He pauses, then says, “It could be this man has never been booked so he’s not in the system. But, don’t worry, we’ll keep looking.”
I hear conversation in the background, then a “thanks” from Greene. “I was just handed the half-page write-up on Kingsley-Smythe in the Times. Not a bad looking old dude. He was cremated. There’s to be a memorial service at a later date. You might want to pick up a copy. I’m putting this in his file.”
“Thanks. And thanks for getting me out of the townhouse so quickly.”
“My pleasure.” Then Greene says, “I need to tell you something else. Don’t freak out, but word has it Bill Cotton flipped and is working for the other side.”
My heart stops and air leaves my lungs. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m sure you know he was a double agent.”
“Yes. Bill once told me he played both sides but, if he was caught by the wrong people, he could be convicted and end up in prison.”
“Is that so? I don’t know much about the DEA or their double agents, but surely they protect their own.”
“Not according to Bill. Apparently, the DEA ‘loses’ double agents all the time. They inform recruits about that right up front. It’s part of the job risk.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. This is new information and let me stress it’s only a rumor. The Medellín may have ID’d him as DEA and are circulating the rumor to compromise his position.”
He starts in on that infernal one-note whistle and I know trouble is coming.
Finally he says, “In spite of what I’ve just told you, there’s only one man left to ask.”
I beat him to it. “Bill Cotton.”
Another long silence. “How do you feel about that?” “How am I supposed to feel?”
“I’ve called all the people who should know who’s doing what for who. Nothing. Cotton’s like Jello. Slides right out of the mold.”
Back comes the whistle. When he stops, I can barely hear him say, “Allie, there’s no one else.”
I sigh, hating to admit that a major portion of my heart is still devoted to the handsome DEA agent no matter what side he’s playing. “Okay, okay. Do what you have to do.”
Chapter 25
FROM HIS SULLEN GREETING I can tell Bill is not at all happy about the assignment. But here I am seated on the passenger side of a black Lexus sedan with Bill at the wheel.
We’re in the tunnel before he breaks the silence. “You realize our being together is not good for either one of us.”
He’s angry about something. “Then why are you here?” “Greene. I owe him. He has a sound plan—on paper—but things can go bad fast out there.”
He drives on, gripping the steering wheel so hard it looks like he might snap it in two. Finally he mutters, “When I heard what went down at the townhouse, I tried to find out what happened to you. Even Greene wouldn’t tell me where you were stashed. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did what Greene told me to, which was not to speak to anyone. Not even you.” Then I add, “Gee, I don’t seem to remember exactly when it was that you gave me your number.”
He stares into the traffic for a time, then says, “It’s better that way. Believe me.”
He takes his eyes from the road long enough to size me up and smiles. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Bill is wearing a dark gray flannel tux with velvet lapels. The shirt is a shade lighter than the tux, and his tie and cummerbund are a shade lighter than that.
“In fact, you’re a sartorial vision in gray.”
He glances down. “Of course, I am. It’s standard Government Issue.”
At that, we both laugh away the tension.
After a few miles pass, Bill says, “Don’t be alarmed when you spot someone dressed as the Cardinal. Larry Templeton has taken that spot.”
A tiny voice asks how Bill can know this if he’s not in with the bad guys. “Who told you that?”
He keeps his eyes on the road as he says, “Nobody. Somebody. Look, it’s my job.”
Until that moment I had been planning to tell Bill what I saw in the passageway and then ask what really happened to the Cardinal, but now something warns me not to.
————
Bill tells the man in the tux at the gate, “Raven Two and date.”
I do a little calculating. He’s the “R” in the second alphabet panel. Number 44. Pretty high up in the ranks.
The gates close behind us, and I ask, “How long have you been in?”
“Almost a year. Most everyone in the firm is a member. Kingsley-Smythe wanted to sign me up right after I joined, but I didn’t want to appear too eager.” He laughs. “I made the right move. My initial turn-down just made him all the more determined to recruit me.”
We enter Station Two and go through the same drill—champagne and mask selection.
This time I choose a feathered creation sprinkled with silver and scarlet glitter, a perfect match to my dress.
When the handle to my dressing room turns, I brace myself, sending up a small petition that when I turn back, my date will not be wearing the Foo Dog mask.
My prayer is answered. He’s wearing a fuller-faced version of a Phantom of the Opera mask in steel gray. Still, a chill races through me. What if everyone changes costumes for each event?
Bill’s assignment sends us to the ballroom. We enter to stand a couple of steps above the dance floor. Chandeliers matching the ones in the hall softly light the whirling forms below us. Beyond the crowd, the French doors to the terrace are open to reveal a full moon hanging low in the sky and reflecting off the water. On the surface it’s just a nice group of friends enjoying the evening, but upstairs, there’s a different kind of party going on.
We ease into the circle. Bill gathers me to him and I melt into his embrace. It’s all I can do not to reach up to meet his lips. I turn away from the temptation, reminding myself that I’m here on a mission.
