Xs

An Allie Armington Mystery

Louise Gaylord

Beverly Hills, California

Xs: An Allie Armington Mysteryby Louise Gaylord

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Louise Gaylord. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. For information, address Cedar Vista Books, 269 South Beverly Drive, Suite #1065, Beverly Hills, CA 90212. 866-234-0626

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The Library of Congress CIP

Gaylord, Louise.

Xs : an Allie Armington mystery / Louise Gaylord.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-9720227-4-0 (hardcover)

1. Women lawyers--Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)--Fiction. 3. Texas--Fiction. I. Title.

ISBN 13: 978-0-9786049-2-9

Book Design: Dotti Albertine

Editor: Brookes Nohlgren

Also by Louise Gaylord

The Award-Winning
Anacacho
An Allie Armington Mystery

Julia Fairchild
A Novel
An Allie Armington Mystery

Dedicated to

The Tuesday Writers Consortium

Guida Jackson Laufer

Ida Luttrell Patsy Ward Burk Jackie Pelham

Julia Mercedes Castilla Irene Bond Vanessa Leggett

Sue Volk Karen Stuyck and

in loving memory of

Mary Schomaker and Becky Sanford

Chapter 1

HOUSTON, TEXAS

“ALLIE? IT’S ME.” My sister Angela’s muffled slur slides across the miles that separate us.

A familiar tingle surfs the nape of my neck. The same tingle I used to get whenever Angela got into trouble and begged me to bail her out.

“Sis, are you okay?”

Silence. Something’s definitely wrong. Drink? Drugs? “Angela? Are you there? Don’t do this. Talk to me!”

Her sigh sounds like a prolonged death rattle, then she manages a croaky, “I—I need to borrow money—a lot—twenty thousand—today. Can you make a wire transfer?”

I choke. That will just about drain my hard-earned savings. “Where are you?”

“I—uh—at my bank.”

When I say nothing, her desperation crowds through. “I need money! I need it now!”

“Is someone making you do this? If you say yes, I’ll call the police.”

“Just—get me the money. The account number is—” Her voice fades away, then she recites a long string of numbers. Too long for me to remember.

“Hold on. I need a piece of paper. Found one. Now, repeat the numbers very slowly.”

She does as I ask, then whispers, “Hurry.”

“Sit tight. I’ll call my bank as soon as I hang up.” “Thank God.”

The relief in her voice is no relief to me.

I call the bank, verify my savings balance and give the transfer number of Angela’s bank in New York.

Why don’t I feel better? Why hasn’t that awful tingle disappeared? If Angela needs to borrow money from me, what has she done with her pile? Over the last seven years, she’s made major bucks as a supermodel in New York. By now she should be worth close to a million.

A few years before, I resigned as Assistant District Attorney with Harris County to take a job with Perkins, Travis, PC, Attorneys-at-Law. Perkins, Travis, a boutique law firm dealing in real estate holdings, has afforded me a comfortable lifestyle, but I consider my earnings paltry compared to my sister’s.

————

It’s now almost five. My temples are throbbing from what I’m sure is life-threatening high blood pressure. I’ve been calling Angela’s number since three. Now, when I get her chirpy, “You know what to do, so do it,” I hang up.

Where are you, Angela? Did you get the money in time? My stomach knots with each question.

As if in response, the phone rings and I grab it. “Angela?”

“It’s Duncan. There’s a new French flick at the Greenway. Starts at seven-oh-five. We’ll grab a bite after.”

Duncan Bruce is my ex-fiancé who lives three floors above me. Though it’s been over a year since I returned his ring, we still see each other now and then—mostly movies and Dutch-treat dinners.

It doesn’t take me long to say yes. Phoning Angela every fifteen minutes is pointless and frustrating.

I manage to make it through the Houston five o’clock traffic jams in record time and I’m just reaching for the “up” button when the elevator door slides open.

Duncan Bruce stands there, arms akimbo. If he were wearing a kilt he would be a walking ad for Scottish tourism. His cropped black hair echoes the jet of his eyes and bears that blue cast of the Celtic clans.

He stabs at his watch. “I’m counting.”

Once in my apartment, I cross the living room to the answering machine. Nothing.

No time to freshen my makeup or to floss, so I swig some mouthwash, grab my purse and beat it for the elevator.

The drive to Greenway Plaza is erratic and silent. Duncan is anal about getting his popcorn and taking his seat before the lights go down, so he’s barely being civil.

It’s a great movie, and by the time we walk through the steam bath of the underground garage to his car, Duncan is over his pique.

He turns the key and his Porsche purrs to life. “How about Chinese or Thai?”

“I really don’t care.”

“That’s a switch. You’re usually Miss I’ll-Be-The-One-To-Decide.” Duncan studies me for a few seconds. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

I launch into the bizarre call from Angela, her request for the twenty grand and the fact that I haven’t heard from her all day.

His face fills with concern. “Seems like this isn’t the evening for eating out. How about my place?” He gives me a triumphant look. “I hit the jackpot. A fantastic Pinot Noir for only eight forty-nine at Spectrum. Case price. I bought everything in stock. Wait until you taste it.”

Duncan is a great cook and has an exceptional talent for finding fabulous vintages at bargain prices, but I remember the drill so well: a little wine, a little food, a little kiss—a little sex.

His smile dies when I say, “Another time, okay? I’m really worried about Angela.”

To my surprise, Duncan leans across the console to meet my lips, then lurches away as if he were stung. “Sorry about that.”

He guns the motor, jams the car into reverse and doesn’t say a word the whole way home.

Ever the gentleman, Duncan sees me to my door and apologizes for his temper tantrum. But when he leans forward to plant a kiss, I let it land on my cheek and murmur, “Guess I better try Angela again.”

My apartment is freezing. I notch the thermostat up a few degrees and punch the speed-dial.

My spirits rise when the receiver lifts but quickly fall when I realize I’ve pressed the wrong button and dialed Carolina Montoya, Angela’s roommate. Through blaring salsa I can barely make out, “Bueno?”

“Hi, Caro. It’s Allie. I’ve been trying to reach Angela all day. Do you know if she’s there?”

“Nooooo.”

“But, Caro, she phoned me this morning, told me she was in the city and would be waiting for my call. Do you know anything about it?”

“Sorry, Chica, can’t help you.” Then I hear her gasp, “More, more,” and realize she’s occupied on another level.

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll just have to wait. Sorry to bother you.” “No problema.”

The salsa ratchets up another notch or two and the last words I hear before the connection breaks are, “Don’t stop, mi amor, that feels so good.”

As I place the receiver back in its cradle, I can’t help but think about my sister’s roommate. Over the past couple of years, Carolina Montoya and I have knocked back more than a few glasses of wine and shared some pretty personal confidences.

