gagged, her hands tied behind her back, and the throbbing of her head had grown worse.

  Where did he plan to take her? The newspapers were full of stories about women driven to remote spots, raped, and murdered. Fear paralyzed her, tempting her to give in to whatever he planned in hopes of preventing more terror, more pain.

  But something inside her wouldn’t give up. Not yet.

  As if some new thought had occurred to him, Carter suddenly reset the hand brake between the front bucket seats. She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard him shift in the seat.

  “I’m making them pay, Heather. I’m making them all suffer like I did when they took me away from you. Separated us.

  “You know what, Heather? Even our house is gone now, too. I know how unhappy you were, with the leaky roof, the heater that never worked. That goddamned landlord. I took care of him for you. I fixed him good.”

  She felt him grope for her, then his hand touched her hair and he began stroking it. “At least you’re here with me again. Just like before.” He shifted more, and the small car rocked. “Come here to me, Heather.”

  His hand gripped her hair and pulled upward. She couldn’t stop her cry of pain, and her eyes flew open to see his face looming over her. He pulled harder, making her eyes smart as she scrambled as best she could into a kneeling position. “You’re not Heather.” He spit the words, letting go of her. “You’re the one with the cop! Big shot, knew all about ground wires, electricity. No one would have investigated—they’d have accepted that it was an accident, except for him.”

  She shook her head, needing to convince him she was Heather. She’d be safe if he thought she was Heather. He loved Heather.

  He leaned closer, his face only inches from hers. He smiled. “After I kill you, my vengeance will be over, Angelina. The men who hurt me, who took me from Heather, will have lost their women, too. Isn’t that sad?” He chuckled.

  Again, she tried to shake her head, to persuade him he was wrong. Despite trying to be brave, though, a tear formed at the corner of her eye. He lifted it onto his finger then put the finger in his mouth. “Heather did that, too,” he murmured. “She cried when I told her she was going to die. But it was for her own good. She wanted to leave me. It wasn’t safe out there, though. I found a place to keep her very, very safe.” He ran his hand over Angie’s face, touching the planes and angles of it. “You’re so much like her. Like my Heather come back to me again. You were all I ever wanted.”

  His words devastated her. Even pretending to be Heather wouldn’t save her.

  Another car drove by, and he abruptly turned from her, released the brake, and sped down the twisting turns of Telegraph Hill.

  She had to do something to stop him from going to that remote spot, wherever it was. She had to stay where there were people to help her. In the city. Her city—and Paavo’s.

  She moved so that she sat on the hump on the floorboard, her back to the console between the front seats.

  She waited until he was past the twisting part of Telegraph Hill, where he couldn’t drive very fast. Suddenly, the car tilted downward and she realized they were on one of the city’s steepest hills. He stepped on the gas and all but flew down the first few yards.

  This was her chance. She jutted out her bound hands behind her, grabbed hold of the hand brake, and pulled up on it as hard as she could. The back wheels locked and the car went into a tailspin. Carter screamed with rage.

  Paavo noticed that her answering machine showed “zero” messages. He’d left one for her, so she must have played it. Maybe someone else had left a message, and that would explain where she’d gone?

  He pressed the replay button.

  “Angie. It’s me.”

  He groaned at the thought of listening to his own awkward speech and looked for the fast forward button. He found it just as his words were nearly obliterated by static. A mercy, he thought.

  “…another murder….”

  A what? Had he said that? He pulled back his hand. Static erupted again at the words “Coit Tower.”

  Good Christ, he thought. It was him, his voice—except for those few, damnable words covered with static. Another murder. Coit Tower. Someone had tampered with his message, added words, someone who knew how to break into her answering machine, knew recordings, electronics…Carville.

  How long ago had she played that message?

  He ran out to the car and radioed Central Station to order an immediate all-points bulletin for Angie and Wesley Carville, giving the license number for a white Ferrari. They already had a bulletin out on a green Honda Civic. Fighting a sickening feeling at the pit of his stomach, he knew with an awful certainty that the Honda reported at Judge St. Clair’s was, in fact, Carville’s.

  He gripped the dash, shouting into the radio at the dispatcher, who seemed too slow to act, too slow to comprehend, saying to start the search at Coit Tower and consider Wesley Carville armed and dangerous.

  A lamppost stopped the Honda’s mad spin. The car’s front grille wrapped around it. The padded seats she had hurled herself between had protected Angie from being hurt, but crawling to her knees now, she saw the crack in the windshield where Carter’s head had hit it. Blood streamed down his forehead and his eyes were shut. She wondered if he was dead.

  She worked herself over to the door. With her back to it, she groped until she felt the door handle. She lifted it, then had to lean against it, pushing backwards, to get the door to open. As it opened, she had no way to keep her balance and tumbled onto the street.

