Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (8 page)

Greene’s eyebrows arch. “You must have had quite a
chat.”

I shudder realizing how easy it would have been for
the stranger to kill me. “We talked for almost an hour. He was
polite—even solicitous. Frankly, I didn’t get the feeling that he
was a murderer.”

He scribbles something. “That’s what’s so puzzling.
He must have known you weren’t Angela.”

“Not necessarily. He claims to have met me briefly
on the steps last summer.”

One of the men comes down the stairs. “Your battery
must be dead. Headquarters has been trying to reach you for the
last half hour.”

Greene plays with his cell for a second or two and
shakes his head. “Dead as dirt. Isn’t anything gonna go right
today?”

He looks around and waves at his cohort’s phone.
“May I?” Then, muttering a string of cuss words, he steps into the
outer vestibule.

He returns, tosses the cell back to its owner and
slumps in the chair. “Jesus, this is getting more complicated by
the minute. Seems the DEA had a man on the flight out of Madrid.
Apparently, Montoya realized he was being followed and bolted. By
the time the guy caught up, Montoya was dead.”

“Then who?” He shrugs.

“No idea, but we’ll catch—”

The shrill buzz of the doorbell cuts off his last
words. Greene steps to one side, draws his heavy-duty police issue
and motions me to answer. “You’re about as covered as you can get,
but if you see a gun, drop.”

“Oh, thanks.”

A man in chauffeur’s livery says, “Miss
Armington?”

He shoves a long plastic dress bag into my right
hand, an ecru envelope into the other and hustles down the
steps.

Greene grabs the hanger and removes the plastic to
reveal a scarlet taffeta evening dress.

After he looks it over, he hands it back. “What’s in
the note?” The penmanship is barely legible:

I sincerely hope you like my choice. It’s a ten, as
promised, hope it fits. Wear no jewelry. I will supply that. Please
be ready at seven.

C

I look up. “No formal signature, just a big capital
C.”

I hand the note to Greene who scans and pockets it,
then motions me to sit.

After pacing for a minute, he takes the chair next
to mine. “You can’t stay here any longer. Maybe that guy posing as
Montoya thinks you’re Angela—maybe not. But it’s plain this
situation is too dangerous.”

I remember the trashed room and how I felt when I
first saw it, but for some strange reason I can’t believe that man
is after me. “If I bolt now, the Cardinal will know something’s up
for sure.”

Greene’s chin juts forward. “Maybe, but after what
went down here last night, you’re nothing but a crime waiting to
happen.”

“I don’t really think so. Consider this. Whoever
that man was, he could have killed me. He didn’t. Why?”

“Maybe he’s waiting to see what you do next. Hell,
I’m not a mind reader, but the fact that he was able to gain entry
to the house so easily makes me wonder.”

“Then let’s show him what I’m doing next. I’m
telling you, deep down I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

Greene slumps back into his chair. “So, I gather
you’re not leaving?”

“Not unless you give me a damn good reason.”

“How about this reason? Montoya wasn’t shooting in
Argentina. He was in Colombia—in Medellín to be specific.” “Are you
saying Caro’s family is connected to drugs?” “Unconfirmed, but it
sure looks that way.”

“That’s a pretty damning indictment. Isn’t there any
way you can verify it?”

The detective gives me a slow nod. “I’ll have to go
through channels. It could take a couple of days.”

The silence hangs heavy between us until Greene
stands and pronounces, “So, I guess what I’m asking is, do you want
a deluxe funeral or just a simple wooden box?”

IT’S NEARLY FIVE and dark by the time I fight my way
out of Gristede’s with a grocery sack in each arm.

After struggling up the front steps, I dump the
sacks on the table and rummage around the bottom of my purse for
the elusive key. I was going to buy a bulky key chain so the search
would be easier, but the day got away before I could.

I start to push the key into the lock and the door
swings in. Prickles skitter across the back of my neck. Then I
remember the locks have been changed. Then too, I might not have
pulled the door completely shut.

I make my way through the darkened living and dining
rooms to plunk the groceries on the nearest counter, turn and
freeze.

The man who calls himself Guillermo Montoya is
sitting at the small round table. Though he wears a pleasant look
on his face, his hand is on the butt of a large weapon that rests
on the table in front of him.

As Greene’s warnings echo, my stomach loops and a
sour wave surges at the back of my throat. After I swallow hard a
couple of times and manage to grab a few breaths, my brain finally
kicks in.

Every detail of the small kitchen stands out: the
filthy stove, the groaning refrigerator, the faucet with the
incessant drip.

And then there’s the imposter: still as handsome as
I remember, wearing a chocolate-brown suede jacket with matching
cable-knit turtleneck sweater.

My eyes again cut to the firearm on the table before
him—much bigger than my Beretta.

“Buenas tardes.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling
and puts his hand to his chest. “Sorry, I mean good evening.
Please. Don’t be startled. I planned to wait outside for you, but
when I tried the door it was open. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s
so much more comfortable in here.”

I toggle my mind to escape-mode. The distance to the
front hall, where I left my purse containing my Beretta and cell
phone, is too far to make. Montoya, or whoever he is, can fire
before I take a step.

