Free Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence Page B

Maxwell House Choice Blend to his desk. He needed it. Last night after the memorial service, he and Angie had stopped at the Buena Vista Café for Irish coffee to wash away the bitter taste of Mark Dustman’s eulogyand the group’s reaction to it, before going back to Angie’s place. It was quite late before he made it to his own house. Difficult as it was to leave her, it seemed like less of a commitment than to spend the entire night with her…in her bed. He ran his hand through his short wavy hair and rubbed his eyes with a weary sigh.
    He cared about commitment, on both their parts. It would have been a lot easier if he didn’t. Angie glibly told him she loved him. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and if anyone were too blind to notice it there, all they had to do was look at her big, expressive eyes. But if words of love came easily to her, did the feelings as well? And if so, how could they endure? The last thing he needed in his life was a failed love affair. He’d spent years avoiding them. At thirty-four, he was too old to get caught in one now.
    He turned his attention to the stacks of papers and folders on his desk. He had all the cases he could handle, yet what he’d heard and seen at Wielund’s last night preyed on his mind. He couldn’t simply drop it. Something was wrong. All those people were supposedly friends, yet there was an undercurrent of dislike and distrust. Wielund had lived in a snowy mountain area in Europe, yet he drove off the side of a major U.S. highway because of what, ice? Did that make sense? What it did was make Paavo uneasy. He’d worked in Homicide long enough to have developed a sixth sense about death. And his sixth sense had gone into overdrive on this one.
    One way to put this whole no-brain idea to restwas to go to the source. He called the Placer County Sheriff’s Department and eventually was connected with a Sergeant Osbourne. “I’m calling about a DOA you had last week: Karl Wielund. Looked like an auto accident—guy went off a cliff. I’d like to know the results of the autopsy.”
    Osbourne’s voice suddenly hardened. “The guy was a traffic victim.”
    â€œThat’s what’s being said.”
    â€œHis neck was broken in a fall down five hundred of feet of rock. That was enough for a death certificate.”
    Paavo’s grip tightened on the phone. “No autopsy?”
    Osbourne’s long, weary sigh came across the phone wire before he spoke. “Look, we’ve got more tourists than anything else up here, and they’re forever killing themselves on the roads or on the ski slopes. Even if we wanted to autopsy every victim, there’s no money. Got the picture?”
    â€œI got it. But I’ve also got reason to suspect this was more than an accident.”
    There was, again, a long silence on the other end. “I see. Let me find out if we still have the body.” He put Paavo on hold for a few moments. “This guy must have been really loved. His body’s still in the morgue; no one wants it. His attorney’s contacting relatives back in Germany. You need an autopsy, Inspector, just give the word.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll get back to you.” He’d have to talk this over with Hollins.
    As Paavo hung up the phone, Yosh walked into the squad room. Bellowing hellos to people in the farthest corners of the floor, he headed toward Paavo’s desk.
    â€œHey there, partner,” Yosh said, pulling a breakfast burrito out of a white bag. “You need this more than I do.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Paavo said.
    â€œI got four more in here.” Yosh laughed as he emptied the bag. “I even have dessert.” He held up some small, dry, cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookies.
    Paavo groaned.
    â€œHard night, huh?” Yosh asked.
    â€œA late one.” Paavo picked up a stack of memos from his IN tray and tried to looked interested