"As I started to say-"

"You can talk about how to prepare something exotic, and we could round out the hour with people calling in, asking you questions. How does that sound?"

Just then, the receptionist returned with Angie's list. "Thank you," she said, then to Joel, "Good-bye." She turned and headed for the elevator.

"What's wrong?" He chased after her, flabbergasted. "Aren't you interested? Are you working on another radio show-"

"Goodness, no."

"TV?"

"Heavens!"

"Newspaper? Magazine?"

"No. Nothing like that."

The elevator doors opened and as she got on, she waggled her left hand in the air. "I'm engaged."

"It's too bad she won't elope," Yosh said to Paavo, then took a big bite from a slice of linguica and artichoke heart frittata. "All this attention might be bad for you."

"Not for me, though!" Benson said, taking another slice. Dapper, African-American, and streetwise, he dressed like Joseph Abboud, and went through women like a rock star. "This is even better than yesterday's mixed hors d'oeuvres platter. They tasted good, but a couple of bites and they were gone."

"Don't even talk about her pate," Calderon groused.

"Especially at breakfast," Bill Never-Take-a-Chance Sutter said between mouthfuls. In his late fifties, he kept threatening to retire from the force and get his pension, plus an easier, safer, and probably higher-paying job. Nothing like having someone around with his att.i.tude to build up morale. "If Paavo's engagement goes on for long, I might postpone my retirement."

"I thought you already had," Rebecca Mayfield said sullenly to her nearly worthless, mind-on-fishing-holes-and-future-bridge-games partner. She cut herself a little more frittata-luckily, Angie had sent two of them-as if to drown her sorrows in food. "So, why not elope, Paavo?"

"She'd never go for it. Her mother's probably planning to rent out City Hall to fit all the people she wants to invite to the reception. Maybe Golden Gate Park. What else is big enough in this city?"

"The Cow Palace," Calderon called over. Not that he and everyone else in Homicide were eavesdropping. Not that they'd admit to it.

"That's scary," Yosh continued. "Can't you talk her out of doing something so huge?"

"Have you ever met Angie's mother?" Paavo asked.

"No."

"That's why you asked that question."

"I think I now know who Angie takes after."

Paavo visibly shuddered. "Don't remind me."

"Here's something to take your mind off your wedding," Calderon said, handing them a mug shot. "The name's Veronica Maple. She was released from Chowchilla Wednesday and apparently went down to Fresno, killed a p.a.w.nshop owner, and took off for the city. She has ties with a smalltime gang lord named Sid Fernandez, called 'El Toro.' He used to make his money on drugs, but bigger fish are moving in. He's having some trouble keeping his territory, I hear. Vice doesn't know where he might pop up next. Anyway, her parole officer, a guy named Lexington, was here trying to get help finding her."

"Why a PO?" Paavo asked.

"Sounds like he screwed up the case, job's on the line. He wants to bring her in himself. I told him we didn't go for cowboys here. Not our own, and for sure not outsiders from the valley. I don't know why, but something about the woman, the case, just smells like trouble."

Paavo nodded.

"Thanks for the info," Yosh said, studying the photo.

Just then a florist walked into Homicide wheeling a cart filled with flowers-a huge bouquet of red roses, and ten smaller ones with amaryllis, daffodils, and lilies. Out of Lt. Hollins's office came a loud aaah-choo.

"I had to see for myself if you were here, or if you were lyin', as usual," Butch said, when Veronica opened the door to Dennis's home.

"Now, you see." She was dressed in a high-necked, long sleeved black jumpsuit. "What do you want?"

He pushed past her and looked around. "I want to see Dennis. Where is he?" Butch said. He walked to the bar and poured himself a stiff shot of Chivas.

"You make yourself at home, don't you?" She gave the front door a shove and listened to the latch click.

"You have." Butch took a sip, and let the smooth warmth drift down to his stomach. "Why're you here? What the h.e.l.l do you want from him?"

She stared at him. Her gray eyes seemed flat, almost soulless. "It's none of your business."

"I don't trust you, Veronica," Butch said. "And if Dennis does, he's a fool. Is he home?"

She smiled at him, a smile that never reached her eyes. "He's out buying some steaks for our dinner. Filet mignon. Just like an old married couple, wouldn't you say?"

Butch's body tensed. "d.a.m.n you, Veronica. You almost ruined his life once. Wasn't that enough?"

"Get out of here, old man."

He poured the rest of the Scotch down his throat and slammed the gla.s.s on the bar. "I'm going, and so will you."

"Don't count on it," she taunted.

He left the house before he could do anything he'd regret, but when he reached the sidewalk, he turned and looked back at it. He frowned, scratching his head. He had to admit he hadn't used his brain much over the years. Maybe that was because he knew it didn't work so good anymore.

Nevertheless, as he pictured Veronica with his nephew, his sister's pride and joy, he knew what he had to do. The question was, did he dare do it?

Chapter 10.

"So, tell me about your date with Dennis!" Angie sat across from Connie at the Cliff House, a restaurant overlooking the ocean.

Connie opened her mouth when the waiter came by to take their order-golden red snapper in a coconut lime sauce for Connie, and frica.s.see of chicken with tomatoes, raisins, and olives for Angie.

"Say, aren't you Angelina Amalfi?" he asked.

"Why, yes, I am." Angie tried to remember if she'd met the young man before.

"I saw you on television sometime back, doing a video restaurant review. I'll have to get the owner. He'd love to meet you."

"Sure," she said, watching him dash off. She turned back to Connie. "Isn't that amazing? I thought no one watched my reviews, yet this fellow actually recognized me. But I interrupted you. You were saying about Dennis..."

