Xs
An Allie Armington Mystery
Louise Gaylord
Beverly Hills, California
Xs: An Allie Armington Mysteryby Louise Gaylord
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Louise Gaylord. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. For information, address Cedar Vista Books, 269 South Beverly Drive, Suite #1065, Beverly Hills, CA 90212. 866-234-0626
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The Library of Congress CIP
Gaylord, Louise.
Xs : an Allie Armington mystery / Louise Gaylord.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-9720227-4-0 (hardcover)
1. Women lawyers--Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)--Fiction. 3. Texas--Fiction. I. Title.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9786049-2-9
Book Design: Dotti Albertine
Editor: Brookes Nohlgren
Also by Louise Gaylord
The Award-Winning
Anacacho
An Allie Armington Mystery
Julia Fairchild
A Novel
An Allie Armington Mystery
Dedicated to
The Tuesday Writers Consortium
Guida Jackson Laufer
Ida Luttrell Patsy Ward Burk Jackie Pelham
Julia Mercedes Castilla Irene Bond Vanessa Leggett
Sue Volk Karen Stuyck and
in loving memory of
Mary Schomaker and Becky Sanford
Chapter 1
HOUSTON, TEXAS
“ALLIE? IT’S ME.” My sister Angela’s muffled slur slides across the miles that separate us.
A familiar tingle surfs the nape of my neck. The same tingle I used to get whenever Angela got into trouble and begged me to bail her out.
“Sis, are you okay?”
Silence. Something’s definitely wrong. Drink? Drugs? “Angela? Are you there? Don’t do this. Talk to me!”
Her sigh sounds like a prolonged death rattle, then she manages a croaky, “I—I need to borrow money—a lot—twenty thousand—today. Can you make a wire transfer?”
I choke. That will just about drain my hard-earned savings. “Where are you?”
“I—uh—at my bank.”
When I say nothing, her desperation crowds through. “I need money! I need it now!”
“Is someone making you do this? If you say yes, I’ll call the police.”
“Just—get me the money. The account number is—” Her voice fades away, then she recites a long string of numbers. Too long for me to remember.
“Hold on. I need a piece of paper. Found one. Now, repeat the numbers very slowly.”
She does as I ask, then whispers, “Hurry.”
“Sit tight. I’ll call my bank as soon as I hang up.” “Thank God.”
The relief in her voice is no relief to me.
I call the bank, verify my savings balance and give the transfer number of Angela’s bank in New York.
Why don’t I feel better? Why hasn’t that awful tingle disappeared? If Angela needs to borrow money from me, what has she done with her pile? Over the last seven years, she’s made major bucks as a supermodel in New York. By now she should be worth close to a million.
A few years before, I resigned as Assistant District Attorney with Harris County to take a job with Perkins, Travis, PC, Attorneys-at-Law. Perkins, Travis, a boutique law firm dealing in real estate holdings, has afforded me a comfortable lifestyle, but I consider my earnings paltry compared to my sister’s.
————
It’s now almost five. My temples are throbbing from what I’m sure is life-threatening high blood pressure. I’ve been calling Angela’s number since three. Now, when I get her chirpy, “You know what to do, so do it,” I hang up.
Where are you, Angela? Did you get the money in time? My stomach knots with each question.
As if in response, the phone rings and I grab it. “Angela?”
“It’s Duncan. There’s a new French flick at the Greenway. Starts at seven-oh-five. We’ll grab a bite after.”
Duncan Bruce is my ex-fiancé who lives three floors above me. Though it’s been over a year since I returned his ring, we still see each other now and then—mostly movies and Dutch-treat dinners.
It doesn’t take me long to say yes. Phoning Angela every fifteen minutes is pointless and frustrating.
I manage to make it through the Houston five o’clock traffic jams in record time and I’m just reaching for the “up” button when the elevator door slides open.
Duncan Bruce stands there, arms akimbo. If he were wearing a kilt he would be a walking ad for Scottish tourism. His cropped black hair echoes the jet of his eyes and bears that blue cast of the Celtic clans.
He stabs at his watch. “I’m counting.”
Once in my apartment, I cross the living room to the answering machine. Nothing.
No time to freshen my makeup or to floss, so I swig some mouthwash, grab my purse and beat it for the elevator.
The drive to Greenway Plaza is erratic and silent. Duncan is anal about getting his popcorn and taking his seat before the lights go down, so he’s barely being civil.
It’s a great movie, and by the time we walk through the steam bath of the underground garage to his car, Duncan is over his pique.
He turns the key and his Porsche purrs to life. “How about Chinese or Thai?”
“I really don’t care.”
“That’s a switch. You’re usually Miss I’ll-Be-The-One-To-Decide.” Duncan studies me for a few seconds. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
I launch into the bizarre call from Angela, her request for the twenty grand and the fact that I haven’t heard from her all day.