  Bruised and aching, without being able to use her hands to help her, she had to use the car for support to get back up onto her feet. She hobbled over to the driver’s door and looked in the car. Carter certainly looked dead. His face was white and bloody. His knee must have hit the dash hard because his trousers were torn and the knee ripped open so deeply it looked like some bone was showing. Her stomach flipped over at the sight, and the world went a little tipsy.

  She was surprised no one was out here yet to help. She’d wait. Someone would come soon.

  Then she saw one of Carter’s fingers twitch. She jerked back, terrified, and began to run up the steep hill, her only thought being that going uphill would be harder for him in his condition.

  By the top of the hill, she was gasping hard for breath. The gag made it nearly impossible to pull in the deep lungfuls of air she needed. She rubbed her face against her shoulder in a vain attempt to ease the gag downward toward her chin. Running the way she’d just done had been silly, she told herself. No need. Carter wasn’t coming after her. He wasn’t going to be able to move in the condition he was in.

  Somewhere, soon, she’d find a house light on, see someone out walking or a car go by. She’d find help and everything would be all right.

  Through the fog, she saw the door on the driver’s side of the Honda spring open.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Is that her Ferrari, Inspector?”

  Paavo, standing by Angie’s car in the dark parking lo
t, had been asked that question at least three times already—by each patrol car that cruised by. “Yes. Now find her!” The car, with a slight dent by the headlight, had been found up against a bench with the engine running.

  Another officer walked up to him. “I don’t see any sign of her.”

  “Of course not. She’s not hanging around the tower. I can see that. She’s got to be hiding somewhere on that hill. Look for her. Go through the bushes.”

  “What I’m saying, sir, is that she might not be anywhere around here. You said there was another car.”

  Paavo didn’t want to think about that—about that bastard taking Angie to some place in his car. He wanted her hiding in the brush here, waiting for him to find her. He wanted her safe.

  The policeman part of him, though, knew from bitter experience that if she was here, she was probably dead. He couldn’t face finding her himself, but he couldn’t bear to leave her out here in the cold, foggy night. He had nowhere else to search for her. No other leads to follow.

  “Look a little longer, please,” he whispered.

  His car phone rang. He ran to it. “Smith.”

  “Officer Manning, Central. We found the Honda, Inspector. It’s got a cheap coat of black paint, but the license matches.”

  His breath caught. “Yes?”

  “It’s been in a wreck. On Kearney near Chestnut.”

  His world tilted. “The occupants?” He could barely get out the words.

  “The car’s empty.”

  She saw a light in the upstairs window of a small house. Breathless, she stumbled toward the front door, but with her hands tied behind her, she could only kick it. Her arms and her wrists ached, her mouth burned where the tight gag pressed into her skin. She waited a moment, then kicked again, harder.

  The light switched off. No! She wanted to cry out, but couldn’t. Why was there no one to help her? From the corner of her eye she saw the black-and-white of an SFPD patrol car go by. She chased after it, but it had already disappeared into the fog.

  She couldn’t yell, couldn’t wave her arms. Instead of coming to her aid, people seemed to shy away, to lock their doors instead of opening them. When had we come to this? Tears of frustration and fear filled her eyes. This was a big city, filled with people. But she felt completely alone.

  A movement in the fog caught her attention. She stared at it, waiting, praying that it was someone who’d give her help. She took a step toward the person, then stopped, staring, not believing. He stumbled, his hand to his knee, but still he came forward, toward her, a figure in the mist. But she knew it was him. Him.

  She turned and ran, praying that the fog had somehow shielded her. But since she saw him…

  He could reach her easily. Grab her again. She ran.

  Ss. Peter and Paul’s was nearby. Maybe there…

  Running down the steep Filbert Street hill, without the aid of her arms to steady herself and help keep her balance, she was forced to slow down, slipping and sliding, never actually falling, but coming perilously close. She expected Carter to catch up to her any moment.

  Her lungs were ready to burst as she reached the ten-foot-high doors of the church. Locked. She fell against them, her cheek pressed against the ancient oak as choking, gasping sobs broke from her.

  She forced herself to stop, to listen for the sound of Carter’s running footsteps reverberating through the empty night.

  She listened.

  “Where is she, dammit?” Paavo pounded his fist onto the roof of the Honda, fear for her gnawing at him as he looked up at the rows and rows of flats and apartments surrounding them. Yoshiwara had shown up. Paavo wasn’t sure from where, and now Yosh stood in the middle of the street directing the investigation. Yosh grabbed his arm. “Take it easy, partner,” Yosh said. “We’ll find her.”

  Paavo pushed himself away.

  He peered into the fog, up and down the empty, silent street. He didn’t know which way to turn, where to begin. He’d never felt so helpless.

  The brick facades of some of the garages brought back memories of the Oakland police report of the way they’d found Heather.

  “We’ve got to find her,” he whispered. He alone heard his words.

