Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (15 page)

“Then let me help.”

There’s a long silence on his end, then he says,
“Understand, I’m not promising you anything, but there’s a meeting
this afternoon at one. We’re using a safe house situated above the
deli on Eighty-Eighth and York—” He adds, “I think I told you about
the woman on loan from the Newark force? And the other member on
the team is someone you’ve met before.”

I gasp. Could the fourth member be Bill? Then I
shake away the thought. That would be too perfect. I hang up and do
a small cha-ching. At last—I’m back in the loop.

GREENE HAS MANAGED to transform two small rooms into
a pretty good office setup. In the front room sits a long table
with two chairs on each side. There’s a laptop computer with a
printer at one end and a whiteboard against the wall.

The door to a second room has been removed. Several
rows of boxes line the wall and two two-by-four planks propped on
two orange crates groan beneath stacks of files.

The room is empty except for the detective. “Thanks
for being so prompt, Allie.” He rises to greet me and points me to
the chair across from him.

Once I’m seated, he flashes those dimples. “You’re
now officially an independent agent with our team, which makes you
sort of a Blue. Not much pay, but it should cover your room at the
Wells.”

I’ve hardly absorbed the news when a familiar face
peers in the doorway. “Ahhh. The señorita has finally arrived. Now,
everything is perfect.”

My cheeks heat as Jaime Platón settles in the chair
next to mine, extends his hand and says, “This is a pleasure. I
look forward to working with you.”

Greene passes Jaime and me a stack of pages.
“Homework for later. I think you’ll be very impressed with the
detective on loan from Newark.”

As if on cue, an attractive Asian woman with
straight black shoulder-length hair and bangs that almost cover her
black round glasses-frames enters with a raft of papers clutched in
one hand. She wears a bright red turtleneck sweater and matching
slacks that showcase a petite, well-defined physique.

The detective waves a hand her way. “This is Mindy
Cha. At my direction, she has collected and compiled all the
information for this case and will be keeping track of it for
us.”

He gives her an encouraging smile then says,
“Detective Cha, meet Allie Armington, who goes by Angela outside
these rooms, and Jaime Platón. Both are independent agents on
payroll for this project.”

Detective Cha peeks through her glasses to
acknowledge us and plunks the papers on the table in front of
her.

Greene goes to the whiteboard filled with
multi-colored boxes connected with arrows. He points to the five
squares bordered in black that run across the top of the board.
“These first squares represent the three prostitutes who were at
the New Jersey parties and met their deaths in the Nineteenth
Precinct. The other two include information on Allie’s friend,
Carolina Montoya, and the latest victim, Sheri Browne, both who
were murdered in this precinct.

“Though these five women’s deaths will still be a
major priority, there is now another concern. That is the
connection between these murdered prostitutes who were definitely
from the Sigrid Hale stable and the drugs coming in from Colombia.”
He lowers his eyes only a few seconds. “This is where our interest
goes a little extra-legal, but because of the connection to the
prostitution ring and the knowledge that Hale is connected to both,
we’re going to color a little outside the lines—if you get my
drift.”

He taps a lime-green square at the top of the board.
“This square represents Jason Kingsley-Smythe, the latest murder
victim. We know he was the top dog out at The Castle, but someone
wanted him dead. Why? Not sure. Who? Maybe Hale. “Thanks to Jaime
and the DEA, we know the drug shipments never hit a snag and are
still coming in from Colombia right on schedule.

“Now, that strikes me as very strange since the red
leather address book that Montoya lifted is still missing.”

The detective drags his finger to the next two
blocks: one blue, one red. He taps the blue box. “The New Jersey
setup. Thanks to the joint efforts of Allie and DEA Agent Bill
Cotton, we know what’s going down out there.”

Greene turns to face us. “So. Now. What are we going
to do next?” He jabs the name blazed in red. “Nab Sigrid Hale.
Despite the cease-and-desist orders from the top, I was able to get
a little wiggle room from the captain, but only if we stay below
the radar.”

He looks at me. “You were right, Allie. The deed to
the townhouse on Seventy-Fifth isn’t in Danes’s name. It’s being
held in trust by Kingsley-Smythe, Templeton, PC, Attorneys at
Law.”

