Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  “Cardinal? Like the bird?”

  He studies me for a moment, probably trying to figure out how much I know. “That’s right. I’m just a poor little red bird. Your Jay Three is much more important than I.”

  When he sets his empty cup on the coffee table and stands, my heart soars. Am I going to be let off this easy?

  To my dismay, he heads for the stairs. “Is your bedroom up there?”

  He’s on the third step when the kitchen extension rings. Greene’s come through.

  I hurry through the dining room with the Cardinal in hot pursuit, scoop the phone from the wall cradle and turn to face him. “Hello?”

  It’s a relief to hear the detective say, “Sounds like you could use some diversion.”

  Grateful that Greene suggested I make up a story in advance, I smile and fill my next few words with enthusiasm. “Mom! This is a surprise. But, you’re a day early. Where on earth are you?”

  I shoot the Cardinal a discouraged pout. “Grand Central? Oh, dear. I have no car. You’ll have to get a cab, but it shouldn’t be a problem at this hour.”

  I make a few more sympathetic “oh dears” before I hang up. “I was expecting my mother tomorrow, but true to form she’s arrived a day early. I’m so sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

  He sidles toward me, a hopeful look on his face. “If your mother looks anything like you, I’d love to meet her. Threesomes can be so interesting.”

  I almost choke on that one. Think, Allie. Think. To buy time, I place my hand beneath his elbow and turn him in the direction of the front door.

  “That’s so flattering. I’m sure Mother would love to hear what you said. But Dad is with her and I’m afraid he wouldn’t quite understand.”

  His face falls. “Oh, I didn’t realize your father—that is rather unfortunate. Perhaps it would be prudent to make a quick exit.” When we reach the front door, he circles me with both arms. “So beautiful. I’ll be proud to have you by my side at the next gala. I’ll send your dress in a few days.”

  He pulls my arms to circle his neck then runs his hands down my body. “I think it should be red—to match my cape and emphasize your coloring. Size four, I’m guessing?”

  This guy’s in la-la-land, I haven’t seen a four since I was four. Oh, well, it’s his nickel. I lean to his ear and whisper coyly, “How very flattering, but I’m really a perfect ten.”

  He pulls back for another looksee. “Impossible. You’re so svelte. But, if you say so, I’ll send a ten soon enough to be altered to the size four I’m sure you are.”

  He nuzzles my neck and croons, “It’s against policy to have contact with the lovelies until after we trade them to another escort. But I’m aching to see you again—aching so badly that I can’t wait until next week. Perhaps we can arrange a quiet tête-à-tête here—” He thinks a moment. “How about Wednesday around four?”

  I go ice-cold. This is definitely not a good move. No time to panic, he’s almost out the door.

  “Oh dear, aren’t you the naughty boy.” I put on a pout and touch my forefinger to his mouth. “You mustn’t break the rules. What would they do to you if they found out?”

  He starts at that. “But I’m—”

  I can almost hear the wheels turning. The Big Kahuna wondering how much of a risk he should take, especially since it was he who made the rules.

  Caution triumphs over lust.

  Before I can answer, his mouth covers mine for what seems like an eternity.

  “You’re bright as a penny, my dear—much brighter than the usual—I’ll be counting the days.”

  Chapter 11

  INSISTENT RINGING jars me out of half-sleep. Though I didn’t have but a few sips of champagne the night before, I’m feeling plenty punk now.

  Detective Benjamin Greene sounds like he’s talking through a tin can and string. “I thought we were getting together at eleven. You keeping DA’s hours?”

  “Hardly.” I squint at the digital clock on the bedside table. Eleven forty-five. “Sorry. It was a long evening. How’s two?”

  By a quarter ‘til, I have been to Gristede’s and back, stocked the refrigerator and made myself a spectacular turkey sandwich. All I have to do is walk to my main mode of travel—the subway at Lex and Ninety-Sixth. It’s so easy to hop on there and, just a few minutes later, hop off at Sixty-Eighth.

