Too Many Cooks (2 page)

Angie draped herself over the top of her desk and tugged off the headphones. Two formerly long, formerly silk-wrapped fuchsia-colored fingernails had broken off, her hair felt as if she'd attacked it with an eggbeater, and she was about to be fired. Some days it just wasn't worth getting out of bed.

 

The visitor watched Karl Wielund sip the wine. Wielund had switched glasses with his guest and made sure his visitor drank first. No fool, he.

“You must understand, Karl,” the visitor said, “how hard I've worked, how important this is to me.”

“I don't need a sob story. I've heard them all.
Mein Gott
, I've lived half of them myself!” He leaned across the small dinette, his fist clenched. “This restaurant, this town, is my big chance. And I'm taking it.”

The visitor took a forkful of quiche and washed it down with more of the expensive wine. Wielund's gaze followed each movement, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he glanced at the slice on the plate in front of him. The lightly pungent scent of the truffles, like nothing else in the world, together with that of mushroom, leek, Gruyère cheese, heavy cream, and the flaky, buttery crust of the quiche, wafted over the kitchen.

The visitor's eyebrows rose. “What's wrong? Are you afraid I poisoned it? Take a different piece, if you're worried. Take what's left of
mine
. I didn't know you were so afraid of me.”

Wielund stood and dumped his quiche in the garbage disposal. “How do I know you don't have the blood of the Borgias in you?”

The visitor laughed and continued eating. “Well, at least enjoy the wine.”

Wielund gazed again at the quiche, then cut himself another wedge. “On second thought, it looks too good to waste.”

He sat, sliced an enormous forkful, and crammed it into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open, then he slugged down some of the wine. “A little runny. Too heavy with the cream. But leek instead of shallots was inspired.”

“You think you could do better?”

“Of course, but I won't bother. Quiche has become gauche. Hmmm, not bad: ‘quiche is gauche.' Clever.”

“Karl, you've got to be fair—”

“Stop! Please, not while I'm eating.” Wielund finished his entire piece in four big bites.

“You must see reason.”

“I'm always reasonable.”

The visitor took a deep breath. “Please, I'm…I'm begging you.”

Wielund laughed. “So melodramatic. Maybe you should go into acting. Or have you already done that?”

“I'm sorry you said that, Karl.”

“Don't be. I'm not.”

“But now I'm going to have to let you die.”

“What? You think
you
can threaten me? You should know me better than that by now.”

“It's more than a threat, though. Monkshood—a most intriguing name for a deadly little poison.”

Wielund jumped up. “What? The wine?”

Now it was the visitor's turn to laugh. “No. Not the wine. Guess again.”

“But I was careful first to watch you eat everything I did.”

“Almost everything. You're such a greedy bastard. The quiche had a little extra rim along the top of its crust, with a special ingredient added to that portion only. My addition.”

Wielund stared at the visitor's plate. The part of the crust that extended over the edge of the quiche—baked brown and crispy—hadn't been eaten. “No!” His fingers began to rake his cheeks and neck. “My throat…my face…they're burning up. What have you done to me?”

“Oh, look at the time. It's after one o'clock. Such a shame, Karl.” The visitor's low chuckle quickly developed into a nasty laugh. “You just missed your last chance to ever hear
Lunch with Henri
.”

The scowl on Homicide
Inspector Paavo Smith's face as he sat at his desk with two dozen long-stemmed red roses on one front corner, purple hyacinths on the other, and pink camellias on the bookshelf behind him should have been enough to keep the other inspectors on the far side of the squad room. But it wasn't. He could see them circling around now, not sure of just what to say yet scarcely able to control their mirth. His frown deepened.

