Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (12 page)

“Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe told you this?”

Sheri stares away. “I didn’t exactly say it was the
missus, did I?”

I want to push, but something tells me to take it
slow. “I am a model. And yes, I was in New Jersey. But modeling
isn’t a lifetime proposition, so I took night courses.”

“Gee. That’s great. I mean all I can do is turn
tricks ‘til I’m too old to spread my legs.” She gives me a long
look. “That cop said something about extortion. What am I
extorting?”

Poor woman. She’s so dumb she doesn’t know “come”
from “sic ‘em.”

“I think he said attempted extortion, but since you
didn’t have the jewels in your possession, I guess you’re off the
hook.”

For the first time since we were in the car her face
brightens. “Gee, that’s a relief. I didn’t mean to do no harm, but
I need the money. Just my luck, I’m pregnant.”

That gets my attention. “Oh? Does the father know?”
She gives me that age-old look. “It don’t matter. I’m ending it. No
kid deserves me as a mother. You been upstairs yet?”

“No. But I know what goes on. My roommate told me
all about it. Did you know Carolina Montoya?”

I wait as she goes through her mental Rolodex.
“Can’t say I do. There are so many.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath and launch. “So, how
did you know about the jewels Mister Kingsley-Smythe loaned
me?”

She jerks back. “But she told me you stole them.”
Then she slaps her forehead. “Gosh, I’m sorry. O’course, you being
a lawyer and all, I guess you wouldn’t steal.”

“Look, Sheri, we don’t have much time. The police
will want to question you about who sent you to get the jewels. And
as your attorney, I advise you to answer truthfully. After all, to
my knowledge, you haven’t committed a crime—yet.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t tell them about Hale.”
“Hale?”

She gasps and puts her hand over her mouth. “Did I
say that?” “I think that’s what you said.”

She leans close. “I never said it. Hear? You gotta
forget I ever mentioned that dame.” Then she lowers her voice. “Or
we’ll both be dead.”

————

Sheri is passed out on the couch. Not that I’m
surprised. She was already half in the bag when I got in her
car.

I can’t believe it’s almost eight. Duncan and Angela
were forgotten the minute Sheri called and brought me back into the
fray.

The door to the vestibule opens. Greene peeks in and
beckons for me to join him out there. “We taped everything she
said. One thing stood out—the name Hale.”

He shoves a photo of a woman toward me. “Remember
the female pimp I mentioned a few days ago? We’re pretty sure that
woman is none other than this woman—Sigrid Hale. Check it out.”

The print is glossy-new, but something bothers me:
the stiff pose, the tilted head, the dark lipstick on lips frozen
in a too-cute smirk. And the platinum blonde hair rolled away from
the face. In the open vee of a scalloped collar, a small cross
dangles from a thin gold chain. Worse than that are what I call
“pixie” glasses. They slant upward at the edge and end in points.
It’s hard to believe they were once the rage.

“Where did you get this?”

Greene shrugs. “It’s a copy. I haven’t seen the
original.”

There’s a name printed slant-wise at the bottom of
the photograph. I squint to make it out. No luck. “This picture was
probably made at a formal sitting. If we could just make out the
name of the studio—”

Greene takes it from me and studies it a moment
before he hands it back. “I can try to have it enhanced.”

“It might be too late. I’ll bet you money this
picture was taken at least fifty years ago. Sigrid Hale won’t look
like this now.” Greene says, “It’s supposed to be current.”

“If it is, she’s wearing retro. Old clothes are the
rage in some circles. But it’s the ‘do.’ Right out of the early
fifties. The makeup is way too heavy and much too dark. The false
eyelashes, not as sophisticated as today’s models. And those awful
glasses. That photo is dated. I’d stake my rep on it.

“You have other copies of this, don’t you? I’d like
to run this under Sheri’s nose.”

After Greene leaves, I step back into the living
room. Sheri is curled on her side, one thumb in her mouth. She
looks so vulnerable. How did she ever come to this?

I lean down and touch her shoulder. “Hey, it’s time
to wake up.”

She makes a whiney noise, then folds into
herself.

I raise my voice. “Sheri. Time to get up.”

Her eyes pop wide. “Where am I? Who are you?” The
light dawns, “Oh, yeah, you. Sorry, didn’t get much sleep last
night.”

I hand her the picture. “Is this Hale?”

She pales then struggles to sit. “God, I need a
drink.”

Taking her evasion as a confirmation, I pocket the
picture. “How about a ginger ale?”

She makes an ugly face. “Yech. Forget the soda. I’ll
take anything you got that’s alcoholic.”

I drag out a bottle of Chardonnay and pour her a
glass, which she downs in a couple of gulps.

She slams the glass on the coffee table and stands.
“Well, I gotta go. Appointment at ten.”

