The rain beating against the windows awakened Paavo. The bed was empty, but the smell of coffee was in the air, and he could hear a radio in another part of the house. Easing himself off the bed, he crossed the room to the window and watched the rivulets of rainwater form and run down the pane. They seemed appropriate for his mood.
You’re supposed to feel good now, dummy, he told himself, like the conquering hero. After all, Angie wasn’t the first woman to fall for her blue knight and act on those feelings. Hell, for a lot of cops it was an occupational hazard, and a lot of them enjoyed the hazardous-duty payoff. He’d always been more careful. He knew that in the long run, what had happened last night wouldn’t mean a damn thing to her beyond the danger and excitement of the moment.
Last night, he’d let his emotions take over. He was supposed to know better. He had made a mistake, but he would rectify it soon.
He took a shower and walked into the kitchen. He found her in front of the stove, concentrating hard on turning over an enormous ham and cheese omelet.
“Good morning,” he said.
She turned from the stove to greet him with a hug and a light kiss. “You smell good,” she said as she nuzzled his ear.
All his good intentions about her evaporated at the feel of her body against his. The dampness of her hair from her earlier shower and the soapy cleanliness of her skin, soft and fresh without makeup, were like aphrodisiacs.
His hands trembled as he set her from him and stepped back.
She glanced at him quickly.
“I’ve got to leave right away,” he said.
“Paavo?” The look of bewilderment on her face tore at him. “What’s wrong?”
“I think you should come back to the city with me. We need to wrap this up. Having you there will be useful.”
“Useful?” Her face paled and she turned away to nudge at the edges of the omelet with her spatula. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s time to go back to work, back to the way things are supposed to be.”
She shut her eyes for a moment, and then nodded silently. She divided the omelet in two, giving him the larger portion.
“Angie?”
She sighed, her hands over her eyes a moment. “I’m just…I’ll go back to San Francisco with you, okay?”
Her face no longer held the warmth of the morning. He lowered his head and looked away, knowing he was the reason the cold, damp air of the ocean seemed to have seeped into the room.
They ate breakfast in silence. She didn’t look at him.
“I’ll clean up the kitchen, then pack,” she said, picking up the dishes. “We should leave soon.”
“I’ll do these.” He took the dishes from her hands.
She hurried away from him to her bedroom and shut the door.
A half hour later, he’d finished in the kitchen and was standing by the picture window looking at the gray ocean, the waves white and choppy from the storm, when she walked into the living room with one of her bags. “I’m ready,” she said softly.
“Even in a storm it’s beautiful,” he murmured as he turned to face her.
The emotion in her eyes reached across the room in that unguarded moment. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her—or himself—more than he had already. He went to her and cupped her face with his hands.
“Angie,” he whispered, touching her gently, “yesterday was perfect.”
She nodded, her eyes swimming.
“The weather.”
“Yes.”
“The scenery.”
“Yes.”
“The company.”
She lowered her gaze.
He continued. “At times like that, it’s easy to do things…out of character.”
She searched his eyes, as if to seek some feeling toward her, but his training had been too good for that.
She stepped back. “I have no regrets, Paavo.”
“Good.” The word was a whisper.
He took her hand and held it gently in both of his. “Hey, look at this,” he said, running his fingers over hers. She looked down. “Your nails. They’re short and not purple anymore. I’d better get you back to the city fast. This will never do.”
She gave him a small, sad smile, then reached for her bag. He went into her bedroom to pick up the others.
He had Angie go ahead in her Ferrari, and he followed in his Austin, keeping a close eye on her and on any driver who ventured too near.
Angie had called the bodyguard service from Bodega. Joey was already waiting for them, leaning against a blue Thunderbird in the basement garage, as Paavo pulled into an open parking space near Angie’s.
The two men greeted each other warmly, but Angie had nothing to say as they rode up the elevator to her apartment. Once inside, she checked her belongings, which appeared undisturbed since her hurried departure. Paavo and Joey looked over the entire apartment, while Angie paced, holding her elbows, in front of the bay windows.