Bill had to have known about that. Why didn’t he
tell me? I brush away the creeping sense that I’ve been sleeping
with the enemy and recover my composure. “That’s too bad. It won’t
be easy to trace real ownership without a subpoena.”

Ms. Cha grabs a purple marker and makes yet another
box on the whiteboard. She prints Cliff Danes in the center and
adds an arrow pointing to Sigrid Hale’s box.

Greene says, “We hope to gain entry to the townhouse
without a warrant. That’s Jaime’s department.”

Jaime riffles through a few papers, then looks up.
“This morning I set up surveillance of the townhouse from across
the street in the school service area.”

The detective breaks in. “I don’t hold out much hope
for the bugs we installed in the townhouse when Allie was living
there. They’ve been remodeling.”

I wonder how that could happen so quickly. According
to Angela, no one works that fast in the Big Apple.

Jaime continues. “Danes has kept mostly to himself
except for one visitor—a female of a certain age. Not his mother;
she’s been dead over twenty years.”

Greene points to the adjacent orange square. “This
represents Georgina Kingsley-Smythe, Jason’s wife.” He looks at me.
“Do you still think this Hale is Georgina Kingsley-Smythe?”

I shrug. “Could be, even though Bill insists Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe is an invalid. Still, I think we should go see for
ourselves.”

“I agree,” he says, “but we can’t use a warrant.
It’ll have to be a friendly visit.”

“I’ll be happy to call her.”

Mindy Cha speaks up for the first time. Her voice is
low, her tone measured. “And you’re going to say, ‘Hey, Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe, I’m an old girlfriend of your late husband. Mind
if I drop in for tea?’”

I squelch the urge to be cute. After all, it is my
first day on the job. “I was thinking of something a little more
subtle than that. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, actually, I do. I’ll call Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe. Introduce myself as your secretary at the
Kingsley-Smythe firm and say that you have a document for her to
sign. If she buys, I’ll make an appointment, and we’ll go out there
together. Two well-dressed women seem harmless enough, don’t you
think?”

I have to admit Cha is good. “Sounds like a
winner.”

She picks up the telephone and in a matter of
minutes the deal is done. “Tuesday at eleven? We promise not to
keep Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe very long.”

Greene’s cell rings and he moves into the hall to
take the call. When he returns he says, “The surveillance team
reports the bugs we installed at the townhouse are no good. I’m not
surprised, but it will cost us time.”

Jaime leans forward. “I’d like to try to get in on
my own. It should be easy to install a few new ears.”

Greene looks around the table. “As far as I’m
concerned, if we get Sigrid Hale and that elusive red address book,
everything else will fall into place. And, ladies and gentleman—”
He gives us a wide grin. “This case will be a wrap.”

————

It’s past five when we pour into the street and I
invite Mindy to have a drink with me at a nearby bar where we trade
the usual girl talk.

After I run down my résumé, Mindy gives me her
background. The only daughter of a beat cop in Chinatown, all she
ever wanted was to work with the law.

“I just graduated from John Jay College of Criminal
Justice with a joint BA/MA degree in forensic psychology.”

“So I heard. Greene said you were in a couple of his
classes.” She flushes and looks down. “Yes. He’s a wonderful
instructor. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again after I took a
position with the Newark force.”

She ducks her head so that her hair almost covers
her face and murmurs. “I was so surprised—and flattered—that
Detective Greene requested my services. But, I thought we would be
working alone. I must confess I was very surprised when he added
the two of you.” She pauses, brow engaged. “What did he say your
jobs were?”

“Independent agents. All I get is room and board. I
have no idea what Platón is making. He’s also working for the
DEA.”

I take a sip of my drink to cover my beginning
smile. The woman is crazy for Greene. Could he feel the same?

“So, are you seeing anybody?”

Mindy, hair still a screen, shakes her head. “No. No
one. My parents are very distressed—especially my mother, who longs
for grandchildren.”

“Then, you live at home?”