Not only that, she once helped me out of a very sticky Manhattan real estate situation. Houston clients had found the property and I was handling their side. We were near closing when everything started to go south. I was stuck in court litigating and couldn’t leave and asked Carolina if she would make personal contact with the seller. Let’s face it—a gorgeous woman has a distinct advantage when it comes to men. She went to the address I gave her. Empty. It was a dummy corporation. We rescinded our offer. Bottom line: Caro’s little excursion saved my clients close to two million and me my job.

Though she comes from a wealthy Madrid family and on first glance bears the haughty mien of old European money, you forget all about who Caro is, and where she comes from, the minute she opens her mouth.

Everything is “freeging fantastico.” Everybody is “freeging fabuloso.” She loves to tell jokes but never gets the endings right. In short, she’s a hoot.

If I had to describe her I would say she reminds me of a panther. Though she’s somewhat shorter than Angela, her body can wiggle like an eel, or wave like chiffon in the wind.

Her jet-black hair and large almond-shaped eyes the color of midnight set off high cheekbones. And her mouth, one of the most sensuous I’ve ever seen, is generally set in perpetual upturn.

But lately Angela’s been complaining. There’s a new man in Caro’s life. Someone Angela doesn’t seem to care for. I shove that thought aside and head for my bed.

After a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of Angela’s frantic calls, I have just settled behind my desk when my phone rings and Angela says, “It’s me.”

“Damn it, why didn’t you call me back yesterday? I jumped every time it rang.”

“Lay off, will you? The place is a friggin’ mess. That damn Caro. I’ve had it with her.”

“Did she tell you I called?”

“No. I haven’t laid eyes on her in weeks, but if I ever get my hands on her, I just might—”

Since I have nothing on my agenda I hang up and head toward the managing partner’s office. When I explain Angela’s predicament and point out the pathetic number of recent real estate deals with none on the horizon, Will Travis suggests I take an “of counsel” position. That way I can retain those elusive health insurance benefits—as long as I make the payments.

After a friendly handshake, I do what I’ve done since the day I became the “older” sister. I pack my Beretta Tomcat .32, a gift from Dad when I joined the DA’s office, and dive into my sister’s life without giving my actions a second thought.

Chapter 2

NEW YORK CITY

IT’S WELL PAST TWO when I struggle my roll-on up the twelve stone steps to the double doors of the townhouse on Ninety-Fifth between Third and Lex that Angela bought during the last soft real estate market.

Though not one of the poshest addresses on the Upper East Side, it offers spacious formal living and dining rooms with fourteen-foot ceilings, a small kitchen and maid’s quarters. But the pièces de résistance are two bedroom suites, each on a separate floor.

Angela took the top floor for herself and though her suite was almost half again as large as the one on the floor below, Caro was delighted to cough up half the monthly payments.

Angela said the outer doors would be unlocked. I push one side into a good-sized vestibule with black and white marble floors. Two half-moon tables bearing Chinese Export vases flank the entrance to the living room.

I stumble to the table on the right and, per my sister’s instructions, fish for the key in the vase.

Before I can retrieve it, the door flies open and a mummy in a pink wool bathrobe lurches toward me, arms outstretched. Only the matted red hair at the shoulders backs up my initial impression that the mummy is my sister. “Oh, my God, have you been in a wreck?”

“Surgery,” she mumbles.

A face-lift. How could I be so stupid? The slurred words—the muffled voice. Twenty thousand of my hard-earned savings.

When I don’t react, Angela lowers her arms and averts her eyes from my silent accusation. “C’mon in.”

She wobbles toward the couch and plunks down. “Take a load off. I need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait? I hardly got any sleep last night worrying about you.”

“Sorry, but I desperately need your advice.”

I collapse in the nearest wing chair. “I could have given you advice over the phone.”

She ignores my words, intent on getting her own message out. “Caro’s been doing coke. Maybe heroin. When I called her on it, she told me not to worry, she could handle it.” Angela stands and begins pacing. “I told you the living room was trashed. There were coke trails all over the glass top of the coffee table and she broke one of my Baccarat champagne flutes. She’s gone too far this time.”

“Where is she?”

“How do I know?” She points to narrow stairs that rise along the right wall of the living room. “I’ve been climbing those stairs and banging on her door since ten this morning. Maybe she’s gone, but maybe—”

“And you didn’t call the police?”

“What would I say? ‘Hey, my roommate’s a druggie, and she’s locked herself in her room’?”

She points to a key on the coffee table. “Caro left me that for an emergency, but I was afraid to go in there alone.”

Afraid? There goes that damn tingle.

I repeat, “The living room was a mess. Caro’s bedroom locked. And you’re afraid? I’m calling the police.”

“Noooo,” she whines. “Not at this hour. I can’t see anyone looking like this.”

I glance at my watch. Three a.m.—two Texas time. “Okay, okay. Since you’ve waited this long, I guess we can address this problem after we both get a little shut-eye.”

“No. We can’t.” Angela yanks me from the chair, drags me to the stairs and up one flight to Caro’s bedroom.

She shoves the key in my hand. “You open it.”

The lock softly clicks and the door swings in. Angela presses past me, peers down the hall and turns. “The light’s on in her bedroom. Hey, Caro? Are you decent?”

At the entrance to the bedroom Angela jerks backward. Gags. And careens past me into Caro’s bathroom.

I hesitate only a second before I will myself to step forward.

In the dim light I see ropes lashed to the wrought iron headboard wrapped around Caro’s wrists. Matted, black hair partially covers half her bruised and swollen face. One eye stares dully at the ceiling. The garrote still circles her neck.

The room reeks of industrial-strength pine-scented disinfectant.

I’ll never get used to violence. The gruesome photos I once presented to the Grand Jury as an Assistant DA in Houston were bad enough, but to see someone I knew so badly damaged is unbearable. I want to turn away, but I can’t.

How did this happen? When? I start to tremble when it dawns that Angela could have just as easily been a victim. Then I shake the surge of terror away and become the professional I was trained to be.

Angela’s clammy grip makes me jump. “Is she?” “Very. We have to call the police. Now.”

She lets out a sob and starts toward the bed. “We have to cover her. People shouldn’t see her like this.”

“Hold it.” I grab her arm. “This is a crime scene. Let’s get out of here.”

Once we’ve climbed the second flight to Angela’s suite, I pick up the receiver and turn. “Before I make this call, I have to know.” “What?”

“Did you find Caro like that this morning? Is that why you called me?”

Chapter 3

THE MAN IN THE RUMPLED SUIT standing before me is very attractive in a dark, elongated sort of way, but he’s much too tall to go unnoticed in a profession that prides itself on anonymity. “This just came.” He shoves the New York Times at me, then extends his card, as a pleasant smile carves dimples into his solemn face. “I’m Detective Benjamin Greene with the New York Police Department. Nineteenth Precinct. That’s Greene with an ‘e.’” “I’m Alice Armington, the sister.”

“Of?”