“Everything’s fine, Angie.”
Her eyes jerked to Paavo at the sound of his voice. He held his jacket loosely over his left shoulder, trying to look casual. He turned to Joey, his right hand outstretched.
“Take good care of her, my man,” he said as they shook hands.
“Sure thing, Inspector.”
Paavo glanced at Angie for just a moment and then walked out the door without a word, shutting it quietly after him.
Angie stood, motionless, in the center of the room.
“You all right, Miss Angelina?” Joey asked.
“Sure, Joey…. Say, why don’t we watch some T.V.?” He gave her a funny look. The T.V. was already on.
The man who had been after her had been caught. It was all over, she decided. The “hit man” theory was nonsense. She didn’t really need Joey, but it was probably best to be cautious for a while. Soon, it would be time to get back into the swing of things. Dates! Action! Good times!
Her eyes filled with tears. She spent the afternoon with Joey watching reruns of 1950s T.V. shows on Nickelodeon. It was true misery.
Around dinnertime, she went into the kitchen, smeared peanut butter on saltine crackers, and stuck some chocolate chips on top. She was battling despair and losing—badly.
To hell with everything, she decided, and grabbed the whole bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. In the living room, “Gomer Pyle, USMC” was just starting.
Halfway through the bag, the sound of the telephone jarred her out of her chocolate-and-TV-induced stupor. She spun toward the phone, hesitated a moment, and then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Nothing.
She swallowed hard, then repeated, “Hello?” in a more tentative voice this time.
“Ang——-” Then nothing.
“Who is this? Paavo, Paavo is that you? Are you hurt?”
“George…it’s George.” The words were slurred, coming out like “zzgiorr,” but she recognized her editor’s voice.
“George! What happened? Where are you?”
“Be careful, be—”
Her whole body jerked with the sound of the receiver banging, as if dropped on the floor. “George!” She screamed into the phone. “George! Answer me!”
Silence.
She looked at Joey. “What should we do?”
“Do?” He was standing now. “Who’s it? What happened?”
She clutched the receiver tighter, giving it a hard shake. “George? George, please answer me! Where are you? Oh, God!”
She waited, listening, not wanting to break off the connection, but realizing that precious minutes were being wasted. She decided what she had to do and prayed she was right as she hung up the phone.
Immediately, she dialed George’s office. The line was busy. That meant he may well have been calling her from his office when—what? A heart attack? He was in the high-risk years, and was certainly tense enough. But why call her, and why tell her to be careful?
She dialed 9-1-1, alerting the police to the call she’d received and telling them where George’s office was located. Next, she called Paavo’s home, but got the answering machine and hung up in frustration. Finally, she called Homicide and spoke to an Inspector Calderon, who seemed to know all about her and the case. That done, she and Joey rushed to the Bay Area Shopper building.
When she got there, the street was already filled with police cars and an ambulance. She left Joey with the car. After explaining that she was the person who had made the call to the police, she was admitted. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to speak with her.
A policeman led her up the stairs to the second floor, toward George’s office. She was about to enter it when she saw Paavo hurrying toward her. She stopped and stared at him. He caught her arm and led her away.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he said.
“What do you mean? Where’s George? How is he?” She tried to free her arm.
He put both hands on her shoulders. “George is dead, Angie. He was shot.”
A roaring began in her ears. “No, Paavo. It’s not true. You want to scare me, but it’s not going to work. I want to see George.”
“Angie,” he said softly, and she knew he was being truthful with her. At the moment she saw the number of police cars at the Shopper, she began to suspect something like this had happened.
Another policeman wheeled over a desk chair and placed it directly behind her. Paavo helped her sit.
“Angie, you called in the report on George. How did you know about it? Angie?” He crouched down so that he was level with her eyes and took her hand. “Listen to me. Tell me what happened.”
