The Da Vinci Cook (2 page)

“A murder? Cat, slow down,” Angie insisted.

The words came out in a bulletlike rush. “I was at the house of a client, Marcello Piccoletti. You remember the Piccoletti family, don’t you? Anyway, one man’s dead, the other is in the black Volvo I’m following. Tell Paavo to get some cops here to take over for me!”

Angie gasped. “You’re following the killer?” When had her sister become brave enough to chase down a murderer?

“Of course not! I think it’s my client. I suspect he’s a witness.”

“Don’t lose him, Cat!” Angie shouted encouragement. “You’re doing great.”

But the cell must have hit a dead spot, because the call was suddenly disconnected.

Chapter 2

Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith studied the scene before him.

The kitchen had been remodeled with high-end dark gray granite countertops, cherry-wood cabinets, stainless appliances, and a monstrous Sub-Zero refrigerator. Copper pots hung from a rack over the central island cooktop. The flooring was tile.

Murder victims weren’t usually found in kitchens like this.

Paavo squatted down to get a better look at the body. Blue pullover, black trousers, gold chain around his neck, large onyx pinky ring, expensive Italian leather shoes, and graying black hair now matted with blood from the gaping hole at the base of his skull. He lay facedown. As Paavo lifted the victim’s shoulder to look at his face, he had a fair idea of what he would see. It was as he’d suspected.

The bullet had entered from behind and exited through the face, destroying the nose and shattering the eye sockets. Death must have been instantaneous or close to it.

Carefully, he lay the man back down.

“Has the neighbor who called, or anyone else, seen this man?” Paavo asked the rookie who had been the first to arrive at the crime scene. Officer Justin Leong looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified to be at what was very likely his first murder. Paavo knew the feeling. He’d had it once himself some years ago.

“No.” Leong stood so close he felt like an appendage. “Audrey Moss is elderly, a widow. She didn’t enter the house.”

“Do you have the name of the home owner?” Paavo asked.

“Mrs. Moss wrote it down for me. It’s a really long name. Lots of vowels.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “
Mahr-sel-loh Pee-koh-let-ti.
”

Paavo took the paper and read the name for himself. “It’s pronounced Mahr-
chail
-lo,” he said. He’d learned something from Angie about pronouncing Italian. A little, anyway.

“Okay, Mar-
chail
-lo”—Leong rolled the
r
; show-off, Paavo thought—“Piccoletti. Forties. Lived here alone after divorcing his wife. Mrs. Moss said he’s out of the country. In Italy.”

“When did he leave?”

“Yesterday.”

“So who’s the dead man? Did she have any idea?”

“No. She insisted Piccoletti lives alone.”

Paavo began to pat the victim for some ID. In a back pocket he found a wallet and pulled it out. The Florida driver’s license showed Marcello Piccoletti, age forty-one. The picture was old, as the license had been automatically renewed by mail. The height, weight, and thick head of hair matched that of the victim.

A couple of credit cards were the only other things in the wallet, along with about two hundred dollars in cash.

“Looks like the neighbor was wrong about Piccoletti being out of the country,” Paavo said. “Also, there was another caller, minutes before the neighbor. She didn’t identify herself. Has anyone come forward?”

“No, Inspector,” Leong replied. “The people who live around here don’t seem to be very forthcoming. I don’t think they want to get involved.”

True enough, Paavo thought. The number of neighbors showing up to help or watch police dropped geometrically as the income level rose. In this area it was surprising anyone at all was outside watching the proceedings.

The remaining pockets were empty. As Paavo observed the body from a different angle, he noticed some cloth under it.

He reached down and pulled. It was an ivory-colored satin handkerchief with an embroidered monogram—C.A.S.

Where are the cops?

Cat couldn’t believe the way her day had gone, or that she was now stuck in traffic trying to follow a thief—who was also stuck in traffic—and waiting for her idiot little sister’s idiot cop boyfriend to get off the stick and help her here!

Did she have to do absolutely everything herself?

She wasn’t sure which had her more upset, having that know-nothing slime of an office manager, Meredith Woring, dare to attempt to fire her for no good reason, or finding a dead body in her client’s kitchen.

No one, ever, fired Cat Amalfi Swenson. That’s the sort of thing that happened to Angie, not her.

And maybe it happened because Angie couldn’t follow simple instructions like getting the police to help her own sister!

Cat’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Somehow, she would straighten out this mess, and when she did, Meredith Woring would live to regret it.

Her thoughts reverted back to Marcello’s kitchen, to the dead body—whoever he was—to the huge puddle of dark red blood-soaked saltillo tiles . . . and the smell. She’d hardly noticed it at the time, but now she couldn’t get it out of her nostrils. Her stomach roiled.

She vaguely remembered getting into her car to drive away. It seemed she’d passed a priest standing near Marcello’s house, watching her. No, it couldn’t have been. It had to be her imagination conjuring an eerie image because of that body. It was the most gruesome sight. . . .

The traffic lanes painted on the pavement began to quiver and shake, and she gripped the wheel even harder, taking deep breaths and forcing herself to focus.

She wondered if the cops were at the house yet, if they’d found out who the dead man was.

From the lockbox records they’d know she’d been in the house when the gun went off. What if they questioned why she was there?

She was Marcello’s realtor, and his house was up for sale. Why shouldn’t she be there?

What if they spoke to Meredith Woring? What was that two-faced bitch going to tell them?

What if they investigated further? What if they found out about her and Marcello?

Where in the hell is Paavo?

