My tongue seems to have swollen to twice its size but I manage a slurred, “If they locked us in, we better find a way to get out.” I shine my mag on the fake bookcase. “Might want to get a closer look.”
He walks to the wall, runs his hand across the bogus book spines and turns to face me. For the briefest instant his face seems to divide. In the half-light, his steely eyes look almost evil. Sure that I must be hallucinating, I rub my own with the heels of my hands.
His words slide through my haze. “This house was built before the Civil War by an abolitionist family. It was part of the Underground Railroad.
“As boys Larry and I spent countless hours looking for the rumored secret passages. Several years later, Larry’s father took us through them. But, sadly, the thrill of discovery was lost on us since we were no longer children.
“And, if I recall—” He presses the mantle and the door slides open to reveal a dark hallway.
“Stay behind me and don’t make a sound.”
The Cardinal throws his cape over his shoulders, jams the hat on his head and disappears into the shadows.
I grab my purse and mask and stagger into the passageway. When I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I hear the measured squeak of the Cardinal’s patent-leather tux shoes.
There’s a muffled, “What the deuce?” followed by a thud and a scuffle.
I wobble forward until I reach a wall and look to my left. Silhouetted against an open doorway, two men are struggling. The shorter of the two is wearing what looks like some sort of oriental mask that I’ve seen before.
The man raises his arm. I see a faint glint as it plunges downward and the Cardinal crumples to the floor.
Chapter 19
HEART JAMMING MY THROAT, I stumble the few steps back to the library, grab the protruding edge of the door with both hands and yank. It doesn’t budge. Then I give it a frustrated whack with my fist and the false bookcase whispers across the opening. I sag against it, my breath hard and ragged, relieved that I’ve bought a little time.
Still, I can’t stop shaking. What if that man saw me? If he did, and he can open the passage from the other side, I’m as good as dead.
I lurch across the room and try the door to the main hall. Locked.
The wing chair seems to be the safest place in the room. I tuck my feet and dress beneath me. In one hand, I clutch my purse with the lifeless cell phone. My silver mask, the one the Cardinal so proudly presented to me, in the other.
I pull out my cell. Eight forty-five. That can’t be right. Then I remember it’s Houston time. Add an hour and that makes it well past nine.
The breaks in between songs must be synchronized so the couples in both places can chat, then move on at the same time. Unfortunately, the blasts coming from the tent just outside the library fight with the blare from the ballroom across the hall. Now that the drug-laced champagne haze is wearing off, I have a raging headache.
The lock clicks softly and the library door opens. I shrink into the protection of my high-backed chair, hoping whoever is there will go away. No such luck. Footsteps approach. I cringe and clamp my eyes shut until I feel a light touch on my shoulder.
There stands the Cardinal, masked and caped with his wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle. This can’t be—or can it?
Chapter 20
WHEN HE REACHES FOR MY HAND, I hesitate and check his left glove. No outline of a signet ring. My stomach caves. Someone else is wearing the Cardinal’s costume.
“Wait just a minute. I’m not going anywhere until you explain—”
The man in red grabs my hand and pulls me to stand.
I struggle out of his grasp and fall back into the chair, clutching the arms as tightly as I can. “Sorry. No can do. I was instructed to wait here.”
He ignores my feeble protest and manages to get a good enough grip on my arm so that he can hustle me through the study door and into the crowded hall.
Every few steps, I try to resist by digging my heels in—but he hauls me along behind him, nodding this way and that to the masked men and their “arm candy,” who nod back and part to let us through. Not one of them seems to notice my distress or if they do, not one seems to care.
We lurch down the front steps, turn left onto the circular driveway. Once we’re past the tent, he drags me across the broad lawn and to the building at the water’s edge.
Inside, a single bulb sways beneath the rafters giving off enough light to reveal three boat slips with a speedboat in each.
The man in red releases his hold on my arm, then rips off his broad hat and silver mask. Bill Cotton stands before me.
