Cook's Night Out (12 page)

The meal was strained, though, with Paavo being quiet while Angie chattered about nothing in particular. They were having dessert, cannoli and espresso, when the bar turned still.

Paavo turned to see his friend from Vice, Joe Nablonski, Joe's partner, and two Richmond station cops walk into the bar.

“I ain't done nothing wrong,” Tagliaro proclaimed.
“I run a clean place. No problems, officers. Won't you have a drink? On the house.”

“Here's our warrant to search the premises. We've got a complaint about gambling going on here,” Nablonski said.

“Look,” Tagliaro said, turning him away from the bar and toward the restaurant. “A homicide inspector's been here the whole time. He's having a nice meal with his girlfriend. Come with me. You know Inspector Smith?”

Nablonski's eye caught Paavo's as Tagliaro pushed him into the dining room.

“What's going on?” Paavo asked, standing.

“We got a tip about this place,” Nablonski replied. “Search warrant, the works. We're closing it down while we check it all out.”

Paavo looked surprised. “Fast work. What's the problem?”

Nablonski opened his mouth, then hesitated just long enough to show his discomfort. “Gambling. Specifically numbers. Seems this is a numbers drop.”

Paavo glanced piercingly at Angie, at the bar.

Nablonski self-consciously tugged at his ear. “Listen, Internal Affairs is on their way over, too. I don't know why all this is coming down in quite this way, but why don't you and the lady get out of here?”

“Internal Affairs doesn't show up at raids,” Paavo said.

The two cops stared at each other a long moment. “I agree.” Nablonski frowned. “Something smells real bad. I'll cover. Get going.”

Paavo looked from Nablonski to Tagliaro to the two young patrol officers who came into the bar with Nablonski. Something about them was familiar. He walked over to them. “Do I know you two?” he asked.

“Officer Kellogg, sir,” one man answered, standing straight and stiff, chin up.

“Officer Rosenberg, sir,” the other said, standing even more rigidly than his partner.

“Kellogg…Rosenberg. You two were the officers who found Sarah Ann Cribbs's body, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir. We were quite surprised when you wouldn't identify the evidence and Peewee Clayton got off, sir,” Rosenberg said.

“What's that?” Paavo chilled at the implication of Rosenberg's words.

“We were also there, sir,” Kellogg said, “when Patrick Devlin's body was found. We saw the two homicide inspectors take something from his mouth. We learned what that something was, sir.”

Paavo scrutinized both men carefully. He'd never forget either one again. “You're both pretty new to the force, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” they both responded. Rosenberg added, “We graduated four months ago.”

“It's never a good idea to jump to conclusions in police work. If something appears too obvious, it's smart to get suspicious fast. Remember that.” He left them standing stiffly, with shoulders squared, their mouths set in grim determination as they pondered his words. He shook Nablonski's hand, then took hold of Angie's arm and left.

“I don't understand what happened,” Angie said, practically running as Paavo took long-legged, angry strides down the street to his car. “That young policeman sounded like he was accusing you of something.”

Paavo unlocked the passenger-side door for her and opened it, then hurried to the driver's side and climbed in. “He was,” he said grimly.

“But…” Puzzled, she glanced back at the restaurant as Paavo pulled into traffic. This didn't make sense. She frowned, studying him. “Internal Affairs, they said.
Paavo, Internal Affairs wasn't going there to check up on you, were they?”

“That's what it sounded like.”

“But why?”

“Because they've connected me with the numbers racket, that's why.” He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And the restaurant is apparently a numbers drop.”

She felt light-headed. “Numbers…?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“But it was my idea to go to the Isle of Capri!”

“Maybe we could convince IA of that eventually.”

“Will your being there”—her throat nearly closed as the implication of what she'd done hit her—“get you into trouble?”

He didn't reply for a moment, his expression bitter. “It seems everything has that effect these days.”

She folded her hands and forced her eyes straight ahead, trying to stay calm despite the pounding of her heart. “I'll explain all about the restaurant to them.”

“They won't care,” he said.

“What do you mean?” She clenched her fists. “I'm not going to let you be in trouble because I wanted to go someplace!”

“It's not important.” As he spoke he gave a defeated shake of his head. She'd never seen him like this before. Tears sprang to her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sorry for all of it—for Klaw and the mission, and this and…and I was just trying to help my father!”

“Don't cry, Angie.” He sounded terribly weary, then reached over and touched her hand. “It'll work out. But what did you mean, help your father?”

She pulled a wad of Kleenex from her purse and wiped her eyes. “My mother told me Tagliaro went to see my father. He wanted to borrow money, said he was
in trouble. I wanted to see him, to find out what kind of man would bother my father, whom he scarcely knows. I didn't want to hurt you!”

