Cook's Night Out (13 page)

 

“I'd say Mr. Klaw—actually now it's Clausen—fancies himself a ladies' man, yes,” replied Reverend Hodge in answer to Angie's question. She sat in the mission's dining room, sipping coffee and turning pages of a cookbook
filled with fancy hors d'oeuvres, but her mind was miles away. “Are you interested in him, Miss Amalfi?”

That brought her back. “God, no! I was just curious about him and Lili, mostly.”

“She lives with him in his apartment over the mission. I won't say it's a love match, but they do seem to have a certain compatibility,” Hodge ventured.

“I guess they do,” she said. “I didn't realize there were apartments upstairs.”

“Four. I have a small one, as does Mr. Warren. Klaw and Lili share the largest, and the fourth is empty. Are you looking for a place to live?”

“No, thanks.” She turned back to the cookbook, but couldn't suppress a small sigh.

He had been passing through the dining room taking a roundabout route to his office, but now he stopped and sat beside her. “What's wrong, Miss Amalfi? You look like you lost your best friend.”

She shut the book. “I have—the man I love. I'm so worried. Last night I took him somewhere with me, and the place was raided. Now he's in even worse trouble, and none of it's his fault. It's mine.”

“Why would you choose a place like that?”

“I was trying to be helpful. Instead I caused more harm.”

“You meant well.”

“I don't see that it matters,” she lamented.

“The world is a funny place, Miss Angie,” Reverend Hodge said. “Those who do bad things often seem to live high on the hog. But you just wait awhile. Every time, eventually, a big butcher comes along and that hog ends up as bologna sandwiches.”

Paavo stood in the doorway
of an alley off Third Street. This was his third meeting with Snake Belly. Last time, the Snake hadn't learned anything new.

“Hey, my man,” Snake Belly whispered from behind him. “You better watch out with all that smokin' to signal me. You're gonna get hooked. Those things can kill you. Me, I got me some good weed. You ever want to try the real thing, you let me know.”

“Keep it up, Snake,” Paavo said in warning. “I'm still a cop.”

“Hey, you know I'm just jokin'. And anyway, you wouldn't bring harm to the man who's got some info for you, now would you?”

“Depends on what it's worth.”

“That's cold, man. But I ain't worried, 'cause what I got is worth its weight in gold.”

“I'm still waiting,” Paavo said. “Haven't heard anything but a lot of hot air so far.”

“Well, listen to this. I met me a bookie. Real
talkative guy, but it cost me a hundred bucks. I knew you'd be good for it, though.”

“Better be worth every penny.” Paavo knew Snake Belly would be keeping most of the money for himself—he wouldn't give his own mother a hundred dollars for information.

“It's worth it, man.” Snake Belly pulled out a cigarette and took his time lighting up, clearly enjoying Paavo's impatience. Finally, he spoke. “The bookie says it's known all over town that a new banker's moved in. The guy's got plans to set up numbers in a big way. He's moving in on the old-timers. They go along with him, or they're dead.”

Paavo listened in silence as Snake Belly confirmed his suspicions about the sudden rash of murders. “Who is this new banker?”

“I don't think the bookie knows. That, or he's too scared to say. This guy's got some mean guns with him. No mercy.”

“Who's he killed?”

“I don't know them. Some Irish dudes, for the most part. Devlin, O'Leary. Names like that. Mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, they mean something to me.”

“They wouldn't go along. Now they're dead. And everyone's really scared 'cause this new banker's got an in. You know what his in is?”

“What?”

“He's in cahoots with a cop. A good cop gone bad.”

Hearing Snake Belly say the words made him sick with disgust, even though he couldn't say he was surprised. This whole situation had too many earmarks of an inside job. “Tell me about it.”

“The cop covers for him, gives him the info he needs. Sets up guys who won't go along, takes good care of guys who will. Even helps them beat murder raps. Do you know who the cop is?”

Paavo felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Just asking, man.”

His patience was gone. “Out with it.”

“You.”

This was just the Snake being funny, he told himself, but one look at Snake's eyes and he knew it wasn't a joke. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Snake raised his hands, taking a step back. “Look, man, I'm just repeating what I was told.”

Paavo moved toward him. “Where did the bookie hear that story?”