At first, I don’t know whether to slap him or hug him, but even though my heart wins, I stifle the urge and manage a squeaky, “You? What in hell were you doing? Dragging me around like a bratty kid. All you had to do was say who you were.”
He lowers his eyes for only a second. “I couldn’t let you know when we were in there. Believe me—it was for your own safety.”
“I knew it. You’re the DEA mole. But what are you doing in the Cardinal’s costume?”
He ignores my question and tosses the mask and hat into the stern of the nearest boat. “Later. We have to hurry.”
Bill releases the line from its cleat, jumps in and helps me down beside him. Once I’m settled, he presses the silver button on the dashboard, and the motor hums to life.
The boat glides into the channel and moves slowly past The Castle ablaze with lights. In the tent, shadows gyrate to a raucous mambo-beat.
But, what about the Cardinal’s outfit? How did Bill get it? I shake away the thought, not wanting to think about the answer.
I watch as he notches up the throttle, and we speed through the night.
When a bright light blinks from the shore, he arcs the boat landward. “There’s the signal. Right on schedule. It won’t be long now.”
The next few minutes are spent docking the boat, then we follow two men dressed in tuxes carrying Uzis to a waiting sedan.
Bill helps me into the back seat, then slips in beside me. “We don’t have long. In fact this might be the only time we’ll have together. The situation is too dangerous.”
He gathers me to him and his lips softly search mine. Despite the thousand questions that beg to be asked, I can’t pull my lips away.
When the kiss ends, neither one of us speaks. Though I’m sad the kiss is over, I feel as if I’ve reached an oasis in the desert after a very long march.
Bill’s voice resonates against my ear. “I’ve missed you, Allie. I can’t count the times I picked up the phone to call. And then when I saw you the other evening with Danes—so close. I could have reached out and touched you. God help me, I almost did.”
I think back to that first night: the dumb, overdressed women, the men in masks to conceal their identities. There was only one man besides the Cardinal that I can clearly recall—the man in the Foo Dog mask. I worry for only an instant, and shove the thought away. It couldn’t have been Bill. That man was much shorter.
The arrival of a second car sends Bill to greet it. Whoever is behind the tinted windows doesn’t emerge. Bill leans in, has a few words, then hurries back to the car.
“Kingsley-Smythe’s suffered a massive coronary. They have him on life support but it doesn’t look good. Damn. This really complicates the issue.”
The scene in the dim passageway replays. There was something about the other man—something I remember quite clearly now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.
But maybe the man didn’t stab him. Maybe the Cardinal was in the midst of the attack and he was trying to help. I file that thought away for later.
“When did it happen?”
“Does it matter? The poor man is probably dead by now.” Bill slides in next to me. “This is a major setback for my participation in the case. Kingsley-Smythe graced me with his mantle. But now—”
It’s then I remember the jewels. I touch my hand to the necklace. “These belong to Kings
ley-Smythe.”
Bill leans forward, fingers the necklace, then moves away. “I can’t deal with that now. Hang on to them, will you?”
“But they don’t belong to me. Isn’t there some way I could get them to his wife?”
He leans away into the shadows. “Not through me. I’ve only met Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe on a few social occasions.”
He’s lying. I can feel it in the depths of my gut. But why? Bill motions to one of the men, who comes our way.
When he starts to exit the car, I grab his arm. “Hey, wait a minute. When will I see you?”
“I don’t know. Not for awhile.”
He slides back in, holds up a hand, and the man stops a few feet away. “Listen carefully to what I’m about to say.”
I look into his face, trying to read his mood, but the night makes that impossible.
“Go back to Texas. You’ll be safe there.” His tone is soft, but his message isn’t.
“I can’t. Not now. I can’t leave until I find out who murdered Carolina Montoya. I owe her at least that much.”
