Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (7 page)

He smiles. “She was a student in one of my classes
at John Jay.”

He sees the question on my face. “John Jay College
of Criminal Justice. I taught a few courses there last semester.
Cha’s a very bright young woman. Maintained a three-point-nine
grade point average in the joint BA/MA program. I was lucky to get
her. So, you understand why I don’t want to shake her tree this
early in the project.”

He’s now hustling me toward the street door. “Why
not take this opportunity to learn the city. Do a little
sightseeing. Take in a few plays.”

I can’t believe this jerk. Though I jumped at the
chance to pose as Angela, suffering through a revolting evening
with the Cardinal was no picnic. And now, he’s dismissing me. It’s
all I can do not to kick Greene in the shins.

The detective must read my distress because he gives
me an awkward pat on my arm. “Look. I can’t begin to tell you how
grateful I am that you volunteered to do this. And, if I thought
you were even remotely in danger, I’d yank you off the case right
this minute.”

“I’m not saying that I want out. It’s just that it’s
so boring between assignments.”

He sobers. “I guess I gave you too much credit since
you once were an ADA. I guess like all amateurs you think all we do
is run around with our guns drawn and drag in the hundreds of perps
we conveniently collar.

“FYI, ninety-nine percent of my job is devoted to
endless boring surveillances and digging through cold evidence.

“And believe me, there’s not one of us who serves on
the front line that doesn’t pray for the other ninety-nine when
that one percent happens and the sphincter grabs as the heart rate
rips to two hundred plus.”

I raise my hand. “Okay. Okay. You’re right.”

“Frankly, Danes has done all he can. He got you to
New Jersey, somehow managed to tag the Cardinal, and thanks to the
two of you, we have our first make. Now, you’re our only
connection. You must know how crucial you are?”

His earnest face melts my resolve. If truth be
known, the moment I set foot inside The Castle with Cliff, I was
snagged. All Greene had to do was set the hook and reel me in.

A FINAL THRUST OF COLD pushes me into the stuffy
vestibule, a welcome respite from the insistent gale.

After shedding my coat, I sling my purse on the
table and paw through it for the key. No key. Did I inadvertently
stash it in the vase? I certainly hadn’t meant to.

Then I cringe as I recall hearing it clink against
the porcelain bottom. My mind races along with my heart. How many
people knew about the key besides Caro, Angela and me? And oh, God,
the Cardinal?

Did Caro’s murderer know? Had he killed her and
walked into the night as if nothing happened?

I grab my purse and shove my hand inside to grab my
Beretta. After disengaging the safety, I slowly depress the handle
and crack the door.

There’s someone on the other side. I can hear them
breathing.

I ready my weapon, shove hard with my shoulder, then
stumble into the room to stop just short of falling into the arms
of a very attractive man.

Before I can get “Hands in the air” out, he sends
them above his head, eyes darting, as he blurts out, “Don’t shoot.
I’m unarmed.”

My Beretta remains leveled at him.

“Don’t you recognize me? I’m Carolina’s brother.” He
lowers his hands, holding them away from his body.

I have to admit he resembles the man in the picture
I saw in Caro’s room. Maybe he is Caro’s brother—but then, maybe he
isn’t. I motion him toward the couch.

When he’s settled, he points toward his suit jacket
hanging from one of the side chairs flanking the console. “I have
identification.”

Pistol still trained on him, I retrieve his wallet
and look at the ID. Guillermo Montoya. The address reads Madrid.
The photo matches. Seems legit. I lower the gun.

“Thank you. It’s been a long couple of days and I’m
very tired.”

I stow the Beretta in my purse with the safety still
off and sit in the chair across from him, purse perched primly in
my lap. “When did you arrive, Señor Montoya?”

“Only moments ago. I was shooting in Argentina when
my father called with the news. I flew all night, then spent the
next twenty-four hours getting the embassies to sign off on the
papers.”

“Papers?”

Pain flashes across his face. “For Carolina. You
know. So she—her body may be returned.”

“Oh—yes. I’m so sorry.” Photographs of Caro’s family
flash: the mother and father, the distant shot of a man who seems
to resemble Guillermo and the girls, clones of Caro.

“And the girls? How are they?” “You mean my
daughters?” “They must be devastated.”

