The Da Vinci Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery

by Joanne Pence

  Paavo thought a moment. “You mean Patriot Act?”

  “Yeah. Whatever. You guys can get a lot more info now. Like with RICO—not Rocco.”

  Paavo wanted to get on with it. He still hadn’t been able to reach Angie at Da Vinci’s and was feeling more than desperate. If this kept up, he was going to Rome himself. “I won’t expect you to testify about hearsay.”

  “Good. And these guys are ones I heard of, not ones I actually know,” Alfonse clarified.

  Paavo nodded.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Alfonse began. “There’s some guys. They got a lotta money, but they done some bad things in their lives. When they heard that there was this holy relic, they wanted it.”

  “How did they hear about it?” Paavo asked.

  “This kid, he owes them money. A lot. But he can’t pay it. Wife wants to buy a lot of stuff. New baby. Meth habit. The guy’s broke. Busted. But he’s on the job one day, and he hears about this holy chain, and it’s supposed to be real valuable. He’s thinking: the guys he owes money to, they’re religious. He goes to them, and they want it. They want him to steal it, but he convinces them that they ain’t gonna save their souls if they steal something, right? So they make an offer to Rocco. But Rocco, he’s a greedy son of a bitch. He wanted top dollar—five million. They wouldn’t go no higher than two.”

  “Wait.” Paavo stopped him. “You said Rocco. They went to Rocco, not Marcello?”

  “You think these guys don’t know who’s who? Of course they know who’s Rocco and who’s Marcello.”

  “How?”

  Alfonse Cement rolled his eyes and looked at Richie as if to ask what the hell kind of idiot cop did he bring him? Richie just shrugged.

  “Here’s the story,” Alfonse said. “Marcello got himself in trouble with . . . I’ll call them the Boys. They didn’t want him dead, they just didn’t want to see his face around here no more. He went to Belize or someplace like that. Some place cheap, you know? But he’s got a couple businesses. His brother, Rocco, has nothing, so the mother, she tells Rocco to run the businesses so Marcello won’t lose it all until this problem with the Boys gets straightened out. Rocco does as told. More than that. He buys a house with Marcello’s money, lives high on the hog, and if anybody questions him, he leans on them. Or Flora does. If you know the Piccolettis, you don’t question them if they say Rocco is King of England, capishe?”

  “I understand,” Paavo said. “These men who wanted the chain of St. Peter were negotiating with Rocco but getting nowhere.”

  “That’s right. So they find Marcello and say if he wants all to be forgiven, he’ll help them out. He agrees, comes back to the U.S. and goes to see Rocco.” Al Cement stopped talking to make himself another whiskey and water. So much talking was drying his throat.

  “Then what?” Paavo shook his head in response to Alfonse’s silent offer of a drink.

  “Then? I don’t know.” Alfonse poured himself three fingers. “Next thing we know, Marcello’s dead, and Rocco and the chain are gone.”

  “What about Flora Piccoletti?” Paavo asked. “Any idea what happened to her?”

  “No. That’s bad. I mean, what kind of jerk kills someone’s mother? It wasn’t the Boys. They wouldn’t do that. Nobody knows.”

  Instinctively, Paavo felt he was telling the truth. “What about Caterina’s husband, Charles Swenson? Is he involved?”

  For the first time, Alfonse smiled. It looked like his face might crack from the strain of it. “Involved? Charles? You’re shitting me. He’s no more involved than a puck is in a hockey game—just something everybody else knocks around.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t know. I got my suspicions, but I can’t really say.” Alfonse started to cough. “I gotta take my medicine and lay down. Things aren’t always what they seem. Remember that, and I think you’ll find him.”

  Chapter 32

  The men chose to go after the leather box and chain. They climbed over Cousin Giulio’s high fence into his neighbor’s yard.

  Cat and Angie ran shrieking like banshees to the house.

  Giulio opened the door immediately. “What’s all the noise? You woke up my dog.”

  The dog looked miserable. His voice was completely gone now.

