Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (9 page)

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“The woman’s name. Paloma means dove in Spanish.” She looked over her half glasses.  “But you probably knew that.”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“It will be our little secret.”

She looked back at the monitor. Her glance skittered across the screen. “Nothing is showing up. I’ll reverse the names.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard, then stopped. “No Paloma, no Dove. Give me something else. Date of birth, phone number, that sort of thing.”

“How about some book titles?”

“Shoot.”

“
The Steno’s Bible
.”

She pressed more keys, then turned to Max. “Liquidation. Library sale in June, seven years ago.”

“June?”

“Yes. Is that significant?”

Max had often followed Agnes when she came to Buffalo, but that was in February. She must have made other trips to Buffalo. “The library sale. How does that work? Do you need a library card?”

She shook her head. “No, just grab a bag, fill it up and pay cash.”

“How about a book called
Corset and Crinoline
?”

“Author?”

“Can’t remember. But it was published in the 1800s.”

Her fingers sped across the keys. “Here’s something. W.B. Lord is the author. In the reserved stacks.”

“So it’s not missing?”

“Not necessarily.” She picked up the phone and punched some numbers. “I’ll check downstairs to confirm.”

With the phone tucked between her head and shoulder, her eyes bored into him. “Gail,” she said into the receiver, “I’m looking for a book by Lord,
Corset and Crinoline
.” 

While waiting, she tapped her fingers on the desk and gave Max a warm smile. Suddenly, it felt like old times.

“I see,” she said into the receiver, then hung up.

“Well?”

“That book is stolen property.”

“Stolen? How would she have gotten access to it?”

“Not hard. While certain books can’t be loaned out, you can still request to see them.”

“Aren’t they protected from theft?”

“Yes. But a good thief can easily avoid being caught. Mechanical and human radar are not foolproof.”

“I’m wondering if by chance you might recognize her.” He pulled Agnes’s snapshot from his pocket. 

She reached across the desk and drew the photograph close. Suddenly her face tightened. Without comment, she tossed the picture in his direction. 

Max flinched. “What’s wrong?”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

Max reared back. “Stupid? What do you mean?”

“Paloma Dove? That’s not Paloma Dove. Don’t play me for a fool, Max.”

“Do you know this woman?”

“Of course I know her. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what?”

“Stop the charade. I can’t believe you’re putting me through this again.” She stood. “It’s best you leave. I’ve a luncheon to attend.” 

“I’m not going anywhere. I can’t leave like this. Why are you so upset? I honestly don’t understand.”

She dropped into the seat and crossed her arms. A deafening silence filled the office. Max stared at her. She made no attempt to return his gaze. 

“What’s wrong?”

She shot him a glance. Her voice was tempered, cool. “How dare you come in here and ask me about her.”

“You recognize her?”

“Of course. Her picture was archived. You dumped me for her.”

Max rubbed his face. How did Cindy know? Had they ever discussed Agnes? “Dumped you? That’s absurd. Agnes had nothing to do with us.”

“Really?” She choked out a laugh. “She was the third party, Max, always hovering.”

“You’re not making sense. I knew you years after Agnes.”

“That’s true. Tough act to follow, I suppose.”

“It was over between Agnes and me.”

“Is that why you talked about her incessantly? How lovely, how brave she was.”

“When did I say those things?”

She glared at him. “Often and regularly.”

“You’re imagining things. I cared for you. Deeply.”

“I was always runner up.” 

Max struggled to defend himself. “But she was a married woman.”

She nodded, then lit into him. “Exactly Max. She was unavailable and you needed to lick your wounds.”

“You’re overreacting. Forget it. Let’s pretend we never had this conversation.”

Her eyes flashed. “Not before you answer one question. Why the hell would I help you find the woman who ruined my life? It was supposed to be us. We were good together, perfect. But you couldn’t see it. You were obsessed with her. Why? Was she that good of a lay?”

It was as if a fist rammed into his stomach. He reeled back. “You’re out of line.”

“Or is it that you can only love someone who’s unavailable. You understand that’s one of the reasons –” She stopped.

“One of the reasons what?”