His eyes deepen with despair. “We haven’t been able
to tell them. We’re afraid it might be too much.”

He lowers his head, crosses himself and mutters,
“They lost their beloved mother not too long ago. We were in an
accident. I was able to roll free of the car.” He touches a small
scar on his forehead and winces. “Some reconstructive surgery was
all—for me, but my beloved wife was caught in the fire.
Fortunately, Carolina was able to come home and be there for
them.”

My breath leaves my body in a low moan. There’s
nothing left to say except how sorry I am, but when I do, I realize
how vacant it sounds.

He takes a few seconds to compose himself, then he
glances toward the stairs. “Would it offend you if I stayed in
Carolina’s room tonight? I confess I already tried the door, but it
seems to be locked.”

I swallow a rising gasp. How does he know which room
was hers? I ease my hand inside my purse and curl my fingers around
the butt of my Beretta.

He gives me a wan smile. “You don’t remember, do
you? But of course you wouldn’t. You were running down the steps.
Almost knocked me over.”

How could Angela forget to tell me she’d met Caro’s
brother? Heat rushes to my cheeks as I try to cover. “Oh. Of
course, of course I remember now. I’ll get the key.”

I rise, take a couple of steps and turn his way.
“This is really embarrassing to admit, but I guess I thought if
Caro’s suite was locked, nothing else could go wrong.”

When we reach the landing, I say, “You must be
exhausted from your trip. I’ll turn on some lights and be sure
there’s clean towels.”

He grabs my arm. When I flinch he quickly releases
his hold. “Please—excuse me, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather
enter my sister’s room alone.”

I watch him go slowly down the hallway to Caro’s
bedroom. He turns, gives me a slight wave, then closes the door
behind him.

It’s just past nine—not even close to my usual
bedtime. I wander through the living room, plumping cushions and
straightening the throw pillows, then, thirsty for something cool,
I head for the kitchen.

My earlier shopping spree at Gristede’s rewards me
with a bottle of chilled Chablis, a pungent, runny, French cheese
and some crackers, which I carry to Angela’s suite.

Once I’m undressed and in my robe, I settle on the
chaise, pour a glass of wine and flick on the television. I munch,
sip and surf until I find American Movie Channel, which is offering
the 1939 black-and-white version of “An Affair to Remember” with
Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne.

The last thing I remember is realizing that the
woman who played the grandmother in the earlier version reprised
her role in the Cary Grant film.

————

A glowering Señor Montoya leans above me, saying
something Spanish.

I look down. My robe has fallen open. I try to wrap
it around me but it crumbles and sifts through my fingers like
sand.

Mustering all my courage, I say, “Señor Montoya,
please return to your room. It’s late and you have jetlag.”

He bends to touch my shoulder. “Wake up, Miss
Armington.”

I start, eyes snapping wide. The LED on the alarm
clock reads eleven thirty. Señor Montoya, wearing a silk robe,
stands before me.

I gasp and glance down to see my robe is tightly
wrapped around me.

“I am very sorry to disturb you, Miss Armington. I
couldn’t sleep so I went downstairs to read. When your phone kept
ringing, I answered the extension in the kitchen. A most unhappy
man demanded to speak with you.

He points to the portable on the nightstand.

Duncan’s voice assaults my ear. “And who exactly was
that?” “Carolina Montoya’s brother.”

“Well, that explains it. Don’t worry, I asked for
Angela. Your sister gave me the drill.” “Thanks. What’s up?”

“Angie seems to have settled in—” Duncan’s voice
fades as I concentrate on Montoya’s leisurely exit from my bedroom.
The man is studying a painting on Angela’s wall. He doesn’t fool
me. He’s trying to hear what I’m talking about. What cheek.

Duncan is saying, “—been seeing her quite a bit.
Allie, are you listening?”

When Montoya finally disappears, I try to pick up
the lost threads. “Of course I’m listening. That’s so nice of
you.”

“Angie says you’re standing in for her. Something to
do with her roommate’s murder?”

Did he say Angie? Angela detests anyone that calls
her by nickname. She’ll set him straight in a nanosecond. “I guess
you could say that.”

His next words are loaded with exasperation. “Oh,
dear God. Is this another one of your cockamamie escapades? I
haven’t forgotten what happened in Uvalde. You were almost killed.
Remember?”

