Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (8 page)

Too tired to get undressed, she crept beneath the covers and turned off the light. She needed to sleep, but each time she felt she was going under, her body jolted. Nerves. All wound up in a snarled mass. After tossing and turning for a half hour, she rolled from the bed. Maybe a warm shower would relax her. In the bathroom, she turned on the water. After adjusting the temperature, she slipped off her dress. She was about to get naked but stopped. What about the bathroom door? The latch was the push-button kind. With the door ajar, she pressed the button and checked if the knob seized up. It did. She then shut the door and locked it. 

Stripped down, she stepped into the shower stall. The warm pulsating droplets massaged her aching muscles. She tore the paper off the soap and rubbed the small bar into her scalp. With lids shut tight, she put her head directly under the flow. Foam dribbled down her face. Grime and sweat caused by endless hours of running were finally being washed away. She lathered up again. Her skin would be tight and dry in the morning, but she’d be clean. The steam loosened the weariness in her chest, when suddenly, amid the pelting water against the plastic shower curtain, a door slammed. She froze. Attempting to open her eyes, the soapy residue stung. Her breath quickened. 

Another slam. 

Blindly, she felt for the faucet and twisted it shut. Except for the draining water, an eerie silence followed. With rising panic, she stood immobilized. Could someone be standing on the other side of the door? She reached for a towel, dried her eyes and stepped from the shower.  

She was a sitting duck. There was no window. The only way out was through the door. She needed a weapon. She reached for a drinking glass and slapped the rim against the porcelain sink. Whatever fate lay waiting, she was as ready as she’d ever be. Tightening the towel around her, she flung open the door and pounced out. 

Her eyes swept across the room, expecting the man. But there was no one. She looked at the entry. The chain was still attached. Was she going crazy? Or could he have gotten in then relocked the door? Looming two feet away was the closet. Driven by a surge of adrenaline, she reached for the knob and yanked the door open. The sudden rush of air rattled the hangers. Empty. 

Looking over the room, there was one other hiding spot – beneath the bed. She dropped to her knees. No one.

Paloma pulled herself up, then collapsed onto the bed. Her heart was beating furiously. Constant fear. Would it ever end? She needed to reclaim her life and face whatever came her way. But how? Where to start?

Chapter Eight

Cold roast beef sandwiches, Max was on his second of the day. Back in Buffalo, he was in a slump. Agnes, aka Paloma, aka Nancy had skipped off without a trace, yet another cold detail to swallow – a cold trail. Max took a last bite. He liked meat rare, bloody rare with plenty of horseradish. Usually eating it gave him great pleasure, but today he felt dissatisfied, not so much with the sandwich, but with himself. He needed a focus, then a plan. But what should the focus be? To chase Agnes or find who’s after her? Perhaps they were one and the same.

He reached for the phone and punched in his friend’s number. A familiar voice answered.

Max grinned. “How you doing Tank?”

“Hey, if it isn’t Maxo. Still recouping from the poker game? Man, you took a beating. How much did you lose?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Ever consider Bingo?”

Max clenched his teeth. Defeat was never easy. “No.”

Tank laughed. “Getting old, dawg. Slowing down. Need to take your Geritol.”

“Very funny.”

“No seriously Maxo, you gotta take the stuff. It worked wonders for my old man. That is if you can remember to take it. Uh oh, better get some gingko as a chaser.”

“You finished?”

“Never, my man. What up?”

“You know you could speak more professionally.” 

“If I did, no one would understand me. We got a bunch of rookies, always wantin’ to be down like the bro’s, be fly, be coo’ twenty-four seven.”

“Hmm.”

“All college graduates tryin’ to get down. Tragic, huh?”

“Part of life, I suppose.”

“Maxo. Always the philosopher. So, what do you need?”

“Tank, maybe I just want to talk.”

“Really? No catch?”

“You’re a sharp guy. I should have given you a better evaluation.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. What can I do for you?”

“Paloma Dove. New York City. Bank accounts, credit card activity, flights in the past year, phone records from her apartment at 125 MacDougall, 1A.”