  Cat and Angie rushed inside. “Call the carabinieri!” Cat screamed. “Some men want to kill us.”

  “What men?” Giulio cupped his hands to the window and peered out. “I see a couple of men running from my neighbor’s yard.”

  “Are they carrying a black box?” Cat asked.

  “They have something. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Damnation!” Cat sat down, fanning herself with her hand. “At least we’re safe, Angie. We can hide here until it’s all straightened out. I give up.”

  “Hide here?” Giulio yelled. “You are crazy!”

  “I don’t think we should,” Angie said, her voice quavering.

  Cat looked at her crossly. “Why not? Those goons won’t want anything more to do with us. They have the chain now, thanks to you!”

  “Uh . . . Cat,” Angie began, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Cousin Giulio insisted that they leave his house immediately, which wasn’t such a bad idea since the goons would probably be furious and come looking for them as soon as they discovered Angie had put a dog’s choke chain in the leather case.

  Giulio gave them money for a taxi and asked that they never darken his doorstep again.

  They took a cab to Marcello’s house, Angie protesting the entire way and Cat swearing they could trust him.

  He wasn’t there.

  The front door lock had been ripped from the jamb, so they walked in with no trouble.

  They found few clothes and even less food. Luckily, no blood. It looked as if Marcello had taken off, presumably in one piece. The house had no phone.

  They put a chair under the front doorknob to keep it shut and sat down to consider what to do next.

  Before long Cat stretched out on Marcello’s bed to think better, and Angie did the same on the sofa.

  Soon they were sleeping like the dead.

  Paavo’s home phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He’d left Richie, and was going to pick up his car then drive to Homicide to check up on Alfonse Cement and his cohorts, and see what ties he could find to the Piccolettis.

  He hurried to the phone, hoping against hope that it was Angie. His hope died with Bianca’s greeting.

  “Paavo, you’ve got to help me! I’m in North Beach, at The Leaning Tower bar. I’m with Maria and Frannie. Frannie was here with some cop, but he left after we showed up.”

  She sounded strange. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She sniffled loudly. “But what if something happens to Trina and Angie? We’re all worried, and we feel so helpless.” Her sniffling turned to blubbering. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Paavo pressed the phone closer to his ear. The slurring, weepy voice hardly sounded like the-world-is-wonderful, always controlled, motherly Bianca. She said they were at a bar. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Me? Nothing! Not much, anyway. It’s the others. You’ve got to help us! I just can’t do it! I give up, Paavo, I really do!” She started crying harder.

  “Bianca, what’s wrong?”

  “The drinks made us feel better for a little while. Forget how upset we were and all—”

  “I’m sure,” Paavo interrupted impatiently. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Could you come and get us? I can’t call our husbands. They’ll have conniptions. I need you! Maria was ready to duke it out with every man in sight before—God have mercy—she passed out under the table, and Frannie’s flirting with the bartender.”

  He couldn’t handle this. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right there. Just sit tight.”

  “Ohmigod!” Bianca murmured.

  “What is it?”


  “Frannie. She just climbed up on a tabletop. And my concerned-and-caring sister is now shouting that she doesn’t give a damn about saving any goddamned whales!”

  It’s not really an Assurance van.

  The realization hit Paavo like a tsunami.

  He wasn’t asleep and he wasn’t in bed, but sitting in his dark living room after taking care of Angie’s sisters. The stress on them of worrying about Cat and Angie at the same time as trying to placate their mother and simultaneously not doing anything to give away how they felt to their father had caused them to all but collapse.

  It made him appreciate even more the strength Angie always showed in the face of challenges. She might concoct wild schemes, but she wasn’t one to give up or act completely out of character. She was just Angie—sweet, tough, brave, and optimistic. The sisters seemed one way, but underneath . . . underneath . . .

  And that was when it all came together for him.

  The van! He’d stood right next to it.

  He could have kicked himself. He phoned the owner of Assurance Security, waking her from sleep. With a start he realized it was 3:30 a.m.