She shook her head. “Forget it. Never satisfied are you? Always wanting what you can’t have.”

“I don’t need to hear this.” 

She smirked. “Door’s right behind you.”

Max got up. She wasn’t being rational. 

“Right, go on Max. But before you run off, let me ask you one more thing. Why are you still looking for her? Don’t you think that if she wanted to be with you she would? Ever think about that? Do yourself a favor. Move on.”

Max kept walking and slammed the door. Crossing the reception area, he bounded down the escalator. His heart hammered with anger. She had toyed with him, led him on. 

Once outside, he sprang off the curb and cut into traffic. For the first time ever he swore at her. “Damn you Agnes!”  

***

At noon, Paloma was awakened by keys jiggling in the lock. The door chain suddenly pulled taut and a slice of the housemaid’s torso appeared through the crack. “Sorry, will come back later,” the woman said and slammed the door. Paloma breathed deeply. Amid the mildew smell and quaking air-conditioning hum, her plan coalesced. She was Eleanor Rennin, thirty-nine years old from the state of North Dakota. And what exactly was she doing in New York? Visiting. And did she enjoy her stay? Yes, better than a pig in a poke. What part of North Dakota was she from? Hmm… This stumped her. What else did she know about North Dakota. On the Canadian border? Mountainous? Black Hills Gold? Oh, yes, friendly people who wore string ties and who could wrangle cows and bad weather. Cowpolk, a sturdy, solid group. Good eats too, lots of meat and potatoes and big hearty breakfasts with pancakes, stacks of them. Or was that Texas? No matter. Once she got the package from Curtis and went to the safe deposit box, she’d have her pick of identities. As for the trigger-happy pursuer, well, she’d deal with him if necessary. No more cowering. With renewed energy, she got up, dressed and left. 

The bus stop was a short two blocks away. On the ride to the Transit Authority to travel upstate, the city passed by like a movie. Her life was bookended here. First, after the polio, when she and her parents arrived from Puerto Rico, then later after Chicago and her staged drowning. Huge, impersonal New York City had always been a refuge, a big blanket to get wrapped up in.

Kids crowded the streets playing the same games she had played, kick the can, stickball, hopscotch. A ten-story tenement reminded her of the hot-blooded nights, the salsa beat, the cheating husbands, praying wives, the steamy smells of
arroz y gandules
in the hallway. Then other memories – wading in Riverside Park, opening doors at Lincoln Center for change, free entry into the zoo, and PS 191. Funny how it all came back now that she was leaving, funny how she hadn’t given it a second thought when she lived here. Her eyes watered. She blinked them dry.

Chapter Nine

After Max’s brief, unsettling meeting with Cindy, he returned home, flipped on CNN and proceeded to get hammered. Intermingled among shots of Hennessy and the repeated news stories were his own interior, circular thoughts. Agnes. He had to forget her. But how? Thoughts of her occurred often and regularly. And if he were too busy, her picture, a daily reminder, was slipped into the corner of his bedroom dresser mirror. Damn. He had to stop. Still, he closed his eyes and indulged recalling how her dark hair spread across his chest, how the hairs on his arms prickled with each caress, how those rich brown eyes looked right through him. Stop it, he told himself. 

But…

The time they’d made love, he’d never known such tenderness. At first it was gentle, two lovers whispering secrets, being playful. And later when the sex became hungrier, he, lost in her eyes, felt connected for the first and only time in his life. He shook the memory away. Where had this pining gotten him? Pitifully alone. Once she’d moved to Chicago, she never tried to reach him, never asked how he was. So what were they to each other? Certainly not lovers. And friends? Hell, not even. He had to take a stand, begin a new trajectory. 

In a drunken stupor, he hauled himself off the chair, climbed the stairs and lumbered into the bedroom. He switched on the light, then headed to the dresser. The curled-edge photo, snapped at the cemetery with a zoom lens, had been taken five months earlier. He’d stood atop a hill, easily a hundred yards away. Still, he worried if the shutter sound would travel and she’d spot him. It was a clear head shot against the blue sky. She was looking down. A loose strand of hair blew across her cheek. Three small lines radiated from the corner of her eye. A small pearl earring reflected off her skin. Agnes. Again he pined, getting sidetracked. 