“Oh, sorry. Angela Armington. This is her place. I was the one who called nine-one-one.”

The detective nods. “I’ve notified the crime scene unit. They’re on the way. Don’t worry. We don’t use sirens. We try to keep a low profile. The neighbors aren’t much in favor of murders. Runs down the real estate.”

He takes out a small spiral notepad with a bright blue cover and flips to a blank page. “How long have you been here?”

“I just flew in from Houston tonight. My sister has been disturbed about her roommate’s behavior over the past few weeks. She was going to ask her to move out.”

“And you’re here to help?”

“I guess you could say that. Moral support, mostly.”

I point toward the stairs. “The body’s one flight up. We only went as far as the entrance to the bedroom. We didn’t touch a thing.”

“Victim’s name?”

I want to tell him about Caro’s raven hair, her eyes the color of midnight. That people gawked when she entered the room. And when she told a joke she never got the punch line right. Instead I spit out the dull facts. “Carolina Montoya. Does—did upper-end modeling. Late twenties. Hails from Madrid, Spain. Here on a green card.”

Angela rushes down the stairs. “Caro’s parents. Who’s going to call them?”

Greene takes a quick step back. “Hey, what happened to you?” “Surgery.”

He hands her his card. “I’m Detective Benjamin Greene. That’s Greene with an ‘e.’”

Angela takes it and says, “You’re not going to put yellow tape all over the outside are you? I’d like to keep this as quiet as possible. After all, I have to live here.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. We don’t like to advertise either.”

We linger in the entry until a group in CSI jackets arrives. Greene motions us toward the living room. “Have a seat. This won’t take long.”

We settle together on the couch and watch as Greene gives orders.

When he turns away, Angela jabs me and murmurs, “Okay, okay. Who does he look like?”

I can’t believe she’s playing that dumb game at a crucial time like this. My sister has been a movie star nut ever since she could read and religiously pores over People and Us. She’s positive I have the exact same facial features as the woman who once starred in television’s Law & Order though she sees not one ounce of the star in herself.

I give her a withering stare. “I haven’t the faintest.”

“Oh, c’mon now. You know who I mean. He’s Jamaican. Well known for his Calypso songs. You know. ‘Day-O’?”

“I get it, I get it. But not now. Give it a rest.” She crosses her arms, sniffs and turns away.

Once the CSI disappears up the stairs, Greene turns to Angela. “Any sign of forced entry?”

When she shrugs, I say, “I called here night before last. Caro answered. She was with someone. From the bit of conversation I overheard, I’d say she knew that someone pretty well.”

The detective jots a few lines. “So you’re saying the perp left through the front entrance?”

“Possibly. Maybe he had a duplicate key.”

He turns back to Angela. “Your roommate travel a lot?” “More than I did. Her phone rang off the hook.”

“Her phone?”

“We live on separate floors and have different telephone numbers. Mine has an extension in the kitchen.”

Greene makes a note, then calls out, “The phone on the second floor is a separate line.” He pockets the pad. “Better pack a few things. This place is now officially off-limits to anyone except the NYPD.”

Angela jumps up. “Leave? No way. It’s almost four and I’ve just had major surgery.”

Delighted I won’t have to sleep in the roach-infested maid’s room off the kitchen, I say, “No problem. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be out of your way.”

I am amazed at Angela’s ability to exude so much venom through those two tiny eyeholes. “We’re not leaving unless your people pay for the room.”

I shove her toward the stairs. “We’ll discuss this later.”

She blocks me. “I will not be evicted like a common criminal.”

Greene gives her a weary look. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but we’re trying to solve a murder. I’m guessing this woman was your friend. Don’t you want to know who did this?”

“Of course I do. But I didn’t kill Caro. Can’t you see I’ve just had surgery?”

Greene yanks out the notepad. “Thanks for the reminder. I need your surgeon’s name and telephone number.” “You must be joking.”

I poke her in the ribs. “Give it to him.”

“Okay. Okay. It’s Doctor Frederick Severeid.” Greene’s pen is still poised. “His number?”

Angela sniffs, then murmurs, “Five-five-five, six thousand.”

He scribbles the number, then points to his card still clutched in my hand. “Let me know where I can contact you.”

————

The sun is high when I awake to see Angela on her back, arms folded across her chest. All she needs is a coffin and a crucifix. This is the way she sleeps. It used to freak me out when we were kids.

I reach for the phone and call the number on Greene’s card. “This is Alice Armington. We’re in seven twenty-two at Hotel Wells.”

After a too-long pause on his end, a dim alarm sounds somewhere in the back of my head as Greene says, “There seems to be a problem.”

Background noises filter through the receiver. Printers print. Phones ring. Low conversations twist in and out of range.

The detective clears his throat. “I spoke with Doctor Severeid’s nurse, uh—uh, a Miss Hopkins. She says your sister made a consultation appointment for Friday last week but never showed.”

Chapter 4

ONCE WE’RE SEATED in his tiny cubicle on the second floor of Nineteenth Precinct headquarters, Detective Greene turns to Angela. “Maybe you did have laser surgery. And maybe after the wire transfer was deposited in your account, you went home, popped some meds and were so zonked you didn’t hear your roommate being murdered.

“But things just don’t add up. Your current bank balance is three thousand and change. Worse still, there’s no record that a wire transfer was made to your account from anybody.”

Angela’s starting to cave, so I leap in. “I don’t care what it looks like. She’s telling the truth. I personally made the transfer two days ago.”

“Three thousand and change. That’s all.”

“But if it’s not in Angela’s account, where in hell is it, Detective?”

Greene pulls air through his teeth in a tuneless whistle, then says, “When I get through with this, I’ll tell you what I think, and you’re not gonna be happy.”

He turns to Angela. “Okay. Let’s run through this again. The limousine picked you up.”

She rolls her eyes. “There was a man sitting in the back seat. He asked for the money. When I said I didn’t have it, he said he would ruin my face if I didn’t pay up.”

He jots a few sentences. “And after you got to the bank?”

“A nice lady showed us to a private office.” Angela turns to me. “I’ve already gone over the details once. Is he brain-dead?”

When my sister first told me about this not an hour before, I was stunned. How could she be so stupid? She got into a car with a man she didn’t know. Accompanied him to her bank, then let him take her to her townhouse where she wrote him a check for $20,000. I bite back my bitterness and urge, “Keep talking. It’s routine.”

Angela turns toward Greene. “I didn’t have my checkbook with me and I’m not good at memorizing numbers, so the nice lady looked my account up on the computer.”

“I’ll just bet she did,” Greene mutters and searches the ceiling. I’m sure he wants to strangle her. I know I do, but I’m too numb to confront what’s staring me in the face, too numb to vent my growing frustration. Not only is Angela the prime suspect in Caro Montoya’s murder, but if my hunch is correct, she’s—no, make that we—have been had.

“And after the transfer was made?”