“He wouldn't tell me. He seemed kind of scared to be telling me this much. Things are rough out there, especially for an old-time bookie like this guy.”

“So why doesn't he join up with the new banker, too?”

Snake dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Probably will.”

“Who's his connection?”

“He wouldn't tell me that either.”

Paavo didn't want to believe any of this, but he couldn't deny the air of truth to Snake's words. “I want to meet this bookie.”

“I don't know if it's possible. I ain't jiving you neither. He was scared, man.”

Snake Belly sounded sincere. That gave Paavo pause. “Okay. Talk to him.” Angie's story about Brother Tweeler and numbers had grated on him ever since she'd told him about it. This news made a dull, niggling notion grow into a full-fledged hunch. “Find out if the name Axel Klaw means anything to him. Or the Random Acts of Kindness Mission.”

“Mission? You jiving me or what?”

“Pay what you need to get him to talk—and to meet me. I'm good for it if he's willing to name names.”

“That'll be big-time money.”

“I said I'm good for it.”

“In that case…meet me here in two nights. If it's a go, I'll take you to him.”

“Done,” Paavo said.

With that, Snake Belly vanished into the back alley.

 

Angie was rarely at a loss for words, but that's exactly what she was when she answered her door and saw Paavo. He'd rushed right over from his meeting with Snake Belly. The more he thought about the connection between numbers running, Klaw's sudden return, and the troubles he was having, the more certain he became that somehow all three were connected. He had to warn her off and make her listen.

She stared at his black leather jacket, black jeans, boots, and dark glasses a moment, then stuck her head out the doorway and looked down the hall.

“What are you doing?” he asked, removing the glasses.

“Looking for your Harley.”

“Very funny.”

She stepped aside and let him enter the apartment. Despite the cautious, serious way she studied him, she put her arms around him and forced a smile. “Is it true what they say about bikers?”

He tilted her chin upward and kissed her. “What do they say?” he murmured.

She gave him a saucy smile. “I don't know. But we can come up with something.”

Despite himself, he grinned, but then the smile fell away and he followed her to the sofa.

“So what's with the new image, Inspector?” Angie asked, still trying to force brightness on him. “You're not an undercover Hell's Angel, I hope.”

He took off his jacket before sitting down. “I had to meet someone and not let the whole neighborhood know I'm a cop.”

“It sounds dangerous,” she said with a small frown.

“It's a lot less dangerous than what you're doing, Angie. Klaw's behind some heavy stuff. You shouldn't be anywhere near him.”

Abruptly, she stood up and headed for the kitchen. “I'll put on some coffee. Are you hungry, Inspector?”

He followed her. Her kitchen looked like a candy factory, with bars and chunks of a variety of chocolates, nuts, glazed fruit, sugar, and recipes spread over the counters.

“You've got to listen. Klaw might have someone on the police force involved. I've been hearing too many things; there are too many coincidences going on.”

“Maybe it's not Klaw at all,” she suggested, scooping coffee into a filter. “For example, I followed him today—”

He grabbed her wrist. “You
what
?”

She removed his hand. “It's okay. Connie was with me.”

“Oh, that makes it a whole helluva lot better.” He threw up his arms and began to pace. The last thing he needed was to worry about Angie.

“Anyway”—she added water to the Krups, then flicked the on switch—“it turns out that he's got another woman on the side. Her name's Gretchen. He met her at a Russian restaurant on Clement, then took her to an apartment in the Ingleside. She's young and plain but obviously adores him.”

He could scarcely believe what she was telling him. “You found out all that?”

She smiled smugly as she unwrapped a wedge of Brie and put it on a plate.

“And a noontime fling was all there was to it?” He followed right behind her as she reached into a cupboard for a box of English crackers.

“So it seems.”

“Nothing's the way it seems with Klaw. Nothing ever is.” He stopped talking, thinking about all the things going on around him that weren't what they seemed.

“It's possible, Paavo, that some other crook picked up on this numbers business as a way to get at you,” Angie suggested, bringing the cheese and crackers into the living room. “It wouldn't be the first time. It might not have anything to do with Axel Klaw at all. Aren't there any other possibilities? More…more realistic ones, perhaps?”

“Realistic?” He took hold of her arms, stopping her flitting about. He needed to talk about this. “Klaw's damned realistic if you ask me.”

