He extends his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Armington. Perhaps we’ll meet again under better circumstances.”
“Yes, perhaps we will.”
He disappears, then I hear his returning steps.
Platón hands me my purse. “You left this in the front hall. You really shouldn’t be without your Beretta.”
Chapter 15
AFTER UNPACKING THE GROCERIES and stowing each item in its proper place, I take out a half-full bottle of California Chardonnay, fill a wine glass and sip. I don’t even taste it. That’s not what my mind is on. It’s the address book.
I’m pretty sure Caro’s suite is squeaky clean. After they removed her body, Greene’s team and the crime scene investigators scoured her rooms.
And later Platón had come up empty-handed after tearing Caro’s bedroom to shreds. Still, my gut tells me the man has to be right. The book is here—somewhere.
Both teams swept the third floor as well, but maybe—just maybe.
I climb the two flights to Angela’s suite and for the next half hour go through every drawer in the bedroom, then every shelf in the closet. Next, the bathroom medicine cabinet, linen cupboard and the drawers beneath. Clean.
I ease down the wall onto the bathroom floor and give a little shiver when my legs come in contact with the chilly white tiles.
The shock fades when I turn my attention to the bathroom sink. No place to hide a thing. It’s flush with the backsplash and mounted on four thin chrome legs. The tub is cemented to both the floor and the walls. The toilet is crammed between the sink and the tub with only enough room to fit a recessed toilet paper roll.
I crawl toward the toilet, lean over the bowl and sweep the back of the tank with both hands. Zip.
Maybe it’s in the tank. Isn’t that the druggies’ choice place for stash? I stand and lift the lid. Empty.
I plunk it back in place, lower the lid to the toilet and settle on it. Pre-war bathrooms are noted for being less than luxurious and this bathroom is no exception. Even the toilet paper holder is poorly set.
I reach over, grab the roll and try to wrestle the holder into the wall. Then I stop. Pull. And out it pops. A plastic sandwich bag is thumbtacked to the wall behind the toilet paper holder. In that bag is a small red book.
My laugh reverberates off the tiles. Caro was pretty damn smart. As I recall, the crime scene teams were composed of men. Platón is a man. What man has ever bothered to replace an empty toilet paper roll?
————
I wait in Greene’s office while the lab scans the cashier’s check for fingerprints.
The detective listens to my slightly altered tale, which includes just about everything they might have picked up on tape starting with Jaime Platón’s assertion that he is a member of the Colombian National Police and is on assignment to the DEA.
Greene dutifully jots down my words in a brand-new spiral notepad with a bright yellow cover while whistling that boring one-note tune beneath his breath. It’s like he can’t remember whatever follows those first few notes, and it’s beginning to get on my nerves.
He looks up from his notebook. “FYI, we have everything Platón said on tape. I was interested in his reference to a small red leather address book. We’ve been looking for it too.”
I swallow hard, keenly aware that I’m withholding a vital piece of evidence. And as an officer of the court, I could be found in contempt and probably sentenced to do some time.
I don’t know why I can’t give it up. Maybe it’s the power issue—possessing something everyone wants but only you have. And then there’s the question of who? Do I give it to Greene? Or call the number with the D.C. area code that Platón gave me?
I’ve been through every single page of the book—just a bunch of names and numbers. The first few pages are filled with women’s names. Caro’s name was listed but, to my relief, not Angela’s.
Toward the back there are strange names like Damian, Eagle, Firebird, Giant, Horus and Ishtar followed by a string of numbers that don’t make sense to me but must be valuable to someone.
Greene’s words break through. “I’m sure the book is still at the crime scene. Even though we did a thorough search during the initial investigation we came up empty-handed. Apparently, so did Platón. Any ideas?”
I swallow a couple of times before I manage, “Not really. After all, you’re the professional.”
Chapter 16
THE NOTE, delivered by hand this morning, is written in the same barely legible penmanship as the first.
There has been a change in plans. I will pick you up at five. As I mentioned in my previous note, I will supply your jewelry.
C
Greene reads it. “This is not good.”
My heart ratchets up to full speed. Action, at last. Then I read Greene’s concern and remember his lecture on the one percent. “Something’s up?”
He gives me a vigorous nod. “Ohhh, yesss. Something’s definitely up. And that’s the problem. As you pointed out the other day, Jersey’s not in our jurisdiction. The only reason we’re even slightly involved in this case is because Carolina Montoya and the three other murdered women were regulars at those parties. All four of them lived in this precinct—all four died by the same MO.”
He pulls a folded paper out of his pocket, reads it over, then hands it to me.
“This fax from one of my Jersey sources reports there’s rumor of a raid tonight. But he stresses that it’s only a rumor. And since the DEA won’t blow their source’s cover, you’ll be pretty much on your own.”
I ignore the uneasy feel in my gut and ask myself what could be so dangerous? My first trip to Disney New Jersey with Cliff was a snap. And this trip is with the Cardinal. Looks to me like the only threat will be the amorous attentions of an old man. Revolting as they were, I give myself a small pat on the back for handling the situation pretty well.
And, let’s face it. Nobody, but nobody will mess with the Big Kahuna.