Bill grabs my shoulders. With each word his grasp tightens. “Damn it, Allie, I’m begging you to stay out of this. I shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m in the middle of a major sting operation. People in high places will be brought down if it works. These people are deadly. You have to get out of here before they connect you to me. If they do, I won’t be able to help you.”
“Are the men with the Uzis part of the operation?” He smiles. “What do you think?”
————
It’s past midnight when I collapse on the sofa. I want a drink, but I’m too exhausted to make the effort. Instead, I lean into the cushions and shut my eyes to let the events of the evening tumble forward.
I revisit the darkened passageway. See the two men struggling. The Cardinal collapsing. The other man turning my way for only an instant before disappearing through the open door. Yes. I’m positive now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.
I leave that scene to concentrate on seeing Bill once again after so long. Feeling his lips on mine. Heaven. But I have to face it. Bill Cotton is no longer the same man I fell in love with in Texas.
“On assignment” he said, didn’t he? But what about Kingsley-Smythe? Bill has to know what happened because he was wearing the Cardinal’s costume.
That means he’s part of the action. But what part? The half of me in love with Bill wants to believe he’s one of the good guys, but the attorney in me is taking bets.
I remove the necklace and earrings and place them on the end table nearest me, then kick off the heels and prop my feet on the coffee table.
As sleep fights to win, I replay our brief encounter. The attraction between us is still as strong as ever—maybe even stronger. But my last conscious thoughts give me little comfort. When Bill said those people were deadly was he including himself?
Chapter 21
THE WHINE OF TRUCK-LIFTS, punctuated by the metallic slams of garbage cans against cement, signals the break of day. Soon a cacophony of horns drifting from Ninety-Sixth Street will add their fugue. The ever-beating pulse of Manhattan is a far cry from roosters in Lampasas or the soft swish of distant freeway traffic in Houston.
I fall back into a dream-filled sleep, and it’s past ten when I lurch down the hall to the bathroom, peer in the mirror above the sink and let out a small “Erk.”
My eyes could easily be the “Before” in the Visine ad. The smeared mascara and blotchy skin remind me of an old Texas adage: “That gal’s been rode hard and put up wet.” Worse still, both my shoulders ache like hell.
Remembering Bill’s parting words, I take a closer look. The bruises on my shoulders evidence his grasp. If he wanted to make a point, he certainly did.
The long hot shower does little to ease my malaise and the stark truth that what happened to the Cardinal was not a dream. Then I make a decision—one that I plan to execute as soon as I’m dressed.
I skip my usual warm-up stretch on the steps outside the townhouse and hurry to the sidewalk. The sky is bright blue with tiny fluffs racing overhead, and across the street children play inside the chain-link fenced schoolyard.
When I reach Second Avenue, I turn south and ease into a longer stride. It takes less than fifteen minutes to reach the Chase Manhattan Bank on Eighty-Sixth.
By the time I exit, I’ve obtained a safe-deposit box, stashed the jewels and the red leather address book, and pocketed the key.
I’m heading toward home when my cell rings. “Greene here. Where are you?”
“Near Ninetieth. I’m working off last night.”
“We need to talk. I’ll be at Blockhead’s Burritos on Second at Eighty-First.”
At a little after eleven thirty, Greene sits down across from me. We order a burrito to split and two iced teas.
After we each take a couple of sips Greene says, “How did you get home last night?”
I can’t give Bill up. At least not yet. Not until I know the truth.
I jam my mind into third gear and take a couple of sips for a delay. “Why do you ask?”
“I was told you weren’t there.” “But I was. Who was looking?”
“It doesn’t matter. Kingsley-Smythe died last night. Massive coronary. The EMS came. Kept him on support until the party was over. Didn’t want to upset the guests.”
It’s amazing how easy the lies can come once you’re into them. I gasp, then plunge into mine. “Oh, my God. No. I didn’t know. He had a meeting. Sent me home with the chauffeur.”