"I met him at Wings, and-"

"Here she is!" The waiter beamed as he ushered in a distinguished man with a fringe of gray hair, a large jaw, and a picket fence of false teeth. "Miss Amalfi, I'd like you to meet the owner, Donald Kaufman."

"Miss Amalfi! What a pleasure to have you here," Kaufman blurted, his teeth clattering slightly.

"Thank you." She introduced Connie. "Your menu is a wonderful combination of Southwest plus San Francisco seafood."

"Do you think so? That's grand! Just learning you were here has given me an idea, if I might be so presumptuous." He pulled out a chair and sat. "I was wondering if you might be willing to work with me on this menu."

Angie stared. What was with him? "Work on it how?" she asked.

The waiter came by with a complimentary bottle of Charles Krug Cabernet Sauvignon Blanc, 1992, as the owner explained that he'd like to hire her as a consultant.

Connie caught her eye and nodded enthusiastically. What was with her? Angie wondered. "You don't need a consultant," she said firmly. "Now, my friend and I are here for some girl talk. We wouldn't want to bore you..." (Hint, hint!) Kaufman's face fell. "Think about it, please. Give me a call when you're ready to talk." He handed her his card and left.

"Angie," Connie marveled. "What's wrong with you? He was offering the chance of a lifetime. The kind of job you've always wanted."

"No, no, no! I want to hear about amore. That's what life is really about!"

"Well, if you're sure..." Connie glanced back at the hopeful owner, letting her eyes wander through the fine restaurant with the gorgeous Pacific view.

An appetizer of seviche-raw halibut marinated until "poached" in lime juice, chili, onion, tomato, oregano, and olive oil-was placed on the table. "Compliments of Mr. Kaufman," the waiter said.

"Thank you," Angie said dismissively. Then, to Connie, "Tell me, did you like him?"

"Kaufman?" Connie's eyes widened.

"Dennis!"

"Of course. What's not to like?"

"Will you see him again soon?"

"I don't know. He didn't ask me. It's been three days. He hasn't called."

Angie's face fell.

"So, what did you think?" Kaufman materialized at the table. "Too much lime juice, perhaps? Seviche is temperamental."

Not nearly as temperamental as I'm going to be, Angie thought. She wanted to get back to Dennis's not calling Connie, but before she could say a word, a bevy of waiters paraded from the kitchen, each carrying a plate with a small portion of an entree.

"I've died and gone to heaven!" Connie cried. Kaufman hovered over them, grilling Angie with questions while Connie oohed and aahed with each dish. One of the waiters took over as sommelier, pouring wine to help Angie cleanse her palate from one dish to the other, while another stood off to the side and wrote down almost every word she said.

Finally, she could stand no more. She grabbed Kaufman's arm, dragged him to a far wall, and poked him in the chest. "Listen, I'm here to talk about love, d.a.m.n it! I want to have a conversation with my girlfriend, but she's too busy stuffing her face to talk! Will you leave us alone?"

He twisted his tie. "But you know food, Miss Amalfi! Just to watch your expression as you take each bite is a full course in gastronomy. You're a dream come true to me."

"You are so dead!"

"All right, all right. Be that way." He stiffened his upper lip. "Go, now. I won't bother you any longer."

"Thank you!"

She marched back into the dining room, to find Connie in full swoon over a gigantic strawberry charlotte.

Paavo and Yosh came out of the Central Police Station, where they had gone to talk to a couple of uniformed cops about the stash of autographed sports paraphernalia they'd found in the abandoned garage. It was definitely counterfeit. No lead yet was available on who'd put it there.

As they hit the sidewalk, Yosh stopped, bent forward, and slowly peered first to the left and then to the right.

"What is it?" Paavo asked.

He held his finger against his lips a moment, then lowered it and whispered, "Just making sure there aren't any bakers, florists, or Italian tenors waiting to waylay us."

Paavo growled.

Yosh chuckled as they walked toward the car. "The good news is that Angie's so busy buying and making you stuff, she isn't snooping into your cases."

The two froze.

A man was getting out of a van with a huge stuffed bear.

In stark horror, San Francisco's finest fled to their car and sped off.

"We'll work together, like in the old days." Sid Fernandez placed his hand on Veronica's thigh and lightly stroked it.

"I think it'll be great fun," she murmured, and with a toss of the head, looked over at Julius. "I love your plan." She flashed a smile meant for him alone.

She had walked two blocks from Dennis's house to the street corner where Fernandez's limo had been double-parked and waiting. Fernandez knew Dennis's home and was the one who'd told her where it was, but she wanted to make sure the two men didn't encounter each other unless it became necessary. She could control them better if they remained separated.

"You make our little 'strategy' perfect, Vero." Julius used what he thought was his very own pet name for her. Vero-truth. It made her want to puke, but that was all right. He was lots less revolting than the so-called El Toro, who didn't even have the good fortune to be bull-like where it mattered most.

"What's this Vero stuff?" Fernandez asked, squeezing Veronica's thigh. "We call her Ronnie, don't we?"

"Veronica is the name," she said.

He squeezed harder. "I thought you liked being called Ronnie."

"You can call me anything you like, Toro. You know that."

"Bueno, puta." With that, he laughed hard. Julius joined him, as did Veronica. Fernandez was everything she despised in a man, but she needed him, and he didn't like his jokes dissed. He'd been the only one to help her when she was in prison, and he counted on her loyalty as a result. And had it. Up to a point.

"Now, we must get serious," Fernandez said. "In three days, Julius will have your identification. Everything is set. It should be perfect."