  The company had four vans to be used by their installers, and all four were accounted for. They all looked like the one Paavo had seen when he went to talk to the employee, Ray Jones.

  The van he’d seen parked next to Ferguson’s house, however, was different—much older, the lettering far less professional. At the time, had he given it any thought, he would have probably assumed it was one of the company’s earliest vans.

  But he knew better than to assume anything in this job.

  He drove to Ferguson’s. The van was gone, the house empty.

  He put out an APB.

  Five hours later the call came in.

  The van was going east on Bay Street when he and Yosh caught up with it. The patrol officer who’d called in the number and had been trailing the vehicle put on his siren as they converged. Suddenly the van took off through a red light, zipping between other cars. It turned onto Hyde Street, one of the longest, steepest streets in the city. It was a stupid move on Ferguson’s part because the police car and Paavo’s Corvette were both able to go up the hill a lot faster than the old van. Reaching the hill was the hard part, however. Bay Street was filled with traffic as usual, and the van running a red light had caused a major tie-up. Cars attempted to get out of the way, but it took a while.

  As Paavo drove up Hyde, a cable car was in front of him. He was forced to swing into oncoming traffic to go around it.

  When he finally reached the top of the hill, he couldn’t see the van. He continued along Hyde. As he crossed Lombard, he looked at the lineup of cars going down the so-called “crookedest street in the world.” It was one-way with no room to pass, and cars could go no faster than the slowest car ahead of them. Halfway down was the van.

  Paavo sped around the block, careening from Hyde to Leavenworth and back to Lombard. Ferguson must have had a slow, scared driver in front of him because he’d gotten to the intersection only seconds before Paavo. Ferguson hurtled across Leavenworth and continued down Lombard to North Beach.

  It was an area filled day and night with people and traffic. Between high, steep hills, often slippery from cable car tracks, not to mention the cable cars themselves, double-parked cars and delivery trucks, tourists who had no idea how to drive in San Francisco, and Muni bus drivers who were probably the scariest of all, it wasn’t a good area for a car chase.

  Ferguson was probably hoping Paavo would back off.

  He didn’t. At stake were Angie’s and her sister’s life and safety.

  He went down Columbus Avenue, past Angie’s favorite little restaurant, The Wings of An Angel, and past Angie’s church, St. Peter and Paul’s. Ferguson turned onto Stockton Street and drove past Angie’s favorite pastry shop, Victoria’s. Paavo wondered if everything in the city was going to remind him of Angie before long. And if so, that was okay.

  They zigzagged their way through North Beach without incident. Things got worse when Ferguson neared Chinatown, which was always filled with a crush of people. Someone opened a car door without looking and Ferguson knocked it off. He kept going.

  The car owner started to get out as Paavo approached, but smartly nosedived right back into his car.

  In Chinatown things went from bad to worse. Two tiny, elderly Chinese women in long black dresses, each carrying two shopping bags filled with groceries, were slowly crossing an intersection when the light changed. Ferguson had to stomp on the brakes, hand on the horn, trying to get them to hurry. The women began to beat his car with bok choy, and yelled at him for being so inconsiderate of his elders.

  Somehow, he got past them. As Paavo raced by, the old women were still standing in the street, shaking their fists. Now they added Corvette drivers to their harangue.

  Paavo had a sudden macabre image of Angie and her sisters as little old ladies, doing much the same thing. The thought was at once humorous and a little scary, but also made his insides twist with worry and love for her. He shook it away to concentrate.

  Ferguson must have realized his mistake by then because he had nowhere to go. To the east was Grant Avenue, which was impossible to cross in less than two lights. To the south was the downtown, a traffic nightmare of one-way streets, blocked streets, buses and trolley cars with center islands to load and unload passengers. Paavo approached from the north. The remaining direction was westward, to Nob Hill.

  Ferguson’s van strained to go up Sacramento Street, another brutally steep street for any heavy vehicle to climb. Halfway up the block was a narrow side street, and he turned into it, hoping to pick up speed.