Paavo puzzled over this new information. “Do you know if Tagliaro mentioned gamblers or numbers running?”

“I'm sure my mother would have told me if he did. I just figured he'd borrowed money and was being strong-armed to pay it back, that's all.” She shook her head. “Numbers. God, after all the other trouble you've had, I make it even worse for you. And I even forgot to tell you about Brother Tweeler! I mean, I didn't really forget, but I believed Reverend Hodge that it meant nothing, and then we hardly talked after seeing Klaw until tonight, and I forgot because I was so glad to see you, and—What are you doing?”

He pulled over into a parking space, shut off the engine, and faced her. Taking the balled-up Kleenex, he wiped tears and smeared mascara from her face. “Now, start over,” he said gently. “Who in the world is Brother Tweeler?”

“He came running into Reverend Hodge's office with a gun, demanding money. He said he had won at numbers, but no one would pay him. He said there were numbers players at the mission. Hodge didn't know anything about it. I believe him, Paavo. I really do!” Her eyes welled up again.

She felt the tension in him build as he listened to her story. He seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Then he gazed down at her and the hard, rigid lines around his mouth softened, the firm set of his jaw eased. “It's all right, Angie. Don't cry. None of this is worth a single tear, believe me.”

His words only made her feel worse, and she cried harder. “I should have thought! I'm so stupid sometimes!”

“You're not stupid at all, and if anything, you think and worry about things too much,” he whispered, guiding her head to his shoulder as he pushed her hair back from her face and lightly kissed her forehead. “You didn't know, that's all. But someone did.”

The sudden hard edge of his tone troubled her. “What do you mean?”

“It all fell together too quickly, too easily. The tip to raid the place, the search warrant. Those Richmond station cops.”

She knew what he meant. Even here, even when she was taking care of a family matter, Paavo was targeted. She grasped his shoulder. “It's as if someone is watching you, Paavo. Someone with a direct line to the police department.” Agitated and worried by this latest twist, she sat up and faced him directly. “Who could be doing something like that?”

“I've got an idea,” Paavo said. “But it doesn't make any sense.”

“Angels are in.”
Connie propped her elbows on the glass counter in her shop, Everyone's Fancy. “I don't get it myself. I thought it was a passing fancy—books, movies, even TV shows. Now, all these figurines.”

Angie was looking at a display cabinet full of them—from cherubic, childlike cupids to little girls with halos; delicate winged seraphim; winged males of the Gabriel variety; and a fearful Lucifer being cast from heaven. Checking the prices, she realized that the very old, intricate statue of an angel that sat on Reverend Hodge's bookcase must be worth a small fortune, even though it was only about four inches high.

She picked up the fierce, scowling Lucifer. “Hmm, reminds me of a cop I went to dinner with recently,” she murmured. Then, louder, “Who'd want one of these sitting on their mantel?”

“I figure it's the moral equivalent of putting a picture of Roseanne on your refrigerator when dieting. Be good, or else!”

Angie put it down. “Creepy.”

“I think it's one of those end-of-the-millennium things,” Connie suggested.

“You're probably right.”

“So, what brings you all the way out here to West Portal Avenue?” Connie asked.

“Two things. First, I want to find a birthday present for my sister Maria. Considering how religiously inclined she is, one of these angels might make a nice gift. Not Lucifer, though.”

“She's the one married to the jazz musician, right?”

“Right. I guess that's enough to make a saint out of anyone,” she mused, selecting a beautifully made porcelain angel from France and giving it to Connie to gift-wrap. “And the second reason I'm here is to talk to you about Paavo.”

“Ah! Now we're getting somewhere,” Connie said, tearing a length of colorful paper from the roll.

“We've got to do something to help him. I'm so worried about him I don't know what to do. He's getting into more and more trouble at work, and now he's distracted by Axel Klaw's being back in the city. He believes Klaw is up to something, but he doesn't know what. I suspect he's right. We've got to find proof, Connie. You and me.”

Connie's hands stilled over the wrapping paper and she stared at Angie with dawning realization. “Isn't Klaw the guy who used to run a porno studio and surround himself with criminals?”

“That's him.” Angie shuddered. “He claims he's been converted.”

“Forget it, Angie. I don't do criminals.” She emphatically ripped tape from the holder.

“You've got to help me. Paavo needs us.”

Connie shook her head. “Speak for yourself,
kemosabe
.”

“Good ol' Tonto, stalwart to the end!” Angie said sarcastically. “It's perfectly safe, and it won't take long at all. Please, Connie.”

Connie finished taping the paper, then cut a length of wide satin ribbon. “Look, I'm sorry about Paavo and all he's going through, but he's a cop. He can handle it.” She knotted the ribbon into a stylized half bow and handed the gift to Angie.