Paavo was a tall, rangy man with short brown hair, icy blue eyes, and an expression that could make a panhandler give back change. He would have felt more at home in the middle of a stakeout than at a desk surrounded by flowers. The flowers were compliments of Angelina Amalfi, sent to welcome him on his first day back at work. He'd been out for ten weeks recovering from a nearly lethal bullet wound high on the left side of his chest. He knew Angie meant well, and he knew she'd be mortified to realize
her flowers had made the others in the squad room snicker, but he sure would have liked to throw them out. He couldn't do it, though. It'd be like rejecting her, and he couldn't do that either, despite himself and his private demons.

They'd met during his last case. She was wealthy, pampered, and bossy, a pint-sized whirlwind who was far out of his league and whom he would have steered clear of except for one thing—someone had been trying to kill her. As the case proceeded, he discovered that under her rich-kid facade, Angie had a heart that was bigger than her father's fortune. Although she could have used a bundle of her daddy's money to hide somewhere until the danger passed, when things got tough she stuck with Paavo, giving him all her trust. After he was wounded, Angie, the delicate debutante, taught him, the hard-nosed cop, about other kinds of brave.

He'd fallen for her like a loser in cement shoes going off a pier and had spent the last two months recuperating and living a fantasy life that Angie was the main part of. She'd stayed near him day and night while he'd been in the hospital. When he was able to leave, he decided to go to the tiny apartment of Aulis Kokkonen, the elderly Finnish man who had raised Paavo and his older sister from the time they were young children. Angie would bring big pots and platters of minestrone, cacciatore, lasagna—anything she thought might be interesting, healthy, and filling. She always brought plenty because Aulis was a little too thin, and his cupboard a little too bare, to suit her. In time, Paavo was able to go back to his own house. She practically moved in.

But then, Christmas and New Year's arrived and Angie had to go to her parents' large winter estate in Scottsdale to spend the holidays with her family. As Paavo faced those days alone and realized he'd soon be going back to work, cold reality set in.

It was time to get on with his life. His real life. Would Angie fit into it? Given their backgrounds, their differences, one part of him had to admit she probably wouldn't, but another part of him couldn't say good-bye. Angie was the only thing in his life he couldn't be coldly practical about, much to his dismay but also much to his joy.

The flowers had arrived shortly after he did this morning. It felt strange to be back in the Hall of Justice squad room without his old partner, Matt Kowalski—without seeing Matt's slightly balding head down on his desk, taking yet another nap. That was the other thing that happened during his last case. Matt had been killed…and a part of Paavo was emptier, colder.

The showy, heavily scented flowers made Paavo's head feel stuffy, made the air thick, the way it had been at Matt's funeral. But now, within the barely controlled chaos of homicide's squad room, voices around him spoke of sudden death on the street and within shabby rooms where there were no flowers, often no light. That their world was without flowers and sentiment was something Paavo's colleagues would miss no opportunity to remind him of.

“Mm, sure smells good around here, man.” Inspector Luis Calderon, an eighteen-year veteran, stopped in his tracks and lifted his nose in the air. “Am I still at work?” he asked Inspector Bo Benson, “or is this the perfume counter at Nordstrom's?”

“What d'you know about Nordstrom's, Luis?” Benson jabbed Calderon in the shoulder. “The only perfume you ever smelled was a hooker's.”

Calderon widened his eyes in horror. “Don't go using those low-class words around him.” He pointed his thumb toward Paavo. “He's gone high society on us.”

Paavo folded his arms. “You two'll never make it as comedians. Go solve a murder—maybe your own, if you keep up that talk.”

“Oooooh, I'm like scared, man,” Calderon said, looking at Benson. “How about you?”

“Leave him alone.” The one and only woman in Homicide, Rebecca Mayfield, who'd just recently been promoted from patrol officer to the assistant inspector position, sauntered up. She was a tall woman, with fluffy blond hair and a knockout body, who looked more like she should be wearing floral leotards and teaching Jazzercise classes than chasing hardened killers. She gave Paavo a pleasant smile; but then, she always gave Paavo a pleasant smile. “I think it's sweet his little girlfriend sent him flowers on his first day back. Just because you guys couldn't come up with anything fancier than two dozen Dunkin' Donuts doesn't mean you should put her down.”

