Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (25 page)

“
Sí
.”

“What time will you be getting in?”

“Around eight tonight.”

“I’ll stop by. I don’t want you to leave Paloma. We can take care of him.”

Paloma choked out a laugh. “The best way to treat a snake is to leave it alone.”

“You need a gun.”

“I don’t know the first thing about guns.”

“You can learn.”

“I don’t know Daisy. We’ll see.”

“Yes.
Verémos
.”

“
Ciao
.”

“
Vaya con Dios
.”

***

By dinnertime Max was getting settled in a room at the Marriott in the windy city of Chicago. He had already called up for a club sandwich and was flipping through channels. His attention couldn’t be held, not by sports or news or weather. He turned the damn thing off, went to the bar and downed a shot of Johnnie Walker. The burn felt good, too good. He’d have to slow down and not get carried away. He looked at his watch and continued pacing. Agnes. Damn it. The odds of her returning to the cemetery or any other place where he’d seen her was unlikely. This time she might get away forever.

A light knock rapped on the door. “Room Service.” 

Max opened the door. A short, stocky man in a white jacket held a tray. On top was a single plate with a silver cover. To the side lay a cloth napkin, a bottle of water.

“You ordered a club sandwich, sir?”

The man’s name tag read,
Manuel.
“Yes. Come in.”

The waiter entered and set up Max’s order. “Enjoying Chicago, sir?”

“Just got here. Are you from the area?”

“Pretty much. I’ve lived here for over twenty years.”

Max nodded. “Very nice hotel.”

“We try our best.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

“Safe? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“In the hotel. It’s downtown in a big city.”

“Not a problem, Sir.”

Max pulled out his wallet and fingered a twenty. “Hotels in New York have cameras everywhere.”

Manuel’s eyes dropped to the cash. “We’re no different. We have cutting edge technology to assure the safety of all our guests… The food will be charged to the room, sir.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Max said, offering the bill. “I just need to know something.”

Manuel hesitated, then took the twenty. “What’s that, sir?” 

“Who’s the head of security here?”

“That would be Ms. Rawls. Is there a problem?”

“More of a concern. Where would I find Ms. Rawls?”

“Her office is on the lower level.”

“I see.” Max reached over and patted the man’s back. “Manuel, thank you so much. I get nervous sometimes. You’ve been very helpful.”

The man beamed. “Certainly, sir. No problem. If you need anything, call.”

“I certainly will.”

After closing the door behind the waiter, Max went to the bar and had another drink. This time he sipped it slowly. Five minutes later, unfed, he locked up and headed to the lower level.  

“I’d like to speak to Ms. Rawls,” Max said. The uniformed woman sat in a small office behind a glass window. Beyond that Max heard some music.

“Is she expecting you?”

“The home office gave me her name. It’s about a security issue.”

The woman picked up the phone and punched a number. “There’s someone here to see you. Was sent by the home office… Very well.” She looked at Max. “I’ll buzz you in.”

Max dodged for the knob and entered the small cubicle where the woman sat. 

She nodded to an open door behind her. “You can wait inside.” 

Max walked through. 

The place was command central. The waiter hadn’t overstated the security in the hotel. Three people were stationed in front of a wall of monitors. Surveillance cameras were at the ready to be pivoted and focused. Hallways, banquet rooms, points of entry panned across the screens. There was just one problem – Max, a stranger, was sitting feet away from security operations, clearly a breach.      

A woman removed her headset, stood, and approached Max. “What can I do for you?”

Max held out his hand. “Ms. Rawls, my name is Max Laurent.”

She gave him a forceful shake.

“I was given your name from the Marriott home office. They’ve hired me to conduct an investigation for a liability suit against the hotel. A woman named Paloma Dove who stayed here on the fourteenth is threatening to sue after she was held up by an armed man in the reception area.”

“What? We never received any claim of that.”

“Yes, I know. In her complaint she reports the man was in a white car parked out front while she waited for an airport limo. It was around nine in the morning. She alleges that he got out of the car and at gunpoint brought her through the double doors where he robbed her.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Sounds far-fetched.”

