"See what? What do you mean?" Angie was so frustrated she could have clubbed him with the receivables register.

"Give me time, Angie. I know who did it. I'll get Connie out of there."

Angie was shocked. "You know? You were involved?"

"No, not me." He shook his head.

"Why should I believe you?" she cried.

"Good question." He slammed down his pencil and rushed out the door, leaving Angie gaping.

She spun toward Earl. "Have you ever talked to Butch about his nephew's friend?" Angie asked. "Did Dennis ever tell Butch why Max is so strange?"

"Butch don't talk to me," Earl answered.

"What about Vinnie?"

"Vinnie had to go down to Chin...I mean, to da bank. n.o.body knows nothin'."

Another stall job, and she wasn't about to put up with it. "Well, Butch will talk to me." She headed toward the kitchen.

"Stop! Miss Angie, you can't go in dere!" Earl's stubby legs pumped fast as he ran to the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen and hurled himself, arms stretched out wide, in front of them.

"Why?"

"Uh...da Board of Health says we can't let n.o.body in but da cook and da waiter."

"I've been in a number of restaurant kitchens. Besides, who taught Butch how to cook half the items on the menu?"

"I know, an' we 'preciate you. But you still can't go in dere. Anyway, you're a customer!"

"Not now. Now I'm a consultant. Dennis has asked for my help, you may recall. I suggest you let me in there, or I'll help him expand this place to the size of Candlestick Park!"

He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I'll tell you da trut'. Dere's a problem."

"Do tell!"

"We got a couple c.o.c.kroaches, and Butch put powder all around to kill 'em. He don't want n.o.body to see what's going on. Not even you. I'm sorry."

She put her hand to her throat. "c.o.c.kroaches? In the kitchen?"

"Shhh! He just saw a couple, so he's acting real fast. He's standin' dere wit' a can of Raid, and if he sees one, he shoots it. Bam! We don't want 'em to tell deir buddies to come over. An' you don't wanna see dem layin' on deir backs, wigglin' deir little legs in da air, an' strugglin' with deir last breaths."

Her mouth curled in disgust. "This is the truth?"

"Miss Angie, would I lie?"

"Then ask Butch to come out here and talk to me. It's about Connie. She's been arrested, and I've got to help get her out."

"Miss Connie? Arrested? Wait here."

He was back in a minute. "Butch is gone. He put all da pots on simmer and took off."

Chapter 20.

Paavo lived in a bungalow in San Francisco's Richmond district, a neighborhood of small middle-cla.s.s homes, not too far from Ocean Beach, but without the ocean view that would have raised the prices of the homes even higher than inflation and lack of expansion s.p.a.ce in San Francisco had already done.

Paavo had bought his house some years earlier, when the economy took a slight dip, and he could afford it. It was also affordable because it consisted of only three rooms and one bathroom, needed work-much of which he did on his own-and didn't have a garage, which wasn't too bad, since neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail could do any more damage to his Austin Healey than old age had already done to it. Nevertheless, he loved the house. So did Angie.

To an extent.

Angie's biggest concern about their marriage was where they were going to live. She wouldn't be able to fit her clothes into Paavo's place, let alone anything else she owned.

They had time; they'd work it out...somehow. He had a good-sized backyard. The house could always be expanded into it. Or, have an entire second floor added. Or possibly raise it to fit in a garage and bas.e.m.e.nt room or two. Or do all three.

Angie sat and watched while he chopped and stirred and seasoned. She offered suggestions when he wasn't sure about the instruction in the recipe. It was hard to concentrate on food, though, when Connie was still in jail.

Paavo was cooking a Finnish dish for her called Karelian Hot Pot. It was a simple stew made with equal parts chuck steak, pork shoulder, and stewing lamb, onions, salt, and allspice. Since discovering that he actually was part Finnish, Paavo had been learning all he could about his heritage. Aulis Kokkonen, the man who'd raised him and whom he regarded as his father even though Aulis wasn't a blood relation, told many stories about Finland, Finnish history and legends. Paavo now wished he'd paid more attention to those stories as a boy instead of doing the usual kid's stunt of tuning him out, thinking Aulis was dull and that Finland was "totally uncool."