When the music stops Bill exchanges the usual pleasantries with one of the men in our group while I take a glass of champagne from one tray and a crudité from another. This time, I follow the rules and, like the other women, stare into the crowd, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone.
That’s when I notice a page coming toward us. When he presents Bill with a gilt-edged card, I freeze. That card can mean only one thing. We’re going upstairs.
After we reach the hall, I grab Bill’s hand. “Not up there.”
He winks, then whispers, “But I thought you were aching for a little excitement.”
When I shake my head, he sobers. “Look, Allie, I’m pretty sure this might be the invitation you’ve been waiting for. Don’t chicken out now. Besides, I’m right here beside you.”
Why isn’t that a comforting thought? If Bill’s flipped, maybe he’s helping to set me up. I give him a tentative smile. “That may be so, but something’s not right. It’s all too easy.”
Before Bill can answer, a man appears at the railing above us wearing a cape in a bright flame stitch. His golden mask contours his face, but a halo of rays painted to match the colors in his cloak gives the appearance of a small sun.
“There you are, Raven Two. I see you got my invitation. Unhook the rope and come up.”
When he disappears, Bill murmurs, “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be okay.”
He takes my arm and urges me upward.
As we walk down a wide, paneled hallway, the buzz of the crowd below fades and the band music mutes. The hallway opens into a long, barrel-vaulted, paneled room with clerestory windows above. Fires dance in two large fireplaces that grace each end of the room. The soft, sensuous notes of an oboe float from a balcony above.
After my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I see couples on chaise longues among strategically placed potted palms. Some of the women are bare to the waist. A few are completely nude. All of the couples are engaged in some form of sexual amusement.
/> At the sound of polite applause and low “bravos,” I turn to look into a shallow alcove. There, on a raised, padded table, surrounded by masked men in capes, a couple performs. The man wears his mask and upper clothing, the woman beneath him wears nothing.
I stop, almost toppling Bill. “Sorry, but I have no intention of—”
He puts a protective arm around my waist. “I told you not to worry. We weren’t called up here for that.”
Just then, one of the men calls out, “Ready to make a trade?” Bill ignores the offer and we hurry past. When we reach the far end of the room, I recognize the masked man who called down to us.
When we join him, he waves his arm toward the room and its occupants. “So, tell me. What do you think about all this?”
Bill looks around, then at me, and says, “Interesting. Very interesting.”
“After the meeting, you should take a few minutes to enjoy our little sexual buffet.” He points to the hall we just came down. “There are pleasure chambers on either side. Behind those closed doors you can choose orgy, voyeur or girl-on-girl. Feel free to eat all you want or just take a nibble, it’s up to you. Whatever you do, I’m sure you’ll find it pleasurable.”
He waves us into a smaller paneled room with a fireplace.
In front of the fire a table is set for two with fine crystal and china. On one wall, a sideboard offers a bounteous feast. On the opposite, a matching piece boasts several bottles of fine wine and high end liquors. And at the end of the room is a seating area with a comfortable couch and two easy chairs done in burgundy-colored brocade.
The man closes the door behind him. “Please remove your necklace and earrings and give them to me.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to ask. Will he know I’m wearing paste? What happens when the new Cardinal finds out?
I glance at Bill. Has he known about this all along? Is he setting me up? Here comes that black hole in the bottom of my stomach.
I ignore it, rise to my fullest height and say, “I don’t think so. The Cardinal gave me these. I will return them only to him—in private.”
The man does a double take and retrieves a cell from beneath his cape. He punches in a number, then turns away and mumbles something.
After he pockets the cell, he opens the door and ushers Bill into the larger room.
He turns. “The Cardinal asks that you wait here. Raven Two and I will be just outside.”
I’m alone only seconds when one of the panels glides open. A man who I suppose is Larry Templeton dressed as the Cardinal enters followed by a tall imposing woman gowned in a powder-blue nun’s habit, wearing an exquisitely fashioned wimple and an intricately carved mask that covers her entire face.
The Cardinal extends his hand. “The jewels, please.”
When I remove the earrings and place them in his outstretched hand, the woman gasps and whispers. “They’re paste.”
I find my voice. “You’re right, but I have the real McCoys in a safe place.”
The woman takes a step in my direction. At over six feet, she looms above me. I take an involuntary step backward and clench my hands to keep them from trembling.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low and husky. “I want those jewels. They belong to me.”
Though the mask covers her face, I look into cold, gray eyes—the “see-through eyes” of the woman in the photograph Greene showed me only days before. The skin around my lips begins to tingle as I realize this has to be Sigrid Hale.
The Cardinal joins her and mutters, “She knows too much. We can’t let her go.”
“We have to let her go. I want those jewels, and she’s the only one who can get them to me without arousing suspicion.”
“How can we be sure she’ll turn them over?”
The nun’s next words stun. “Miss Armington has a family. A family she’ll do anything to protect.”