Directly across the street from the murder scene was an imposing brown-shingled house with white cross beams. Immaculately kept rosebushes circled the home.

A woman with lacquered bluish-white hair opened the front door. Mrs. Audrey Moss was fairly short, a little overweight, and wore a pale green dress with matching medium heels, both clearly of excellent quality. Blue eyes darted from Paavo to Officer Leong. She smiled with familiarity at Leong as she invited them in.

The living room was furnished in gold and white designer perfection. Only a pair of binoculars on the drum table at the front windows was out of place. Leong started to follow Paavo into the room, but Paavo shot him a look that said otherwise. The rookie wisely parked himself by the door.

“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Moss asked as she sat down on a brocade chair.

Paavo took a seat on a many-cushioned gold velvet sofa. “Please tell me what you saw or heard this afternoon.”

“Certainly, although I’ve already told that nice young man everything once.” She smiled again at Leong. Paavo cast him a frown. Leong studied the ceiling. “But I expect you need to hear it directly from me.”

“That’s right,” Paavo said with a nod.

She’d been in the kitchen preparing dinner when she heard a loud crack. She tried to dismiss it, but curiosity won and she looked out the window. “At first, all was quiet,” she said. “I waited a moment, just to be sure, and then I saw that woman come running out of Mr. Piccoletti’s house. She got into her car and drove off quickly. Dangerously quickly.”

Paavo took a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Do you know who she was?”

“No, but I’ve seen her there before. She’s visited Marcello a number of times.” Her lips pursed with disapproval. “
Quite
a number of times.”

Her message about the relationship couldn’t have been clearer. “Can you describe her?”

“Most definitely.” She sat up tall. “She’s about five-two or so. Very thin. She likes Chanel and Armani style suits—although from this distance I can’t tell if they’re real or reproductions. She’s probably in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair is somewhat bouffant and tapers at the neck. She wears it tucked behind her ears to show off gold and sometimes diamond earrings. And her eyes are brown.”

Paavo was impressed. The binoculars were obviously used for a lot more than bird watching. “Hair color?”

“How could I forget? It’s dyed the color of . . . well, of my guest bathroom. The toilet, sink, and Jacuzzi are in a color I believe is called biscuit. Looks dreadfully fake.”

A funny comment, Paavo thought, coming from a woman whose hair was blue. He’d rarely gotten such a precise description. She’d do great in a lineup. “What kind of car was she driving?”

“I couldn’t see the license, I’m afraid, but it was one of those foreign SUVs . . . not a Mercedes . . .”

Leong’s voice called out, “A BMW, maybe?”

“Yes! That’s it.” Mrs. Moss smiled at him. “Very good.”

Leong grinned like a student who’d just aced an exam.

Paavo ignored him. “Did you phone the police immediately after that?”

“Not quite. I didn’t want to come across as some nosy old lady who had nothing better to do with her time. But then I got to thinking about the woman leaving the front door open, and Mr. Piccoletti . . . he’s an interesting man.” Her voice softened. “Handsome, too. Of course, he doesn’t exactly come from one of our better families, from what I could tell. In fact, I’m not even sure how he can afford the house he lives in, and maybe that’s why he’s selling it. He owns a restaurant in Rome—a small place called Da Vinci’s—and a cheap furniture store out in the Mission district.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Piccoletti?”

“A couple of days ago. He’s gone to Italy, as I told the young officer. He does that a lot. For his restaurant, I suppose.”

“How long has he lived in that house?” Paavo asked.

Mrs. Moss thought a moment. “About five years, I’d say.”

When Paavo requested a description of Piccoletti, she smiled as if picturing him. “He’s in his forties, I think. Not quite six feet tall. Getting a little thick around the middle, but he has a full head of thick black hair—”

“Black?” Paavo stopped her. “Not gray?”

Mrs. Moss thought a moment. “There is a little gray, yes. Very distinguished, now that you mention it. And he has the most devilish brown eyes and a wicked sense of humor. He loves to flirt.” Her smile widened, as if she were lost in a memory. Then she primly patted her hair and continued. “His clothes are a bit garish, but suit him. He likes jewelry, too, which I usually don’t approve of on a man, but with Marcello, I make an exception.”

Paavo’s and Leong’s eyes met, acknowledging the similarity to the victim, before Paavo turned again to Audrey Moss. “Would you be willing to come across the street to identify the victim? I should warn you, the scene is bloody.”

“You think it’s Marcello?” Her eyes were wide and she began to wring her hands. “Oh, no! Oh, my, I’m so sorry to hear it! He was such a nice man. So handsome, too. More Al Pacino than Paul Newman, if you know what I mean. I’d really rather not see him dead. I should call my daughter—ask her what she thinks. And my lawyer—”

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Moss,” Paavo said. “We’ll find someone else.”

“Thank you.” She was clearly relieved.

He could get relatives, friends, other neighbors to ID the body. He’d use Mrs. Moss later to help with a different identification—that of the suspect with biscuit-colored hair. If her initials were C.A.S., the case should be a slam dunk.

Chapter 3

Angie fretted. Paavo still hadn’t called her back. When investigating a case, he often shut off his personal cell phone and she had to wait for him to check his messages.

That didn’t mean she was going to sit by the phone and twiddle her thumbs, however. Not when her sister needed help! Cat had called back a couple of times, but between cell phone problems and crazy drivers, the only part of the story Angie clearly understood was that her sister might be chasing a murderer—alone. Cat refused to consider that her client might have killed anyone, but if he was in the house when a murder occurred . . .