Paavo was a good cook in that he could follow a recipe with the diligence of Jonas Salk developing the polio vaccine. Angie didn't tell him that the recipe he struggled with was about as simple as any she'd ever seen. Since he was preparing the main course, she volunteered to make a Caesar salad and a Finnish dessert. After much searching, she found one, a kind of cheesecake that was more spicy than sweet-the manly dessert, according to Connie's ex. The crust was made with dry breadcrumbs and b.u.t.ter, and the custard in the center was a mixture of flour, cottage cheese, and eggs, seasoned with brown sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, b.u.t.ter, and orange and lemon rind. She made the cake while Paavo worked on his stew.

As he cooked, he began talking about Connie's situation. Hearing her friend referred to as a "case" infuriated her. Hot tears of anger and frustration that the system she believed in could be making such a horrible mistake sprang to her eyes, and it took all her willpower to compose herself again.

He told her that surveillance cameras had shown the courier being hit by a figure wearing gloves and a black sweatshirt with a hood. It could have been a man or a woman. She was dragged into the van where the police later found her.

A bit later, a woman wearing the courier's uniform-who, in fact, did look a lot like Connie-left the van for the elevator bank. She kept her face averted so that none of the pictures were terribly clear, and none straight on. A minute later, two men, one thin, the other fat, got out of the van. Both wore gloves and hooded sweatshirts and kept their faces down.

Suddenly, the Connie look-alike reappeared, pushing a scared, panting Isaac Zakarian to his car. He drove away in obvious panic.

The van had been stolen that very day. It was a maze of fingerprints, but the only ones they could identify belonged to the owner and the dead courier.

Finally, Paavo placed the Karelian ca.s.serole in the oven. His work done, he put his arms around Angie, studying her face and the unshed tears he saw there. "Relax, Angel. We'll get her out. She's innocent. There's no way they could prove otherwise."

She shut her eyes and leaned into him. As much as she wanted to enjoy the comfort he offered, all she could think about was the fear and loneliness Connie was enduring at that same moment.

Veronica walked toward Wings of an Angel. She was feeling good. Connie Rogers hadn't shown up at work that day. A little birdie told Veronica why. Now, all she had to do was get the police off their fat a.s.ses to arrest Max. If he was at Wings, she'd call them now; if not, she'd watch the homeless shelter where he'd been staying. They could pick him up there.

Footsteps were fast approaching. She turned but saw no one behind her. Odd.

She kept going, suddenly irritated when she thought of the stupid cops who hadn't managed to pick up Fernandez or Julius. Robbers and murderers at the scene of the crime-and they just let them walk away. What idiots!

Now, she had those two losers to worry about. But she could handle them. No problem.

She heard the footsteps again. Stepping into a doorway, she reached into her purse and clutched her gun. The street was empty.

Nerves. That's all it was. Maybe because of El Toro, or one of the others...out there...looking for her.

Or maybe because of the courier. When she'd put the woman's uniform on, it was still warm from her body. She hadn't known Julius would kill her like that. Tying her up should have been enough...

She shook away the image and proceeded down the block. Some cars went by, but no other pedestrians were near. This wasn't a touristy area, but usually someone was out walking.

She concentrated on her situation. Dennis was the one who bothered her. She had to come up with a way to- From the corner of her eye she saw a hand reach for her. She spun around fast, and he ended up with only the strap of her shoulder bag.

"You!" she yelled, jerking on it. He didn't let go and the bag flipped over, the clasp opening and the contents falling to the sidewalk.

She fell to her knees and lunged, but he was faster. In one quick movement, he picked up the Smith and Wesson and pointed it at her.

Drawing herself to her feet, she saw the cold, icy fury in his eyes. "You can't be serious," she said. She glanced from side to side, thinking that he would back off if she could get someone to notice them, but the streets were empty. Even the cars seemed to have vanished. Her heart pounded, and her throat went dry. "Put it down!"

He slowly neared, and she backed up, scared now. "Hey, let's talk about it, okay?" She tried to modulate her voice, make it low and husky, the way he liked it. "I know you're disappointed. In me. Us. We can fix that."