It’s the Cardinal who makes the final thrust. “We’ll contact you with delivery instructions.” He studies me a few seconds, then says, “If you value your life, you will not return to this place. Understand?”
When I turn for the door, his words follow. “I warn you, don’t do anything stupid or you’ll regret it.”
Chapter 26
I’M SO ABSORBED in going over the details of my meeting with Cardinal Larry and the nun, I hardly notice when the Lexus exits the gates to the main road.
I turn to Bill, describe the pair and end with, “When they discovered the jewels were paste, they threatened me—said if I didn’t follow through with the delivery, they’d go after my family.”
Bill lets out a long breath. “What have I been trying to tell you? These people don’t like to be compromised.”
There goes that funny little feeling that rolls across my gut when I remember Bill might be playing a double game.
After a few more miles in the darkness, I try another probe. “So you have no idea who this Sigrid Hale is?”
He takes a deep breath. “How could I possibly know who she is? I’m in the dark just as much as you.”
Somehow, I doubt that. “I think she’s Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. When I showed Sheri Browne Hale’s photograph, she said she didn’t know her, but I’m sure she was lying. That poor woman was scared to death.”
He shakes his head. “It just doesn’t add up. Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe has been in a wheelchair for years.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs off my question.
“Maybe Hale was Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s maiden name. That shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I’m sure the Kingsley-Smythe marriage was well covered in the newspapers.”
Bill gives me a brief glance. “Sorry, but I can’t even begin to see Kingsley-Smythe’s wife running drugs and heading up a group of prostitutes.”
“And why not? Kingsley-Smythe certainly managed to fool a whole lot of people.”
“Yes, he did. But this Sigrid Hale has quite a reputation for being a tough and aggressive competitor. Rumor has it she’s even put some of the competition away—personally. Does that sound like she’s operating from a wheelchair?”
I wait a few minutes, then say, “If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth?”
Bill shakes his head. “I’ve never lied to you, Allie. My sins are only those of omission.”
“Rumor has it you’ve flipped.”
He glances my way as his hand covers mine. His voice is soft. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be sitting here beside me, would you?”
Again, I think back to that cave in Uvalde. How Bill took a bullet for me. Told me he loved me. I desperately want to believe he’s playing it straight. I want to trust him. “I suppose not, but I really need to know where you were the night Kingsley-Smythe was murdered.”
He almost loses the wheel. “Murdered? Where on earth did you get that idea? Kingsley-Smythe suffered a massive coronary. You were with me when I got the news.”
Bill pulls into a darkened driveway and cuts the engine. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“Who told you I was in the library?” “Kingsley-Smythe.”
“He gave you my name?”
“No. He said there was a ‘lovely’ stranded in the library that needed to be taken home.”
“That certainly sounds like him. What time did you two exchange costumes?”
“I remember looking at my watch. It was around nine-thirty. We met and stepped into the men’s room where we swapped.”
“Did you ever see his face?”
“Not that I recall. He used the stall to change, and we traded costumes over the top. But it was Kingsley-Smythe. I’m positive. He was wearing his ring with the family crest.”
Bill must be telling the truth—or at least the truth as he knows it.
I grit my teeth, hating to ask, but knowing I have to, “What costume were you wearing?”
“The same one I’m wearing now. It’s my tux, but they issued the mask and the cape to me the first time I went
out there.”
“And what happened to the Cardinal’s costume?”
Bill leans his head back on the headrest and mutters, “Lessee. I left it in the boat.”
“What about your costume?”
“All I can tell you is my mask and cape were waiting for me. The cape had been cleaned and pressed.”
Bill’s version of the evening seems plausible enough, even though the timing is wrong. I was in the library at least an hour after I saw Kingsley-Smythe stabbed. So, to my mind, the costume trade took place after the man in the Foo Dog mask did the Cardinal in.
It’s then I decide to tell Bill my version of the events of the night.
When I finish, the car is dead silent. Bill is staring straight at me. He hasn’t taken a breath since I spilled my guts.
“Does Greene know?”
“No one knows except you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before now?”
I shake my head.
“My God, Allie, if you think you witnessed Kingsley-Smythe’s murder, you should have come forward immediately. Then the authorities might have been able to take some action. We could have protected you and, just maybe, Sheri Browne might still be alive.”
I snap back as if he’d struck me in the face. “I didn’t think—I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you were Kingsley-Smythe’s killer.”
Bill’s mouth drops. “What gave you that idea?”
“You. You’re so different. You don’t act the same. You don’t sound like a Texan anymore, and what I miss the most is your aftershave.”
He doesn’t say a word; instead, he places his hand behind my neck and brings me forward until my mouth touches his.
When we come up for air, he says, “I sound different because I have to. And the Sandalwood had to go. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, Allie, I love you.”
Chapter 27
GREENE POURS ALL THREE of us a second cup of coffee. It’s well past one. Going to be a long night.
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 10