“Look, Sheri, I’d like to help you with the
abortion.”

She looks away and murmurs, “Why would you do that?
You don’t hardly know me.”

“Well, I guess I’m offering because you just hired
me as your attorney and I’m obligated to assist you in any way I
can. It’s too late to do anything tonight, but I could get some
definite answers for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, but I really gotta—”

“Look. Why don’t you stay here tonight? There’s a
guest suite on the second floor.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Really. You been
nice, but my time’s running out.”

“But, what will you tell—what about the jewelry?”
Sheri shrugs. “I gotta go.”

“Sure. I understand. But, hey, how about one for the
road?” Sheri collapses back into the cushions and shoots me a wide
grin. “Thanks. Another glass of wine would hit the spot.”

Sheri isn’t in any shape to go anywhere after she
downs a bottle and a half of the wine. Neither am I since I joined
her in a few glasses myself.

When her head starts to bobble and her eyes begin to
roll, I help her up the stairs to Caro’s bedroom. She barely makes
the bed before passing out.

After I make it to my suite, I fall in bed and don’t
hear another sound.

————

I jerk awake, sweat slathering my body—heart
galloping. It’s dark. The apartment is silent. Something is
wrong.

I turn on the bedside lamp and squint. Three
thirty.

I slip on my robe, slide into my slippers and
descend the stairs to Caro’s suite. The door is closed, just as I
left it.

I ease open the door to Caro’s suite and see the
light still on. Three steps down the hallway I stop, remembering
what awakened me. My recurring nightmare: the swollen wrists, her
bruised and savaged body and that one dulled eye staring up at
nothing.

I stifle a sudden rush of dread and step into the
room to see Sheri Browne lashed to the headboard. Her body doesn’t
bear a drop of blood, not even the small X above the nipple of her
left breast. The pungent stench of the pine-scented disinfectant
stuffs my nose, and I gag until I’m weak.

————

Greene and his team finally arrive. The detective
awkwardly pats my heaving shoulder, while he barks orders at the
Blues and notifies the Crime Scene Unit to come to the same address
for the second time.

It’s then Greene makes a decision.

I barely have enough time to snatch the safe-deposit
key from the back of the toilet tank and stuff some clothes in my
duffle before a plainclothes is escorting me to a hotel on Madison
not too far from the townhouse.

I don’t protest. If my suite hadn’t been
double-bolted, I also might be dead. The jagged marks made by some
sharp instrument near both dead bolts gave concrete evidence of a
foiled attempt at forced entry. Maybe that was what awakened me.
Thank God, I’ll never know.

“TAKE NO CHANCES. Speak only to me. I don’t care who
says what.” Greene’s voice fades.

I hear footsteps—hear a familiar voice at my back.
“Grab her. Grab her before she talks.”

I look behind me to see Bill in the Cardinal’s
costume, arms extended. How many more steps can I run in place
before he catches me?

————

I bolt upright, then slowly let out my breath. Even
though I’ve already spent a couple of nights at Hotel Wells, I’m
still suffering from that same recurring nightmare. But that’s all
it is—a nightmare.

When sunlight fills the airshaft outside the window
of my room, I check my watch. Almost eleven. It’s then I realize
that for the first time since the murder, I’ve slept through the
night.

I exit the bed, only to stub my toe on the desk as I
head for the bath.

The Wells is a nice hotel, but the accommodations
are quite a comedown from Angela’s digs. There’s barely enough
space in the room to turn around and the bath is a joke. But once I
hung up my scanty supply of daytime outfits and put a few things in
the dresser drawers, it seemed a little more like home.

Fortunately, most of my attention is now focused on
the next party in New Jersey. Since I wasn’t officially seen in the
outfit the Cardinal chose for me, I’ll be wearing the same red
dress along with paste replicas of his grandmother’s rubies and
diamonds, which Greene had copied especially for the occasion. This
time, I’m carrying a larger evening bag—one that can hold both my
Beretta and a cell.

When Greene mentioned Cliff Danes as a possible
escort, I reminded him that it was against the rules for Cliff to
take me back to The Castle after a transfer was made.

But, Cliff is nowhere to be found. His phone is no
longer a working number. His apartment has been sold. In short,
Cliff has flown the coop.

————

I’m dressed when my cell phone sings its siren song
and Greene says, “You okay?”

This is the first time we’ve spoken since that
dreadful night and I warm to his voice.

“Fine. Except for the nightmares.”

“I’m not surprised. Ever heard of post-traumatic
syndrome?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Hey, I haven’t been in a
war.”

“That’s your opinion. Look, I called for two
reasons. First, the good news: The perp wasn’t so careful this
time. We were able to pick up a couple of partials. Unfortunately,
when we ran them through the database, nothing came up.”

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.”

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.