Even though I’m zipped up to my neck in my warm-up suit, I feel icy cold. Then it’s true, Kingsley-Smythe was killed. And it looks like I’m the only witness—other than the Cardinal’s murderer.
I take a couple more sips and say, “Will there be an autopsy?”
Greene’s brow creases. “Why would there be? Besides, that’s up to the Greenwich coroner.”
“But didn’t he die in New Jersey?”
“I guess you could say he technically kicked the bucket in New Jersey.”
He looks at the bottom of his empty glass for a few seconds, then says, “I guess you can say that since they kept him on life support. But they pulled the plug in Greenwich.”
So they pronounced Kingsley-Smythe dead at a Greenwich hospital. How very convenient. No autopsy. No probing questions.
We both stare away. Then Greene says, “I do have some good news. They picked up Angela’s ‘plastic surgeon,’ Haley Granger, and his group last night. Guess the gang got a little careless. I helped process them this morning. Looks like they’ll be cooling their heels in lockup until the arraignment.”
My first thought is Angela. “Will my sister have to testify?”
He shakes his head. “She’ll probably have to come up when the case is brought to trial.”
————
The burrito lies like lead in my stomach, so I walk back to the townhouse and flop on one of the chairs in the living room.
I should feel relieved that my treasures are safely stashed. Instead, I’m just short of indulging in a few “poor me” tears over the ever elusive Bill Cotton. Is he telling me the truth? I don’t think so. And what in hell am I doing here?
What did I think I was going to do? Save the world from a group of stupid high-powered jerks that are playing dangerous games in New Jersey? End prostitution forever? Cut off the Colombian pipeline?
Duncan’s old admonition, “Just another cockamamie stunt,” echoes. But things are much worse than cockamamie this time.
I haven’t picked up the phone to call Angela or my parents since I paid the first visit to The Castle, and I desperately need to hear a familiar voice. News about Harley Granger is the perfect excuse to call my sister.
The phone rings forever before Angela answers.
I give an overly enthusiastic, “It’s me. I’m so glad I caught you. What’s new?”
There’s a long silence on her end. One I didn’t expect. I hoped for the same enthusiastic r
esponse from a sister who’s missed her sib. Instead I get a wary, “Oh, hi. How are you?”
How am I? I’ve stepped into Angela’s shoes, albeit willingly, and she wants to know about my health? No questions about how the New Jersey party turned out? No questions about Caro’s family or her remains and where they are?
“Alive. And how are you?” Another silence. “Fine.”
In the background I hear a muffled male voice—a very familiar male voice. But that can’t be. I glance at my watch. Two. That makes it one o’clock Houston time. It’s Tuesday. What would Duncan be doing in my apartment in the middle of the day? Unless—
Anxious to get out of what I realize I’ve inadvertently stepped into, I blurt, “Hey, I can’t talk now. Got to run. Got to be down at the precinct in fifteen minutes. Call you tonight, okay?”
Before Angela can respond, I break the connection. If I remember correctly, Duncan wasn’t particularly anxious to pick up Angela at the airport. And when was it that he called to “report” and mentioned that he’d seen her quite a bit?
How could I forget? That was the night Jaime Platón trashed Caro’s room. Has there been enough time for the two of them to fall in love? I suppose.
I try to stanch the invading jealousy by running down a list of reasons why I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I was the one who dumped Duncan and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s just a friend, nothing more. Actually, the two of them would be perfect for each other. Still, the list is far too short.
Chapter 22
THE TELEPHONE JERKS me to attention. Is Angela calling me back? I hesitate because I don’t want to deal with her lame excuses. Not now.
Still—I yank the receiver to my ear. “It’s your nickel.” “Miss Armington?”
“Yes?”
“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe—Mrs. Jason Kingsley-Smythe. I believe you have something that belongs to me.” “I beg your pardon?”
“Look, I know you have his granny’s necklace and earrings. And I’m telling you straight out, no cheap bimbo is getting away with that much just for a one-night-stand.”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 8
