Cook's Night Out (15 page)

“Excuse me, please, miss.”

She looked up. Her mouth dropped open, and she knew she was sitting there looking exceedingly dumb.

“I want to donate this. I heard about the auction and thought this might bring in some money. I don't imagine I'll ever need to use it again.” He smiled at her—big round cheeks, dimples, blue eyes.

She still stared, speechless.

“Oh, I know what you're thinking. This isn't mine. It was a prop. The wig I used in
Mrs. Doubtfire
. Do you want it?”

She nodded, still unable to shut her mouth or talk.

“Okay. Enjoy!”

Robin Williams turned and walked out of the mission. She looked down at the wig, then at her donation pad. She picked it up and ran after him, wondering how she could possibly explain and apologize for being dumbstruck. Or rather, starstruck.

She screeched to a halt when she saw Axel Klaw shaking the actor's hand. Klaw looked from her to her donation pad. “Ah, here's Miss Amalfi now with the paperwork you'll need for the IRS. We can't forget the government, you know.” He took the pad and scribbled on it. “Let's see—five thousand? Who knows what it'll bring? If it goes for more, we'll send you a new receipt.”

“Thanks,” Williams said, then looked at Angie and waved before he turned and walked away.

“Miss Amalfi,” Klaw said with a chuckle as he took her arm and escorted her back into the mission, “you really should close your mouth. There are flies around.”

“I…I'm just…” She shut her mouth, then pulled her arm free. She lifted her chin. “Thank you for giving him the donation slip. I was just so surprised.”

“I understand.” Klaw patted and stroked her arm.
“You're doing a fine job, Miss Amalfi. And I'm glad we've run into each other this way. I want to tell you how sorry I am that our earlier meetings went so badly. I hope that in the time you've been here you've come to understand me better, and to see that I'm doing all I can to make a positive change.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Clausen.” Angie backed away. She didn't want to hear this, and she certainly didn't want him to touch her again.

“Please.” He grabbed hold of her hand and lifted it to his chest, cupping it with both of his. “Listen to me, try to understand. When I was young, I did wrong. I fell in with the wrong people. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for any involvement I may have had that caused your boyfriend pain.”

She looked up at him, searching his eyes, but they were flat, emotionless. She could get no reading from them, no sense of humanity, despite his impassioned words.

“Please tell him how sorry I am,” Klaw continued. “Tell him I hope that someday he'll stop this persecution of me.”

“Persecution?” She pulled her hand free.

“You know it's true, Miss Amalfi.” He gazed at her again, and she found that despite the way her stomach recoiled at his touch, she was unable to break the hold of his eyes. “I have no hard feelings, Angie.” He stepped closer. She backed up. “May I call you Angie?” He took another step toward her. She tried to stand her ground. “I forgive him, as I hope someday he'll forgive me.”

“It wasn't that long ago that I saw you running a porn studio,” she said, her chin high. “Was that part of your rehabilitation?”

“That was before! I'm a changed man.” He clutched her arms. “Overnight, almost, Reverend Hodge made
me see the light. Made me”—he leaned closer, and she felt his breath touch her face—“compassionate.”

She pushed herself free, stumbling backward. “You can tell Paavo yourself about your new ways, if you have the nerve! Besides, Paavo is
never
wrong about people. What you call a persecution, Mr. Clausen, I call a desire for justice.”

“Mr. Clausen is the soul of generosity and fairness, Miss Amalfi.” She gasped and spun around. Van Warren, the small, beady-eyed accountant, was sitting on the sofa in the entry hall. She hadn't seen or heard him come in. “It must hurt Mr. Clausen to hear you speak so harshly of him,” Warren rebuked.

She looked from one to the other, struck with the realization that Warren was as bad as his boss, just in a more weasely, less overt manner.

“I wish it
did
hurt him,” she said. “But I know better than that.”

Head high, she marched back into the dining hall. As she did she noticed the Reverend Hodge standing in front of the kitchen door, his gaze darting from her to Klaw, a troubled expression on his face.

