Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (2 page)

I stumble to the table on the right and, per my
sister’s instructions, fish for the key in the vase.

Before I can retrieve it, the door flies open and a
mummy in a pink wool bathrobe lurches toward me, arms outstretched.
Only the matted red hair at the shoulders backs up my initial
impression that the mummy is my sister. “Oh, my God, have you been
in a wreck?”

“Surgery,” she mumbles.

A face-lift. How could I be so stupid? The slurred
words—the muffled voice. Twenty thousand of my hard-earned
savings.

When I don’t react, Angela lowers her arms and
averts her eyes from my silent accusation. “C’mon in.”

She wobbles toward the couch and plunks down. “Take
a load off. I need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait? I hardly got any sleep last night
worrying about you.”

“Sorry, but I desperately need your advice.”

I collapse in the nearest wing chair. “I could have
given you advice over the phone.”

She ignores my words, intent on getting her own
message out. “Caro’s been doing coke. Maybe heroin. When I called
her on it, she told me not to worry, she could handle it.” Angela
stands and begins pacing. “I told you the living room was trashed.
There were coke trails all over the glass top of the coffee table
and she broke one of my Baccarat champagne flutes. She’s gone too
far this time.”

“Where is she?”

“How do I know?” She points to narrow stairs that
rise along the right wall of the living room. “I’ve been climbing
those stairs and banging on her door since ten this morning. Maybe
she’s gone, but maybe—”

“And you didn’t call the police?”

“What would I say? ‘Hey, my roommate’s a druggie,
and she’s locked herself in her room’?”

She points to a key on the coffee table. “Caro left
me that for an emergency, but I was afraid to go in there
alone.”

Afraid? There goes that damn tingle.

I repeat, “The living room was a mess. Caro’s
bedroom locked. And you’re afraid? I’m calling the police.”

“Noooo,” she whines. “Not at this hour. I can’t see
anyone looking like this.”

I glance at my watch. Three a.m.—two Texas time.
“Okay, okay. Since you’ve waited this long, I guess we can address
this problem after we both get a little shut-eye.”

“No. We can’t.” Angela yanks me from the chair,
drags me to the stairs and up one flight to Caro’s bedroom.

She shoves the key in my hand. “You open it.”

The lock softly clicks and the door swings in.
Angela presses past me, peers down the hall and turns. “The light’s
on in her bedroom. Hey, Caro? Are you decent?”

At the entrance to the bedroom Angela jerks
backward. Gags. And careens past me into Caro’s bathroom.

I hesitate only a second before I will myself to
step forward.

In the dim light I see ropes lashed to the wrought
iron headboard wrapped around Caro’s wrists. Matted, black hair
partially covers half her bruised and swollen face. One eye stares
dully at the ceiling. The garrote still circles her neck.

The room reeks of industrial-strength pine-scented
disinfectant.

I’ll never get used to violence. The gruesome photos
I once presented to the Grand Jury as an Assistant DA in Houston
were bad enough, but to see someone I knew so badly damaged is
unbearable. I want to turn away, but I can’t.

How did this happen? When? I start to tremble when
it dawns that Angela could have just as easily been a victim. Then
I shake the surge of terror away and become the professional I was
trained to be.

Angela’s clammy grip makes me jump. “Is she?” “Very.
We have to call the police. Now.”

She lets out a sob and starts toward the bed. “We
have to cover her. People shouldn’t see her like this.”

“Hold it.” I grab her arm. “This is a crime scene.
Let’s get out of here.”

Once we’ve climbed the second flight to Angela’s
suite, I pick up the receiver and turn. “Before I make this call, I
have to know.” “What?”

“Did you find Caro like that this morning? Is that
why you called me?”

THE MAN IN THE RUMPLED SUIT standing before me is
very attractive in a dark, elongated sort of way, but he’s much too
tall to go unnoticed in a profession that prides itself on
anonymity. “This just came.” He shoves the
New York Times
at
me, then extends his card, as a pleasant smile carves dimples into
his solemn face. “I’m Detective Benjamin Greene with the New York
Police Department. Nineteenth Precinct. That’s Greene with an ‘e.’”
“I’m Alice Armington, the sister.”

“Of?”

“Oh, sorry. Angela Armington. This is her place. I
was the one who called nine-one-one.”

