Free If Cooks Could Kill by Joanne Pence Page A

she’d enjoyed recently in which women had sexy Italian boyfriends swimming in her head. Maybe it was finally her turn.
    It took a moment for her to find her voice. “How awful!” she croaked, then nervously cleared her throat. “Did you get a concussion?”
    â€œIt’s no big deal. I’m okay. I was wondering if we could try again.”
    To hear him say those words was even more of a shock than the call, no matter how nice Angie had claimed he was. Cautiously, she said, “What did you have in mind?”
    â€œHow about dinner tomorrow night? I’ll come by to pick you up. My uncle didn’t like the way you endedup sitting there all alone with no one but a guy who knew me years ago to keep you company. It was pretty cold. I never treat my women that way—not any woman. I feel bad about it.”
    Something about his pat little speech grated. On the other hand, the way he said “my women” with that growling, masculine voice caused her heart to beat a little faster. God, what was with her? “Tell you what,” she said, taking a couple of deep breaths. “I’ll meet you there, but I’ll get there on my own.”
    â€œDon’t trust me?” he asked, sounding hurt.
    â€œWhy should I?” was her quick retort. Despite his sexy voice, he was a long way from being anyone she wanted to depend on for anything. Of course, she did want information on Max Squire’s whereabouts, and perhaps he could give it to her.
    â€œHey, you’re one tough woman.” He chuckled. “I like that.”
    She smiled. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll feel the same about you someday.”
    â€œYou will, Connie. You can bet on it.”
    After arranging a time, they said good-bye. Connie hung up the phone, but instead of feeling elation at the call, despite Angie’s assurances, something made her uneasy.
    Maybe she was gun shy because of her rotten experience with Max. Or maybe she just wasn’t blind date material.

Chapter 6
    When Paavo walked into Homicide, he was tired and cross from a grueling morning in court. The defendant’s attorney was good, but with his client obviously guilty, his only chance was to make the police look like the bad guys in the case. It didn’t help Paavo’s mood any to know it was more a show for the jury than anything else.
    The first thing he saw was an ornate silver coffee urn on a desktop near the entrance to the detail, and around it, yellow, green, and gold floral demitasse cups more than half filled with cold coffee. On platters were fancy little sandwiches, no crusts, cut into heart and flower shapes. A number of them, with one bite taken out, lay abandoned on plates besides the cold coffee.
    He looked out over the large, oblong room that held the Homicide detail of the San Francisco Police Department. Homicide was a specialized department, part of the Bureau of Inspections, and housed centrally in the Hall of Justice rather than scattered over the neighborhood stations. Although Homicide was the top level for an officer not interested in supervision or administration to aspire to, right now, those few toughcops on the premises had their heads buried in their paperwork, refusing to meet his eye.
    Elizabeth, Lieutenant Hollins’s secretary, and de facto all-around helpmate for the homicide inspectors, a usually pleasant and chatty woman, in her fifties, with dyed red hair and glasses, stepped into the room, saw him, and froze.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked as she scurried by, almost as if she didn’t want to be anywhere around him.
    â€œDon’t ask me.” She picked up the outgoing mail, then hurried from the room.
    Heads bent lower as he headed toward his desk in the back.
    On the desk was an envelope with his name, written in Angie’s neatly rounded script. Eyes peered at him as he opened it.
    I hope you and your staff enjoy this treat—and it makes up for