Chapter 17
AT ONE MINUTE TO FIVE I descend the steps with Angela’s mink draped casually over my shoulders. The liveried chauffeur stands beside the open door of the Mercedes 500 as the Cardinal beckons me to join him in the back seat.
When the mink slides from my shoulders, his eyes travel the strapless scarlet taffeta to rest on the upward push of my breasts. “Magnificent. Far better than I could ever have imagined.”
After the car leaves the curb, the Cardinal presents a flat velvet case with a flourish. “These were my grandmother’s.”
When he opens the box, I let out a squeak of delight. The necklace is composed of sizeable pear-shaped rubies framed with tiny pavé diamonds connected by larger diamonds. The matching earrings are equally as unusual.
He runs his forefinger slowly across each of the rubies. “This particular set was one of several left to me, but by far my favorite.”
————
We make our way through the gridlock to the Holland Tunnel and onto Highway 78. We’re mired in the last of Newark’s evening rush when a cell phone rings.
I start, then relax when I realize it’s not mine. The Cardinal pulls one from his inside pocket. “Yes?”
He abruptly turns away and lowers his voice. “But Larry, you must be there. If we don’t stand together, there’s no telling what—”
After he hangs up, he turns to me with sad eyes. “Unfortunately, my friend will not be coming tonight. He’s dining with his family.”
When I mumble my sympathy, the Cardinal pats my hand. “I’m afraid things have come to an impasse concerning our original scheme. In the beginning our goal was to meet some new women and have a good time. But now, there’s a younger group of men I really don’t know very well. They think we’re old-fashioned and want to play showdown. I foresaw no problems when I first asked you to come but now that Larry has backed out, I have great concerns.”
He knocks on the glass partition. When the chauffeur lowers it, he says, “Please pull over when y
ou are able.”
When the partition slides back into place and the car pulls off the Turnpike, the Cardinal turns to me. “I’m not so sure it was such a wise move to bring you along. There could be trouble.” He looks at his watch. “But I promised these men I would meet with them and it’s really too late to cancel.”
That’s a relief. Since I volunteered to do this, I need to carry it through.
I give him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure everything will be all right.”
“I’ll make sure it is, my dear. Don’t you worry.”
When he places his left hand over mine and gives a small squeeze, I notice the signet ring. “That’s a beautiful ring. Unusual to see a crest in an oblong.”
“Yes. It is a bit unusual.” He studies it a moment, then smiles. “It was my father’s. My grandfather gave it to him when he graduated college. I believe the crest comes from the Lodge branch of the tree.”
It’s near dusk by the time we reach the gate and sweep up the lane past Station Two. The dimly lit parking lot is empty except for the buses used to transport guests to The Castle.
In the twilight, the imposing fortress looms much larger than before. Behind, I make out a lawn that slopes to a long, low building at the water’s edge.
When the chauffeur opens my door, I turn to grab Angela’s mink, and the Cardinal says, “No point in dragging that along, my dear. I don’t think we’ll be here that long. Just leave it in the car.”
Leave it in the car? Damn. That means he’s not planning to make a trade. But, if I don’t get traded tonight, chances are I won’t be able to get any more information.
My weak, “I was hoping we might get in a few dances,” brings a smile.
“If there’s time, my dear. If there’s time.”
I grab the fur and have it halfway out of the back seat when the Cardinal grabs hold and pulls it back in.
His tone has lost its pleasant lilt. “We’ll leave the coat in the car. There’s no place for it inside.”
The chauffeur takes my arm and sees me to the front steps while the Cardinal gathers his costume from the front seat.
He hands me a silvery Harlequin accented with scarlet plumes that match the scarlet of my dress. The eyelashes and brows are engraved. I run my fingers across the finely etched lines and exclaim, “It’s beautiful.”
He beams. “I designed and made it myself.”
The two-story gallery is empty. Above, the Venetian chandeliers are dark. The only light comes from low-lit sconces flanking the mirrors.
We skirt the cordoned stair bearing the same sign: By invitation only.
To the right, several steps past the ladies’ room entrance where I first met the Cardinal, is a pleasant fire-lit room.
The Cardinal ushers me in. “As you can see, this is the library. It’s always been my favorite part of The Castle—so cozy. You’ll be comfortable here.”
To one side of the book-lined room sits a grand piano. And situated in front of a fireplace with an imposing stone mantle and a Chippendale mirror above it is a pair of Queen Anne style wing chairs. On the table between them, a bottle of Dom Perignon cools in a silver bucket next to a single champagne flute.
The Cardinal arranges his cape on the back of one of the chairs, then grabs my hand and scans me from head to toe. “The rubies are dimmed by your beauty.”
My cheeks fill with heat. I lower my eyes, then give a half-curtsey. “Thank you.”
He leads me to the other chair. “Make yourself comfortable.” Then he points toward the piano. “Do you play?”
“No. But I love the classics.”
“I rather prefer jazz, and that piano is perfect for jazz compositions. It has four more bass keys than a regular eighty-eight.” He goes to the piano and riffs the lower notes. “I’ll play something for you when I return from the meeting.”
