Angelina Amalfi turned around at the rackety pings of the approaching car and watched as it pulled up alongside hers. The driver leaned toward the passenger door and rolled down the window. The nearby street lamp illuminated a long, narrow face with thick, black-framed glasses and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap pulled low over his brow.
“Complimentary copy of the Chronicle for you.” He side-armed a rolled-up newspaper over the hood of the Ferrari. It skidded to a stop at her feet.
She picked it up and read the date. “This morning’s news. How exciting.” It was nine o’clock at night! She was tempted to fling it right back, but she’d never been any good with Frisbees.
“Wait,” he called as she tucked the paper under her arm and walked toward the house. “Are you the lady of the house? Two months for the price of one.”
“Sorry, not interested.” She kept going.
“Maybe your husband is?”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s not my husband, but I’m sure he’s not interested either.”
“Maybe someday, real soon.”
“What?” His puzzling words caused her to stop and face him, but he’d already lurched the car forward, the tires squealing on the wet pavement. He stopped at the next house and tossed a paper onto the front steps and then went on to the house after that.
She’d have to tell one of her friends down at the Chronicle that they needed to hire a better class of salesman. There was something vaguely troubling about this late working one.
“I thought I heard your car.”
The voice startled her from her thoughts. Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith stood in his doorway, one hand against the frame, the other on the doorknob. Her heart felt like it was doing handsprings.
“What are you doing out there?” he asked. He had a just-awakened, slightly disoriented look, his blue eyes soft instead of sharp and controlled, and his wavy, dark brown hair falling onto his brow instead of neatly combed to the side. His gray sweatshirt was rumpled, and bare feet showed beneath his jeans. To her, he looked darling.
“Did I wake you?"
She hurried up the front steps to him, put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a quick “hello” kiss.
“It’s all right,” he said, looking baffled at her being there.
It had been two weeks since he’d helped her return to her apartment in San Francisco after she had packed up her clothes and computer and went to her parents’ home in Hillsborough to “find herself” and to figure out if she wanted to have a serious relationship with him.
But then, the way he’d found her, waited for her, held her, and kissed her, had convinced her that his feelings for her were as real as hers were for him. She wanted to be with him, and she believed he felt the same.
She returned to her apartment in San Francisco. But once back in the city, the cautious inspector returned. She knew why. According to his co-workers as well as her father, they would both be better off without the other in their lives. As a result, Paavo said, and she agreed, they needed to “move slowly.”
Frankly, she’d hoped he would tell his friends to go stuff themselves, just as she’d told her father—in much nicer terms. But Paavo was much more diplomatic than she had ever been.
He led her into the house and shut the door. “I had to pull an all-nighter, so when I finally made it home this evening, I fell asleep on the couch. I was having this great dream...” he smiled, still looking a bit sleepy, “and here you are.”
She put the newspaper down on the coffee table, placed her handbag on top of it, then took off her jacket and dropped it over an easy chair. The living room, with its mismatched, overstuffed furniture and array of well-read books and magazines, was comforting to her, and had been a haven during some harrowing times. “I thought you only dreamed about murder cases, Inspector.”
“Not always,” he murmured, following her. He studied her a moment, then shook his head and admitted, “Just because my job gets in the way, it doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”
“Do you? Sometime I wonder,” she said, as she sat on the sofa.
Pale blue eyes captured hers, and as he sat beside her, touching her arm, she could see the desire in them, as well as the sadness. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t ever doubt how I feel about you.”
“I know, and I also know how much we enjoy being together. So, instead of ‘moving slowly’ by not seeing each other as often as we’d liked, I think we should feel free to see each other all the time the way best friend
do.”
His eyebrows rose. “Friends, Angie? Really?”
“Why not? I don’t see why we can’t talk and help each other, especially at times when we’re troubled. Like I am now.”
His brow knitted. “You’re troubled?” His hand covered hers.
She nodded and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Yes.” Then she quickly looked at him again.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
She took a deep breath. “Now that I’m here, it seems so silly. I shouldn’t be bothering you.”
“You aren’t.”
“I mean, it’s not a homicide or anything like you deal with. It’s just about my job, my career.”
He looked puzzled. “That sounds serious enough to me.”
She bit her bottom lip. Now that she was here and facing him, her plight really did feel silly. But she had little choice except to continue. “Well, since I’m going to keep away from TV and radio cooking shows from now on, I was thrilled when the editor of Haute Cuisine magazine suggested I write an article with a review of an interesting new restaurant in the city.” Her excitement was obvious with each word she said. “It should be a great opportunity for me. If the article is good, and interesting, it could be the start of a serious career as a restaurant critic!”
“That sounds great,” he said, putting an arm around her as he took in every nuance of her expression.
She let herself lean against him, enjoying the comfort he offered. Here goes nothing, she thought, praying he wouldn’t laugh. “It would be, except that I’ve searched everywhere trying to find an interesting restaurant to write about. There’s nothing out there. I’m so discouraged!”
“Angie,” her name was a sigh of relief that the situation was hardly dire.
She felt foolish and went over to Paavo’s big yellow tabby, Hercules, and using her long, silk-wrapped, raspberry-colored nails, she scratched the top of his head and around his ears. He purred and then contentedly shut his eyes. “I know it’s not very important,” she said finally, “but I don’t know what to do.”
