Cook's Night Out (11 page)

“
You're stepping all over
each other!” Lieutenant Hollins's face was the color of an eggplant.

He had three teams of inspectors in front of him—Benson and Calderon, Mayfield and Sutter, Smith and Yoshiwara. “You're supposed to be good at your jobs. But this is making you look like a bunch of ignoramuses! How many times are you going to go ask the same people the same questions? Can't you six talk to each other? Can't you work together? Doesn't it enter your little pea brains that if one of you is working on a dead numbers runner, and another is working on a dead numbers runner, and a third is working on a dead numbers runner plus a guy with ties to illegal gambling that just might include numbers running, maybe you're all talking to the same people?”

“We talk all the time about these cases,” Calderon said. “We know what we're doing.”

“You talk, yes,” Hollins said, “But now I want you to brief each other—and me. Got it?”

They got it.

“Calderon, Benson, you're first.”

“Patrick Devlin was a numbers runner,” Calderon began. “He made the rounds of numbers writers in the Richmond, picking up new bets and making payoffs to the winners. He lived alone in a nice apartment in the Marina. No information about where he went the night he died, or who he saw. The body was a clean kill. The work of a pro.” Calderon stopped. A dead end.

Sutter and Mayfield reported next on the liquor store owner. “Haram Sayir was a numbers writer,” Rebecca said. “His customers bought liquor and a lotto ticket. He kept ten percent of each bet and took a percentage of any winnings. His little side business probably brought him between seven and eight hundred dollars a month.”

Sutter spoke up. “Sayir was killed in the middle of the afternoon. No one knows why. One bullet wound to the back of the head, very professional. No witnesses.”

The other inspectors shook their heads sympathetically. Another dead end.

Paavo and Yosh spoke last. “Dennis O'Leary was also a numbers writer,” Paavo said. “Drive-by shooting in broad daylight. No one saw the shooter.”

Everyone nodded. They knew the story.

Yosh spoke next. “We've kept surveillance on Peewee Clayton. He's also done some numbers running, but we haven't seen him travel much. We've begun gathering another round of evidence to prove Peewee murdered Sarah Ann Cribbs. So far, though, nothing is as good as the original blouse and beer bottle. So there we are,” Yosh said. “Nowhere, like the rest of you.”

“Enough of this gloom.” Hollins stood. “Let's look at this logically. First we have the numbers writers who take the bets and record them—O'Leary and Sayir.
Next are the runners—Devlin and Clayton. At the top—the level we haven't talked about at all yet—is the banker, the one who receives all the cash and makes payouts. He's the money man in the city.”

“It wouldn't make sense for the banker to be involved,” Yosh said. “He wouldn't kill his own people.”

“What if we're looking at a new banker moving in?” Paavo suggested. “And we're seeing a turf battle?”

“Good theory,” Hollins said. “All right, you guys. Enough theory. Enough dead ends. Find me some facts.”

 

“It's a disaster! A complete disaster!” Reverend Hodge wailed. “Only six hundred tickets have been sold so far.” He stood in the doorway of Auction Central. His volunteers stopped working to stare at him.

“It's still early,” Mary Ellen ventured.

“Early? It might be too late—that's what you
should
be saying. Can you get the caterers to cut back, Miss Amalfi? If we have to pay for food for fifteen hundred, but only six hundred show up, we'll be turning our profits into garbage.”

“But what if the rest of the tickets are sold?” Angie asked. Despite how horrible she felt after refusing to leave the mission with Paavo, she had forced herself to return again to observe Klaw and—she hated to admit it—Reverend Hodge as well. She wasn't sure whom she could trust. “I think Mary Ellen's right. You still have time. Besides, you'll be offering tickets at the door, right?”

“Nobody sells nine hundred tickets at the door. Going to a fancy charity auction isn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. It's not like taking in a movie.”

Sheila Chatsworth stood up, her back stiff. “We're
going to sell out, Reverend. You can bank on it.” Two volunteers working with Sheila murmured their agreement.

“Tell people it's close to being sold out,” Angie suggested, “and that they need to hurry if they want to be sure they get in. Sometimes that strategy works. Of course, sometimes it backfires and people stay home.”