DAMN TELEPHONE. The ringing won’t stop. In my
half-sleep I grab for it, push the “Talk” button and drag it to my
ear. “It’s Greene. Is your door locked?”

I rise on one elbow and through slitted eyes make
out nine forty-five. “I’m not sure. What’s up?”

“Please verify.”

I stumble out of my warm cocoon and lurch toward the
door. Halfway there I remember that I locked it after hanging up
from Duncan’s call.

I feel my way back to the bed. “It’s locked. What’s
this all about?”

“Get dressed, but do not leave your room until I get
there. Understand?”

I snap out of my haze. Greene must have gotten wind
of my visitor. “Is this about Caro’s brother?”

Dead silence on the other end, then Greene’s wary,
“What about him?”

“He’s here. Poor man was exhausted so I put him up
in Caro’s room. But listen, Greene, Montoya doesn’t know anything
about what happened to his sister. You know—the gory stuff? Isn’t
there some way we can smooth things over? The family doesn’t need
to know all the details.”

“We’ll talk about that when I get there. Just stay
put.”

“What’s with the cloak and dagger? Gunning for that
dreaded one percent?”

“Very funny. I’ll explain when I see you. Just keep
that door locked.”

Resisting the urge to alert poor Montoya, I shower
and dress, then plop on the chaise and turn on the TV. I flick
through the menu twice, not really paying attention to the
programs, since my main focus is on getting a caffeine fix.

After what seems like an eternity, I hear footsteps
on the stairs. “It’s Greene. Open up. I brought you some Java.”

“Bless you, bless you. I was about to have a
meltdown.”

I take the steaming Styrofoam cup and sidle past him
to head downstairs when I realize he’s not alone. On the landing
below, two plainclothes have their weapons drawn and pointed at the
entrance to Carolina’s suite.

“What in hell is this about? That poor man is
probably dead asleep. You’re going to scare him out of his
wits.”

“I doubt that.” Greene grabs my arm and pushes me
behind him.

“Wait a minute. Do you have a warrant?”

The detective flashes a familiar piece of paper. “I
was trained to go by the book, Miss Ex-DA. Okay. Let’s do it.”

One of the men bangs on the door, “Police. Open
up.”

I cower behind Greene’s protective mass, but manage
to squeak, “This is ridiculous. Montoya is here to claim his
sister’s body. This is no way to treat a grieving man.”

In slow motion the man pushes the door into
Carolina’s suite and wraps into the darkness. “Nobody’s here.”

I’m at Greene’s heels when he charges into the
chaos. Drawers yanked out of their slides, comforter and pillows
slashed to shreds, upended chair burping stuffing.

Greene looks around the room, slumps and mutters,
“We’re too late. The sonovabitch must have gotten what he came
for.”

————

A locksmith has just finished changing out the front
lock and is heading for the kitchen to replace the lock there.

Greene sits across from me as I tremble the
Styrofoam cup of coffee to my lips for a third try and welcome the
semi-molten trickle on my tongue.

“You say the man who was here last night isn’t
Montoya?” “That’s right.” The detective leans forward. “But much of
what that man told you is true. Montoya was in South America and
returned to Madrid to get permits to export his sister’s body.”
Greene looks down at his notepad for a few seconds, makes the
customary tick with his pen, then continues. “Montoya arrived at
JFK yesterday around three.”

He reads one page and half of another, then looks
up. “They found his body in the men’s room near Baggage Claim. The
prelim showed a massive contusion to the back of the head. Someone
must have lured Montoya into the bathroom and did him in.”

I take a bigger swig and cringe, unsure if it’s the
scald or the icy shard jabbing my stomach. “And the man who said he
was Señor Montoya?”

“No idea.” Greene shifts his lank in the chair,
crosses his legs and turns to a blank page. “Can you describe
him?”

I run down the list. “Medium height and handsome.
Dark complexion. Nice brown eyes. Slight accent. Hair slicked back,
but not in a greasy, unattractive way.”

“Any scars or unusual features?”

I visualize Montoya or whoever he is touching the
small scar on his forehead. “A half-inch-long scar on his
forehead—right side. He said he was in an auto accident—said his
wife was killed in the wreck.”