Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (9 page)

I reach over, grab the roll and try to wrestle the
holder into the wall. Then I stop. Pull. And out it pops. A plastic
sandwich bag is thumbtacked to the wall behind the toilet paper
holder. In that bag is a small red book.

My laugh reverberates off the tiles. Caro was pretty
damn smart. As I recall, the crime scene teams were composed of
men. Platón is a man. What man has ever bothered to replace an
empty toilet paper roll?

————

I wait in Greene’s office while the lab scans the
cashier’s check for fingerprints.

The detective listens to my slightly altered tale,
which includes just about everything they might have picked up on
tape starting with Jaime Platón’s assertion that he is a member of
the Colombian National Police and is on assignment to the DEA.

Greene dutifully jots down my words in a brand-new
spiral notepad with a bright yellow cover while whistling that
boring one-note tune beneath his breath. It’s like he can’t
remember whatever follows those first few notes, and it’s beginning
to get on my nerves.

He looks up from his notebook. “FYI, we have
everything Platón said on tape. I was interested in his reference
to a small red leather address book. We’ve been looking for it
too.”

I swallow hard, keenly aware that I’m withholding a
vital piece of evidence. And as an officer of the court, I could be
found in contempt and probably sentenced to do some time.

I don’t know why I can’t give it up. Maybe it’s the
power issue—possessing something everyone wants but only you have.
And then there’s the question of who? Do I give it to Greene? Or
call the number with the D.C. area code that Platón gave me?

I’ve been through every single page of the book—just
a bunch of names and numbers. The first few pages are filled with
women’s names. Caro’s name was listed but, to my relief, not
Angela’s.

Toward the back there are strange names like Damian,
Eagle, Firebird, Giant, Horus and Ishtar followed by a string of
numbers that don’t make sense to me but must be valuable to
someone.

Greene’s words break through. “I’m sure the book is
still at the crime scene. Even though we did a thorough search
during the initial investigation we came up empty-handed.
Apparently, so did Platón. Any ideas?”

I swallow a couple of times before I manage, “Not
really. After all, you’re the professional.”

THE NOTE, delivered by hand this morning, is written
in the same barely legible penmanship as the first.

There has been a change in plans. I will pick you up
at five. As I mentioned in my previous note, I will supply your
jewelry.

C

Greene reads it. “This is not good.”

My heart ratchets up to full speed. Action, at last.
Then I read Greene’s concern and remember his lecture on the one
percent. “Something’s up?”

He gives me a vigorous nod. “Ohhh, yesss.
Something’s definitely up. And that’s the problem. As you pointed
out the other day, Jersey’s not in our jurisdiction. The only
reason we’re even slightly involved in this case is because
Carolina Montoya and the three other murdered women were regulars
at those parties. All four of them lived in this precinct—all four
died by the same MO.”

He pulls a folded paper out of his pocket, reads it
over, then hands it to me.

“This fax from one of my Jersey sources reports
there’s rumor of a raid tonight. But he stresses that it’s only a
rumor. And since the DEA won’t blow their source’s cover, you’ll be
pretty much on your own.”

I ignore the uneasy feel in my gut and ask myself
what could be so dangerous? My first trip to Disney New Jersey with
Cliff was a snap. And this trip is with the Cardinal. Looks to me
like the only threat will be the amorous attentions of an old man.
Revolting as they were, I give myself a small pat on the back for
handling the situation pretty well.

And, let’s face it. Nobody, but nobody will mess
with the Big Kahuna.

AT ONE MINUTE TO FIVE I descend the steps with
Angela’s mink draped casually over my shoulders. The liveried
chauffeur stands beside the open door of the Mercedes 500 as the
Cardinal beckons me to join him in the back seat.

When the mink slides from my shoulders, his eyes
travel the strapless scarlet taffeta to rest on the upward push of
my breasts. “Magnificent. Far better than I could ever have
imagined.”

After the car leaves the curb, the Cardinal presents
a flat velvet case with a flourish. “These were my
grandmother’s.”