“This time, Connie, he needs my help. I can feel it. And I need you,” Angie pleaded, clutching the package. “I really do. Just this one time. I promise I'll never ask you to do anything like this again. Won't you help me?”

Connie chewed her bottom lip guiltily. “Would I have to face Klaw?”

“Not at all.” Angie's voice fairly quivered with encouragement. “It's absolutely safe.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Just come with me for a little while.”

“That's all?” Connie's eyebrows arched suspiciously.

“That's all.”

Connie relaxed. “Well, in that case…okay. That's easy.”

“Just one more little thing,” Angie said. “We'll need to use your car.”

 

Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara hesitated a moment before the door of the conference room. Assistant District Attorney Hanover Judd had called and asked to meet him there…alone. Yosh didn't like the tone of the request one bit. He entered the room.

“We've got a problem, Yosh,” Judd said. Early thirties, enthusiastic, fair, and not afraid to take on a tough case, he was one of the assistant DAs the homicide inspectors most liked to work with.

Yosh didn't even try to make his usual boisterous
cracks, but grimly sat down, ready to hear Judd out. “What is it?”

“Last night, there was a raid at the Isle of Capri restaurant out on Geary Street.” Judd cleared his throat lightly. “Paavo was there. A couple of young cops who were on the scene are apparently going around telling people that a vice cop gave him the go-ahead to leave. Rumors about it have even gotten to the DA. It looks bad, Yosh.”

The news caught Yosh by surprise. “I don't know anything about it, Hanover. I just got in. But I know Paavo had a good reason for being there, and a good reason for leaving.”

“I agree. But that won't stop this from getting to IA. I wanted you to know, Yosh. There might be something you can do to help.”

“The whole thing stinks!” Yosh said.

“I know it. But if Internal Affairs hears what those two rookies are saying, it's going to get ugly. He'll be suspended, if not worse.”

Yosh slowly shook his head, realizing that Judd was putting his own reputation on the line simply telling Yosh about it, knowing Yosh would pass along a warning to Paavo. “I'll do what I can.”

Judd stood. The meeting was over. “I just hope it's not too late.”

 

Angie and Connie sat in Connie's Toyota Tercel in a parking area a block away from the Random Acts of Kindness Mission. Angie held a pair of binoculars fixed on the mission's entrance. “Lili said Klaw goes out every day around noon. Let's hope she's able to tell time.”

“That smart, huh?”

“She hangs around with Axel Klaw, doesn't she?”

“Good point.”

“There he is!” Angie shouted. “And he's alone.” She watched as Klaw walked to a black Lincoln Town Car and got in.

“So that's him,” Connie mused. “He doesn't look evil. Actually, with the tan, bleached hair, and jewelry, he's very southern California-looking.”

“Start up the engine. We've got to be ready,” Angie said.

“Ready?” Connie asked. “Ready for what?”

“To follow him. We've got to find out where he's going.”

“Follow him? Are you crazy? What if he sees us?”

“He'll see a beautiful blonde driving a car, and with her, a kid in a baseball cap.” As she spoke she put on a blue cap.

“AARP?” Connie asked.

“Mrs. Calamatti, on the third floor, was the only person I could find this morning who owned a baseball cap I could borrow. Klaw won't be able to read it, anyway.” She tucked her hair up under the rim, then put on dark glasses and slid down in the seat, so that just her nose and eyes were peering over the dashboard.

Klaw started up the engine and pulled out of the space. “Let's go!” Angie cried.

Nervously, Connie stomped on the gas, shooting out of the parking space and driving fast to the corner.

“Slow down!” Angie said as Connie made a wide left turn. “You don't want to rear-end him.”

“I don't want to do anything with him!” Connie reminded her. “Shoot, why is that man going so fast? Does he think someone's following him?”

“Where's a traffic cop when you need one?” Angie mumbled.

“With our luck, we'd be the ones who'd get stopped,” Connie said.

Klaw stayed considerably ahead of them as he zigzagged through the downtown area. Then he turned onto California Street, headed west. The traffic, including a cable car, helped hide the fact that they were following him. That, and the fact that Connie's car was a small gray Toyota. Angie figured Klaw was the type who'd never deign to notice a subcompact.

He rode California all the way across town to the Richmond district. On Sixth Avenue, he made a right turn.

“Hurry up!” Angie yelled, clutching the dashboard.

“I've got to move over into the right lane first,” Connie cried.

“Move now. Quick!”

Connie swung her car into the lane, to the sound of screeching tires and a loud horn blast.

“Okay, so I cut it a little close,” Angie said. “But you can turn onto Sixth now.”

Connie did, just as Klaw's car disappeared with a left turn onto Clement Street. She floored it down the block, made a sharp left, and nearly took Klaw's door off as he opened it to get out of his car. Angie ducked so Klaw wouldn't see her if he looked up to yell at the driver who nearly ran over his toes.