“How about the results of her last GYN exam?”

Max laughed. “You read my mind.”

“Who is this woman?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. How about I take you to lunch on Monday?”

“Not sure how much I’ll have.”

“Whatever you can get. Chutney’s at noon?”

“Chutney’s? You are one desperado.”

Desperate? Max couldn’t deny it. “Luv ya dawg.”

“Way to go, Maxo. See ya in a couple.”

Max hung up and looked at the clock. Two p.m. Saturday. Almost forty-eight hours between now and then. Plenty of time to get rolling on some hard-core S&R, search and rescue. Where to start? Max fumbled around for a pen and pad. Tracing someone wasn’t brain surgery. What she did in the past, she’d do in the future. And there was something else – just yesterday Agnes was headed to Buffalo. Why? Was it for the same reasons everyone returned home – visiting family, seeing old friends? He wrote down two headings
Family,
Friends
and considered each one.  

As far as family was concerned, Agnes was alone, an only child whose parents had died years ago. Still, there was the cemetery, a spot she returned to yearly. Along with these visits, she’d also stay at an airport hotel and rent a car. Under
Family
Max wrote
Forest Lawn, Airport Ramada, Hertz.
Now what about friends? Were there people she visited? Certainly not him or the Catonis. The only person was Curtis, but he hadn’t seen or spoken to Agnes since the trial twenty-five years earlier. He crossed out
Friends
and looked at the short list. Something was missing, something critical. Buffalo and Agnes. Agnes and Buffalo. But what?

Then it hit him. Maybe the variables weren’t Agnes and Buffalo, but Paloma and Buffalo. And if it were Paloma trying to get to Buffalo that left one obvious destination – the library.        

***

The Buffalo and Erie County library, a building of reinforced concrete panels and tall windows, spanned a downtown block. Entering from the Washington street entrance, Max smelled the familiar library scent. He’d learned from Cindy, it was from glue, lots of it. He liked the smell, it comforted him, gave him an instant high of relief and relaxation. 

In recent years his visits to the library had been limited to the magazine section and to the auditorium, where he’d often stopped during his lunch hour. There he’d learned about the mating rituals of raccoons from a writer of wildlife, got a headache listening to the zoning ordinances regarding lakefront property and, most recently and ashamedly, slept through a showing of Casablanca. He liked the library. It was big and quiet, and people were respectful, even groups of kids seemed mellow. Maybe it was the glue after all.

He walked beyond the darkened auditorium and onto the escalator. As the stairs rose, the oncoming view sparked memories. On past occasions he had stood on the stairs, taking his sweet time. Other times, when in a hurry, he’d bounded up the escalator jumping two, three steps at once. Past the second floor and onto the third, everything appeared unchanged, as if the intervening years had hardly mattered. Of course there must’ve have been alterations, slight shifts in the foundation, maintenance of the plumbing, heating, and undoubtedly several coats of paint. But to the naked eye, it remained the same – the speckled tiled floor, the bland beige walls.

Stepping off the stairs, he felt a vague sense of discomfort. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, not recall the past and how he’d been caught between two women – being with one, but wanting another. He shook his head. Romantic relationships were never his strong suit. Whenever he had to deal with them, his sense of certainty wavered. Was that happening now? How absurd. Cindy and he had ended their relationship years ago.

He approached a frosted glass door with lettering,
Cynthia Kovacs, Director
, and entered. A young brunette sat behind a computer screen. She looked up. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mrs. Kovacs.”

“Your name?”

“Max Laurent.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m a friend. Is she available?”

“I’m afraid she’s with someone. Would you like to have a seat?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Not much had changed since his last visit. Perhaps the carpet had been replaced, but the pictures of the waterfront were the same. 

