To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery by Joanne Pence

liked being stuck here at a desk job in headquarters when he’d always been a field agent. No wonder he’d put on so many pounds. But at least theyhadn’t been able to retire him on disability like they had wanted to do. He had fought them. Leave it to the Bureau to turn against you when you had given your all, he thought bitterly.
    Always on his mind were the two guys who never had a chance for disability, Harris and Lane. They’d only been dead two weeks, he’d heard, when two new special agents were given their desks. Nobody cared, it seemed. Just him.
    He returned Smith’s call, and was given a strange request. Smith wanted to know if, some thirty-five to forty years ago, anyone working for the FBI in Washington had been named “Cecily.” That was it, just the one name.
    He told Smith it would take a while. For him to act on such a request without higher-up authorization was strictly illegal. He’d have to access employee records, which were protected from routine searches by anyone other than the personnel department.
    He’d manage. Once he hacked into the database, he’d have plenty of time to manipulate it until he found what he needed. In fact, he had time for a lot of stuff these days. The work the Bureau gave him was garbage, something to keep him from twiddling his increasingly pudgy thumbs all day long. They wanted to insult him, to force him to ask for disability retirement, to somehow get rid of him.
    No way. He’d stick around just to needle them. It was fun. It was payback.
     
    “He’s been moved out of intensive care,” the nurse, a slim, blond woman in a crisp white uniform, said as she led Angie through a maze of corridors to Aulis’s new private room.
    “That’s wonderful!” Angie cried. She felt as if her prayers had been answered. “He’s awake, then?” she asked.
    “Not yet. He’s still in a coma,” the nurse said. “But it’s a light one. He can breathe on his own, his vital signs are strong, so he doesn’t need the special equipment in intensive care. He’s just not awake. We nurses call it a twilight sleep. The doctor will give you all the medical details, I’m sure.”
    “But overall, this means he’s getting better?” Angie urged, trying hard to find some positive news.
    “Let’s just say, it’s a good sign. Now, we have to wait and see how he is when he wakes up.”
    “You’re saying he will wake up.”
    As if jarred by the question, the nurse stopped and glanced sympathetically at Angie. “At his age…the doctor will be able to tell you more.”
    Their gait was slower this time. “What has your experience been?” Angie asked.
    “In my experience”—the nurse seemed hesitant—“in my experience, it’s pneumonia, not the coma, that you have to be worried about. For older people, having to lie on their backs, being unable to move, fluid collects in their lungs, and sometimes there isn’t a thing we can do about it.”
    “I see.” The graveness of it was all but overwhelming. The two continued on in silence.
    In the hallway, two nuns stood talking. They both wore traditional, cream-colored habits.
    “Here we are.” The nurse turned in to the private room right where the nuns were standing. Their proximity gave Angie a chill, as if Aulis might be closer to death than anyone had been led to believe.
    The nurse bustled about the room, quickly checking Aulis and scanning his chart. “I’ll leave Mr. Kokkonen in your hands,” she said, then was gone in a flurry of white.
    Angie went to Aulis’s side and held his hand as she greeted him. She told him that she and Paavowere well, and looked forward to him getting better and going home. She said a few more words, then stepped back, saddened that she could see no change, no reaction at all in the old man. She covered her face in her hands.
    “Are you all right, dear?”
    Angie glanced up to see one of the nuns in the doorway. She was an older woman, heavyset, with a round face. Her hands were folded,