Angie finally found a moment
to order her iced decaf mocha latte with nonfat milk at the Senseless Beauty Café and was sipping it through a straw when who should walk through the door but Paavo. He was frowning, his brow tight and pinched with worry.

“I'm glad I found you,” he said as he approached.

Her first thought was that she couldn't believe he'd actually come looking for her. Her second was to hope Klaw was far away from the mission. And third was that this visit must be due to Frankie Tagliaro's death.

He sat down at her table. Rainbow was over to him like a shot. “Hi there. What can I do for you?”

“I…” He glanced at Angie's tall, icy drink. “I'll have one of those.”

“I don't think you'll care for it,” Angie confessed.

“I'll give it a try,” Paavo said.

“Terrific.” Rainbow gave him one of her biggest smiles. “One Why Bother coming right up.”

Paavo gave Angie a quizzical look, which she was
glad to see. It was better than the hardness he'd seemed to don like a shield since seeing Klaw on television, the intensity surrounding him, the cold, angry glint in his eyes when he didn't think she was looking. “I read about Frankie Tagliaro in the newspapers, Paavo,” she said.

“I was hoping you hadn't heard yet. I guess your father has as well?”

She nodded.

“How is he taking the news?”

“He was upset, but I told my mother you had it on good authority that the loan Frankie wanted had nothing to do with his murder.”

“Good.”

There were times Paavo went along with her tall tales with amazing ease.

“I tried to call a couple of times and then decided to come and see you,” he said. “Hollins has been on my back again. Now the DA's involved, wanting to pull my badge. Sounds like he's got a good chance at getting it, too. He's even asked IA to do a formal investigation.”

“No,” she cried, her heart breaking for him.

“This whole business has been so crazy, and now it's touched your family. I'm sorry, I just—”

“You don't have to apologize for anything.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then they broke contact as Rainbow brought him his coffee.

He took a sip and wrinkled his mouth. “What is it? I thought it was an iced latte.”

“Low-fat and decaf,” she explained.

“No kidding.” His expression reeked of disgust.

“What do you hear, Angie!” Lili pushed open the door and walked in, swinging a Macy's bag. Her gaze riveted on Paavo and she sauntered over to the table. “Hey there. I'm Angie's friend.”

Since when? Angie wondered. Lili was oblivious to
anything but Paavo. “Paavo Smith, meet Lili Charmaine. She's a guest of Alex Clausen's over at the mission.”

Paavo caught Angie's eye. “Oh. How do you do, Miss Charmaine,” he said, standing and taking her hand.

“That's way sublime. Let's swish in a place for me.” Paavo helped her grab a chair from the table beside theirs and swing it around. She shoved it right next to Paavo, then sat, up close and personal. He didn't move his chair a centimeter as he, too, sat down. Angie was not amused.

“I'm Lili—with an
i
, not a
y
. I put a heart over the
i
instead of a plain ol' dot.” She smiled. Angie hadn't seen such deep dimples since her apple doll's head dried up.

“How clever,” Paavo said.

To barf!

“Angie, I'm in the freaking outer limits. Remember that palm reader?” She looked at Paavo, then back at Angie with a glowing smile. “I'm a believer!”

“Forget it,” Angie said. “You're too late.”

“All's fair, Angie. And he's such a Baldwin.” Her dimples all but tapped out Morse code at Paavo. And the message was X-rated.

“What palm reader?” he asked.

Lili touched her finger to her chin. “I think it's called, uh…destiny.”

Angie was about to show her destiny at the end of a knuckle sandwich.

“Say.” Lili now moved her finger to Paavo's sleeve. “We're all going to a speakeasy day after tomorrow. It's really a supper club—dinner, dancing, games—but everybody dresses up like the Roaring Twenties. It's fun. They say those were wild days. As if!” She winked at Paavo. “It'd be major cool if you'd come, too. You and Ang.”

“A speakeasy? That sounds delightful,” Paavo said.

Delightful?

He glared at Angie. She guessed her snicker wasn't exactly silent.