  The street was silent. Maybe it wasn’t Carter that she’d seen in the fog after all? Or, maybe she’d lost him? Angie kicked at the church doors, but they were so large and solid, they didn’t even rattle. She forced herself away from them, to go on, back down the broad church steps to the sidewalk, onward, expecting Carter to appear before her any second.

  At the corner, she felt a burst of hope.

  “Shhh! I t’ought I hoid somet’in’.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin.’”

  “I swear I did. Like a poundin’.”

  “You musta heard your brains poundin’ in protest—from you tryin’ to use ’em.”

  “Shut up, you two! We ain’t got all night.”

  “Maybe it’s da cops. You want I should go check?”

  “Forget it, I said. Or I’ll give you a real poundin’. Who’s first?”

  “Not me. I hate being foist.”

  “You never been first for nothin’ in your whole life.”

  “Go on.”

  “No, you go on.”

  “No, you.”

  Angie kicked at the door to The Wings Of An Angel as loud as she could, but no one came to answer it. She was sure Earl, Butch, and Vinnie were down in their basement apartment fast asleep. They’d help her, if she could just reach them.

  The door was old, with a large, single panel of glass in a wood frame. Probably not safety glass—probably not even up to code. The only way to get in would be to break the glass, reach inside the door, and unlock it. She tried kicking the glass, but she couldn’t kick high enough to hit the sweet spot—the middle area—which she knew was the weakest part.

  She’d have to use her elbow and shoulder. Even through the leather jacket, it would hurt, but not nearly as much as Carter if he ever caught up to her.

  She rammed her elbow into the window, and fell back. Even her teeth vibrated at the blow. But nothing happened.

  She tried again, smashing her shoulder into the center of the glass with as much force as she could muster. The glass shattered. Not bad!

  Using her elbow again, she knocked away the glass near the doorknob, turned backwards, and reached in with her bound hands, flicked the dead bolt latch, then grabbed the doorknob and turned.

  She ran in, slammed the door shut, looked through the shattered glass to the street—and nearly fainted.

  Carter stood before her. Blood was smeared across his forehead and down his right cheek. The right lens of his glasses had a spiderweb crack in it. His stare was deathly cold.

  He reached through the broken window for the lock. She brought her elbow down on his hand, grinding it into the jagged glass. He shrieked and pulled it free, scraping it across the broken shards and sending rivulets of blood streaming down the door.

  She ran to the kitchen. Behind her, she heard his curses and the sound of more glass breaking.

  At the back of the kitchen she found some steep stairs, apparently leading to the basement. Her three friends were surely down there sleeping. Once with them, she’d be safe.

  She started down, but on the third step her feet slipped out from under her, and she slid all the way to the bottom.

  Slightly dazed, she looked around. To her surprise, she wasn’t in an apartment at all, but in an unfinished, bare-walled basement furnished with three old army cots.

  Scattered about on the ground near the far wall were tools and a lit Coleman lantern. Directly above them was a huge hole in the wall.

  And sticking their heads through the hole, staring intently at her, were Earl, Butch, and Vinnie.

  “Miss Angie,” Earl said. “What’re you doin’ here? What’s dat t’ing over your mout’?”

  She ran to them. Heavy footsteps and banging could now be heard overhead. Angie tried to tell them what had happened,
but with the gag her words came out muffled and incoherent.

  They asked no more questions. Three pairs of hands reached for her and half carried, half dragged her through the hole.

  Earl removed the gag while Vinnie cut the ropes from her wrists.

  “It’s Carter,” she panted. “He’s insane. He wants to kill me.”

  “Good God!” Vinnie bellowed. “I’m too old for this stuff.”

  “Quick! Let’s go up to the jewelry store,” Butch said. “Maybe he won’t know where to find us.”

  They ran across the basement and up the stairs to the ground floor. The door leading into the store was locked. Using a crowbar, Vinnie easily popped the lock, and they ran in.

  The entire front of the store was windows. Outside, streetlights lit the interior for them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Angie cried. She ran to the front door of the jeweler’s, turned the lock, and opened it, only to be stopped by a heavy metal gate that completely covered the front of the building—both windows and door. All four of them grabbed it and tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t. It was padlocked from the outside.

  Angie spun around. There was no back door, no back window.

  They were trapped.

  The streets were eerily empty. Through the fog, Paavo hadn’t even spotted a wrong person to follow, hadn’t even been allowed the faintest glimmer of false hope. He’d driven up and down Kearney and Grant. Now he was on Stockton. He turned off Stockton at Filbert to drive by Angie’s church. Ss. Peter and Paul’s.

  The front of the church looked bare and empty. The doors, he was sure, were locked. God had closed up for the night, and only the godless remained here on the streets.

  Angie’s restaurant “find” was somewhere near here, he recalled. On Columbus. If she were near it—and able to—she might seek it out, a place where she’d been happy with people she’d liked. A sanctuary.