Shaking from her wild ride, Connie pulled into a bus stop. She and Angie watched Klaw from the rearview and side mirrors. He walked into a Russian restaurant called Vladivostok.

“I don't believe it,” Connie cried, draped limply over the steering wheel. “He drove like a maniac across town to get a piroshki?”

“He's got to be meeting someone there,” Angie said. “Go see who it is.”

“Me?” Connie's eyes were like doughnuts.

“I can't go—he'll recognize me. But you can.” She pulled a twenty and a ten out of her purse. “I'd suggest
the chicken Kiev, maybe some borscht—ask for sour cream on top. You'll love it.”

Connie looked at the money and the restaurant, one of the better ones in the city. “I haven't had lunch yet,” she murmured.

“Russian food is quite good. Be sure to have some freshly baked black bread with lots of butter along with the soup. Strong coffee afterward, a rich dessert…”

“Why fight it?” Connie used the rearview mirror again, this time to check her hair and lipstick. “Wish me luck.” With that, she left.

Angie moved the car to a parking space as soon as one opened up, and then sat, slumped down in the seat, the baseball cap low on her brow, for over an hour doing nothing but feeding the parking meter and watching people walk up and down the street. Clement Street was a cornucopia of smells from Chinese and Russian restaurants, plus sprinklings of Thai cuisine, Vietnamese food, and an occasional Mexican eatery thrown in for good measure. Antique shops, enormous used-book stores, and secondhand furniture stores made up the bulk of the shops along the street—along with grocery stores and other businesses found in every neighborhood where people lived as well as played.

Given the temptation around her, it was hard not to get out of the car and run into a store. Or at least a deli. But she reminded herself that she was keeping watch here for Paavo's sake.

An eternity later, Connie came out of the restaurant and headed for the car.

“You were right about the chicken Kiev,” she said. “The borscht was a little salty, but once I stirred the sour cream—”

“Forget the sour cream!” Angie knew exactly what Connie was doing. “What's Klaw up to?”

“He's with a woman,” Connie told her. “Young,
plain. Looks like someone just starting out in the job market.”

“Were you able to find out who is she?”

“I heard him call her Gretchen when she walked in, but that was it.”

“Describe her.”

“She's about five-foot-seven or -eight, light brown hair, straight, pulled back in a barrette. Her face is kind of fleshy. Big cheeks, jowls, lips. Little brown eyes. Not exactly Miss America material. Dull clothes—white blouse, blue skirt. Her build is kind of…cylindrical. Breasts, waist, and hips all kind of blend together.”

Angie sat slack-jawed. Connie was a budding Sam Spade.

“Actually,” Connie continued, “you can see for yourself. There she is.”

Connie's description was on the mark. Klaw escorted the woman to his car. She might have been plain, but her expression said the sun rose and set on Axel Klaw. A dog looking at its beloved master had no more adoration in its eyes.

Angie sat behind the wheel this time and followed Klaw to an apartment building in the Ingleside district, a relatively low-cost area. Klaw escorted the woman inside.

“Damn!” Angie squinted at the door. “Now what?”

“Looks like we get to sit here and wait while he has a little afternoon delight.” Connie slid down in the seat, her arms folded. “Just what I need. To find out a weirdo like Axel Klaw can get it, but not me.”

“Maybe he's just dropping her off or something.” They sat and waited…and waited…watching the minutes on the dashboard clock go by. There weren't even shops or interesting pedestrians in this part of town.

“What's with the guy?” Angie said after a long while.
“He's living with one woman and has this other cookie on the side. Somehow the man's magnetism is completely lost on me.”

“Yes, but you've got Paavo. Actually, I can see a certain attractiveness about Klaw—if you like the Christopher Walken crazed-sex-fiend look. I can see that.”

Angie gave her a sidelong glance. “How long
has
it been for you?”

“Look! There he is!” Connie cried.

“No Gretchen,” Angie said. “I guess she lives there.”

“Or he killed her,” Connie whispered.

“I wouldn't put it past him.”

When Klaw pulled out of his parking space Angie waited a moment, then followed.

“Shouldn't we go check?” Connie asked.

“And if she's alive, what do we say? We're taking a survey on sex after stroganoff?”

Angie tried to follow Klaw but quickly lost him in the crush of Nineteenth Avenue traffic. Dejected, she went back to the mission, only to find his car parked in front of the building.

 

Finally Paavo got back the results of the tests on the glass with Hodge's fingerprints, the one Angie had given him. He tore the envelope open, eager to find out just who the Reverend T. Simon Hodge really was.

He scanned the short write-up quickly, then read it again more slowly, but the bottom line was summed up in only two words: No match.