The detective nods. “I’ve notified the crime scene
unit. They’re on the way. Don’t worry. We don’t use sirens. We try
to keep a low profile. The neighbors aren’t much in favor of
murders. Runs down the real estate.”

He takes out a small spiral notepad with a bright
blue cover and flips to a blank page. “How long have you been
here?”

“I just flew in from Houston tonight. My sister has
been disturbed about her roommate’s behavior over the past few
weeks. She was going to ask her to move out.”

“And you’re here to help?”

“I guess you could say that. Moral support,
mostly.”

I point toward the stairs. “The body’s one flight
up. We only went as far as the entrance to the bedroom. We didn’t
touch a thing.”

“Victim’s name?”

I want to tell him about Caro’s raven hair, her eyes
the color of midnight. That people gawked when she entered the
room. And when she told a joke she never got the punch line right.
Instead I spit out the dull facts. “Carolina Montoya. Does—did
upper-end modeling. Late twenties. Hails from Madrid, Spain. Here
on a green card.”

Angela rushes down the stairs. “Caro’s parents.
Who’s going to call them?”

Greene takes a quick step back. “Hey, what happened
to you?” “Surgery.”

He hands her his card. “I’m Detective Benjamin
Greene. That’s Greene with an ‘e.’”

Angela takes it and says, “You’re not going to put
yellow tape all over the outside are you? I’d like to keep this as
quiet as possible. After all, I have to live here.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. We don’t like
to advertise either.”

We linger in the entry until a group in CSI jackets
arrives. Greene motions us toward the living room. “Have a seat.
This won’t take long.”

We settle together on the couch and watch as Greene
gives orders.

When he turns away, Angela jabs me and murmurs,
“Okay, okay. Who does he look like?”

I can’t believe she’s playing that dumb game at a
crucial time like this. My sister has been a movie star nut ever
since she could read and religiously pores over
People
and
Us
. She’s positive I have the exact same facial features as
the woman who once starred in television’s
Law & Order
though she sees not one ounce of the star in herself.

I give her a withering stare. “I haven’t the
faintest.”

“Oh, c’mon now. You know who I mean. He’s Jamaican.
Well known for his Calypso songs. You know. ‘Day-O’?”

“I get it, I get it. But not now. Give it a rest.”
She crosses her arms, sniffs and turns away.

Once the CSI disappears up the stairs, Greene turns
to Angela. “Any sign of forced entry?”

When she shrugs, I say, “I called here night before
last. Caro answered. She was with someone. From the bit of
conversation I overheard, I’d say she knew that someone pretty
well.”

The detective jots a few lines. “So you’re saying
the perp left through the front entrance?”

“Possibly. Maybe he had a duplicate key.”

He turns back to Angela. “Your roommate travel a
lot?” “More than I did. Her phone rang off the hook.”

“Her phone?”

“We live on separate floors and have different
telephone numbers. Mine has an extension in the kitchen.”

Greene makes a note, then calls out, “The phone on
the second floor is a separate line.” He pockets the pad. “Better
pack a few things. This place is now officially off-limits to
anyone except the NYPD.”

Angela jumps up. “Leave? No way. It’s almost four
and I’ve just had major surgery.”

Delighted I won’t have to sleep in the
roach-infested maid’s room off the kitchen, I say, “No problem.
Give us a few minutes and we’ll be out of your way.”

I am amazed at Angela’s ability to exude so much
venom through those two tiny eyeholes. “We’re not leaving unless
your people pay for the room.”

I shove her toward the stairs. “We’ll discuss this
later.”

She blocks me. “I will not be evicted like a common
criminal.”

Greene gives her a weary look. “I’m sorry to
inconvenience you, but we’re trying to solve a murder. I’m guessing
this woman was your friend. Don’t you want to know who did
this?”

“Of course I do. But I didn’t kill Caro. Can’t you
see I’ve just had surgery?”

Greene yanks out the notepad. “Thanks for the
reminder. I need your surgeon’s name and telephone number.” “You
must be joking.”

I poke her in the ribs. “Give it to him.”

“Okay. Okay. It’s Doctor Frederick Severeid.”
Greene’s pen is still poised. “His number?”

Angela sniffs, then murmurs, “Five-five-five, six
thousand.”