“Doughnuts are a cop's best friend, Rebecca.” Benson took her arm.

“Touch me, you die,” she said.

He raised his hands as if he were being held up. “How else is Paavo going to know he's really back with us?”

“Right.” Paavo rocked on the back legs of his chair. He began to raise his arms to clasp his hands behind
his neck like he used to do, when he felt a twinge in his left shoulder and quickly lowered his arms again. If anyone suspected he was less than one-hundred-percent recovered from his gunshot wound, he might be sent home. He was tired of resting, tired of too much time to think. He wanted to get down to business and do what he did best.

He picked up the top memo in his in-basket and skimmed through it. The memos, he knew, were supposed to help ease him back into his job. He tossed one aside and picked up the next. Snatches of conversation whirled around him, giving a patchwork of the side of urban life Homicide dealt with every day.

“Whaddaya mean he doesn't know why he shot him?”

“It's always the bystanders who buy it.”

“He blew him away for drugs. So what else is new?”

Rather than easing him back like the memos, the words knocked him into his job with more force than a Holyfield left hook.

The ring of his telephone jarred him. He picked it up. “Smith here.”

“Come into my office.” It was Lieutenant Ralph Hollins, head of the Homicide Section.

As Paavo hung up the phone and stood, the other inspectors watched with unmasked curiosity. They'd spent the last couple of weeks, since they'd learned the date Paavo would be back at work, speculating on who his new partner would be. The chief hadn't asked any of them to make a switch, although Rebecca had volunteered. Her partner, Bill Sutter, was six months away from retirement and acted as if he were six days away. Never-Take-a-Chance Bill, they called him, the kind of cop who could get a partner killed.

Paavo walked into the chief's office. Hollins and a large man Paavo had never seen before stood as he entered.

“Smith, I'd like you to meet Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara. He's just transferred down here from Seattle. We're going to try him out for a while. See how he likes us and how we like him.”

“Hey there,” Yoshiwara said, his voice filled with friendliness and good cheer as they shook hands. “Good to meet you.”

In response, Paavo gave a quick nod of his head. The man was tall, with broad shoulders, a massive chest, and a head that seemed a little small for all that body. His hair was clipped in a short buzz. He looked like someone who could split a house in two and not raise a sweat.

“Sit down, both of you,” the chief said. He glanced at Yoshiwara. “Smith is one of my best men. If anyone can show you what homicide work is like in this town, it's him.” Hollins returned to his chair. “I'd like you two to work together for a while. As a team…partners.”

Although Paavo knew the words would come one day, the finality they gave to Matt's death shook him. None of this showed as he said firmly, “Fine.”

Yoshiwara jumped to his feet, a big grin on his face. “Hey, that's great. Paavo Smith, huh? I want you to know I heard of you up in Seattle. This is a real honor for me.” He held out his hand to Hollins, and when a surprised Hollins took it, Yoshiwara gave it a boisterous shake. “Thank you, Lieutenant Hollins. I appreciate it, I really do.”

Hollins stood. Paavo, too, slowly rose to his feet.
“He'll have Matt's old desk,” Hollins said. “Show him the ropes, Smith. And do a good job. He got high marks from Seattle.”

Paavo opened the door and held it as Yoshiwara passed through. The two of them walked side by side into the middle of the squad room. Calderon, Benson, and Mayfield swooped down on them.

“This is Inspector Yoshiwara,” Paavo began. “He's—”

“You can call me Yosh,” Yoshiwara said. “It's Japanese for ‘Okay, let's go for it.' Like if I said, ‘Are you ready?' you'd say, ‘Yosh!' How's that for a simple language?”

“You from Japan?” Benson asked.

“Hell, no. I'm from Seattle. My parents were from the old country. You from around here?”

“Mississippi.”