When he opens the box, I let out a squeak of
delight. The necklace is composed of sizeable pear-shaped rubies
framed with tiny pavé diamonds connected by larger diamonds. The
matching earrings are equally as unusual.

He runs his forefinger slowly across each of the
rubies. “This particular set was one of several left to me, but by
far my favorite.”

————

We make our way through the gridlock to the Holland
Tunnel and onto Highway 78. We’re mired in the last of Newark’s
evening rush when a cell phone rings.

I start, then relax when I realize it’s not mine.
The Cardinal pulls one from his inside pocket. “Yes?”

He abruptly turns away and lowers his voice. “But
Larry, you must be there. If we don’t stand together, there’s no
telling what—”

After he hangs up, he turns to me with sad eyes.
“Unfortunately, my friend will not be coming tonight. He’s dining
with his family.”

When I mumble my sympathy, the Cardinal pats my
hand. “I’m afraid things have come to an impasse concerning our
original scheme. In the beginning our goal was to meet some new
women and have a good time. But now, there’s a younger group of men
I really don’t know very well. They think we’re old-fashioned and
want to play showdown. I foresaw no problems when I first asked you
to come but now that Larry has backed out, I have great
concerns.”

He knocks on the glass partition. When the chauffeur
lowers it, he says, “Please pull over when you are able.”

When the partition slides back into place and the
car pulls off the Turnpike, the Cardinal turns to me. “I’m not so
sure it was such a wise move to bring you along. There could be
trouble.” He looks at his watch. “But I promised these men I would
meet with them and it’s really too late to cancel.”

That’s a relief. Since I volunteered to do this, I
need to carry it through.

I give him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure everything
will be all right.”

“I’ll make sure it is, my dear. Don’t you
worry.”

When he places his left hand over mine and gives a
small squeeze, I notice the signet ring. “That’s a beautiful ring.
Unusual to see a crest in an oblong.”

“Yes. It is a bit unusual.” He studies it a moment,
then smiles. “It was my father’s. My grandfather gave it to him
when he graduated college. I believe the crest comes from the Lodge
branch of the tree.”

It’s near dusk by the time we reach the gate and
sweep up the lane past Station Two. The dimly lit parking lot is
empty except for the buses used to transport guests to The
Castle.

In the twilight, the imposing fortress looms much
larger than before. Behind, I make out a lawn that slopes to a
long, low building at the water’s edge.

When the chauffeur opens my door, I turn to grab
Angela’s mink, and the Cardinal says, “No point in dragging that
along, my dear. I don’t think we’ll be here that long. Just leave
it in the car.”

Leave it in the car? Damn. That means he’s not
planning to make a trade. But, if I don’t get traded tonight,
chances are I won’t be able to get any more information.

My weak, “I was hoping we might get in a few
dances,” brings a smile.

“If there’s time, my dear. If there’s time.”

I grab the fur and have it halfway out of the back
seat when the Cardinal grabs hold and pulls it back in.

His tone has lost its pleasant lilt. “We’ll leave
the coat in the car. There’s no place for it inside.”

The chauffeur takes my arm and sees me to the front
steps while the Cardinal gathers his costume from the front
seat.

He hands me a silvery Harlequin accented with
scarlet plumes that match the scarlet of my dress. The eyelashes
and brows are engraved. I run my fingers across the finely etched
lines and exclaim, “It’s beautiful.”

He beams. “I designed and made it myself.”

The two-story gallery is empty. Above, the Venetian
chandeliers are dark. The only light comes from low-lit sconces
flanking the mirrors.

We skirt the cordoned stair bearing the same sign:
By invitation only.

To the right, several steps past the ladies’ room
entrance where I first met the Cardinal, is a pleasant fire-lit
room.

The Cardinal ushers me in. “As you can see, this is
the library. It’s always been my favorite part of The Castle—so
cozy. You’ll be comfortable here.”

To one side of the book-lined room sits a grand
piano. And situated in front of a fireplace with an imposing stone
mantle and a Chippendale mirror above it is a pair of Queen Anne
style wing chairs. On the table between them, a bottle of Dom
Perignon cools in a silver bucket next to a single champagne
flute.