She looked around, searching for some means of escape. Behind her was an alley and what looked like an open door at the bottom of a flight of stairs. She needed to get down there, shut the door, and lock it. She could do it.

"Talk to me," she said. "We were always able to talk." As she began stepping backward, he followed.

He was blinking fast, and tears filled his eyes. A cold certainly descended on her. He was going to kill her. "You wouldn't do this to me. Not to me," she whispered.

Her hand touched the railing that ran along the steps to the bas.e.m.e.nt door. She grabbed it and spun around, starting to run.

He fired, and fired again, even after she fell.

The phone rang in the darkened bedroom. Angie unwrapped her arms from Paavo's chest and rolled to one side as he sat up. "h.e.l.lo."

He glanced at Angie. "It's okay, Rebecca. What's up?"

Angie raked her fingers through her hair and fluffed it as she listened. Why was the homicide inspector calling Paavo?

Whatever it was, the shocked look on Paavo's face made Angie's blood run cold. Quietly he hung up the phone.

"What is it?" she asked, imagining the worst.

"Probably just a false alarm, but I've got to go." He got out of bed and stepped into briefs-Angie once gave him black silk Tommy Hilfigers, but he was a white cotton Hanes man and nothing else-and then his trousers. "If all goes well, I'll be back in an hour. If not, I'll give you a call."

"You have to go?"

"Yes." He shrugged on a shirt.

"But what about the dinner you worked so hard to prepare?" Angie protested.

He picked up his shoes and socks, padded out to the kitchen, and faced the stove. "How do you put this thing on pause?"

Paavo hurried into the morgue on the bottom floor of the Hall of Justice. He didn't want to tell Angie why he'd been called here until he was certain about the information Rebecca had given him.

He knew Connie's lawyer had been working on getting her bail since receiving the bad news after his talk with Judd. That was why the story might be true. And that was why a part of him believed Rebecca when she called to tell him the victim of a shooting-the dead woman with no identification on her-was Connie Rogers.

He could have just called the jail, gone through a lengthy rigamarole, and found out if Connie was still there. But he didn't want Angie asking questions. Also, if the victim wasn't Connie, he wanted to see her for himself. Something about a spate of Connie clones in the city just didn't sit well.

If his worst fear was true, however, he'd return to Angie immediately. He didn't want her to hear it on the news or to be alone at such a time.

Rebecca saw him and waved him over. "Thanks for coming by. I hope I'm wrong, but you need to see this."

He nodded.

"She was still alive but unconscious when the cops found her. The paramedics reached her, but she died on the way to the hospital, so they came here. She'd been shot in the back and shoulder."

The body lay on a gurney awaiting autopsy, covered by a plastic sheet.

As Rebecca glanced at Paavo, she gripped the edge of the sheet, and slowly, carefully slid it back.

Paavo's heart nearly stopped when he saw the short, blond hair. "Good G.o.d!"

The face was slack and colorless in death. "I see I was right in calling you," Rebecca said. "Is she Angie's friend?"

He looked at the jawline, the shape of the brow, and let out the breath he'd been holding. The victim wasn't Connie, but someone who bore an unsettling resemblance to her. "It's not her."

"Thank G.o.d!" Rebecca answered, also sighing in relief. "We've got her prints. If they're on record, we should have a match soon."

The woman's clothes were askew, some blood was on her fingers, and her knees were sc.r.a.ped. "Any evidence?" he asked.

"Nothing much. The CSI has already bagged what they could. The only strange thing was in her hand. It might be a factor, though it could be just trash found on the street, and she clawed at it just by chance."

"What was it?" Paavo asked.

"A matchbook. It was from a restaurant I've never heard of."

"Do you remember the name?"

"Sure. A weird name for a restaurant, frankly. Bill Sutter said it reminded him of an old, old song about prisoners wanting to escape. I don't know if you've ever heard it. It went something like, 'If I had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls I would fly.'"

Paavo nearly choked. "Yes, it is familiar to me."

Chapter 21.

When Paavo returned to Homicide in the morning, the fingerprint identification Rebecca had requested on the murder victim had come in. Rebecca placed a photocopy on his desk as well as her preliminary homicide report on the victim and the victim's prior file. Paavo turned to the prior file first.

Veronica Maple. Ex-con.