 Max had made Cindy’s acquaintance when the library was the hub for newspaper stories, phone directories, and information on all kinds of topics. How many cases had Cindy helped him with? Too many. And naturally events evolved from the professional to the personal. For five years he and Cindy were involved, even considered marriage, but Max, in the final analysis, couldn’t take the plunge. He’d been in love with Agnes. He tried not to be, but in the end, he was. Thankfully, after their break-up, Cindy met someone else and married. One less thing to feel guilty about. She had been kind enough to come to his retirement party, where they had exchanged pleasant words. But there were occasions, a casual meeting downstairs, a happy hour in one of the downtown bars, that her attitude had a cutting edge. Max wasn’t sure how to take her. Maybe it was his imagination or maybe she finally realized what a heel he was. He couldn’t blame her. But hadn’t she said, always and forever, if you ever need my help, I’m there? Well, he did need her help.

The door to her office was opened by a suited man.

Cindy’s voice filtered out. “I’ll be in touch in a couple of weeks. The board has to approve any changes. You have my number.”

The man nodded. “Thanks Mrs. Kovacs.”

The secretary sprang from the chair and poked her head inside. “Mrs. Kovacs, Mr. Laurent is here to see you.”

“Who?”

The young woman turned to Max. 

Max stood, then walked to the door. “The guy who owes you his badge.”

Cindy, in her early fifties, looked much younger. Tan and athletic, her short-cropped hair, boyishly cut, framed her bright blue eyes. “Well, for a moment I thought I was hearing things, but now I think I must be seeing things. Sit. Take a load off. Leah, hold my calls while I talk to a very old and dear friend, or is that a dear and very old friend?”

Max relaxed into a chair. “Pot calling the kettle?”

She laughed. “Touché.”

Max swept a glance around the room. Some things had changed. Her desk was different – teakwood with a curved kidney-shaped top. And the wall behind her was now filled with accolades –
Woman of the Year
,
Honoree of the Year, Leadership in Government Award
. “Nice office for a civil servant.”

“Always a qualifier with you, Max.”

Max felt that tinge again, an uneasiness. “No, really Cindy, this place is first rate. You deserve it.”

“We always get what we deserve, don’t you think?”

Max smiled  “Yes, we do. I’m sorry we didn’t have much time to talk at the party.”

“The place was packed. You must’ve been very happy with such a wonderful send-off.”

“Too bad I can’t remember it.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to remember retirement parties.”

“Hey, what can you do? My last day for seeing a lot of those guys. Had a good run.”

“I’d say. So, how are you spending your time? Roaming endlessly, visiting old haunts?”

“Been playing golf.”

“I thought you hated golf.”

“Still do, but I never seem to realize it until I’m around the tenth hole.”

“Why is that?”

“The writing’s on the wall and it’s indelible. Once you’re down twenty strokes you don’t have a bat’s chance in hell.”

Cindy leaned back. Her eyes sparkled. “Max, you’re too funny.”

For a moment they looked at each other. What was she thinking? Max couldn’t even venture to guess. The woman was smart, complicated.

“How’s Karl?” he asked.

“Karl is Karl, like a rose is a rose.”

“And your dogs?”

Cindy sat forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “You’re asking about my dogs? What’s this really about?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

Her eyes widened. “Doing consultant work for the Bureau?”

“No, this is more –” Max stopped. How was he going to explain the situation?

“More what?”

“I guess you could say… Personal.”

“Personal? Now I am intrigued. I didn’t think you had a personal life.”

Max would’ve objected to the insinuation, but it was true. “A friend of mine is missing.”

“Male or female?”

“Female”

“I see. Go on.”

“The only lead I have are books from this library.”

Her brows furrowed. “Which branch?”

“This one, the main one.”

“What are you looking for? An address?”

“Yes, that or anything that might help me locate her.”

She rolled a keyboard from beneath the desktop and slipped on glasses. “Max, this can’t be official Bureau business, and I take it you don’t have a subpoena. Not that it ever stopped you before.”

“Right on all accounts. I’m just trying to find someone.”

“The ends justify the means?”

Max readjusted himself in the seat. “There you go again throwing clichés at me.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

Max sighed. “Okay. Sometimes the ends do justify the means.” 

She smiled. “You learn fast. Agree with anything I say and there’s nothing left to argue about.”

Max felt confused. Who were they Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn? “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, huh?”

She waved him off. “What’s her name?”

“Dove, Paloma.”