“Will you be going with your friend Mr. Clausen?” he asked.

“Sure, but he gets so busy with the games, he forgets I'm there. We'll have time for a dance…or two…”

Angie glanced at the ceiling to see if the paint had started to scorch yet from all the smoldering Lili was doing. She was at the end of her patience, ready to go for the woman's throat, when she felt Paavo's hand on her thigh. She glanced his way. He began to rub her knee. “It sounds like a perfect evening,” he purred in reply to Lili's suggestion.

“Terrific!” She picked up her purse and began rummaging through it. “Here's the four-one-one. You need this card to get in. I'll tell Axel—I mean, Alex—I lost mine. It's cool. I lose stuff all the time. He gets, like, all pissed off, but it doesn't mean a thing.”

“You're very kind,” Paavo said.

“This is so doable.” She squirmed in her chair. “I'm ready.”

“Good. And don't mention it to anyone,” Paavo added. “So that we can surprise them.”

She leaned toward him, showing lots of cleavage, and put her forefinger against lips thrust out as if in a kiss. “I'm all silence.” She put down her finger. “And I'm way good at doing
exactly
what I'm told to do.”

“Are you?”

She smiled, lost in his blue eyes. Angie knew the feeling. If he didn't stop playing with her knee, her glasses were going to steam up, and she wasn't even wearing any. She kicked off her shoes. He was making her feet hot. And that wasn't all he was making hot, either.

“Well, this is so cool, Mr. Smith,” Lili said, making a
seductive act out of picking up her Macy's shopping bag. “I'd better haul ass. Axel is waiting.” She started to walk away, then looked back and waved. “Bye-yai-yai.”

Bye-yai-yai?
Knee rubbing or no, that was too much. “Give me a break!” Angie cried.

Paavo let go of her and, for what seemed like the first time in days, he grinned.

 

The next morning, Angie waited until Axel Klaw, his accountant, and Lili left the mission, then she picked up her donation pad, held it as if she were working on some business transaction, and ducked into Klaw's office. It was fairly small, located between the accountant's office and Hodge's. Klaw went into it several times a day, but he was rarely there very long. He seemed to spend most of his time upstairs in the apartments with Lili and Warren.

Last night over dinner she'd told Paavo about her earlier conversation with Lili Charmaine, how Lili had talked about meeting Klaw and his “investors” in Las Vegas, about the so-called health clubs and joggers. She also told him about the four upstairs apartments. She and Paavo were pretty sure of what Lili and Klaw were
really
up to.

Now she just had to find some proof. Paavo said he'd take care of everything. But the police seemed to work so
slowly
, and she was here, right next door to Axel Klaw's office. How could she ignore the opportunity for just one quick peek?

She put down her pad and began a mad scramble through his desk. There had to be something that would help her understand what he was up to. On the desktop were some brochures and other advertisements for the auction, plus a photo and map of the Palace of
the Legion of Honor, showing all the rooms, even the basement.

She checked the drawers. Nothing was in them other than several old newspapers, about a week's worth. This didn't make much sense. No wonder the office wasn't locked.

She looked at the maps again. She had never been too sure where Klaw's responsibilities for the auction lay—if anywhere. He might have simply been the money man, leaving everything else up to the reverend. Somehow, though, that didn't seem to be Klaw's style.

Could the maps mean he was in charge of the crew who would move the goods to be auctioned in and out of the rooms? The items to be sold represented hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of donations. Could Klaw be planning to steal them?

But if so, wasn't there an easier way than to set up such an elaborate scheme? That kind of thievery just didn't seem to be Klaw's style. What was, though? What was Klaw planning?

“What a surprise to find you here, Miss Amalfi.”

She jumped away from the desk and looked up.

“Reverend Hodge! You scared me.” The reverend hadn't been around earlier. She'd searched for him before deciding to take matters into her own hands this way. “I was just looking for some donation slips that I'm missing. I thought Mr. Clausen might have them.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Mr. Clausen isn't one to handle details. Come along, Miss Amalfi, before Mr. Clausen returns. I don't think he'd like your being here.”