She placed her other hand on his but sat staring at the carpet. He had said George was dead, but who would shoot George? He was a good man—not a great editor, even he knew that—but why would anyone kill him?
She knew Paavo had been speaking to her, but it wasn’t making much sense. Nothing had made much sense for a long time now. She gazed in his direction. He had such a look of compassion, it made her heart ache. Not for me, Paavo, she wanted to say, for George. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble, and Paavo’s hand lightly stroked her cheek.
Another man pulled up a chair and sat in front of her. He had black eyes and heavy brows, and hair the color of charcoal, pomaded in an unsuccessful attempt to control it. “Miss Amalfi,” he began, “I’m Inspector Calderon. Do you hear me?”
She nodded.
“I spoke to you on the phone, remember?” Again, the nod. “I want you to tell me what happened tonight.”
She couldn’t think, her mind was blank, and she shook her head.
“Miss Amalfi, a man has been murdered. He’s lying in there in his own blood with bullet holes in the chest and stomach. You were the last one he talked to. I want to know why.”
Purple and black spots appeared before her eyes and next thing she knew, Paavo was patting her face and another officer was handing her a glass of water. As she sipped the water, her head cleared enough to hear Paavo yelling at Calderon for being too rough with her and Calderon shouting back at him.
Chief Hollins stormed toward them. If an expression could look like a growl, his did then. “Isn’t it bad enough a newspaper editor gets shot in his own office in the middle of this city without two of my own men squabbling like a couple of wet hens!”
Angie looked from Paavo to Calderon, both men now silent.
“I’m sorry,” she said to them.
Paavo knelt beside her, and she placed a hand on his shoulder as she began to tell him about George’s call—what little there was to tell. Calderon and Hollins sat across from her, listening.
The detectives looked at each other when she had finished. “He had to warn her,” Calderon said, “but of what?”
“Back to square one,” Paavo said.
“Square two, man. Like two dead bodies now.”
“Body!” Angie glared at Calderon. “What’s just another body to you is a man who was very good to me. He had a wife and a couple of grown sons. Now he’s dead. He’s not a body! He’s George. Paavo,” she whispered, gripping the lapels of his jacket as tears rolled down her cheeks. “He’s George!”
Paavo’s arms went around her, holding her close. She buried her head against his neck as her hands formed into fists, her anguish coming out in great, shaking sobs.
Hollins addressed Paavo. “You’re too close to this case, Smith. I think I better pull you off.”
“I know what I’m doing.” Paavo’s voice smoldered, but his hands remained gentle as he patted her back and stroked her hair.
“So far, but it’s too dangerous. Situations like this—with her—and you make mistakes. One cop’s already dead.”
“Forget it!”
Angie lifted her head to look at Paavo. Something in Hollins’s words reminded her of something she had heard before. What was it?
Hollins removed the wrapping from a cigar, put it in his mouth to wet the tip, and then took it out and looked at Paavo. “She knows two guys and now they’re dead.” He struck a match and lit the cigar, puffed on it a few times, then took it out of his mouth and stared at the glowing embers. “Maybe Meyers didn’t call her to warn her. Maybe she shot him and called us to throw us off the track.”
“That won’t wash, Hollins!”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at Paavo. “You wouldn’t know if it did! You’re too involved, both with her and with wanting to find out who killed Matt. I know you’ll do anything to find his killer. And that don’t make for a smart cop. You could end up dead!”
“Damn it, I can handle it!”
“You’re off the case, Smith.” Hollins put the cigar back in his mouth.
“No! I won’t—”
“One more word,” Hollins said through clenched teeth, “and you’re suspended. Right now, you’re on vacation. Two weeks, Smith. Now get the hell out of here.”
Paavo seethed. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to; his eyes spoke volumes. He stood and pulled Angie to her feet, took her arm, and hurried her to the stairs and out of the building.
As they walked toward her car, she remembered where she had heard Hollins’s words before—Paavo had said them. He had told her he couldn’t get involved with her because even a rookie knew it would be too dangerous—too dangerous for them both.