Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  I start, eyes snapping wide. The LED on the alarm clock reads eleven thirty. Señor Montoya, wearing a silk robe, stands before me.

  I gasp and glance down to see my robe is tightly wrapped around me.

  “I am very sorry to disturb you, Miss Armington. I couldn’t sleep so I went downstairs to read. When your phone kept ringing, I answered the extension in the kitchen. A most unhappy man demanded to speak with you.

  He points to the portable on the nightstand.

  Duncan’s voice assaults my ear. “And who exactly was that?” “Carolina Montoya’s brother.”

  “Well, that explains it. Don’t worry, I asked for Angela. Your sister gave me the drill.” “Thanks. What’s up?”

  “Angie seems to have settled in—” Duncan’s voice fades as I concentrate on Montoya’s leisurely exit from my bedroom. The man is studying a painting on Angela’s wall. He doesn’t fool me. He’s trying to hear what I’m talking about. What cheek.

  Duncan is saying, “—been seeing her quite a bit. Allie, are you listening?”

  When Montoya finally disappears, I try to pick up the lost threads. “Of course I’m listening. That’s so nice of you.”

  “Angie says you’re standing in for her. Something to do with her roommate’s murder?”

  Did he say Angie? Angela detests anyone that calls her by nickname. She’ll set him straight in a nanosecond. “I guess you could say that.”

  His next words are loaded with exasperation. “Oh, dear God. Is this another one of your cockamamie escapades? I haven’t forgotten what happened in Uvalde. You were almost killed. Remember?”

  Chapter 13

  DAMN TELEPHONE. The ringing won’t stop. In my half-sleep I grab for it, push the “Talk” button and drag it to my ear. “It’s Greene. Is your door locked?”

  I rise on one elbow and through slitted eyes make out nine forty-five. “I’m not sure. What’s up?”

  “Please verify.”

  I stumble out of my warm cocoon and lurch toward the door. Halfway there I remember that I locked it after hanging up from Duncan’s call.

  I feel my way back to the bed. “It’s locked. What’s this all about?”

  “Get dressed, but do not leave your room until I get there. Understand?”

  I snap out of my haze. Greene must have gotten wind of my visitor. “Is this about Caro’s brother?”

  Dead silence on the other end, then Greene’s wary, “What about him?”

  “He’s here. Poor man was exhausted so I put him up in Caro’s room. But listen, Greene, Montoya doesn’t know anything about what happened to his sister. You know—the gory stuff? Isn’t there some way we can smooth things over? The family doesn’t need to know all the details.”

  “We’ll talk about that when I get there. Just stay put.”

  “What’s with the cloak and dagger? Gunning for that dreaded one percent?”

  “Very funny. I’ll explain when I see you. Just keep that door locked.”

  Resisting the urge to alert poor Montoya, I shower and dress, then plop on the chaise and turn on the TV. I flick through the menu twice, not really paying attention to the programs, since my main focus is on getting a caffeine fix.

  After what seems like an eternity, I hear footsteps on the stairs. “It’s Greene. Open up. I brought you some Java.”

  “Bless you, bless you. I was about to have a meltdown.”

  I take the steaming Styrofoam cup and sidle past him to head downstairs when I realize he’s not alone. On the landing below, two plainclothes have their weapons drawn and pointed at the entrance to Carolina’s suite.

  “What in hell is this about? That poor man is probably dead asleep. You’re going to scare him out of his wits.”

  “I doubt that.” Greene grabs my arm and pushes me behind him.

  “Wait a minute. Do you have a warrant?”

  The detective flashes a familiar piece of paper. “I was trained to go by the book, Miss Ex-DA. Okay. Let’s do it.”

  One of the men bangs on the door, “Police. Open up.”

  I cower behind Greene’s protective mass, but manage to squeak, “This is ridiculous. Montoya is here to claim his sister’s body. This is no way to treat a grieving man.”

  In slow motion the man pushes the door into Carolina’s suite and wraps into the darkness. “Nobody’s here.”