“I saw him leave, though…I mean…that's why I didn't ask his permission to look for the slips,” she said as Hodge pulled her into the hallway.

“You must be careful about what you count on in life,” Hodge said, shutting the door behind her.

“Wait, my donation pad.”

“Hurry, Miss Amalfi. I think I hear Mr. Clausen's voice.”

She felt as if her blood had turned to ice. Opening the door, she ran into the room, grabbed the pad, and ran back out, pulling the door behind her quietly.

Klaw and Warren, scowling fiercely, appeared at the end of the hallway. Reverend Hodge took Angie's arm and half dragged her toward them. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “We were just going into Auction Central to look over the wonderful food Miss Amalfi is having catered for us. Would you like to join us?”

Klaw gave her a once-over, then frowned. “No.” He and Warren brushed past them, opened the door to Klaw's office, and went inside.

“Oh, my,” Angie said, realizing what a close call she'd had.

“Exactly,” Hodge agreed, looking over his shoulder at Klaw's office door, his expression as worried and puzzled as Angie's own.

 

“That's the place,” Snake Belly said. He was seated in Paavo's car, an old Austin-Healey roadster. “Room three-D, like those funky old movies.”

The Snake was pointing at a run-down four-story tenement, gray with soot and grime from years of neglect. Sheets instead of curtains covered a few upper windows; others were cracked and patched with tape and cardboard, and still others didn't have anything over them. The ground floor looked as though it had once been a storefront, with its deep-set entryway and large plate-glass window. The windows were whitewashed and empty.

“Let me out at the corner,” Snake Belly said. “I'll wait for you there.” Paavo drove to the corner. As Snake got out he patted the hood of the car. “Don't forget to
feed the mice tonight, big man. They were struggling to make it up these hills.”

Everybody's a jokester, Paavo thought as he found himself a red zone to park in. There were some areas meter maids didn't bother to patrol. This was one of them.

He went back to the tenement. The smell of urine and worse in the lobby was enough to make him gag. The wallpaper was stained and coming loose, and there was no carpet on the floor or the stairs. He could see the dry rot on the wood and could practically hear the chomping of termites in the walls.

The first floor was empty. Room 3D was at the top of two flights of stairs. He knocked softly on the door and waited.

He knocked a little louder.

Another door in the hallway opened. Paavo froze, turned his back to the open door, and listened for the sound of approaching feet. Instead, the door slammed shut again.

He tried the doorknob. It turned, and the latch clicked. Sliding his revolver from his shoulder holster, he eased the door open.

The room was small, stained, and filthy. Amidst the rubbish, lying crosswise on the bed, was the body of a man. Blood dripped onto the floor from the bullet hole in his forehead.

The bookie, Paavo thought. He pocketed his gun and walked into the room. Past experience told him he wouldn't find a pulse on the man. He didn't.

The body was still warm, the limbs loose. Whoever did this could still be nearby. He walked to the window, the old-fashioned double-hung variety. It was unlatched. Using the sleeves of his jacket, so that he wouldn't destroy any fingerprints that might be on it, he lifted it and stuck his head out. A fire escape led both to the roof and the street.

“Making your escape, Smith?”

He turned. LeRoy Davis and Mitch Connors from Internal Affairs stood in front of the doorway, guns drawn and pointed straight at him. They were older men, both barrel-chested and with big bellies, the type who'd gotten a little too old and a little too fat to be on the street or in investigation anymore, so now they just spied on other cops. The pace was a lot slower that way. They were like two peas in a pod except that one was black and the other white. “Jesus Christ,” Paavo said, pulling himself back into the room, then straightening and holding his arms out at his side so that they could see he wasn't reaching for his gun. “What is this?”

“You should be answering questions, Smith, not asking them.” Davis, his chest puffed out, put his gun back in his holster. “I'm going to trust you. Although to tell the truth, I don't know why I should.”

“Trust me? That's big of you.” Paavo was fuming. “I came in here to talk to the guy and found him like this. The killer probably went down the fire escape.”