  As I turn the corner, I see Greene standing on the sidewalk in front of the station talking to a man who seems very familiar. My heart quickens and I pick up my pace, straining to get a closer look. Have my eyes deceived me? Or do I desperately need that to be Bill Cotton, the man I once thought might share my future?

  I fell for him two years before when he was a DEA double-agent posing as the Sheriff of Uvalde County, Texas. His efforts broke up a major drug-trafficking operation that crossed the Rio Grande, but the minute the sting went down, he disappeared. Damn him. Not a word since the trial in El Paso.

  When Greene spots me, waves and calls my name, the man glances my way, then hunches into his overcoat and hurries toward Third Avenue.

  I take the last fifty yards in a lope and am so winded, it’s all I can do to blurt, “Who was that?”

  The detective shrugs. “Nobody you’d know.”

  I can’t let it go at that. “But, he looked so—familiar.”

  “Trust me. There’s no way you could begin to know him.” Somehow, I don’t believe Greene, or I don’t want to.

  The detective leads me into the warmth of the building and down the hall to his cubbyhole. “Danes will be here soon.”

  After helping me shed my coat, he points me to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  Greene settles in his. “We were able to contact the Montoya family a couple of days ago. No easy task,” he says. “Not just anybody can get through.”

  Caro’s contorted body looms before me for a brief second as the whole scene replays. I choke back rising bile to murmur, “Will someone be coming for her?”

  “No word on that, yet.”

  Greene grabs a file from the stack on the console behind him. “Want to see who you’re dealing with?” He opens it and pushes it to my side of the desk.

  The Cardinal stares up.

  I suppress a shudder and mutter, “That’s him.”

  “We’ve had him under surveillance for some time. Name’s Jason Lodge Kingsley-Smythe with the accent on Lodge. He’s pushing seventy-five, but still heads a high-profile downtown law firm, Kingsley-Smythe and Templeton. Married. Grown children. Grandchildren. Big mansion in Greenwich.”

  Greene produces an aerial shot of waterfront property. “Take a look. Ten acres, a tennis court and a couple of swimming pools with waterfalls.” He stabs the bottom of the photo. “And six hundred feet on the Long Island Sound with beachfront.”

  I cringe at the memory of that man’s tongue drilling my mouth, hating that I went along with it.

  “He’s sending me a red dress to wear next week.” “So we heard.”

  Cliff ’s whine comes over my right shoulder. “Oh, God, you didn’t give the Cardinal your phone number. If you did, I’m dead meat for sure.”

  I give him a long stare, then mutter, “Actually, I thought you might have done that for me.”

  He shakes his head and slumps into the empty chair next to mine. “Believe me, I’m not that stupid.”

  It takes him a few seconds to notice the Cardinal’s picture. When he does, he jerks forward to jab the photograph with his forefinger. “Are you saying Kingsley-Smythe is the main man?”

  He glances my way then back at the picture. “I’m absolutely flabbergasted. I know the members are prominent figures in their communities, but Jason Kingsley-Smythe? He never misses the Governor’s prayer breakfasts. He’s one of the chosen few who sit at the head table.”

  The detective runs his finger down what looks like some sort of resume. “Senior Warden of his church. Past chairman of the United Way, Planned Parenthood, the Boards of two museums and a ballet company. Ce
rtainly seems public spirited.”

  My spine puddles. A respected man like Jason Kingsley-Smythe mixed up in drugs, prostitution and murder? The idea both repulses and intrigues me.

  Greene draws another file from the stack. “We have a list of the initiated names for the first tier headed by the Cardinal and the Archbishop.”

  Cliff leans forward. “I can tell you who Javelin is. Feldon McCrae. I went through Exeter with him. Never could forget that voice. The guys called him ‘Squeaky’ right to his face.”

  The detective runs his ballpoint down the list and puts a mark by a name. “Thanks, Danes, you’ve been a big help.”

  Cliff lets out a long breath and stands. “Is that all?”

  The detective waves him out. “Just don’t leave town. We might need to talk to you again.”

  Greene gathers the photographs and shoves them into their file, then turns to me. “How did the cleanup go?”