“It’s bad enough that my ex-DA sister grilled me about this, but I told you everything not five minutes ago. Give me a break, will ya?”

Greene shoots me an appraising look. “DA?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Ex assistant.” “Interesting.”

The detective turns back to Angela. “So that’s all?” “Oh, I forgot. He gave me a bottle of pain pills.” “What time was this?”

“I don’t know exactly. It was getting dark.” “And your roommate wasn’t home?”

“I remember going up to Caro’s door. It was closed. Not unusual these days. I was starting to feel punk, so I got a bottle of Evian out of the fridge, went up to my room, popped a couple of pills and crashed.”

“Never heard a thing?”

I rush to her defense. “Angela sleeps like the dead. Hardly moves a muscle.”

Greene fishes a file from a stack on the side of his desk, opens it and turns the black-and-white photograph of a man in her direction. “Is this your Doctor Severeid?”

Angela squeals and shoves the picture at me. “I told you. That’s him. That’s Severeid.”

I peer into the face of a handsome, graying man. His expression is confident and caring. His eyes radiate trustworthiness.

Greene punches the photo with his index finger. “Wrong. That man is Haley Granger, who, with his wife and several accomplices, is running a very profitable scam. Someone tells a woman she’s looking a little droopy, then recommends this terrific laser surgeon.”

Angela pales. “Oh, my God, that’s exactly what happened to Caro. And she was so pleased, she recommended him to me. But, but it wasn’t a scam. I mean, he did the work.”

Greene looks at me. “After hours they ‘borrow’ the offices of established plastic surgeons. Usually talk the patient into immediate surgery. Dope them up for a few days, then demand cash, or, as in this case, have a nice lady direct a wire transfer to a dummy account.”

I lean forward, heart pounding. “But what about my money?” Greene gives me a rueful look. “I doubt your insurance covers scams.”

————

After a two-hour wait in the ER, it’s our turn. A doctor, Angela and I are crowded behind a drawn curtain while Greene stands just outside whistling an annoying, one-note tune.

My sister has my hand in a stranglehold that tightens with each snip of the scissors. The last bandage falls away. No swelling. No bruises. No scars. Poor Angela. What do I mean poor Angela? She’s fine, beautiful as ever. Poor me, still plain and now broke.

The doctor draws back the curtain. “No surgery has been performed on this subject. No sign of any subcutaneous structural changes, nor is there evidence of laser work.”

Angela gently touches her face. “But I did have surgery. Doctor Severeid’s on the cutting edge of this new painless technique. Caro said he was the best.”

I touch her arm. “The man you saw is named Granger. Remember?”

I push around the doctor and grab Greene’s arm. “My sister can’t be a suspect. Just because she didn’t have the surgery she thinks she did is no reason to—”

“Maybe, maybe not. After fifteen years on the force, I’ve seen just about everything.”

Greene hustles us out of the ER and back up the street to the precinct house.

Once we’re again settled in his office, he turns to Angela. “Look, Miss Armington, as far as I’m concerned, the only crime you’ve committed is being a dupe for a con man, but—”

I wave my hand. “Don’t stop with the ‘but,’ Detective. There has to be a helluva lot more to this than you’re telling, and I need to know exactly what it is.”

He hunches between his shoulders and studies his notes for a few seconds. When he looks up, his eyes aren’t as friendly as they have been. “I really don’t have to tell you anything other than your sister is part of a murder investigation and she better not leave the city.”

Big whoops. Went too far. Demanding like a DA instead of asking like a concerned party. I backtrack as adeptly as I can. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your face. My curiosity got the better of me.”

The room is silent. Angela, for once, is keeping her mouth shut.

Greene takes out his pad and goes through several pages, then says, “FYI, Miss Montoya wasn’t the first woman who bought it that way—tied up, sexually assaulted, then garroted.”

He makes a tiny mark with his pen next to some words. “There are a couple of very curious details. Number one: No DNA. The perp must use surgical gloves as well as a condom. And that final wipe-down with the pine-scented disinfectant is the finishing touch. We haven’t been able to turn up so much as a partial fingerprint in any of these cases.”

He slides a photograph from another folder in my direction. “But the signature X tells us it’s the same guy.”

I look at a woman’s breast. Above the aureole is a small, precise X.

“Every one of the victims has a small X on the left breast in exactly the same location. Didn’t you notice the X on Montoya?”

I shudder and look away. “I didn’t get that close. The minute I realized she was dead, we were out of there.”

Greene puts the photo back in the folder. “We’ve been compiling bits and pieces of evidence over the last ten months; there were similar killings in January, March and May, and now this. And another interesting fact: all the women except Montoya were prostitutes from the same stable.”

“What about forced penetration?”

Greene glances around him, then leans forward. “Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned sexual assault.”

“There was evidence of bruising on the victim’s genitalia. I’d say Miss Montoya was an unwilling participant.”

We each stare the other down. If Greene thinks he’s going to beat me on this, he’s dead wrong. Without moving my eyes, I focus on his forehead. It’s a trick I learned in law school.

When he breaks first and looks down at his notes, I give myself a small pat on the back. Small victories are the very best.

“What about my sister? You inferred she might be off the hook?”

He slowly closes the spiral notepad, places it in his jacket pocket and gives me a cautious smile. “I’d say it looks good. But I’m willing to bet your sister knows a lot more than she’s telling. Since you were an Assistant DA, you should remember the drill. If you find out anything, give me a call.”

Chapter 5

I HEAR ANGELA STIR. The bathroom door quietly snaps shut, and a red glow brightens the room. It’s the light on the phone between our beds. Why is Angela making a call at three in the morning? And from the bathroom?

I tiptoe over and press my ear against it.

“Cliff? It’s Angela. There’s been some trouble. No, I can’t speak up. Allie’s in the next room.”

The hole in my stomach grows with each word I hear.

“Caro’s dead. Raped, beaten, strangled.” Her voice breaks. “Oh, God, Cliff, what are we going to do?”

Cliff Danes. Damn. I had met him only once and instantly disliked him. Patrician and pushing fifty, he was a third-generation heir with, according to Angela, hardly any money left. Still, he was a major player in the Upper East Side Crowd besides being well connected in the modeling world.

Angela once lived and breathed Cliff ’s every word. I wasn’t surprised when she confided he was her lover. Everything was peachy-keen until her modeling gigs dried up and the bastard dumped her.

When she creeps out of the bathroom, I say, “What’s Cliff Danes got to do with this? I thought you were through with him?”

Angela flicks on the lamp between our beds. “I was going to tell you everything in the morning, but looks like neither one of us is going to get any more sleep tonight.”

She sighs and scrunches into her pillow. “I should have told you sooner about the parties—the parties in New Jersey. I think that’s how Caro got into trouble.”

I perk up. “Parties? You never mentioned parties.”

“That’s because I only went to one. But Caro was a regular.”