His voice breaks through my scattered thoughts. “I
came by because I owe you an apology and at least some sort of
compensation for the damage.”

I remain mute—heart fluttering like a scared
rabbit’s—tongue three times its size. Then I try the old
stare-at-the-forehead trick, and will my voice to respond. Not one
ounce of cooperation.

His brow furrows. “Dios mío, you are as pale as a
ghost.” He points to the empty chair across the small table from
him. “Por favor, Señorita—have a seat.”

When I do, he settles back into his chair. “Ahhh.
Some color is returning to your cheeks. A good sign, no?”

He draws his wallet and flips it open to reveal a
gold badge. “Please. My name is Jaime Platón. I am associated with
the Colombian National Police on assignment with the DEA
International Training Section. The TRI.”

He waits for a response and when none comes, he
says, “You think I murdered your friend.”

At last, I find my voice. “You lied to me. You said
you were Caro’s grief-stricken brother—a heartbroken widower. Then
you trashed her room and beat it. What do you expect?”

He lowers his eyes. When he looks up, I see pain. “I
did not lie about losing my wife. Unfortunately, that part was
true. But I assure you I did not kill Miss Montoya. You must
believe me.”

I point to his weapon. “Why should it matter whether
I believe you or not? You’re in control here.”

He drags his revolver off the table and slides it
into a holster beneath his suede jacket. “Old habit, sorry.”

I relax a little. “Did you find what you came
for?”

“Sad to say, I didn’t. But I’d bank my life that
it’s still here.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. “Whatever it is must be
really valuable.”

“Yes. Very.”

“Maybe I can help you look. But, you’ll have to tell
me what to look for.”

He studies me for a minute then says, “A small red
address book. Miss Montoya stole it. And, unfortunately, the big
boys were well aware that she did.”

I suppress a shudder wondering just who the “big
boys” are. “Names and addresses? Is that all?”

“We haven’t actually seen the book. The DEA is sure
it holds the key to a major drug-trafficking cartel and a very
profitable prostitution ring, both rumored to be headed by a woman.
Most unusual, no? If we can get our hands on that, it would give us
a big foot up.”

He must see my amusement because he says, “Not
foot?” “I think you’re looking for leg.”

“Yes. Of course. Leg. It’s the small things in a
language that are so difficult to master.”

I ignore his obvious attempt to win me over—still
gauging my chances for escape—still wondering what I’ll do if he
makes a move—any move.

“Angela? May I call you that?”

I’m not computing all his jargon. I got it that he’s
a Colombian and working with the DEA but—the TRI? New to me.

He doesn’t seem to catch my confusion. “When the DEA
discovered Miss Montoya’s brother was visiting in Medellín, I was
assigned to tail him. Things seemed to be going well until—” He
raises his hands in exasperation then slaps his knees. “Montoya
suddenly darted into the crowd and disappeared. I went to baggage,
hoping to catch him there, and by the time I got back through
security, his body had been discovered.”

“So you assumed his identity?”

“You could say that.” He pockets his wallet. “When
the police reported they didn’t turn up any evidence, we had to get
into this building. Make a search on our own. It was imperative
that we get to the little red book before—”

He gives a small shrug and a smile. “Since I
somewhat resemble Montoya, I was chosen.”

“You keep saying ‘We.’ Just exactly who are you
talking about?”

“I just explained who. Weren’t you listening?”

I give him an indifferent look but beneath my
nonchalance is the hope that maybe, just maybe, he might know Bill
Cotton. “You mentioned the DEA.”

“Correct. I am attached to the DEA’s International
Training Section—the TRI.”

He eyes me a few seconds then says, “You must know
Miss Montoya was using.”

I look away, remembering the fun-loving beauty I
shared a lot of wine and confidences with. The woman who literally
saved my job for me and, when I offered her a cut of the profits,
laughed it off. That Caro was funny and nice.

Then I remember that Angela had seen her darker
side. “Your roommate was a mule. Have you heard that term?”
“Someone paid to transport drugs into the U.S.?”

“Correct. We are unclear as to why Miss Montoya
wanted to be recruited, but it is rumored she was one of the best.
The fact that she was a supermodel provided a perfect cover. She
raked in quite a nice profit for her services, but then she was
caught—”

His eyes search the ceiling as he mutters several
words to himself, then he grins. “It’s what you Americans call
skimming. Do you know the word?”

“Yes. But why would she do that? You said she didn’t
need money.”

“Could be she liked flirting with danger. The cartel
factors losses like drug busts and discovery into their costs, but
when a mule skims and is discovered—” He runs his forefinger across
his throat.

“Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time.” Platón
reaches inside his jacket, takes out a cashier’s check and inches
it toward me. “Here. That should more than cover the damage to your
roommate’s bedroom.”

I slide it from the table and give it a once-over.
Fifteen hundred dollars? That should more than make up for his
destruction. “That’s quite generous. Is this from the DEA?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Unfortunately, your
government doesn’t pay for destruction of property. But, I do.”

He rises. “Well, my mission here is complete.” He
hesitates, pulls out a card, scribbles something and hands it to
me. “Who knows? You just might find that book. If you do, how about
putting it in the right hands?”

I take the card and see the number has a D.C. area
code.

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.”

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.