“Paavo.” Her fingers tightened on his shirt. “There's no reason to jump to the conclusion that it's Klaw. I mean, you're obsessed with the man, and that could be clouding your perception.”

“
Obsessed?
” He drew back from her and his voice lowered, soft yet dangerous. “So that's what you think.”

“I don't trust Klaw either!” she cried, stepping up to him once more. “But before you decide it's him, I want you to be absolutely sure there's no one else, no one at all, that you're suspicious of.”

He rubbed his forehead, trying to contain his irritation at Angie's questioning Klaw's guilt, suggesting that he might be wrong about Klaw, might be obsessed with the man, and that he should concentrate instead on the other players involved. “A couple of young cops from the Richmond station seem to turn up almost every time something happens involving me and numbers running,” he said. “Considering how many patrolmen there are at that station, the odds against that happening are phenomenal. It makes me want to know what's going on there as well.”

“Maybe they're the crooked cops,” she suggested. “You said this looked like an inside job. Aren't they the ones who caused Internal Affairs to go to the Isle of Capri restaurant?”

“I don't know that for sure, though the whole thing reeked of a setup. But how would they know we would go there?”

“They must be watching you. Or having someone else watch.”

“Yet
another
crooked cop, Angie? There's got to be another way.” He forced himself to look at the situation objectively. He didn't want to be narrow-minded and obsessed—God, how it grated that she'd say that to him. He took a deep breath. “Did you say anything about your father or Tagliaro to anyone but me?”

“Only my sisters.” She looked relieved at this new approach. “They all agreed with my mother—that we should talk to you about this.”

“Okay. So your father was approached by Tagliaro, then your mother went to you because of me.”

“Then
we
go together to see Tagliaro,” Angie added, puzzled.

Paavo began to pace, then stopped and faced her. “An idea struck me, but it's too crazy.” He pondered it a moment longer. “You said this Tagliaro hadn't had any contact with your father in years, right?”

“That's right.” Angie clasped her hands, her eyes never leaving his. “My mother said Papa didn't know Frankie very well, and all of a sudden, he showed up.”

“Which means something—or someone—caused him to decide to go to your father.” He paced again, his hand stroking the back of his neck. “If I'm the target here, which seems to be the case, it means somebody might have figured out that they could get to me through you…and they could get to you through your family. It's someone who knows you, knows your
character. Someone who put Tagliaro up to going to your father in hopes you'd find out about it and take matters into your own hands.”

“What?” Angie was shocked. “How could anyone assume I'd do a thing like that?”

Paavo decided it was best not to explain that one to her.

“It was a setup.” He dropped his hand and faced her directly. “An elaborate setup. It's got to have been Klaw!”

“Don't make assumptions, Paavo, please,” she urged. “God. I give up.” She banged the door going into the kitchen to get the coffee.

He stormed after her. “What's wrong? I'm using pure logic.”

“You're too involved.” She seemed to scrutinize him, to fairly pick apart his mounting tension, his need for revenge. “Let another cop take over. Let someone else follow Klaw and see, clearly, what he is or isn't doing.”

There was no way she could understand. He withdrew—physically and emotionally. “Klaw is my business, Angie. Nobody else's.”

She gripped his hands. “I'll be damned if I let you get yourself killed over that man. Even if he isn't the problem, you'll
make
him it.”

He looked down at her small, pale hands holding his large, hard ones. Where other people cowered at his anger, she stood up to him.
She
wouldn't let him get himself killed over Klaw. He'd have laughed if it hadn't been so touching. He didn't know what the hell to do—about her, or Klaw, or even himself. “You worry about me, and you're the one who goes and follows him,” he said quietly. “He is a killer, Angie. He killed my sister. How do you think it makes me feel to know you're anywhere near him?”

She threw her arms around his waist, her soft cheek
pressed against his chest. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to worry you.”

He ran his hand over her hair. “You know why you worry me, don't you?”

She gazed up at him. “Yes,” she said softly.

He cupped her face. His hands seemed to quiver slightly at the emotions running through him. “If I lost you, I don't know what I'd do.”

He saw the fullness of her heart in her eyes. “You won't,” she whispered, then drew his lips to hers and melted in his arms.

That night he let her find out everything she wanted to know about men who wear black leather.