She gives me a triumphant grin. “Only two more days.
I’ve leased a two-bedroom flat on Howard. It’s in lower SoHo, not
far from the Holland Tunnel. That way I can still live in the city,
but get to Newark plenty fast. Now, all I need is a roommate.”

I jump on that like a duck on a June bug. “Hey, if
you’re serious, maybe we could work something out.”

My offer hangs in the air as Mindy gives me a
thoughtful once-over then drains her martini. “Gee, it’s much later
than I thought. I’d better head downtown. See you Monday.”

MINDY LOOKS JUST LIKE the secretary she’s playing:
glasses in place, hair twisted up in a severe bun, a black suit
with a tailored white jabot spilling at her neck.

One nice addition: a police issue stashed in her
briefcase. Greene assures me she’s a crack shot. I slide my hand in
my leather tote to test the safety on mine and envision the latest
fashion slogan: Women in the know pack heat.

The rental car she navigates north on Interstate 95
is a non-descript sedan—fitting for the nondescript day. Low clouds
scudding above are the remains of a wet, windy, cold front.

We take Exit 3 and wind our way southeast through
lanes lined with rock walls until we come to the Kingsley-Smythes’
address.

Mindy slows the car. “Wow.”

She eases through the tall stone pillars and stops.
“Ready?”

At the end of the long drive sits an impressive
two-story mansion that looks much larger than the picture Greene
showed me. “Not bad.”

Mindy laughs. “The Kingsley-Smythes have been in the
green for generations. First whale oil, then steel.”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

She gives me a baleful look. “That’s about all I
do.”

————

The butler greets us and leads us down a wide
gallery displaying several ancestral portraits. In some, familiar
cold gray eyes stare down, the same eyes I saw in the grainy
photograph of Sigrid Hale. At that, my pulse steps up a notch.

I turn to Mindy, eager to point out the resemblance,
but she is closely examining a Jacobean library table butted
against a massive stairway that rises to the second floor.

Every inch of the patinaed oak is crammed with
photographs: there are several of the young Kingsley-Smythes with a
little girl and a young boy; some include the Kingsley-Smythe
children at a later age—a teenage girl leading the pompom squad, a
young man in a football uniform. Others feature the four of them
posed before landmarks in practically every major European capital.
I note Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe is always in a wheelchair.

We enter the library, a long room with a fireplace
on one wall, a grand piano on the other and floor-to-ceiling
leaded-glass windows surrounding double doors leading to a
flagstone terrace. Beyond, a broad lawn ends at the water’s edge.
And in the distance one can make out the Long Island shore.

A whirring noise heralds a motor-driven wheelchair
bearing a small handsome woman with white hair piled high, dressed
in a long lavender cashmere ensemble. Once she is inside the room,
a tall dark-haired man turns.

I barely suppress my gasp as Bill Cotton, wearing a
navy cashmere blazer, faces us. Instead of the rush of joy I should
feel, spots dance before my eyes and a deafening buzz drowns out
the “hello” I read on his lips.

Mindy must see my agitation, because she leans to
touch my arm. “You okay?”

I see concern in Bill’s eyes, look away and take a
deep breath. The noise and spots subside and by the time Bill has
come to stand behind the wheelchair I’m pretty much in control.

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe looks up at him. “This is my
nephew Billy. But, of course, you must already know him from the
firm.”

Nephew? Am I hearing right? Did she say he was her
nephew? Has he ever told me the truth? First he’s a sheriff in
Uvalde, Texas. Then he appears in New York on assignment as a lowly
attorney who “barely” knew Kingsley-Smythe. And now he’s the
beloved nephew?

Bill places a hand on her shoulder. “Aunt Georgina,
may I introduce Angela Armington and her secretary, Mindy Cha? They
brought a document for you to sign.”

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe gives us a small
acknowledgement. “I’m so sorry you came all this way. Billy could
have brought it home.” Bill leans down. “I haven’t been to the
office since Uncle Jason’s memorial service, remember?”

Mindy does her part. “Since the firm is eager to
wrap things up concerning your late husband’s estate, we need your
signature on this one document so the probate can move
forward.”

I get Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s attention. “Please
accept my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe.
Your husband was a fine man.”