“Why didn’t she report the incident to the reception desk?”

“Precisely. Nothing sounds right. But now she’s in a hospital in Buffalo, stating that she’s been traumatized. She’s threatening a million-dollar lawsuit. If we can definitively prove there was no white car out front at the time she reports, she’ll have no case. If you ask me, it sounds like a deep pocket scam. At the cost of the hotel. At the cost of its security.”

The woman stood tall. “We take a great deal of pride in our work, our security. Let’s see what we have.”

They sat at a free standing computer. “What day did you say?”

“June fourteenth.”

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. The system was cutting edge. “Time?”

“Nine a.m.”

Her eyes scanned the screen. “The limo at that time comes to the Michigan entrance.”

A date and time counter flashed numbers in the upper right-hand corner of the monitor. After more keys were pressed, the clock was set at 8:45 a.m. Suddenly a wide shot of the hotel popped onto the screen.

“How many cameras do you have?” he asked.

“Enough for a full 360.” 

In a matter of seconds a picture, seamlessly connected from a number of different camera angles, rolled across the screen. The front of the building then came into view. Max pointed. “There she is.”

“Let’s take a better look.”

She froze the frame, cropped a section and zoomed in. The detail in Agnes’s face was remarkable. She stood outside along the building. Her hair was longer. On her shoulder hung the bag he’d looked through earlier in the day.

“Miss Dove said it was a white car with tinted windows. It came up and parked not far from the doors.”

Reverting back to the full angle shot, she pressed a button and lanes of moving traffic rolled by. “I’ll slow down if a white car pulls in.” 

Max followed each moving car as it approached, centered, then moved on. 

“Here’s one,” she said, slowing down the action.

The car, a BMW with tinted windows, swerved to the curb.

Max’s heart rate climbed. “Can we get a plate number?”

A PIP from a different camera angle popped into the corner of the screen. Just as she had zoomed into Agnes’s face, another cropped section suddenly blew up – Illinois plate OPD457. The woman handed Max a sticky note pad. He wrote down the number. His eyes then dropped to the larger frame. 

“How’s the speed?” she asked him.

“Good.”

Max kept his eyes on the screen. At 9:03, the window on the Beemer slowly rolled down. He’d have only one shot at this. He leaned forward and fixed a stare.

“No one’s getting out. Do you see anything?” she asked.

“Not sure.” He stayed focused. A small cylindrical shadow pointed from the rear passenger window, barely breaking the plane. Within moments an airport limo swerved in front and the window in the BMW rolled up.

“If that’s the car, no one got out,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Here’s the limo. Let’s make sure she gets on.”  

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. The view from a distance showed a parade of people crossing the sidewalk and entering the van. “There she is.” 

Max nodded. Agnes walked in the middle of the crowd, then stepped into the van.

Ms. Rawls said, “Clearly Miss Dove is fabricating a story.”

“No question.” Max stood and held out his hand. “Thanks for being so helpful. If we need to subpoena the discs, we’ll let you know.”

The woman returned a firm shake. “Anytime.”

On the elevator to his room, Max fingered the slip of yellow paper – the license plate. Hopefully it wasn’t for a stolen car.

Back in the hotel room, Max took a bite of the club sandwich and punched in his friend’s cell. Two rings and his deep voice answered, “Hello.”

“So Tank, did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Totally awesome. Got the waitress’s number. And how did it go with your shorty?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“A little bit of both I suppose.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anything more?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tank roared. “Sounds like it went very well.”

“There was one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s gone again.”

“Where to?”

“No clue.”

“So now what?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I need another favor.”

“You trying to get me fired?”

“Tank, me? Never.”

“So what’s it now?”

“A plate.”

“Sounds too easy.”

“Nope, that’s it.”

“What’s the number?”

Max fumbled with the sheet. “Illinois OPD457."

“Okay, I’ll call you back in few hours. I’m en route from visiting my sister. You home?”