  I’m at Greene’s heels when he charges into the chaos. Drawers yanked out of their slides, comforter and pillows slashed to shreds, upended chair burping stuffing.

  Greene looks around the room, slumps and mutters, “We’re too late. The sonovabitch must have gotten what he came for.”

  ————

  A locksmith has just finished changing out the front lock and is heading for the kitchen to replace the lock there.

  Greene sits across from me as I tremble the Styrofoam cup of coffee to my lips for a third try and welcome the semi-molten trickle on my tongue.

  “You say the man who was here last night isn’t Montoya?” “That’s right.” The detective leans forward. “But much of what that man told you is true. Montoya was in South America and returned to Madrid to get permits to export his sister’s body.” Greene looks down at his notepad for a few seconds, makes the customary tick with his pen, then continues. “Montoya arrived at JFK yesterday around three.”

  He reads one page and half of another, then looks up. “They found his body in the men’s room near Baggage Claim. The prelim showed a massive contusion to the back of the head. Someone must have lured Montoya into the bathroom and did him in.”

  I take a bigger swig and cringe, unsure if it’s the scald or the icy shard jabbing my stomach. “And the man who said he was Señor Montoya?”

  “No idea.” Greene shifts his lank in the chair, crosses his legs and turns to a blank page. “Can you describe him?”

  I run down the list. “Medium height and handsome. Dark complexion. Nice brown eyes. Slight accent. Hair slicked back, but not in a greasy, unattractive way.”

  “Any scars or unusual features?”

  I visualize Montoya or whoever he is touching the small scar on his forehead. “A half-inch-long scar on his forehead—right side. He said he was in an auto accident—said his wife was killed in the wreck.”

  Greene’s eyebrows arch. “You must have had quite a chat.”

  I shudder realizing how easy it would have been for the stranger to kill me. “We talked for almost an hour. He was polite—even solicitous. Frankly, I didn’t get the feeling that he was a murderer.”

  He scribbles something. “That’s what’s so puzzling. He must have known you weren’t Angela.”

  “Not necessarily. He claims to have met me briefly on the steps last summer.”

  One of the men comes down the stairs. “Your battery must be dead. Headquarters has been trying to reach you for the last half hour.”

  Greene plays with his cell for a second or two and shakes his head. “Dead as dirt. Isn’t anything gonna go right today?”

  He looks around and waves at his cohort’s phone. “May I?” Then, muttering a string of cuss words, he steps into the outer vestibule.

  He returns, tosses the cell back to its owner and slumps in the chair. “Jesus, this is getting more complicated by the minute. Seems the DEA had a man on the flight out of Madrid. Apparently, Montoya realized he was being followed and bolted. By the time the guy caught up, Montoya was dead.”

  “Then who?” He shrugs.

  “No idea, but we’ll catch—”

  The shrill buzz of the doorbell cuts off his last words. Greene steps to one side, draws his heavy-duty police issue and motions me to answer. “You’re about as covered as you can get, but if you see a gun, drop.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  A man in chauffeur’s livery says, “Miss Armington?”

  He shoves a long plastic dress bag into my right hand, an ecru envelope into the other and hustles down the steps.

  Greene grabs the hanger and removes the plas
tic to reveal a scarlet taffeta evening dress.

  After he looks it over, he hands it back. “What’s in the note?” The penmanship is barely legible:

  I sincerely hope you like my choice. It’s a ten, as promised, hope it fits. Wear no jewelry. I will supply that. Please be ready at seven.

  C

  I look up. “No formal signature, just a big capital C.”

  I hand the note to Greene who scans and pockets it, then motions me to sit.

  After pacing for a minute, he takes the chair next to mine. “You can’t stay here any longer. Maybe that guy posing as Montoya thinks you’re Angela—maybe not. But it’s plain this situation is too dangerous.”

  I remember the trashed room and how I felt when I first saw it, but for some strange reason I can’t believe that man is after me. “If I bolt now, the Cardinal will know something’s up for sure.”