“And that’s what got her in trouble?”

Angela gives me one of her “are-you-too-stupid-to-comprehend” looks and goes into instruction mode. “These weekly parties—they’re billed as Stag Poker Nights, but they’re anything but. Each man is required to bring a date. There’s dancing and drinking and I guess some carrying on, but at the end of the evening the man has to trade her for another woman. After the trade it’s anybody’s guess.”

The attorney in me snaps to attention. “Is there money involved?”

“Not that I know of. As I said, I only went once.” She gives me a half-smile. “I have to admit the place is pretty cool. It’s a waterfront estate in Jersey near Sandy Hook Bay, but everybody calls it ‘The Castle’ because it looks just like the ones you see in fairy tale books.

“Cliff ’s been trying to join this group ever since he heard about it. All the members are financially successful, have inherited wealth or are descended from the Four Hundred.”

“And so you went to New Jersey with Cliff last week?”

She nods. “But Cliff asked Caro to be his date when he was initiated in February.”

“Caro? Your Caro? How did he meet her?”

“Through me.” Tears well. “When I introduced them, he took one look at her, and I knew it would never be the same between us. They were inseparable.”

I start at that. After he so callously dumped Angela, it’s hard for me to believe the Cliff Danes I remember could become besotted over anybody other than himself.

“But you were over Cliff by then, weren’t you?”

“I thought I was. When Caro moved in, we spent a lot of late nights sharing our hopes and dreams. I told her everything about Cliff and me. How he discovered me at the Lampasas County Beauty Pageant and signed me on the spot. How he persuaded me to freelance with him instead of joining a reputable agency, saying I’d make more money. How in the beginning he got me on all the major fashion covers, but when the offers began drying up he lost interest.”

She sighs. “You know, I actually thought we might get married someday.”

I want to tell her how happy I am it didn’t work out, but I see the anguish in her face and bite my tongue.

“I can’t blame Caro. She went out of her way to make it easy on me by going to his place. Then in May, things changed. Caro started seeing someone else on the sly. I never found out who, but she would tell me when he was coming by so I could disappear.

“That’s about the time she started doing drugs. When I called her on it, she laughed. Said they were just doing a few recreational hits out at The Castle and that she could handle it. Then she told me I should loosen up.”

Angela’s eyes fill. “If only I could have stopped her.”

I wait until she calms. “You said Cliff took you to the last party.”

“Some date. He kept looking around for Caro. When I called him on it, he got all funny. Said he didn’t care what she did. But I could tell he was really bothered.”

“Is it possible that Cliff murdered Caro?”

Angela stares away for a few seconds. “There are a lot of things about Cliff that are strange, but I can’t see him killing anybody.”

“Maybe he really was in love with Caro.”

Angela shrugs. “All I know is he was desperate for a date last week and called me at the last minute.

“The evening was totally weird. All the men wore full face masks.”

“Are you saying no one knew who anyone else was?”

“Oh, no. Most of the men knew each other. At least Cliff seemed to know quite a few. But no one called anybody by his right name, and they spoke in some kind of code.”

“What kind of code?”

“They had different names. Like Cliff is Jay Three. Oh, and they rated the women. One to ten.”

“Did you see Caro that night?”

“When Cliff left me in the hallway for a few minutes, I heard my name being called. It was Caro. She was leaning over the upstairs railing. She looked so happy.”

I move to Angela’s bed and put my arms around her. “I know you feel horrible about what happened to Caro, but it was her life. She made the choices.”

“Yes. She made the choices, but I don’t think she expected to be murdered. Nobody would.”

“Okay, so this new guy gets her upstairs. Did she tell you what happened there?”

“A couple performs while everybody watches.” “Performs?”

She gives me a “you know” look.

“You mean they have sex? In front of everybody?”

“Caro said it was really about the man. That it was a test to prove a man’s ‘savoir faire.’”

My mouth must drop open because Angela gives me an agreeing smirk. “Worse than that, Caro told me if another member likes the way a woman responds, he can ask to try her out. That’s the rule. No man can refuse. Refusing is considered bad manners.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Doesn’t the woman have anything to say about it?”

“Why should the women complain? They get paid—and plenty.”

“Are you saying Caro wasn’t?”

Angela shrugs off my question. “Two other men had her that night and there were others standing in line when the bell rang.

“Caro was devastated. Said this guy promised her the time of her life. Said she didn’t expect to be treated like a common whore. She swore she was never going back.”

A black hole in my stomach starts to grow. Does Angela know names? If so, she could also be in danger. “Did Caro ever name names?”

“No. And I never asked.”

————

Detective Greene pulls out the tape, scribbles something on the label and throws it into a large carton on the floor next to his file cabinet. “That’s even wilder than your last tale.”

Angela sniffs. “And every word is true.” “And guess what? I believe you.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding for what seems like an eon. “Then, she isn’t a suspect?”

“I didn’t exactly say that.” He turns to Angela. “Who’s Cliff?” She shakes her head. “No. I won’t—I can’t involve him.”

“You may have to.”

Greene grabs his notebook. “This is what we’ve learned so far. About two years ago a couple of high-profile, well-heeled chums decided to expand their sexual opportunities. Each recruited a friend who introduced a new woman at each party. Sort of like a pyramid scheme.

“Sounds like Boys’ Night Out, but we know for a fact they’re dealing in prostitution and drugs. The DEA has corroborated this info. There’s an undercover agent planted pretty high up in the ranks.”

I jump in. “Pardon me, but why are you even involved with this? Seems like that’s a job for the cops in Jersey.”

He eyes me a few seconds then says. “Under ordinary circumstances we wouldn’t be. Except that the three murdered prostitutes who frequented the parties in Jersey all resided in the nineteenth. And now Miss Montoya makes four.

“The DA has just authorized me to form a small unit to see if we can establish what the connection might be between the estate out in Jersey, these women and their pimp. That is, if you call a woman a pimp.”

My sister’s icy hand tugs at my arm. “Is that all? Can we go?” Greene shakes his head. “Not quite yet.”

“But I’ve cooperated. What more do you want?” “We want you to go to the next party.”

Angela’s voice hits the top note. “You’ve got to be kidding.” “No way in hell,” I cry. “She’s been through enough.”

Greene holds up his free hand. “I understand your reluctance to return to The Castle after what happened to your roommate, Miss Armington, but you’re the first real break we’ve gotten in this case. You’ve actually been to the place. And this guy Cliff is a member. How about it?”

Angela jumps up. “Read my lips. I’m leaving as soon as I can book a flight.”

“Sit. Please.” Greene waits until she’s down, then leans forward. “At least help us with Danes. We need him to make this work. I can’t arrest him, but he just might come by your hotel room for a drink if you asked him.”

Chapter 6

CLIFF MUST HAVE A PORTRAIT HIDDEN in his closet like the one owned by Dorian Gray. There isn’t a line in his face. He’s the image of suave elegance that comes from generations of being to the manor-born.