His face fills with concern. “Seems like this isn’t the evening for eating out. How about my place?” He gives me a triumphant look. “I hit the jackpot. A fantastic Pinot Noir for only eight forty-nine at Spectrum. Case price. I bought everything in stock. Wait until you taste it.”
Duncan is a great cook and has an exceptional talent for finding fabulous vintages at bargain prices, but I remember the drill so well: a little wine, a little food, a little kiss—a little sex.
His smile dies when I say, “Another time, okay? I’m really worried about Angela.”
To my surprise, Duncan leans across the console to meet my lips, then lurches away as if he were stung. “Sorry about that.”
He guns the motor, jams the car into reverse and doesn’t say a word the whole way home.
Ever the gentleman, Duncan sees me to my door and apologizes for his temper tantrum. But when he leans forward to plant a kiss, I let it land on my cheek and murmur, “Guess I better try Angela again.”
My apartment is freezing. I notch the thermostat up a few degrees and punch the speed-dial.
My spirits rise when the receiver lifts but quickly fall when I realize I’ve press
ed the wrong button and dialed Carolina Montoya, Angela’s roommate. Through blaring salsa I can barely make out, “Bueno?”
“Hi, Caro. It’s Allie. I’ve been trying to reach Angela all day. Do you know if she’s there?”
“Nooooo.”
“But, Caro, she phoned me this morning, told me she was in the city and would be waiting for my call. Do you know anything about it?”
“Sorry, Chica, can’t help you.” Then I hear her gasp, “More, more,” and realize she’s occupied on another level.
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll just have to wait. Sorry to bother you.” “No problema.”
The salsa ratchets up another notch or two and the last words I hear before the connection breaks are, “Don’t stop, mi amor, that feels so good.”
As I place the receiver back in its cradle, I can’t help but think about my sister’s roommate. Over the past couple of years, Carolina Montoya and I have knocked back more than a few glasses of wine and shared some pretty personal confidences.
Not only that, she once helped me out of a very sticky Manhattan real estate situation. Houston clients had found the property and I was handling their side. We were near closing when everything started to go south. I was stuck in court litigating and couldn’t leave and asked Carolina if she would make personal contact with the seller. Let’s face it—a gorgeous woman has a distinct advantage when it comes to men. She went to the address I gave her. Empty. It was a dummy corporation. We rescinded our offer. Bottom line: Caro’s little excursion saved my clients close to two million and me my job.
Though she comes from a wealthy Madrid family and on first glance bears the haughty mien of old European money, you forget all about who Caro is, and where she comes from, the minute she opens her mouth.
Everything is “freeging fantastico.” Everybody is “freeging fabuloso.” She loves to tell jokes but never gets the endings right. In short, she’s a hoot.
If I had to describe her I would say she reminds me of a panther. Though she’s somewhat shorter than Angela, her body can wiggle like an eel, or wave like chiffon in the wind.
Her jet-black hair and large almond-shaped eyes the color of midnight set off high cheekbones. And her mouth, one of the most sensuous I’ve ever seen, is generally set in perpetual upturn.
But lately Angela’s been complaining. There’s a new man in Caro’s life. Someone Angela doesn’t seem to care for. I shove that thought aside and head for my bed.
After a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of Angela’s frantic calls, I have just settled behind my desk when my phone rings and Angela says, “It’s me.”
“Damn it, why didn’t you call me back yesterday? I jumped every time it rang.”
“Lay off, will you? The place is a friggin’ mess. That damn Caro. I’ve had it with her.”
“Did she tell you I called?”
“No. I haven’t laid eyes on her in weeks, but if I ever get my hands on her, I just might—”
Since I have nothing on my agenda I hang up and head toward the managing partner’s office. When I explain Angela’s predicament and point out the pathetic number of recent real estate deals with none on the horizon, Will Travis suggests I take an “of counsel” position. That way I can retain those elusive health insurance benefits—as long as I make the payments.
After a friendly handshake, I do what I’ve done since the day I became the “older” sister. I pack my Beretta Tomcat .32, a gift from Dad when I joined the DA’s office, and dive into my sister’s life without giving my actions a second thought.
Chapter 2
NEW YORK CITY
IT’S WELL PAST TWO when I struggle my roll-on up the twelve stone steps to the double doors of the townhouse on Ninety-Fifth between Third and Lex that Angela bought during the last soft real estate market.
Though not one of the poshest addresses on the Upper East Side, it offers spacious formal living and dining rooms with fourteen-foot ceilings, a small kitchen and maid’s quarters. But the pièces de résistance are two bedroom suites, each on a separate floor.
Angela took the top floor for herself and though her suite was almost half again as large as the one on the floor below, Caro was delighted to cough up half the monthly payments.
Angela said the outer doors would be unlocked. I push one side into a good-sized vestibule with black and white marble floors. Two half-moon tables bearing Chinese Export vases flank the entrance to the living room.
I stumble to the table on the right and, per my sister’s instructions, fish for the key in the vase.