“Actually, I’m in Chicago. Call me on my cell.”

“Chicago? You’re a travelin’ man.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Later.”

“Thanks Tank.”

After hanging up, Max turned on a Red Sox game and finished the sandwich. At the bottom of the eighth, his cell chirped. He answered.

“Got the info. Want to write this down?”

Max readied his pen. “Shoot.”

“Car’s registered to Clay Abbott –”

“What?”

“Clay Abbott. Address, 45 Soverign Place.”

“That can’t be.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Max rubbed is forehead. “He’s her husband.”

***

The room at the Wellington was worn around the edges but adequate. The swirling pastel wallpaper with matching bedspread was reminiscent of the early eighties. Still dressed, Paloma lay on the bed and watched television with the sound off. The visual images of a movie jumped from scene to scene. This she could relate to, a collage-like existence. But there was peacefulness as well. Knowing her attacker was loosely comforting. A madman, yes, but not a stranger. Making sense of the situation, took the mystery out of it, and some of the fear. 

Shortly after the eleven o’clock news was underway, someone tapped on the door.   

“Paloma?” came a whisper. “Are you there?”

Paloma rolled from the bed and looked through the peephole. Daisy. Unchaining the lock and turning the latch, Paloma opened the door and Daisy slipped in.

Paloma gave her friend a squeeze, smelling the blended scents of perfume,
sofrito
and garlic. 

“Have you eaten?” Daisy asked.

“The bus stopped on the way.”

She placed a large tote on top of the table. “I brought some
arroz con pollo
.” Opening the flap, she took out some plastic containers, paper plates. “Paloma, you can’t leave. I have it all worked out. You’ll be safe here. We’ll just have to be careful, that’s all.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nonsense. I’ve already spoken to Brandon. He’s bringing a gun for you tomorrow.”

“Brandon? You talked to him about me? Daisy, I wish you hadn’t.”

“We have to pool our resources. Besides he’s been dying to meet you.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I just said that you were worried for your personal safety.”

“And he thought a gun was the solution?”

“We both thought so. A normal person could go to the police. But I know how you feel about the police. Besides that man’s in law enforcement.”

“Was. He retired.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ve got to leave and set up shop somewhere else. Some place I’ve never been before.”

“But what about the business?”

“
Hija
, I can do it anywhere.”

“Yes, that’s true, but we’re friends. We’ve been through a lot. Come sit down. Let’s eat.”

Paloma nodded and filled a plate. 

If it hadn’t been for Daisy what would have become of her? Daisy and her mother had welcomed her into their home, their business. Before that Paloma had been living like a gypsy, rarely in one place for more than a few months, always having to stay one step ahead of the police. Fingerprints didn’t lie. 

“Daisy, maybe I won’t have to be gone long, just until the dust settles. Stalkers lose interest eventually. Don’t they?”

Daisy shrugged. “
Ay mi hija
, I suppose so. Anyway, did you manage to finish the letter?”

Paloma reached for her bag and slipped out the letter. “It still needs to be aged. But you can do that.”

Daisy nodded, then pushed her plate aside and eyed the forgery. Her lips moved as she mouthed the words. Once finished, she said, “
Chavala
, this could be your best yet.”

“Yes, I’m happy with it. How many more do you want?”

“I know we had talked about more letters, but maybe we should hold off for a while. In some ways the fewer there are, the more valuable they’ll become. How about going back to some Frida Kahlos? I’ve had some correspondence from collectors in Argentina. It would be easy money.”

“Sounds good.”

Daisy unzipped a money belt and pulled out a roll. “Here’s five thousand. I’ll get the rest to you after the auction. Now about that man, Max, what made you realize that he was the one after you?”

“For one thing he had hundreds of pictures of me from over the years, in places where I thought I was alone.”

“
Ay, eso me da escalofríos
.”

“Yes, it was very creepy.”

“Did he show them to you?”

“No, they were hidden. I found them in a closet.”

“And what did he say? How did he explain himself?”