He’s dressed in various shades of charcoal from a pale silk long-sleeved shirt, darker gabardine pants, down to shiny black Gucci loafers with matching belt.

Drink in hand, he lounges with one leg slung over the arm of the only comfortable chair in our tiny hotel room while Angela and I perch on the ends of the twin beds.

“I’m sorry you have to be involved in this mess, Allie. It’s bad enough that Angela—” he takes a sip of his Scotch. “Of course, I take full responsibility.”

He raises his eyes toward the ceiling and then looks my way. “Truthfully, I didn’t know what the drill was until we arrived at the party.”

What a liar. I’m about to say so when Angela’s eyes beseech. “So after each party you’re supposed to leave with a different woman and your date with a different man?”

Cliff turns to face my sister. His tone is measured but hardly casual. “Yes, but this time there was no trade. Angela returned home with me.”

He drains his glass. “Well, if that’s all, I guess I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the drink.”

I stand to block his way. “In case you’re interested, the police know pretty much everything that happens at those parties.”

He pales and takes a small step backward. “Jesus. If they ever find out I’m involved, I’m dead.”

I offer a small comfort. “I don’t think the police will nab you personally. They just want—”

He looks at me as if I’m mindless. “The police are the least of my worries. I’m worried about the men at the top. Those people are très formidable.”

I ignore his attempt at French. “I’m hoping you’ll help us.” “Help you? With what?”

“Get back into The Castle.”

He brushes past me and heads for the door. “No way in hell.” When Cliff opens it, Greene flashes his badge and backs him into the room.

“You’re not going anywhere, Danes. Not until we have a little off-the-record chat.”

Cliff puffs. “I am definitely not having any kind of chat. On or off the record.”

Greene doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, if you insist. Let’s head down to the precinct and handle business there.”

Cliff gives an indignant sniff. “I want a lawyer.”

“Fine. We’ll be happy to Mirandize you. And then you can call your attorney. But if you cooperate, it might go easier for you.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Ever spent time in prison?”

Cliff pales, gropes for the chair and slides into it. “For taking a date to a private party?”

“You crossed state lines. How do we know you didn’t plan to use Miss Armington as a prostitute?” “Hold on here. My sister—”

Angela cuts me off. “I can assure you that I was downstairs the whole evening, thank-you-very-much.”

The detective ignores us. “We could probably nail you for participating in a pandering operation. Or, as an accessory to drug-trafficking.” He pauses to let his words sink in. “I guess a good attorney could get you off, but it’ll be all over the press when it breaks.”

Cliff buries his face in his hands for a few seconds, then looks up. “And if I cooperate?”

“I can pretty much promise to make this go away.”

The color returns to Cliff ’s face and he leans back in his chair. “No harm in asking the details.”

“We want you to attend the next party and make a trade.” “Tell me why I should.”

“Miss Armington wasn’t traded. Make a trade this trip and we’re in like Flynn. Each man she meets will be researched and profiled. All we need is a few names to make the subpoenas stick.” Angela breaks in. “Look, Greene, I told you I’m not hanging around here long enough for that.”

She turns to me and gives an impish grin. “But maybe Allie might.”

My mouth drops open as my heart begins to race. What is it that attracts me to danger? The adrenalin rush? That perilous but exciting walk on the ragged edge?

When I was a child my crazy stunts drove my parents nuts. I climbed the highest trees, jumped out of the loft in my grandfather’s barn and did any other stupid daredevil thing I could dream up. And even though I’m an adult and a successful attorney, I still crave that excitement.

Cliff ’s head swivels my way. “Her? She doesn’t remotely look like—sorry, Allie.”

His words sting, but he speaks the truth. Angela is the beauty of our family with high cheekbones, a classic nose and some long lost ancestor’s tawny tint to her hair.

My genes are slightly rearranged. I’m almost as tall, almost as pretty, except my mousy-brown mop frizzes at the slightest provocation.

I shoot him a baleful look, then turn to Greene. “A trip to The Castle? How intriguing.”

Cliff studies me a few seconds. “Why on earth would you accept such an offer? I thought you had some high-powered job in Houston.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but things are slow at the law firm right now. Actually, I have no prospective clients at the moment. So, when Angela called, I decided to go ‘of counsel’ and take a short leave of absence.”

Cliff shakes his head. “I get it that you’re bored and looking for some sort of kick in the pants, but why would you stick your neck out for Carolina Montoya? You hardly know—knew her.”

“Oh, but I did know Caro—well. I was very fond of her. She did me a big favor that ultimately saved my career. So, to my mind, I owe her one. If I can help the police find out who murdered her, it would mean a lot to me.”

Greene glances my way, then back at Cliff. “Frankly, Danes, we don’t have time to get one of our own into The Castle. I’m crossing a line by taking a chance using a non-Blue but, damn it, time is running out.

“Miss Armington may not be a dead ringer for her sister, but with some help from a makeup artist, I think we can make it work. And since you didn’t make a trade the first time, nobody should be the wiser.”

Cliff ’s face is like putty. “You don’t have a clue who you’re dealing with.”

“You’re right. We don’t. That’s why we’ve got to get in there.” Cliff waves toward Angela. “So she just disappears?”

Angela flashes one of her famous klieg-light beams. “There can be only one Angela Armington. One of us has to get out of here.”

“She’s right,” I say. “As far as we know, Caro’s killer hasn’t met Angela. But on the off chance he might come sniffing around, Angela will be alone.”

Chapter 7

THE BIG NIGHT HAS ARRIVED. I pace the living room, glimpsing the new me in the mirror each time I pass. Why didn’t I think of using a henna rinse before? I’ve always envied Angela’s auburn hair. It would have been so simple to add a little spice to my dingy brown.

I brush one errant strand back in place and inspect my makeup. Too much blush for my taste, but I have to admit it looks good. The lipstick, eye shadow and mascara are brighter than my usual palette, but thanks to a makeup artist, I look a lot more like the fabulous Angela Armington than anyone would believe.

Greene looks up from the newspaper he’s thumbed through. It’s plain he’s as much on edge as I am. “Nervous?”

“A little.”

I smooth the waist of my strapless winter-white velvet sheath, take a deep breath and caress the triple strand pearl choker circling my neck. Greene got it through some fence he knows.

He folds the paper and tosses it to the floor. “The boys are all set up in the flat downstairs. Be thankful your sister didn’t rent it out. It’s a perfect setup for surveillance.”

At least Angela didn’t stow me down there. The maid’s room looks like heaven compared to that place.

When the front bell rings, Greene stands and peers out the window. “It’s Danes. We’re in business.”

He gathers Angela’s black full-length mink from the couch. “Look, don’t worry. My sources tell me the illegal stuff is all conducted upstairs, so I’m sure you’ll be all right. All you have to do is look and listen.”