“Oh, that sounds like a spiffy idea.” Hodge frowned.

“Well, pardon me,” Angie said. “If you can do better—”

“We meet again.” Klaw stood in the doorway, surveying the activity, but his words were addressed to Angie.

“So we do,” she replied. Her knees shook at the sight of him, but she reminded herself that he was the reason she was here. She had to keep an eye on him.

“You've got that deer-in-the-headlights look, Angelina,” he said with a smirk. “Don't worry. I'm really a nice guy.” He looked over his shoulder. “Isn't that so? Come and tell Angie what a gem I am.”

Lili and Van Warren stepped into the room. “Yeah, he's way bad,” Lili said with a smile. Warren stayed silent.

Klaw walked up to the table where Angie sat and stood over her. “Did you tell her I'm a man who believes in good works, Hodge?” he asked, his gaze never leaving Angie's.

Hodge perked up at his name, then nervously cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr. Clausen.”

Klaw stared down at her, carefully detailing her hair, her face, her throat. His eyes went back to her hair again, to a lock that strayed near her eye. She held her breath as his hand slowly began to reach toward it, to touch her—

“Mr. Clausen,” Warren said, “it's time for you to leave.”

Klaw jerked his hand back and glanced at his wristwatch. “You're right.” He turned to leave the room.

“What gives?” Lili demanded. “Do you have some new babe or what? You disappear at noon, like, every day now.”

Klaw cupped her chin as he passed and planted a hard kiss on her pouting mouth. “I wouldn't dream of cheating on you, darling.”

 

Angie used every wile she had, real or imagined, to talk Paavo into going out to dinner with her that evening. Including bribery. She picked up a glass Reverend Hodge had used at the mission and put it in her purse. It should have some clear fingerprints on it.

Angie knew Paavo was upset with her for going back to the mission, and last night, although he'd phoned, their conversation had been short and strained. But this afternoon she convinced him that she was miserable—no, beyond miserable—having him angry at her, that they had to get together to put this behind them. What she didn't tell him was that, besides all that, she had promised her mother she'd do something about Frankie Tagliaro.

Since Serefina's visit, Angie had gone to see each of her four older sisters and talked to them about Frankie Tagliaro's troubling request to their father. All of them agreed with Serefina: Angie should find out what Paavo thought they should do. Her family didn't know, though, about the strange business going on connected with his work and how distracted he'd been lately.

When Paavo came by to pick her up, she gave him the glass, but neither of them spoke much. She could see that he was still hurting, and she wasn't about to agree to stop going to the mission. They left her apartment quickly.

“The Isle of Capri?” he asked incredulously as he
drove past the restaurant she'd selected, in search of a place to park.

She understood his surprise. Even from the outside, the restaurant had an air of sleaze about it that you could cut with a knife. No wonder it was losing money. “I understand the food's excellent.”

He frowned. “You can cook rings around any Italian restaurant's food, Angie. Why bother to go there? Wouldn't you rather try the new Scandinavian restaurant you were talking about the other day?”

He knew her better than she'd thought. “I'm not in the mood for fish tonight.” What a lie. Just then, a car pulled out of a parking space up ahead. “Ah! What luck. Obviously, we were meant to eat here.”

“Okay.” Paavo took the spot, his lips pursed with resignation. “If this is what you want.”

As they walked back along Geary Street toward the restaurant, Angie saw a man double-park, run in, and, a moment later, run back out again.

Crooks!

“Oh, dear,” she said, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for what they had just witnessed. “I hope that doesn't mean we need reservations.”

Paavo glanced at her dubiously. She could all but see his suspicions rising about the place, and they hadn't even stepped in the door yet.

The restaurant, a dark, drab room in need of a complete remodeling, was empty.

On the other hand, at the bar, every stool was taken. The area was alive with talk, laughter, and the distinctive clatter of liar's dice.

“Two?” The cocktail waitress put down the small tray she'd been carrying and picked up two menus.

Paavo nodded, still eying the bar scene.

The waitress led them to the dining room. “Is the owner here tonight?” Angie asked.