Before I can retrieve it, the door flies open and a mummy in a pink wool bathrobe lurches toward me, arms outstretched. Only the matted red hair at the shoulders backs up my initial impression that the mummy is my sister. “Oh, my God, have you been in a wreck?”
“Surgery,” she mumbles.
A face-lift. How could I be so stupid? The slurred words—the muffled voice. Twenty thousand of my hard-earned savings.
When I don’t react, Angela lowers her arms and averts her eyes from my silent accusation. “C’mon in.”
She wobbles toward the couch and plunks down. “Take a load off. I need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait? I hardly got any sleep last night worrying about you.”
“Sorry, but I desperately need your advice.”
I collapse in the nearest wing chair. “I could have given you advice over the phone.”
She ignores my words, intent on getting her own message out. “Caro’s been doing coke. Maybe heroin. When I called her on it, she told me not to worry, she could handle it.” Angela stands and begins pacing. “I told you the living room was trashed. There were coke trails all over the glass top of the coffee table and she broke one of my Baccarat champagne flutes. She’s gone too far this time.”
“Where is she?”
“How do I know?” She points to narrow stairs that rise along the right wall of the living room. “I’ve been climbing those stairs and banging on her door since ten this morning. Maybe she’s gone, but maybe—”
“And you didn’t call the police?”
“What would I say? ‘Hey, my roommate’s a druggie, and she’s locked herself in her room’?”
She points to a key on the coffee table. “Caro left me that for an emergency, but I was afraid to go in there alone.”
Afraid? There goes that damn tingle.
I repeat, “The living room was a mess. Caro’s bedroom locked. And you’re afraid? I’m calling the police.”
“Noooo,” she whines. “Not at this hour. I can’t see anyone looking like this.”
I glance at my watch. Three a.m.—two Texas time. “Okay, okay. Since you’ve waited this long, I guess we can address this problem after we both get a little shut-eye.”
“No. We can’t.” Angela yanks me from the chair, drags me to the stairs and up one flight to Caro’s bedroom.
She shoves the key in my hand. “You open it.”
The lock softly clicks and the door swings in. Angela presses past me, peers down the hall and turns. “The light’s on in her bedroom. Hey, Caro? Are you decent?”
At the entrance to the bedroom Angela jerks backward. Gags. And careens past me into Caro’s bathroom.
I hesitate only a second before I will myself to step forward.
In the dim light I see ropes lashed to the wrought iron headboard wrapped around Caro’s wrists. Matted, black hair partially covers half her bruised and swollen face. One eye stares dully at the ceiling. The garrote still circles her neck.
The room reeks of industrial-strength pine-scented disinfectant.
I’ll never get used to violence. The gruesome photos I once presented to the Grand Jury as an Assistant DA in Houston were bad enough, but to see someone I knew so badly damaged is unbearable. I want to turn away, but I can’t.
How did this happen? When? I start to tremble when it dawns that Angela could have just as easily been a victim. Then I shake the surge of terror away and become the prof
essional I was trained to be.
Angela’s clammy grip makes me jump. “Is she?” “Very. We have to call the police. Now.”
She lets out a sob and starts toward the bed. “We have to cover her. People shouldn’t see her like this.”
“Hold it.” I grab her arm. “This is a crime scene. Let’s get out of here.”
Once we’ve climbed the second flight to Angela’s suite, I pick up the receiver and turn. “Before I make this call, I have to know.” “What?”
“Did you find Caro like that this morning? Is that why you called me?”
Chapter 3
THE MAN IN THE RUMPLED SUIT standing before me is very attractive in a dark, elongated sort of way, but he’s much too tall to go unnoticed in a profession that prides itself on anonymity. “This just came.” He shoves the New York Times at me, then extends his card, as a pleasant smile carves dimples into his solemn face. “I’m Detective Benjamin Greene with the New York Police Department. Nineteenth Precinct. That’s Greene with an ‘e.’” “I’m Alice Armington, the sister.”
“Of?”
“Oh, sorry. Angela Armington. This is her place. I was the one who called nine-one-one.”
The detective nods. “I’ve notified the crime scene unit. They’re on the way. Don’t worry. We don’t use sirens. We try to keep a low profile. The neighbors aren’t much in favor of murders. Runs down the real estate.”
He takes out a small spiral notepad with a bright blue cover and flips to a blank page. “How long have you been here?”
“I just flew in from Houston tonight. My sister has been disturbed about her roommate’s behavior over the past few weeks. She was going to ask her to move out.”
“And you’re here to help?”
“I guess you could say that. Moral support, mostly.”
I point toward the stairs. “The body’s one flight up. We only went as far as the entrance to the bedroom. We didn’t touch a thing.”
“Victim’s name?”
I want to tell him about Caro’s raven hair, her eyes the color of midnight. That people gawked when she entered the room. And when she told a joke she never got the punch line right. Instead I spit out the dull facts. “Carolina Montoya. Does—did upper-end modeling. Late twenties. Hails from Madrid, Spain. Here on a green card.”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 1