I give into my greatest fear. “What about the trade at the end of the evening? What do I do then?”

“From what we’ve learned, that part of the action is on the up-and-up. As a rule, a trade is prearranged. Avoids ‘double-booking.’ The main goal is to have you make that trade. Then we’re on our way.

“If you feel comfortable, ask the new guy in. If not, don’t. It’s entirely up to you.”

My heart skips a few beats, then begins to race at the thought of the unknown—a little scary, but definitely exciting.

After Greene helps me into the heavy coat I say, “I know you have the townhouse bugged, but is there any way I can contact you if things get tight?”

“Not to worry. You’ll be well covered once you get back here.” He points toward the back of the house. “If the evening starts to go south, we’ll give you a call on the extension in the kitchen. I suggest you make up a plausible excuse in advance then go over it in your head a couple of times so you won’t stumble over the facts. Something like a surprise visit from an old boyfriend who needs a place to crash.”

Chapter 8

EVEN THOUGH IT’S PAST SEVEN, the Upper Manhattan traffic moves like glue until we finally make it across Central Park and turn south toward the Holland Tunnel.

We’re through Newark and speeding down the Jersey Turnpike before Cliff says, “I hope to hell this works.”

He gives me a glance, then concentrates on the road. “I have to admit, you look more like Angela than I thought. Are you anything like her?”

That’s an interesting question. I study him for a while before answering. He’s wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo with a matching turtleneck. On him it looks good. But then, he was born knowing how to dress.

“Angela and I are alike in as many ways as we are different.” He scowls. “Oh, God, I forgot you’re a lawyer. By the way, have you talked with Angela lately? Is she okay?”

Is she? I wonder to myself. It’s tough to admit, but once my sister was out of the picture, I didn’t give her another thought.

“She’s fine. Happy to be out of this mess.”

We ride a few more miles before I try a gentle probe. “Angela tells me you and Caro were very close.”

Cliff keeps his eyes on the road, but I notice his jaw clenches.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft but sad. “I really thought she might finally be the one. Unfortunately, she had other ideas.” After we spend the next minutes in silence, I change the subject. “Are there any rules I should know about?”

He relaxes his grip on the steering wheel and glances my way. “The party begins promptly at nine and ends at eleven sharp.”

“That’s nice to know, but surely the powers-that-be must have some guidelines.”

“Only a few. The women must be beautiful, not of the family, so to speak, and personally vetted.”

I ignore the supercilious bastard’s insinuation. “I understand the beauty part, but what’s ‘not of the family’?”

“We bring women in from other—venues.” “Oh, I get it. None of your class allowed.”

He gives me a toothy smile. “That’s right. We protect our own.”

We get off the Turnpike at the Garden State Parkway at exit 117 and go right. When the road narrows, I strain to catch the name on a signpost, but it’s too dark and Cliff is driving too fast. Even with the speed, it takes us well over an hour to arrive at the imposing stone gates.

Two men in tuxes come to each side of the car.

The window on Cliff ’s side hums down. “Jay Three and date.” The man on my side sticks a flashlight in my face while the other turns through several pages and says, “Angela Armington. She was your date last time. You know that’s against the rules.”

“I got a dispensation from the Cardinal. Better go over that list again.”

The man looks up. “Sorry, sir. Here it is. Please proceed to Station Two.”

The gates swing open and Cliff moves the car slowly through them.

“What was that all about?”

He shakes his head. “Just a formality. Don’t concern yourself.” “What’s with the Jay Three?”

“That’s the name they gave me. The ‘three’ means I’m in the third alphabet panel.”

“So there’s a Jay One and a Jay Two?”

“Except the first twenty-six members were given names instead of letters. Javelin is the codename of the first Jay. He was my sponsor at my initiation. I’m the sixty-second member to join—still in the cream.”

The first time Angela introduced me to Cliff he ran through his lineage. There might have been a few names that struck a bell back then, but none I remember, so I continue with the questions. “What’s Station Two?”

“That’s where we surrender the car. We have to go inside the building to pick up our masks. Then we board a small bus for the rest of the trip.”

“And whose house is this?”

Cliff lets out an exasperated breath. “For Chrissake, will you stop with the third degree?”

“But I need to know these things. I’m supposed to have been here before. What if they find out I’m not really Angela?”

“Look, dear, just to refresh your memory. The basic idea is for a guy to enjoy good booze, beautiful arm candy and maybe do a few lines of nose candy. If a man gets lucky with his date, that’s icing on the cake.”

“Just a nice evening in the country?”

“Yes. And that’s all it’s meant to be. Greene isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. These people know what they’re doing.”

There are Mercedes 500s and Jaguars parked before a long, low stone building. Cliff pulls into a vacant space, then turns to me. “Oh, yes. And this is very important. You speak only to me. No other man. Especially not the man dressed in red and wearing a big hat.”

I’m about to ask why when a masked valet opens my door and offers his hand.

We enter the building and step into a candlelit room with paneled walls and an intricately carved coffered ceiling. At one end is a full bar. The room is empty except for Cliff and me and several masked wait-staff dressed as pages.

One page bearing a tray of champagne glasses is right behind the man who takes my coat.

A third page leads me to the far end of the room and ushers me into a small but beautifully appointed compartment.

Walls of pale peach silk rise to a pleated ceiling. A comfortable chair in a peach-and-green floral design sits in front of an oval mirror that appears to float. On closer inspection, I can see it is attached to the ceiling with fine piano wires.

In minutes, a woman dressed as a French maid carrying several Harlequin masks enters. She hands me one after the other to try, then pronounces, “This one is perfect, don’t you agree?”

She’s right. The mask made of opalescent feathers of forest green and gold is attached to a gilded wand. It’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.

When I raise the mask to my face, I’m transformed into a kind of fabulous fairy tale bird. A shiver of delight runs through me. Who would have ever thought a hick chick from Lampasas, Texas, would be playing a part like this?

“Enjoy the evening. Please use the restroom before your escort arrives. There are only a few facilities on the first floor of the building.”

I take a sip of the bubbly, then think better of taking a second. No time to be dimwitted. I’m on assignment.

I’ve just dumped the rest of the champagne in the sink when there’s a knock on the door and Cliff, wearing a mask in iridescent blue with gold leaves, steps into the room.

The mask conceals most of his face. His tux is covered with a damask cape accented with leaves the same design as those on his mask.

“Can you breathe in that?”

He raises his head so I see his nostrils. “Would you recognize me if you didn’t know who I was?”

The helmet-like mask dips downward at the ears to cover his hair and neck. I peer into the eyeholes but can’t see much. His mouth is very visible, but I don’t know him well enough to be familiar with it.

I shake my head. “It’s a pretty good disguise. Whoever thought this up did a great job on the design.”