“Yeah? Got a family? Kids?”

Benson, in his late twenties, black, streetwise, and handsome, grinned. “No. I got an old lady, though. She wants to get married. I been able to put her off.”

Yosh laughed. “It's a tap dance, huh?” He glanced at Rebecca. “A woman detective. Good for you!”

Paavo watched Yosh flatter Rebecca, tease Benson, and buddy up with Calderon. He'd never seen anyone work a room the way this guy did. And the other inspectors ate it up like a Hershey bar. Yosh shook hands, shot the bull, and in less than five minutes he knew almost as much about the three detectives as Paavo had learned in years.

Paavo's old partner, Matt, had been outgoing and friendly; Paavo had always been the quiet, serious one. They'd worked well as a team for that reason. But having to work with Mr. Congeniality here was
another matter altogether. You don't stop bullets with charm.

“Well”—Rebecca Mayfield hooked her arms with Calderon and Benson—“we've got to get going. Nice to meet you, Yosh.” She all but dragged the two men toward the door.

“Good to meet you, too. I'll bring that ikebana book for your daughter, Luis. And you be careful you don't strain your back again, Rebecca. See you guys later.”

“Right, Yosh. So long.”

The room was strangely quiet. Paavo couldn't remember the last time it had felt so empty. He glanced at his new partner and walked toward the back where their desks were. Yosh followed.

“This is your desk.” When Paavo's hand lightly touched the desktop, he pulled it back as if burned.

He could feel Yosh's eyes following him to the FTD display that was his desk.

“You were pretty close to your old partner, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he answered. He and Matt had started out as rookies at the same time. “We were close.”

“It's tough.”

“Right.” Paavo sat behind his desk and looked at Yoshiwara. It'd be Paavo's job to work with him, protect him, and inevitably to rely on him the way he had relied on Matt Kowalski. “So,” he said, knowing he had to ease up; it wasn't Yoshiwara's fault he had to take Matt's place. “What made you decide to move to San Francisco?”

“It's because of my wife, actually. She was a student at the University of Washington when we met. But all her family is down here. She missed them. I offered
to give it a try, and here I am.”

Paavo nodded. “Where's your family?”

“They're all up in Seattle—without me.” Yoshiwara grinned.

Paavo understood perfectly. Since meeting Angelina Amalfi, he understood a lot that wouldn't have made sense to him before. Like how a little woman could keep a big man firmly under her thumb, especially one that had lilac fingernail polish on it.

The silence in the room grew. Paavo could all but feel Yoshiwara wanting to grill him as he had the other detectives, wanting to ask him if he was fully recovered from the gunshot wound or if he still had any physical limitations or the mental traumas that all cops knew went along with a brush with death. Things like nightmares, like those times he'd wake up in a cold sweat from dreaming he'd walked into a trap and dreaming of his own violent death. Or nightmares about Angie, of trying to find her, to save her. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it, couldn't reach her in time….

He had no interest in spilling his guts to some stranger, or to anyone, and Yoshiwara had enough intuition—or just plain good sense—to know it.

The phone rang.

Paavo picked it up, listened, and made a few quick notes. An occasional “Uh-huh” was the sum of his conversation. As soon as he hung up, he stood, a surge of adrenaline going through him. “We're sprung from desk work. Let's go.”

Yoshiwara grabbed the jacket he'd draped over his chair and put it on as he hurried after Paavo out the door of the squad room.

“What's up?”

“Gunshots at a house in the Mission. A black-and-white called in the report. They found a body, a man with a bullet right between the eyes. They're holding the wife.”

Yoshiwara fell into step beside Paavo as they headed for the elevator. “Good. She probably did it.”

Paavo stopped and stared at the man. “Oh?”

“Well, hell, you said he got it right between the eyes.”

“So?”

“Haven't you noticed?” Yoshiwara deadpanned. “Get a woman mad enough to pick up a gun and she's a dead shot, every time.”