Enough! He tore the photo, first in half, then in quarters. She had pretended, faked it. And he’d allowed it. He trashed the remnants into the wastebasket. Then, flipping on the TV, he staggered to the bed. “Whore,” he said and passed out.

***

Dusk was settling in when Paloma arrived at the Buffalo bus terminal. The ride had been a godsend. She had eaten and slept. In the lavatory she threw some water on her face then exited from the terminal onto the street. For an evening in June, it was exceptionally hot and humid. A cab stand was a few feet away. Recalling the address she had written on the package, she called out to the driver, “Can you take me to 330 Grape Street for ten dollars?” He nodded and soon she was traveling down Ellicott Street.

After being placed in the Witness Protection Program, she’d been advised not to return to Buffalo, and if she did, it would be at her own risk. She ignored the warnings. The first time was at her father’s interment. His final wish was to be buried with his wife. As the years wore on Paloma not only went to the cemetery but often stopped by the library and bank. She felt ambivalent about Buffalo. Her negative attitude was justifiable. Everything went wrong here. Her parents died, she got mired in Michael Mays’s murder, and there was Max. Still, there had always been a comfort level, a city with a small town atmosphere.  

The cabbie made a right. Before long she’d be seeing Curtis. Part of her wanted to check herself in the mirror, another part questioned if he’d even recognize her. They were the same age, but such a common denominator became less common with passing years. Still, she was excited. His voice over the phone had been comforting, vintage Curtis, and now she was curious if he’d changed.

At the time of his brother’s murder, Curtis was in college studying political science. During the investigation and subsequent trial, he dropped out of school, partly to be a support for his mother, but mostly because of his anger, his inability to fathom what had happened. Michael, his younger brother who had never been in trouble, who had college plans of his own, was picked up by the police and questioned for an alleged robbery. Things got out of hand, according to Joey Catoni, the police officer at the time. But the autopsy told a different story – the only one who got out of hand was the officer. Paloma last saw Curtis a few days after the trial. He was stoned, working downtown at a record store, no longer moored to any purpose and still angry. He’d asked her to go to a blues club once he got out of work, but she declined. Plans had already been made for her. That evening she boarded a plane to Chicago, leaving behind the life she once knew.  

The house numbers climbed. The taxi swerved into a parking spot. “Here you are, Ma’am.” Paloma peered out. Curtis’s red brick home sat on a velvet green lawn. A floral wreath with a welcome sign hung on the front door.   

“Thanks,” she said paying him.

He took the money. “Take care.”

Paloma got out of the taxi. A portal into the past was in front of her. She straightened and patted her hair. Agnes, the shy retiring girl, no longer existed. Would they still have something to talk about besides their shared past? And if he were to continue to hold her in the highest regard, would she tell him to stop? There was only one way to find out. She walked up the circular drive and onto the porch. At the door, she pressed the small lit pad and stepped back.

“Comin’,” a man’s voice said.

Paloma’s heart raced. She slapped a smile on her face. 

The door swung open. Abruptly, a broad middle-aged man rushed toward her. “Agnes!” Before responding, his strong arms wrapped around her and picked her off the ground. Suddenly she was spinning. A kaleidoscope of blurred color ran across her line of vision. The pressure from the tight hold took her breath away. Paloma hadn’t had any loving arms around her in years.

Once planted on her feet, she shook from the shock. “Hi Curtis,” she murmured.

He grabbed her hands. “You’re a slip of a woman. You eatin’?”

“You sound like your mama.”

He looked past her. “How’d you get here?”

“Took a cab.”

“Man, I wished you called me. I coulda –”

“Curtis, I told you. I’m fine.”

He nodded, “That you are,” and pulled her inside. “C’mon, I want you to meet my wife, Layla, and the boys.”

It was an open floor plan, all light and windows. A statuesque woman with bronze, iridescent coloring glided toward them. The boys, turning their heads away from the television, looked over their shoulders.

“Sugar,” Curtis said to his wife. “This is Agnes.”

Layla reached out and clasped Paloma’s hand. “God bless. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“I hope I’m not intruding.”