He folded his hands on his stomach. “Okay, friend. Explain the problem to me. We both know this city is lousy with restaurants. I don’t get it.”
“The problem is that nobody wants to read another magazine article about Chef La-di-dah’s latest epicurean adventure,” she said, still looking at the
cat. Finally, she faced him. “That’s old hat. I want to write about something unique. Something that will make people sit up and take notice—of me, if not the restaurant. Plus, I’m tired of not having a decent job to call my own.”
“Something will turn up for you, Angie. Give it time.” His voice held comfort and assurance. “Believe me.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said softly, returning to the sofa once more.
“Are you mostly driving around, looking at places as you drive by?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Try what they teach new beat cops. If you want to get to know your people, walk the streets with them. You might find a neighborhood that interests you, then park and walk to the restaurants, big and little. You once mentioned to me that you can tell a lot just by sniffing the air as you pass a restaurant’s open door, or when you first walk in. If you like the aroma, check it out.”
She cocked her head, amazed he’d remembered. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Maybe you should listen to yourself more often,” he suggested with a grin.
I do, she was tempted to say. And that’s exactly why I’m here. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she said, “Thank you, friend. And I’ll be on my way so you can get back to sleep. I know you often don’t get nearly enough.”
With a quick peck on his lips, she put on her jacket and sauntered from his house. Step one of mission accomplished.
CHAPTER 2
As the green Honda climbed California Street, its wheels spun on cable car tracks wet from the drizzling mist. Damn! If he’d been able to find a parking place, he wouldn’t be having this problem. But finding parking at midnight on Nob Hill was impossible except for ridiculously expensive parking garages. He wasn’t about to pay the money.
Earlier, he’d waited at the cop’s cottage some twenty minutes for the broad to come out, but she didn’t. He guessed she might be spending the night there. If a woman that good-looking came knocking on his door, he’d keep her with him all night. No doubt about it.
But he had better things to do than sit and think about the cop and the woman and what they were doing. He had a different friend to check on.
A special friend.
Just past Taylor Street, a silver, boat-sized Mercedes sat in valet parking a few steps from the Coventry Hotel. He knew who it belonged to. It was there when he’d arrived here at ten-thirty, and it was still there now that it was nearly midnight. The Coventry seemed like pretty plush digs to be used for a by-the-hour trysting place. But that’s what it was.
For that same hour and a half, since he’d found no parking, he’d driven up and down the city streets, waiting, compelled by the need to be sure. A lesser man would have discovered the existence of a more direct target and would have stopped there. But not him. He had to double-check everything. Everything had to be exact.
Two days ago, he’d visited his special friend’s Twin Peaks apartment and gave her a complimentary copy of the Chronicle. Women were suckers for freebies like that.
She was blonde and attractive, with a body that was ripe, fleshy and well-rounded; the kind that would fall to fat hips and sagging breasts in a few years, but in the meantime, was made for pleasure. A man’s pleasure. She was also a bit dense. He’d had to explain what he meant by a two-for-one offer.
Just then, two figures emerged from the hotel. It was them! He needed to stop his car to watch them. The only open space he could find was a garage driveway. He pulled in there and cut the Honda’s headlights.
It was eleven fifty-three.
As they passed under yellow street-lights, the features of the tall, silver-haired man and the young woman walking with him were illuminated. She was indeed the dull-witted blonde he’d met at the Twin Peaks apartment. But his real interest was directed at the man.
The man escorted her to her white Chevy Malibu also in the parking lot, and then with a smug, self-confident expression, watched her drive off before hurrying to his Mercedes. He glanced once, dismissively, at the bespectacled man in the illegally parked Honda, then got into his car.
***
The next morning, the green Honda cruised by the brown-shingled cottage once again. The Ferrari and the cop’s car, an old Mustang, were both gone.
It didn’t matter. They’d be back. No need to hurry. He’d planned too carefully to blow it now.
Ten years was a long time to plan. A long time to make up for.
He deserved something for those ten years. And for Heather.
This was all about Heather.
He sped through the winding, wooded paths of the Presidio to emerge at the east gate. On Baker Street, he parked directly across from the Palace of Fine Arts, the orange-hued Grecian landmark of the elegant Marina district. A half hour later, the front door of a large stucco home opened. An elderly, shrunken man, nattily dressed in a gray slacks, a gray-plaid sports coat and bowler hat, stepped out. He watched the old man slowly walk down the long flight of stairs to the sidewalk and turn toward what everyone called the Marina Green, the popular, lawn-covered play area that ran along the north coast of the city from the Presidio to Fort Mason.
After waiting a couple of minutes, he stepped from his car and ran up the stairs to the front door, dropped a Chronicle in front of it, rang the bell, and raced back down to the sidewalk.
Soon, an elderly woman appeared in a pink floral housecoat, her white hair in tight little ringlets.
He waved at her, pointed to the rolled newspapers in his arms and then to her door stoop. When she saw the paper lying at her feet, she smiled and nodded, waved back to him, then took the newspaper indoors with her.
It was going to be almost too easy, he thought. ...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