  To my relief the professional crime-scene cleaning service crew spent hours detailing Caro’s suite—at my expense. Seems the NYPD doesn’t “do” crime-scene cleanups.

  Every shred of evidence connected to Caro’s violent end has been removed. Still, each time I pass the second floor, I shudder.

  Her remaining possessions are in a cardboard carton. Pictures of her family: her mother and father, a handsome couple—older than I expected; a distant shot of a man I supposed was her brother, who bore a striking resemblance to Caro, but looked ten years her senior; lastly, a shot of two smiling little girls that looked so much like Caro, they had to be sibs. I wondered if they were smiling now?

  A surge of sorrow overwhelms me. As far as Greene is concerned, that part of the case is over. But seeing Carolina Montoya strapped to that headboard will forever remain in my mind.

  I shove my emotions to the back burner. “So now what?”

  He rises and starts for the opening to his cubicle. “It’s back to The Castle for you. This time on Kingsley-Smythe’s arm.”

  “But, that’s almost a week from now. Can’t I do something for the department while I’m waiting? Maybe some kind of research?” Greene shakes his head. “There’s nothing more you can do for the project right now. Newark has just loaned us a real computer whiz. Detective Mindy Cha.”

  He smiles. “She was a student in one of my classes at John Jay.”

  He sees the question on my face. “John Jay College of Criminal Justice. I taught a few courses there last semester. Cha’s a very bright young woman. Maintained a three-point-nine grade point average in the joint BA/MA program. I was lucky to get her. So, you understand why I don’t want to shake her tree this early in the project.”

  He’s now hustling me toward the street door. “Why not take this opportunity to learn the city. Do a little sightseeing. Take in a few plays.”

  I can’t believe this jerk. Though I jumped at the chance to pose as Angela, suffering through a revolting evening with the Cardinal was no picnic. And now, he’s dismissing me. It’s all I can do not to kick Greene in the shins.

  The detective must read my distress because he gives me an awkward pat on my arm. “Look. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am that you volunteered to do this. And, if I thought you were even remotely in danger, I’d yank you off the case right this minute.”

  “I’m not saying that I want out. It’s just that it’s so boring between assignments.”

  He sobers. “I guess I gave you too much credit since you once were an ADA. I guess like all amateurs you think all we do is run around with our guns drawn and drag in the hundreds of perps we conveniently collar.

  “FYI, ninety-nine percent of my job is devoted to endless boring surveillances and digging through cold evidence.

  “And believe me, there’s not one of us who serves on the front line that doesn’t pray for the other ninety-nine when that one percent happens and the sphincter grabs as the heart rate rips to two hundred plus.”

  I raise my hand. “Okay. Okay. You’re right.”

  “Frankly, Danes has done all he can. He got you to New Jersey, somehow managed to tag the Cardinal, and thanks to the two of you, we have our first make. Now, you’re our only connection. You must know how crucial you are?”

  His earnest face melts my resolve. If truth be known, the moment I set foot inside The Castle with Cliff, I was snagged. All Greene had to do was set the hook and reel me in.

  Chapter 12

  A FINAL THRUST OF COLD pushes me into the stuffy vestibule, a welcome respite from the insistent gale.

  After shedding my coat, I sling my purse on the table and paw through it for the key. No key. Did I inadvertently stash it in the vase? I certainly hadn’t meant to.

  Then I cringe as I recall hearing it clink against the porcelain bottom. My mind races along with my heart. How many people knew about the key besides Caro, Angela and me? And oh, God, the Cardinal?

  Did Caro’s murderer know? Had he killed her and walked into the night as if nothing happened?

  I grab my purse and shove my hand inside to grab my Beretta. After disengaging the safety, I slowly depress the handle and crack the door.

  There’s someone on the other side. I can hear them breathing.

  I ready my weapon, shove hard with my shoulder, then stumble into the room to stop just short of falling into the arms of a very attractive man.

  Before I can get “Hands in the air” out, he sends them above his head, eyes darting, as he blurts out, “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

  My Beretta remains leveled at him.