  Greene’s chin juts forward. “Maybe, but after what went down here last night, you’re nothing but a crime waiting to happen.”

  “I don’t really think so. Consider this. Whoever that man was, he could have killed me. He didn’t. Why?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting to see what you do next. Hell, I’m not a mind reader, but the fact that he was able to gain entry to the house so easily makes me wonder.”

  “Then let’s show him what I’m doing next. I’m telling you, deep down I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  Greene slumps back into his chair. “So, I gather you’re not leaving?”

  “Not unless you give me a damn good reason.”

  “How about this reason? Montoya wasn’t shooting in Argentina. He was in Colombia—in Medellín to be specific.” “Are you saying Caro’s family is connected to drugs?” “Unconfirmed, but it sure looks that way.”

  “That’s a pretty damning indictment. Isn’t there any way you can verify it?”

  The detective gives me a slow nod. “I’ll have to go through channels. It could take a couple of days.”

  The silence hangs heavy between us until Greene stands and pronounces, “So, I guess what I’m asking is, do you want a deluxe funeral or just a simple wooden box?”

  Chapter 14

  IT’S NEARLY FIVE and dark by the time I fight my way out of Gristede’s with a grocery sack in each arm.

  After struggling up the front steps, I dump the sacks on the table and rummage around the bottom of my purse for the elusive key. I was going to buy a bulky key chain so the search would be easier, but the day got away before I could.

  I start to push the key into the lock and the door swings in. Prickles skitter across the back of my neck. Then I remember the locks have been changed. Then too, I might not have pulled the door completely shut.

  I make my way through the darkened living and dining rooms to plunk the groceries on the nearest counter, turn and freeze.

  The man who calls himself Guillermo Montoya is sitting at the small round table. Though he wears a pleasant look on his face, his hand is on the butt of a large weapon that rests on the table in front of him.

  As Greene’s warnings echo, my stomach loops and a sour wave surges at the back of my throat. After I swallow hard a couple of times and manage to grab a few breaths, my brain finally kicks in.

  Every detail of the small kitchen stands out: the filthy stove, the groaning refrigerator, the faucet with the incessant drip.

  And then there’s the imposter: still as handsome as I remember, wearing a chocolate-brown suede jacket with matching cable-knit turtleneck sweater.

  My eyes again cut to the firearm on the table before him—much bigger than my Beretta.

  “Buenas tardes.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling and puts his hand to his chest. “Sorry, I mean good evening. Please. Don’t be startled. I planned to wait outside for you, but when I tried the door it was open. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s so much more comfortable in here.”

  I toggle my mind to escape-mode. The distance to the front hall, where I left my purse containing my Beretta and cell phone, is too far to make. Montoya, or whoever he is, can fire before I take a step.

  His voice breaks through my scattered thoughts. “I came by because I owe you an apology and at least some sort of compensation for the damage.”

  I remain mute—heart fluttering like a scared rabbit’s—tongue three times its size. Then I try the old stare-at-the-forehead trick, and will my voice to respond. Not one ounce of cooperation.

  His brow furrows. “Dios mío, you are as pale as a ghost.” He points to the empty chair across the small table from him. “Por favor, Señorita—have a seat.”

  When I do, he settles back into his chair. “Ahhh. Some color is returning to your cheeks. A good sign, no?”

  He draws his wallet and flips it open to reveal a gold badge. “Please. My name is Jaime Platón. I am associated with the Colombian National Police on assignment with the DEA International Training Section. The TRI.”

  He waits for a response and when none comes, he says, “You think I murdered your friend.”

  At last, I find my voice. “You lied to me. You said you were Caro’s grief-stricken brother—a heartbroken widower. Then you trashed her room and beat it. What do you expect?”

  He lowers his eyes. When he looks up, I see pain. “I did not lie about losing my wife. Unfortunately, that part was true. But I assure you I did not kill Miss Montoya. You must believe me.”

  I point to his weapon. “Why should it matter whether I believe you or not? You’re in control here.”

