Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (11 page)

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 response 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.

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.”

This is hardly the cultured voice of an Eastern
Brahmin. All thoughts of Angela, Duncan and their possible romance
fade. Another delicious crumb has just been dropped in my path.

“I’ll be happy to turn the jewels over to you, if
you can describe them.”

And she does. But it’s almost like she’s
reading.

“Your description is right on, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe,
but I can’t meet with you right now. I have an appointment.”

There’s a long silence, then a timid, “Then when can
you?”

“I promise to call you the minute I get back if
you’ll give me your number.”

Dead silence. Then the connection breaks.

I call Greene and ask him to meet me back at
Blockhead’s. Minutes later, he sinks into the chair across from me.
He doesn’t look too happy. “This better be good. I was going over
my game plan with the boss. Fortunately, he had another meeting,
too.”

“Oh, it’s good. Guess who’s calling me about the
jewelry I was wearing courtesy of the Cardinal?”

I wonder whether the drum roll in my chest is from
the fifty-yard dash I made or the adrenalin high I’m currently
savoring.

“I just got a call from a woman saying she’s Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe. She wants me to return the jewels. But I can
assure you, that woman is not who she says she is.”

“How do you know that?”

“Trust me. There’s no way this woman could have been
Jason Kingsley-Smythe’s wife. The bad news is when I asked her for
her phone number she hung up. But I’ll bet there are lots of
messages on the answering machine when I get back to the
townhouse.”

We luck out and find a parking place across the
street.

As we mount the front steps, the phone begins to
ring. I race to the kitchen, then wait until Angela’s chirp echoes,
“You know what to do, so do it.”

The voice is the same as before, but the words are
slurred. “Lissen. I’m not kidding you. This is big time serious.”
There’s a pause. “I know who you ah. I know where you ah, so you
better goddam well pick up the goddam phone.”

Another pause. “Hello? Did you hear me? I know
you-ah there. I just saw you and some black guy go in. Don’t think
you can get away with this.”

A sigh, then, “Aw shit.” And the connection breaks.
Greene looks up. “This isn’t good. She’s made us.”

“So what? I bet she’s just another one of
Kingsley-Smythe’s discarded ‘lovelies’—a ‘lovely’ with a Bronx flat
‘a.’”

We replay the messages. All are about the same. All
crammed with the same slurred desperation.

Greene finally says, “Okay, the woman is drunk and,
taken in context, the threats are a little toothless. Maybe we can
use her.” We go through the drill. Greene will run a telephone
trace from his cell if I can keep her on the phone long enough.

When the phone rings he says, “Get it on three.”

After the second ring I take a deep breath, and on
the third, I lift the receiver. “Yes?” Silence.

“This is Angela Armington, may I help you?”

“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Did you get my
messages?” “Every one. I can meet you wherever you say.”

She clears her throat, then attempts some semblance
of Brahmin propriety. “I will not be meeting you poissonally.”
“Shall I bring the jewels to Connecticut?”

“No. No. I have a friend in the city. She’ll take
the jewelry from you and deliver it to me.”

“Just say when and where. Frankly, I’ll be glad to
unload the stuff.”

She coughs, then recovers. “Stuff? Whaddaya
mean?”

“The jewels. I’m not comfortable having them. What’s
your friend’s name?”

I can almost hear the cogs grind. “Uh—uh—it don’t
really matter, does it? She’s parked across the street in a blue
Toyota Camry. There’s a dent in the rear door, driver’s side.”

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’ll give
those jewels to your friend.”

I hang up, rush into the living room and peer into
the street. Sure enough a blue Camry with the described dent sits
in back of Greene’s unmarked vehicle.

I feel Greene behind me. “That car wasn’t there when
we parked. She must have been following us.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think she knew who we were until
we went up the steps. Did you get the trace?”

“The cell is in the name of Sheri Browne. That’s
Browne with an ‘e.’”

I cadge some pebbles from beneath one of the ferns
in the living room and pour them into a velvet pouch I commandeered
from Angela’s bottom dresser drawer. “What’s the drill?”

Greene checks his weapon and holsters it. “Engage
her until I can get positioned on the driver’s side.”

I take my time descending the steps and crossing the
street. When I get to the passenger side, an attractive but
tough-looking brunette leans over to crank down the window. “You
Angela?”

I hold up the bag. “Is this what you’re looking
for?”

The alcohol fumes are enough to book her on a DUI.
“Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe described your car to a tee. You two must be
really close.”

She blushes a little. “Fo-ah years. Acshully, I’m
like a daw-tah to her.”

It’s then I place her. The brunette I met at the
first party. The “off with you-ah head” chick. In the harsh light
of day, Sheri Browne has aged ten years. Whoever put her together
for that evening at The Castle must have been extremely
talented.

When she reaches for the bag, I move it just out of
her range. “Not so fast. You’re going to have to give me something
in trade. It’s Sheri, isn’t it?”

She drops her hand. “How do you know my name?” “A
little checking here and there.”

I see Greene ease down the steps of the townhouse.
“Look, we don’t have much time—actually less than a minute if
things go right. Do you have a dollar?”

“Wha—?”

“Give me a dollar—five dollars—ten. You’re going to
have to trust me on this one.”

She grabs her purse from the floor and, mumbling to
herself, rummages through it and hands me a well-worn dollar bill.
“Why—?”

That’s all that she gets out before Greene sticks
his badge in her window. “Police. Please step out of the car.”

I lean forward and wave the tattered one in his
face. “Miss Browne has just retained me as her attorney.”

Sheri’s head swivels like an owl’s between Greene
and me. In between spins I manage to give Greene a conspiratorial
eyebrow raise and a slight nod toward the townhouse.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take my
client to my place. We’ll be able to talk privately there.”

Greene steps into his role. “Since the goods haven’t
changed hands, there’s not much else I can do. But I advise you to
tell your client the consequences of attempted extortion.”

I ENTER THE LIVING ROOM and motion Sheri to the
couch. “Want some coffee?”

“Got anything stronger?”

“Haven’t you already had enough?”

“Not near. She promised this would be a walk in the
park. All I had to do was get them from you and take them to
her.”

“Were you planning to drive all the way out to
Greenwich tonight?”

“Not Greenwich. She said—” Her mouth snaps shut.
“Then she’s in the city?”

Sheri rolls her eyes. Her brain is obviously on
overload.

“Look, I really am a practicing attorney, and to
that extent, I can help. But you’re going to have to place your
confidence in me.”

“But she said you were a model and that’s why you
were at The Castle.”