He scribbles the number, then points to his card
still clutched in my hand. “Let me know where I can contact
you.”

————

The sun is high when I awake to see Angela on her
back, arms folded across her chest. All she needs is a coffin and a
crucifix. This is the way she sleeps. It used to freak me out when
we were kids.

I reach for the phone and call the number on
Greene’s card. “This is Alice Armington. We’re in seven twenty-two
at Hotel Wells.”

After a too-long pause on his end, a dim alarm
sounds somewhere in the back of my head as Greene says, “There
seems to be a problem.”

Background noises filter through the receiver.
Printers print. Phones ring. Low conversations twist in and out of
range.

The detective clears his throat. “I spoke with
Doctor Severeid’s nurse, uh—uh, a Miss Hopkins. She says your
sister made a consultation appointment for Friday last week but
never showed.”

ONCE WE’RE SEATED in his tiny cubicle on the second
floor of Nineteenth Precinct headquarters, Detective Greene turns
to Angela. “Maybe you did have laser surgery. And maybe after the
wire transfer was deposited in your account, you went home, popped
some meds and were so zonked you didn’t hear your roommate being
murdered.

“But things just don’t add up. Your current bank
balance is three thousand and change. Worse still, there’s no
record that a wire transfer was made to your account from
anybody.”

Angela’s starting to cave, so I leap in. “I don’t
care what it looks like. She’s telling the truth. I personally made
the transfer two days ago.”

“Three thousand and change. That’s all.”

“But if it’s not in Angela’s account, where in hell
is it, Detective?”

Greene pulls air through his teeth in a tuneless
whistle, then says, “When I get through with this, I’ll tell you
what I think, and you’re not gonna be happy.”

He turns to Angela. “Okay. Let’s run through this
again. The limousine picked you up.”

She rolls her eyes. “There was a man sitting in the
back seat. He asked for the money. When I said I didn’t have it, he
said he would ruin my face if I didn’t pay up.”

He jots a few sentences. “And after you got to the
bank?”

“A nice lady showed us to a private office.” Angela
turns to me. “I’ve already gone over the details once. Is he
brain-dead?”

When my sister first told me about this not an hour
before, I was stunned. How could she be so stupid? She got into a
car with a man she didn’t know. Accompanied him to her bank, then
let him take her to her townhouse where she wrote him a check for
$20,000. I bite back my bitterness and urge, “Keep talking. It’s
routine.”

Angela turns toward Greene. “I didn’t have my
checkbook with me and I’m not good at memorizing numbers, so the
nice lady looked my account up on the computer.”

“I’ll just bet she did,” Greene mutters and searches
the ceiling. I’m sure he wants to strangle her. I know I do, but
I’m too numb to confront what’s staring me in the face, too numb to
vent my growing frustration. Not only is Angela the prime suspect
in Caro Montoya’s murder, but if my hunch is correct, she’s—no,
make that
we—
have been had.

“And after the transfer was made?”

“It’s bad enough that my ex-DA sister grilled me
about this, but I told you everything not five minutes ago. Give me
a break, will ya?”

Greene shoots me an appraising look. “DA?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Ex assistant.”
“Interesting.”

The detective turns back to Angela. “So that’s all?”
“Oh, I forgot. He gave me a bottle of pain pills.” “What time was
this?”

“I don’t know exactly. It was getting dark.” “And
your roommate wasn’t home?”

“I remember going up to Caro’s door. It was closed.
Not unusual these days. I was starting to feel punk, so I got a
bottle of Evian out of the fridge, went up to my room, popped a
couple of pills and crashed.”

“Never heard a thing?”

I rush to her defense. “Angela sleeps like the dead.
Hardly moves a muscle.”

Greene fishes a file from a stack on the side of his
desk, opens it and turns the black-and-white photograph of a man in
her direction. “Is this your Doctor Severeid?”

Angela squeals and shoves the picture at me. “I told
you. That’s him. That’s Severeid.”

I peer into the face of a handsome, graying man. His
expression is confident and caring. His eyes radiate
trustworthiness.

Greene punches the photo with his index finger.
“Wrong. That man is Haley Granger, who, with his wife and several
accomplices, is running a very profitable scam. Someone tells a
woman she’s looking a little droopy, then recommends this terrific
laser surgeon.”