The Da Vinci Cook (18 page)

“I couldn’t take off work to call you, Inspector,” Ferguson said grudgingly, assessing Paavo with hard calculation. “I might have had my pay docked. Wife and kid, they cost a fortune.” Ferguson forced a smile as he faced Paavo square on. He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders and arms were powerfully muscled. His short hair was curly, and his nose upturned.

“Interesting, since your boss said you’d called in sick today.”

When Paavo returned stare for stare, Ferguson looked over his shoulder into the house. “Don’t tell the wife, okay?” he whispered, then pulled open the door. “Come on in.” He sounded as if he was talking to his best friend.

They stepped directly into a living room/dining room combination. The television was on. Ferguson sat down in an easy chair. On the armrest was a TV tray with a plate of cheeseburgers. He gestured toward a ratty gray sofa. Plastic miniblinds, angled shut, kept the room dim.

“I got in late from a job, and I’m starving,” he said loudly, then winked at Paavo. As he took an enormous bite from a burger, catsup dribbled from the bun onto his chin. “What’s this about?”

“Someone was found dead in a house where you installed the security system,” Paavo said as he took a seat on the sofa. He didn’t care about Ferguson’s lies to his wife as long as he got answers.

“Really?” Ferguson’s surprised gaze met Paavo’s. It was smooth, almost believable. “Which house?”

“Marcello Piccoletti’s.”

Ferguson nodded. “The Sea Cliff. Nice place.”

“What did Piccoletti want done?”

“Top of the line. He said he was putting the place up for sale. Lots of owners do things up big when they’re going to sell. They limp along, living like shit as long as they’re in a place, then fix it all up for some stranger. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” He licked the hamburger juice and catsup from his fingers.

“Did you ever notice anything unusual about the house or the owner?” Paavo asked.

Ferguson didn’t answer right away. “No.”

“Was the owner’s brother ever there—a man named Rocco Piccoletti?”

“The place was always empty when I was working.”

Paavo placed a photo of a 1995 Ford F-250 truck on the TV tray. “Do you recognize that truck?”

“No,” Ferguson answered. His voice was moderate, his expression neutral.

“It belongs to your coworker, Ray Jones. Mr. Jones said you borrowed the truck on Tuesday to go to lunch.”

Ferguson peered at the photo once more. “I guess it is his. It looks different in the picture. Better.” He chuckled at that.

“Where did you go for lunch on Tuesday?” Paavo asked.

“Hell.” He hit the TV remote and stopped at a rerun of
Married With Children
. “Quiznos, I suppose.”

“The people at the Quiznos near your job said you didn’t show up there Tuesday,” Paavo said. “Double jalapeños and raw onions on every order. They all remember you.”

Ferguson’s brows rose. He finished one burger and picked up the second. “They remember that? Shit, I don’t know. Maybe I went to Subway. Or McDonald’s. That’s right, I did a drive-through for a Big Mac. So, shoot me.”

“When did you return to work?”

Ferguson studied Ray Bundy, as if the TV character could help him. He shifted nervously in his seat, slowly realizing that Paavo already had answers to a lot of the questions he was asking. “Wait a minute. Tuesday—I remember now. That was the day my car was giving me trouble. It was the fan belt. It broke. I had to get a new one. I went to Napa Auto out on Geary. Borrowed my friend’s truck to get there, and ate lunch out that way. Why?”

“Did you drive over to the Sea Cliff area? Specifically, Scenic Avenue?”

“Hell, I was buying auto parts. I have a receipt around here somewhere, I suspect.”

“As I said, a man was killed in the Piccoletti house . . . at approximately one-thirty, Tuesday. This truck”—Paavo’s forefinger stabbed at the photo—”was seen a half block away at that time.”

“There are a lot of trucks like that one.” Ferguson put down his half-eaten sandwich. “I didn’t go to that area. Anyone who said they saw me there is a damned liar!”

At his raised voice, Ferguson’s wife came to the doorway, her arms folded.