The Cardinal arranges his cape on the back of one of
the chairs, then grabs my hand and scans me from head to toe. “The
rubies are dimmed by your beauty.”

My cheeks fill with heat. I lower my eyes, then give
a half-curtsey. “Thank you.”

He leads me to the other chair. “Make yourself
comfortable.” Then he points toward the piano. “Do you play?”

“No. But I love the classics.”

“I rather prefer jazz, and that piano is perfect for
jazz compositions. It has four more bass keys than a regular
eighty-eight.” He goes to the piano and riffs the lower notes.
“I’ll play something for you when I return from the meeting.”

After another interminable kiss he busies himself
with opening the champagne. This gives me time to scope out the
room.

Books line the walls from floor to an ornately
carved and gilded ceiling that shimmers with indirect lighting.
Between the stacks, ormolu sconces emit a muted golden glow. There
are no windows.

The Cardinal places the glass in my hand. “You take
this. I’ll have a glass when this mess is over.” He raises his
empty hand in a mock toast, “Happy days.”

I lift the flute, then hesitate. No point in mucking
up my brain.

He gives me an expectant look. “I said ‘happy
days.’” Again, he raises the phantom glass to his lips. “It’s
unlucky not to observe a toast.”

I take a sip. The bubbles pop on my tongue and
release the most divine flavor that lingers for only a second.

Voices, then footsteps on the stairs, take his
attention.

“Ah, they’re here.” He moves to the chair, dons his
hat, mask and cape, then pulls on the white gloves all the members
seem to wear.

“I shouldn’t be gone very long. Please don’t be
alarmed, my dear, I’m locking you in here for your own safety.”

“But that isn’t necessary. I’m not going
anywhere.”

He gives me what seems to be an endless stare. “I’m
not worried about you. Or where you might go, my dear. It’s whom
you might encounter and what might happen to you then.”

He shuts the door behind him and a bolt clicks into
place. When the footsteps and voices fade, I try the door. It
doesn’t budge. “Whom” I might encounter? “What” might happen to me?
That’s a veiled threat if I ever heard one. My safety, my ass.
Maybe he knows who I really am and who I’m working with. If he
does, I’m toast.

I return to the chair and reach for my purse, a
knockoff of a shell-shaped Judith Leiber encrusted with fake rubies
and zircons. Too bad it isn’t big enough to hold more than the cell
that Greene insisted I bring.

I turn on the cell and circle the room hoping for a
signal. No luck there, but on my initial expedition I discover
something very curious.

Just to the left of the fireplace is a section of
the bookcase that isn’t what it appears to be. The “shelves” are
wood strips pasted onto some sort of sturdy background. The “books”
are title spines pasted as well. In the dim light no one would
notice the difference.

I take the few steps back to my evening purse to
stow the cell and grab my key ring that has a small but powerful
mag light.

The beam picks up a crack that runs the length of
the piece. Could that be the top of a door? When I kneel and run my
hand along the floor at the bottom of the stack, I feel a slight
rush of air.

Aha, Watson, what have we here? I push. No give at
all.

I top my glass with champagne, settle into one of
the chairs and take a sip.

I again shine the mag light on the area and study
the faux bookcase. If the door doesn’t push inward, it has to
slide. Since it can’t retract into the fireplace, the release
mechanism must be on the fireplace side.

Curiouser and curiouser. I rise to run my fingers
down the stones edging the fireplace. Nothing. Then I make another
try at pressing inward and feel a slight give—just enough to
encourage me.

I lean down to shine the light on the lower
fireplace stones. That’s a big mistake. The room spins.

What’s the matter with me? I can’t seem to
focus.

My knees give way and I damn Kingsley-Smythe for
drugging me. The last thing I remember is the sound of the
champagne flute rolling across the wooden floor.

“WHAT’S WRONG, DEAR GIRL?” A hand gently rubbing
mine brings me out of the darkness to see the Cardinal’s concerned
face floating above me.

I’m lying in front of the fireplace, the key ring
still clutched in my right hand.

I try to roll to the side I usually sleep on, but he
firmly restrains my shoulder and says, “Are you able to sit?”