  Paavo was right on his tail by this time, and pulled into the side street behind him. At the same time, the police car had gone up the parallel street and stopped at the mouth of the side street, blocking it.

  Ferguson went up on the sidewalk and jumped out of the driver’s side. His wife sprang from the passenger side. Both began to run.

  The wife was picked up immediately by one of the officers as she attempted, unsuccessfully, to go over the cyclone fence that surrounded a small neighborhood playground.

  Ferguson ran in Paavo’s direction, then broke toward Yosh, perhaps thinking that a fairly large, rather rotund Japanese-American was no match for him. He was wrong. Yosh easily caught him and flattened him against the sidewalk.

  Paavo pulled the car keys from the ignition. Ferguson had leaped out so fast, he’d left the car running. Paavo unlocked the door to the storage area.

  Inside, bound and trussed, was a very scared-looking Charles Arthur Swenson.

  Angie and Cat didn’t wake up until it was dark out. They scraped together their last few euros and went to a deli for dinner. Foccaccia came in large sheets with a variety of toppings, much like American style pizzas. They selected a sausage-mushroom mixture. The shop owner cut them each a long rectangular piece, warmed it, folded it in half, and wrapped one end in a paper holder. They ate it like a sandwich. It was delicious.

  For water, they drank from a public fountain, as did many Romans. Clean, cold water from mountain springs was found all over Rome in fountains called il nasone because the outlet pipe was shaped like a nose.

  Next they found a public telephone.

  “Angie!” The relief in Paavo’s voice pulsated across the wires. “God, but you worried me! Where are you?”

  “Worried? How did you find out about the men?”

  “What men?” he asked, tension building.

  “The ones who broke into Cousin Giulio’s. I didn’t even tell you about Cousin Giulio, did I? Anyway, I gave them a dog chain and they took it and ran. We’re fine. Although they may be back, once they discover what they’ve got.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Paavo said, seemingly following her rambling explanation.

  “Actually, Paavo, when a person’s been through all I have the past few days, it sort of takes away one’s sense of humor.”

  Paavo apologi
zed, and then let her know that Charles had just been rescued. A medic was checking him over at that moment.

  Angie broke off to quickly tell Cat.

  “Angie, listen carefully,” Paavo said, and she knew a pronouncement was coming. “The dead man is Marcello.”

  “No. We’ve been through that,” Angie said dismissively. “Marcello is here. We’ve spoken with him.”

  “Wrong. You’ve been talking to Rocco! He’s pretended to be Marcello for some years. When the real Marcello came back, it appears Rocco may be the one who killed him. The man you’ve been talking to—the one you say you like—is very likely a murderer.” He let the words sink in before adding, “Come home!”

  “Wait until I tell Cat,” Angie said, horrified. “We’ll be home soon.” Relief coursed through her at the thought.

  “You’re telling the truth this time?” he asked.

  “Absolutely! We’re leaving for the airport right away.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “I’ll be right here waiting.”

  Chapter 33

  Angie and Cat couldn’t leave the country without their passports, and Bruno had locked their passports in a safe at Da Vinci’s.

  It was a shock to Cat to learn that Marcello was dead, and that all this time Rocco had convinced her he was his brother. They wondered how much Bruno knew about the brothers, and how much he was in on. They didn’t want to alert Bruno to their plans if they could help it, since he might tell Rocco.

  “I always thought there was something fishy about Marcello,” Cat said. “Now I know why.”

  “Now you tell me!” Angie didn’t want to discuss it.

  They waited until the restaurant was closed for the night. Using their key, they snuck inside, locked the doors, and put boxes in front of them. They searched high and low for the combination to the safe, hoping Bruno had written it down and hidden it somewhere in the office.

  Angie found numbers, all right. Lots of them in a special slide-out compartment under Bruno’s desk. She now had a good idea why so many customers showed up even if they weren’t having dinner, why so many wanted to shake Bruno’s hand, and why he never let anyone else compute tabs or handle meal payments.