“Let’s talk about Flora Piccoletti, Mr. Ferguson,” Paavo said.

“Who?”

He gave her address.

“Never heard of her,” Ferguson said, then looked as if a lightbulb went off in his head. “Wait—Piccoletti, you said? Okay, that’s the mother of the Scenic Avenue guy. He asked me to check out her flat. He was worried about her being there alone.”

“Did you do it?” Paavo noticed Ferguson’s sudden nervousness.

Ferguson’s eyes darted. “We aren’t supposed to go talking to potential customers on our own. We could get fired for that.”

“Why are you answering his questions, Len?” Nell Ferguson entered the living room. “You know you can’t trust a cop. He’ll get you in trouble, and you’ll lose your job! Don’t talk to him without a lawyer.”

“Shit, Nell. We can’t afford an attorney,” Len said.

“You can’t afford not to have one.” Nell looked at her husband with complete disgust.

“Fine,” Paavo said, standing. “I request that you not leave the Bay Area, Mr. Ferguson. I’m sure I’ll have more questions. You can have an attorney with you before we talk again.”

With that, he left the house.

“Aha!”

Was that a man’s voice she’d heard? Angie felt movement on the bed, then heard Cat’s gasp. Bleary eyes opened to a sun-filled room, and she bolted upright, wide-awake and holding the pajama top closed.

Bruno Montecatini was standing in the room, staring at them. “So, this is why I found women’s underwear hanging in the bathroom!”

“Are they dry yet?” Angie asked. She and Cat had hand-washed their things before going to bed.

“What are you doing here?” he roared.

“Marcello gave us the key,” Cat said in unhurried, unruffled tones. “He, at least, was a gentleman about our situation.”

“Marcello?” Bruno looked confused.

“That’s right!” Cat got out of bed looking almost regal, shoulders square, head high, even as she kept a tight grip on the pajama bottoms. The elastic must have been worn out on hers as well. “Marcello will talk to you about it later. Now, I ask that you leave our bedroom so we may get dressed.”

Bruno eyed them both a long moment, as if deciding the best course of action, then held out his hand, palm up. “If you’re going to be staying here, I’ll hold your passports so you don’t run off with anything when you’re here alone.”

Cat gaped at him. “What’s to run off with? A leg of lamb?”

He raised his chin and jutted out his bottom lip as if he were the resurrection of
il Duce
. “It is our way. Marcello knows it, and you should as well.” Bruno wriggled his fingers. “You turn over your passports or you go. If I trust you alone in the restaurant, you trust me with your papers.”

“I have heard of this practice,” Angie said to Cat, “although I don’t like it.” She faced Bruno. “You’ll keep them here?”

“In the safe.”

They handed them over.

“There’s work to be done,” Bruno said. Tucking the passports in his breast pocket, he eyed them. “You should get dressed before the others arrive.”

Chapter 22

The long awaited fingerprint report finally reached Homicide.

Paavo tore the envelope open, eager to learn the identity of the John Doe found in Marcello Piccoletti’s house.

Nothing. There was no match.

John Doe had never been booked as a result of a run-in with the law, had never been in the military, had never had a federal, state, or local government job, and had never requested a security clearance. As yet, there was no law about being fingerprinted when applying for a passport or social security number. At times like this, Paavo wished that those requirements would change.

He called Transportation Security to see if they had determined when Marcello Piccoletti left the country for Italy. They hadn’t.

He kept checking in with Missing Persons. So far, no one fitting John Doe’s description had been reported missing.

Paavo’s suspicion as to who the dead man might be grew stronger. If he was right, it could be especially dangerous for Angie and Cat. He still hadn’t heard back from Angie, and could only conclude that Cat had talked her into staying in Italy. He refused to consider any other possible reason for her silence, even as his mind conjured every gory scenario imaginable from his years as a cop.

Damn it! No one seemed to know why Cat was doing this. None of the Amalfis, at least. He tried to reach Cat’s husband, but Charles never returned his calls. That, in itself, was suspicious.