  He drags his revolver off the table and slides it into a holster beneath his suede jacket. “Old habit, sorry.”

  I relax a little. “Did you find what you came for?”

  “Sad to say, I didn’t. But I’d bank my life that it’s still here.”

  My pulse kicks up a notch. “Whatever it is must be really valuable.”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Maybe I can help you look. But, you’ll have to tell me what to look for.”

  He studies me for a minute then says, “A small red address book. Miss Montoya stole it. And, unfortunately, the big boys were well aware that she did.”

  I suppress a shudder wondering just who the “big boys” are. “Names and addresses? Is that all?”

  “We haven’t actually seen the book. The DEA is sure it holds the key to a major drug-trafficking cartel and a very profitable prostitution ring, both rumored to be headed by a woman. Most unusual, no? If we can get our hands on that, it would give us a big foot up.”

  He must see my amusement because he says, “Not foot?” “I think you’re looking for leg.”

  “Yes. Of course. Leg. It’s the small things in a language that are so difficult to master.”

  I ignore his obvious attempt to win me over—still gauging my chances for escape—still wondering what I’ll do if he makes a move—any move.

  “Angela? May I call you that?”

  I’m not computing all his jargon. I got it that he’s a Colombian and working with the DEA but—the TRI? New to me.

  He doesn’t seem to catch my confusion. “When the DEA discovered Miss Montoya’s brother was visiting in Medellín, I was assigned to tail him. Things seemed to be going well until—” He raises his hands in exasperation then slaps his knees. “Montoya suddenly darted into the crowd and disappeared. I went to baggage, hoping to catch him there, and by the time I got back through security, his body had been discovered.”

  “So you assumed his identity?”

  “You could say that.” He pockets his wallet. “When the police reported they didn’t turn up any evidence, we had to get into this building. Make a search on our own. It was imperative that we get to the little red book before—”

  He gives a small shrug and a smile. “Since I somewhat resemble Montoya, I was chosen.”

  “You keep saying ‘We.’ Just exactly who are you talking about?”

  “I just explained who. Weren’t you listening?”

  I give him an indifferent look but ben
eath my nonchalance is the hope that maybe, just maybe, he might know Bill Cotton. “You mentioned the DEA.”

  “Correct. I am attached to the DEA’s International Training Section—the TRI.”

  He eyes me a few seconds then says, “You must know Miss Montoya was using.”

  I look away, remembering the fun-loving beauty I shared a lot of wine and confidences with. The woman who literally saved my job for me and, when I offered her a cut of the profits, laughed it off. That Caro was funny and nice.

  Then I remember that Angela had seen her darker side. “Your roommate was a mule. Have you heard that term?” “Someone paid to transport drugs into the U.S.?”

  “Correct. We are unclear as to why Miss Montoya wanted to be recruited, but it is rumored she was one of the best. The fact that she was a supermodel provided a perfect cover. She raked in quite a nice profit for her services, but then she was caught—”

  His eyes search the ceiling as he mutters several words to himself, then he grins. “It’s what you Americans call skimming. Do you know the word?”

  “Yes. But why would she do that? You said she didn’t need money.”

  “Could be she liked flirting with danger. The cartel factors losses like drug busts and discovery into their costs, but when a mule skims and is discovered—” He runs his forefinger across his throat.

  “Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time.” Platón reaches inside his jacket, takes out a cashier’s check and inches it toward me. “Here. That should more than cover the damage to your roommate’s bedroom.”

  I slide it from the table and give it a once-over. Fifteen hundred dollars? That should more than make up for his destruction. “That’s quite generous. Is this from the DEA?”

  He slowly shakes his head. “Unfortunately, your government doesn’t pay for destruction of property. But, I do.”

  He rises. “Well, my mission here is complete.” He hesitates, pulls out a card, scribbles something and hands it to me. “Who knows? You just might find that book. If you do, how about putting it in the right hands?”

  I take the card and see the number has a D.C. area code.