“He's in the back,” she replied. She held out a chair, but Angie walked to the opposite side of the table. From there, she had a view of the bar and Paavo didn't. She sat.

“I'd love to meet him,” Angie said. “I sometimes do restaurant reviews for
Haute Cuisine
magazine, and it helps to personally get to know the city's successful restaurateurs.”

“Really?” The waitress squealed with delight. “Mr. Tagliaro's gonna wanna meet you right away. I'll go let him know you're here.”

She hurried off.

“This restaurant is
successful
, Angie?” Paavo was clearly uncomfortable at having his back exposed while he faced a wall with a huge connect-the-dots-style painting of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He started to turn around.

She clutched his hand in both of hers, stopping him. “We'll find out, won't we?” she said quickly. “I appreciate your coming here with me so much, Paavo. I know how stressed you've been by seeing Klaw again, by whatever this madness is that's going on at work. I don't want to cause you any more anxiety.”

His gaze turned wistful. His fingers curled around her hand, and his thumb lightly rubbed her knuckles. “I'm glad you called today.” Big blue eyes captured hers. “We'll make tonight just for us.”

She would have been ecstatic at his loving words if she hadn't been so nervous about facing Tagliaro. “Anytime, Paav.”

He gawked at her with amazement.

“Uh, excuse me. My name's Frank Tagliaro. I heard you're a restaurant critic.” Her father's tormentor was medium height, darkly tanned, with black eyes and black curly hair slicked upward and piled high above his forehead, like a middle-aged Dean Martin during his
Rat Pack days. He wore a shiny black shirt, the top three buttons open and showing a thick gold link necklace against a hairy chest.

Angie shook the sleazeball's hand. “My name's Angelina Amalfi. This is my friend, Inspector Paavo Smith.”

Paavo stood as he and Tagliaro shook hands. “Inspector? You with the police department?”

“Homicide.”

Tagliaro smiled. “Oh, good. Good. A lot of cops stop by here pretty regular. Not that we offer them free drinks or anything—we don't want to get them in trouble, you know. Ha, ha! But they keep an eye on the place for me.”

“I'm sure they do.” Paavo sat back down.

Tagliaro turned his attention back to Angie. “Amalfi, did you say? You aren't related to Sal Amalfi, are you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He's my father. Do you know him?”

“Do I know him? Like a brother. So you're his daughter.
Come bella!
He's got to be real proud of you.”

“He's proud of all five of us.”

“Five? Oh, yeah, that's right. So, what can I tell you about the restaurant?”

She folded her arms. “Has it been here long?”

“Three years last February.”

“Interesting. Most restaurants don't last half that amount of time. You'll have to let me in on your secret.” She smiled sweetly.

“Secret?” he asked.

She continued her inquiry. “Who's your cook?”

“My brother-in-law, Pietro Castagnola. Ah, I can see by your face you never heard of him. He's still young, but a good cook. He cooks like my mamma used to, God rest her soul. You want to meet him?”

“No. Meeting you is quite sufficient. I'll let his food provide his introduction.”

“The food…” He pulled the menus from their hands. “I'll do the ordering for you. For
la figlia di mio paisano Salvatore
, nothing but the best.
Bene?
”

“
Molto bene
,” she replied.

“Susie, come with me,” Frankie said to the waitress. “I got to pick out a bottle of wine for these people from my own private stock. A good one.” Tagliaro winked at Angie, then hurried off toward the kitchen, the waitress running behind.

Paavo eyed her. “What's this about, Angie? Did you know he was friends with your father?”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “I wouldn't exactly call them friends.”

“No. That was obvious. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Frowning, she peered at the kitchen door Tagliaro had disappeared through. “I just hope we can enjoy the meal.”

Before long, the waitress brought out a bottle of fifteen-year-old Robert Mondavi cabernet sauvignon—not outstanding, but acceptable—along with a rather routine antipasto platter. They next moved on to crab cioppino, manicotti, and roast lamb with a side of sautéed zucchini. Although Angie had eaten considerably better prepared food, it wasn't as bad as she'd feared it might be. Often, just a little more salt and pepper helped tremendously.