For the umpteenth time he reviewed the information he’d collected on Marcello Piccoletti. A picture had slowly emerged.

Piccoletti called his mother every Sunday, his store manager on occasion, his bookie almost daily, several places in Italy, and lots of women. Paavo had talked with every one of them. By the third, he’d found a definite pattern. Marcello was an attentive lover when they first met, and would see them devotedly for about three weeks, after which, all the calls and attention would abruptly stop.

When the women would try to find out what had happened, they’d be rebuffed or ignored. Most were resigned and took an “it was fun while it lasted” approach. A couple remained bitter, and one was out and out furious.

There was no connection with his brother Rocco, his sister Josie, or any close male friend. Paavo was trying to figure out what it all meant when Angie phoned. “Where are you?” was the first thing out of his mouth.

“Still in Rome,” she replied.

Relief at hearing her voice warred with anger that she was still in Italy. “Why? Are you all right?”

She assured him she was fine. “Cat’s getting everything worked out. We’re safe. We found Marcello.”

“You can’t trust him, Angie!” Paavo gripped the phone tight. “There’s too much about him and Rocco that doesn’t make sense. Stay away from him!”

“It’s all right. He says he was in Italy at the time of the murder. He knew nothing about it.”

Frustration filled him. “Angie, all murderers have alibis. All say they know nothing about it!”

“I know. And we’re being careful. But, Paavo, have you spoken with Charles?” she asked abruptly.

“Charles?”
Why is she changing the subject? “
No, I haven’t.”

“Cat’s worried about him. She’s tried to reach him several times, but he doesn’t answer. He hasn’t even phoned to check on their son, and Charles dotes on Kenny.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Paavo said.

“She’ll appreciate it.” Her voice was soft, hesitant. Clearly, she knew how angry and upset he was.

God, but he loved her.

He couldn’t stay irritated. All he wanted was to have her home and safe. “Angie, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, so much, Paavo!” It was like opening a flood. “I want to be with you, and to plan our wedding, our whole life together. Not stuck here!”

Even over the distance, he could hear the tears in her voice. His heart twisted. This was only the third day she’d been gone, and he felt empty. “You don’t have to be stuck.”

“I know . . . but . . . Oh! I never told you about my new career!” Abruptly, she brightened. “I’m going to have an interview with Chef Poulon-Leliellul—that is, as long as we can get this mess all wrapped up so I can be home by Monday. That’s only a few days away!”

“Chef who?” he asked.

“Poulon-Leliellul.”

It sounded like baby-talk. “Pooh-long-lay . . . ?”

“Don’t bother,” she said, morose again. “Maybe working with a man who has a name nobody can pronounce won’t be such a boost to my career after all. And don’t you dare say, ‘What career?’ You know I’m working hard to make a name for myself in the culinary world.”

“I know, Angie.”

“I just haven’t gotten the big break yet, that’s all. But it’s not for lack of trying!”

“I love you, Angie,” he said softly.

Suddenly the familiar lilt, the warmth, the humor that was second nature to her came through. “You do? Even though I haven’t listened to your warnings and I’m still in Italy?”

He had to smile, and missed her more than ever. “Despite that, yes. As long as you, now, get on a plane for home. I’ll do my best to clear Cat’s name in time for your interview on Monday.”

“Of course, Paavo. Anything you say.”

He hung up not liking the sound of that one little bit.

Before looking for Charles at the Swenson house in Tiburon, Paavo tried reach him by phone at home and his office, then contacted Serefina to be sure she didn’t know his whereabouts.

Serefina hadn’t spoken to him for well over twenty-four hours.

Paavo made the long detour on his way home.

He could almost feel sorry for Charles. He was the embodiment of Caspar Milquetoast. A man straight out of a cartoon or TV sitcom—the husband and father who gets ruled by both wife and kids.

Maybe, knowing he was out of Cat’s reach, Charles had gone wild. A part of Paavo almost hoped he had, but he didn’t think so.

As he crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, he glanced back at the city. House lights lined Russian Hill. Angie’s apartment was up there, in view.