Something's Cooking Read Free Page B

it matters where I get the money for my apartment.”
    He gave her a sidelong glance and hooked his thumbs in the side pockets of his slacks. “Maybe where you get the money has something to do with what happened here today.”
    He looked so cocksure of himself, she would have liked nothing better than to give the chair a little shove and watch him land on the smuggest part of all. “I pay my own rent. To my father.”
    He pulled himself up straight. “Your father owns this building?”
    She lifted her chin. “He also owns several shoe stores.”
    One dark brow arched. “I see.” His voice was quiet, pensive.
    She shrugged. “He helps keep a roof over my head and shoes on my feet. I take care of the in-between.”
    He glanced over her “in-between,” but not so quickly that she didn’t feel the force of his perusal. Then he directed his gaze at hers again.
    Her mouth felt dry. “I have investments.”
    While appearing to ponder her words, he finished his coffee and then stood and began to pace. “Now, Miss Amalfi, would you explain to me how you came to have this bomb in your dishwasher?”
    She leaned forward and rubbed her forehead, again overwhelmed by the unreality of what had happened. She wanted to scream, but instead she relayed the story in detail. She explained that she had put the package in the dishwasher because the appliance was made of heavy metal, was well sealed, and she thought the water would destroy whatever was ticking. In fact, she told him, she considered it pretty clever to have put the package in there.
    â€œMiss Amalfi, are you aware of any enemies or people who dislike you for any reason whatsoever?”
    Faces of people she knew whirled through her mind. She had dozens of acquaintances but few close friends. Her college friends were scattered all over the world, her best girlfriends from high school were married now and had little in common with her, and boyfriends drifted into and out of her life without much impact. For confidences, she turned to her family, especially her oldest sister, Bianca. She knew a lot of people from work and through her parents, and she attended most big social functions in the city, but who, out of everyone, could have reason to hate her? “There’s no one,” she finally said.
    â€œAre there any connections you might have reason to worry about? Enemies of close friends, or of your family, perhaps?”
    Feeling suddenly tired and frustrated, she leaned forward. She slid her fingers against her scalp, rubbing her head, as if by mere concentration she could make this nonsense go away. She felt the inspector’s gaze upon her and raised her eyes to meet his. “It’s impossible, Inspector.”
    His voice was soft when he said, “I see the impossible every day.” He walked to the window and looked out toward San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz.
    Perplexed, she allowed her gaze to follow him. Something about his words, his tone, set off an unnerving resonance within her. What was it about his simple words that made her, for the first time this afternoon, fear seriously that there might be a plan at work here, that she might have actually been targeted by someone? The last thing she wanted was to believe him.
    He’s wrong, she thought. He’s insensitive, indifferent, and hateful. She studied his profile as he stood by the window. His brow was wrinkled with concentration, his lips pursed tight, and the corners of his eyes were lined with the weariness of a man who’d seen too much suffering and sorrow.
    She looked away a moment. The bomb blast must have made her truly loopy to imagine any compassion in those glacial eyes.
    He turned to face her. “Okay, Miss Amalfi.” He tossed his notebook on the coffee table in front of her, then smacked his pen on top of it. “Write down the names of your family and youremployer while I go check on my men. Then