After another interminable kiss he busies himself with opening the champagne. This gives me time to scope out the room.
Books line the walls from floor to an ornately carved and gilded ceiling that shimmers with indirect lighting. Between the stacks, ormolu sconces emit a muted golden glow. There are no windows.
The Cardinal places the glass in my hand. “You take this. I’ll have a glass when this mess is over.” He raises his empty hand in a mock toast, “Happy days.”
I lift the flute, then hesitate. No point in mucking up my brain.
He gives me an expectant look. “I said ‘happy days.’” Again, he raises the phantom glass to his lips. “It’s unlucky not to observe a toast.”
I take a sip. The bubbles pop on my tongue and release the most divine flavor that lingers for only a second.
Voices, then footsteps on the stairs, take his attention.
“Ah, they’re here.” He moves to the chair, dons his hat, mask and cape, then pulls on the white gloves all the members seem to wear.
“I shouldn’t be gone very long. Please don’t be alarmed, my dear, I’m locking you in here for your own safety.”
“But that isn’t necessary. I’m not going anywhere.”
He gives me what seems to be an endless stare. “I’m not worried about you. Or where you might go, my dear. It’s whom you might encounter and what might happen to you then.”
He shuts the door behind him and a bolt clicks into place. When the footsteps and voices fade, I try the door. It doesn’t budge. “Whom” I might encounter? “What” might happen to me? That’s a veiled threat if I ever heard one. My safety, my ass. Maybe he knows who I really am and who I’m working with. If he does, I’m toast.
I return to the chair and reach for my purse, a knockoff of a shell-shaped Judith Leiber encrusted with fake rubies and zircons. Too bad it isn’t big enough to hold more than the cell that Greene insisted I bring.
I turn on the cell and circle the room hoping for a signal. No luck there, but on my initial expedition I discover something very curious.
Just to the left of the fireplace is a section of the bookcase that isn’t what it appears to be. The “shelves” are wood strips pasted onto some sort of sturdy background. The “books” are title spines pasted as well. In the dim light no one would notice the difference.
I take the few steps back to my evening purse to stow the cell and grab my key ring that has a small but powerful mag light.
The beam picks up a crack that runs the length of the piece. Could that be the top of a door? When I kneel and run my hand along the floor at the bottom of the stack, I feel a slight rush of air.
Aha, Watson, what have we here? I push. No give at all.
I top my glass with champagne, settle into one of the chairs and take a sip.
I again shine the mag light on the area and study the faux bookcase. If the door doesn’t push inward, it has to slide. Since it can’t retract into the fireplace, the release mechanism must be on the fireplace side.
Curiouser and curiouser. I rise to run my fingers down the stones edging the fireplace. Nothing. Then I make another try at pressing inward and feel a slight give—just enough to encourage me.
I lean down to shine the light on the lower fireplace stones. That’s a big mistake. The room spins.
What’s the matter with me? I can’t seem to focus.
My knees give way and I damn Kingsley-Smythe for drugging me. The last thing I remember is the sound of the champagne flute rolling across the wooden floor.
Chapter 18
“WHAT’S WRONG, DEAR GIRL?” A hand gently rubbing mine brings me out of the darkness to see the Cardinal’s concerned face floating above me.
I’m lying in front of the fireplace, the key ring still clutched in my right hand.
I try to roll to the side I usually sleep on, but he firmly restrains my shoulder and says, “Are you able to sit?”
I make an attempt but the room rocks. “No way I’m going anywhere right now.”
I crack one eye. The room seems to be as it should be. Then I open the other and the room tilts. Bad mistake. I suppress a rising
gag. “I’m really dizzy. Maybe some water would help.”
“You do look a little pale. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
The Cardinal’s return draws me from my fog. “Seems they’ve locked us in. This doesn’t bode well at all.”
He grabs my hand. “Let’s get you in that chair.”
I shake my head and snatch out of his grasp. “Wait a few, will you?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t play games with me. That champagne was drugged.”
He glances toward the bottle, then back at me. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I took maybe four sips of that stuff and I feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”
“But, my dear, the bottle was here when we arrived. I opened it, remember?”
He helps me into the chair, then drags the bottle from the cooler, holds it in mid-air for a second and jams it back into the ice. “Damn. I should have suspected something was up when they looked so surprised to see me.”
He lets out a long breath and settles in the other chair. “The meeting didn’t go well at all. Without Larry’s support, there was little I could do to stop what they call ‘progress.’ Those young men have crossed the line. They want to make illegal drugs available to anyone who’ll pay.”
I lick my parched lips and then murmur, “Maybe they already have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe they’re selling drugs upstairs.” “Upstairs? How can you know that?”
I shrug and look away.
He doesn’t seem to notice my evasion. “Larry handles all the activities on the second floor and runs a tight ship. No. You must be mistaken about the drugs.”
I bite my tongue on that one. “Maybe. But what about the prostitutes?”
“Prostitutes? Oh, I wouldn’t call those darling lovelies names if I were you. They’re our guests here at The Castle. Most of them are college girls just looking to have a good time.”
“Oh, I just bet they are.”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 7