  “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Carolina’s brother.” He lowers his hands, holding them away from his body.

  I have to admit he resembles the man in the picture I saw in Caro’s room. Maybe he is Caro’s brother—but then, maybe he isn’t. I motion him toward the couch.

  When he’s settled, he points toward his suit jacket hanging from one of the side chairs flanking the console. “I have identification.”

  Pistol still trained on him, I retrieve his wallet and look at the ID. Guillermo Montoya. The address reads Madrid. The photo matches. Seems legit. I lower the gun.

  “Thank you. It’s been a long couple of days and I’m very tired.”

  I stow the Beretta in my purse with the safety still off and sit in the chair across from him, purse perched primly in my lap. “When did you arrive, Señor Montoya?”

  “Only moments ago. I was shooting in Argentina when my father called with the news. I flew all night, then spent the next twenty-four hours getting the embassies to sign off on the papers.”

  “Papers?”

  Pain flashes across his face. “For Carolina. You know. So she—her body may be returned.”

  “Oh—yes. I’m so sorry.” Photographs of Caro’s family flash: the mother and father, the distant shot of a man who seems to resemble Guillermo and the girls, clones of Caro.

  “And the girls? How are they?” “You mean my daughters?” “They must be devastated.”

  His eyes deepen with despair. “We haven’t been able to tell them. We’re afraid it might be too much.”

  He lowers his head, crosses himself and mutters, “They lost their beloved mother not too long ago. We were in an accident. I was able to roll free of the car.” He touches a small scar on his forehead and winces. “Some reconstructive surgery was all—for me, but my beloved wife was caught in the fire. Fortunately, Carolina was able to come home and be there for them.”

  My breath leaves my body in a low moan. There’s nothing left to say except how sorry I am, but when I do, I realize how vacant it sounds.

  He takes a few seconds to compose himself, then he glances toward the stairs. “Would it offend you if I stayed in Carolina’s room tonight? I confess I already tried the door, but it seems to be locked.”

  I swallow a rising gasp. How does he know which room was hers? I ease my hand inside my purse and curl my fingers around the butt of my Beretta.

  He gives me a wan smile. “You don’t remember, do you?
But of course you wouldn’t. You were running down the steps. Almost knocked me over.”

  How could Angela forget to tell me she’d met Caro’s brother? Heat rushes to my cheeks as I try to cover. “Oh. Of course, of course I remember now. I’ll get the key.”

  I rise, take a couple of steps and turn his way. “This is really embarrassing to admit, but I guess I thought if Caro’s suite was locked, nothing else could go wrong.”

  When we reach the landing, I say, “You must be exhausted from your trip. I’ll turn on some lights and be sure there’s clean towels.”

  He grabs my arm. When I flinch he quickly releases his hold. “Please—excuse me, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather enter my sister’s room alone.”

  I watch him go slowly down the hallway to Caro’s bedroom. He turns, gives me a slight wave, then closes the door behind him.

  It’s just past nine—not even close to my usual bedtime. I wander through the living room, plumping cushions and straightening the throw pillows, then, thirsty for something cool, I head for the kitchen.

  My earlier shopping spree at Gristede’s rewards me with a bottle of chilled Chablis, a pungent, runny, French cheese and some crackers, which I carry to Angela’s suite.

  Once I’m undressed and in my robe, I settle on the chaise, pour a glass of wine and flick on the television. I munch, sip and surf until I find American Movie Channel, which is offering the 1939 black-and-white version of “An Affair to Remember” with Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne.

  The last thing I remember is realizing that the woman who played the grandmother in the earlier version reprised her role in the Cary Grant film.

  ————

  A glowering Señor Montoya leans above me, saying something Spanish.

  I look down. My robe has fallen open. I try to wrap it around me but it crumbles and sifts through my fingers like sand.

  Mustering all my courage, I say, “Señor Montoya, please return to your room. It’s late and you have jetlag.”

  He bends to touch my shoulder. “Wake up, Miss Armington.”