————

We’re the only ones in the jitney that crawls up a winding lane. When the bus makes one last turn, I can’t help but gasp. Angela was right. It is a castle, three stories high, complete with turrets connected by crenelated battlements, showcased with golden floodlights.

I lean into Cliff and murmur, “What is this? Disney New Jersey?”

He gives a poor imitation of some TV celebrity he thinks I should know. “Oh, Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

Chapter 9

AS WE CLIMB THE STAIRS to the arched entry a man cloaked in black with a crimson mask steps from a group of chatting guests and barks, “Please make your way to the assignment table. It’s almost time to begin.”

He turns away, then whirls to face me and points his finger. “Hey. Don’t I know you?”

Unsure of what to do, I raise my mask to cover my face.

Cliff steps to my side and puts a protective hand on my arm. “You know better than to speak unless it’s been arranged.”

When the man lowers his gaze Cliff says, “I’ll overlook your breach this time, but if you break the code again, you know what will happen.” His threat hangs in the air.

After the man disappears into the crowd, Cliff turns to me. “I’m not real happy about running into him. He must have met Angela.”

“So what does that mean? Is my cover blown?”

“What cover? Look around you. Half the women don’t have their masks covering their faces. Your arm will soon tire of holding up your mask. That’s why there’s a loop at the end to slip over your wrist.”

He leads me into a long, two-story gallery where three enormous Venetian chandeliers hang from elaborately carved domes.

The oak-paneled walls are covered with formal oil portraits punctuated by mirrors over half-moon tables.

To one side of the gallery a graceful stair lined with tapestries rises to a second level. A gold rope that bears a small sign reading: “By invitation only,” is strung between the elaborately carved newel posts.

I remember Angela saying that’s where Caro looked down. Up those stairs. Where the action was. I’m going to be damn sure I don’t make that trip.

The floor peeking from under several palace-sized Oriental rugs is inlaid wood—old and expensive.

Only two envelopes remain on the round marble table beneath the first chandelier. Cliff grabs the one with his name on it, yanks out the card, and curses beneath his breath. “The Garden Tent. Damn it, I’ve been demoted.” “Where were you last time?”

“In the ballroom.” He jams the envelope in his pocket. “Let’s head for Siberia.”

Beneath an elegant tent draped in silk and dotted with Japanese lanterns, the guests are arranged in two circles.

When the band strikes up, everyone dances. Each song is played through only once and when the music stops, some couples move to the right while others move in the opposite direction.

Cliff swipes a glass of champagne from the nearest proffered tray, drains it and grabs my hand. “Maybe this isn’t Siberia after all. Which way do you want to work? To the left or to the right?”

————

After participating in this mindless charade for over half an hour, I can honestly say these are the most boring people I’ve ever met.

Between each dance, a couple from each circle mingles. This lasts for about five minutes during which the men communicate with each other in some sort of abbreviated lingo and look the women over like they’re picking out merchandise from Victoria’s Secret or a prime cut from some steak house. I fully expect to have my teeth checked before the evening’s out.

We women do nothing but smile at the men and stare through each other. And as far as the women’s masks are concerned, Cliff was dead right. The masks hang from their wrists while they dance and are raised only when a new couple is introduced.

At the first conversation break I try talking to a brunette in a burgundy velvet dress that seems to have almost no front or back. A deep vee rises from her bikini line, widens to reveal her navel and climbs her large, well-shaped breasts to barely cover her nipples. When she turns, the same effect is repeated in the back.

It’s a construction miracle. Sheer gauze, the exact shade of her skin, holds the dress together. One too-quick move and she’ll lose the whole enchilada.

“Great outfit,” I offer.

“Tanks. So’s yours.” The “yours” came out “you-ahs.”

She is definitely from another venue. I step a little closer, chumming up. “Been coming to these things for a long time?”

At that, she raises her mask studded with amethysts and turquoise, opens her over-glossed mouth and lets out a startled bray. “Don’t break the rules or it’s off with you-ah head.”

I remain mute after that. No point.

Between dances, I feast on canapés of Maine lobster, bay scallops, planked salmon and caviar. I’m parched, but pass up the bubbly. Sober as I am, I feel a tad giddy but chalk that up to my assignment.

Cliff and I have just finished a brief samba and are moving to greet yet another scintillating twosome when I feel someone staring at me. It’s the man Cliff warned me about. The one I’m not supposed to speak to.

He’s tall—tall enough to dwarf me. Beneath a scarlet, wide-brimmed cardinal’s hat, an ornate silver mask covers his face. On closer inspection, the eyebrows and lashes are minutely detailed.

A scarlet cloak conceals this man’s body, but he moves beneath it like a tiger. His lady is an attractive blonde also in scarlet. She carries a mask of iridescent black feathers studded with jewels.

I noticed this couple standing on the terrace when Cliff and I joined our circle and watched them take their place several groups behind us. Now they’re joining the couple we just left.

I poke Cliff. Not a good idea. He’s talking to a short, chunky man caped in heavy black brocade with red silk piping. His blacklacquer mask with red tracings resembles a Chinese Foo Dog.

When I peer around Cliff, he abruptly turns away.

I cover my face with the mask and mutter, “I have to talk to you in private.”

Cliff turns to me. “In a minute, darling.”

During the course of the evening I’ve learned that no woman has a name. They are called “darling” or “precious” or some other inane diminutive.

I poke him again. Harder.

Cliff whirls and mutters, “Excuse me,” then says through clenched teeth, “What is it?”

I put my mouth to where his ear should be. “It’s that man in red. The one you said I shouldn’t talk to. I think he’s trying to catch up with us. Let’s get out of here.”

Cliff steals a look to the side, then points to the terrace. “The ladies’ room is to the right just inside the gallery.”

Bastard. He’s hanging me out to dry. Has he decided it’s too dangerous to go along with the plan? Am I on my own? I can’t see his eyes—can’t read his thoughts. Then I see a flash of scarlet and realize I have only a few seconds’ lead.

I thread through the throng and skip up the steps afraid to look back.

Can I make it to the bathroom in time to hide in a stall until the music starts up? Then what? If only I knew the drill.

I enter the main hallway and veer right. The door, bearing a small brass outline of a Colonial Dame, is only three steps away, when a firm hand grasps my shoulder.

Cliff whirls me around to face the silver-masked man in the red hat. “The Cardinal has asked to take you home.”

He twists my wrist so hard I drop into a painful curtsey.

The Cardinal bows in response. “Lovely. Lovely. I see you’ve trained her well.”

He turns to the woman still glued to his side and murmurs, “Jay Three will take you home, my dear.”

She nods and steps away as Cliff places my aching hand in the man’s cool, dry grasp. Then, after a slight bow in the Cardinal’s direction, he steers his new date into the crowd.

Chapter 10

“THIS WAY, MY DEAR.” The Cardinal leads me toward the front entry and down the steps to the waiting bus.

I fight the urge to yank my hand away and run like hell. Then I curse myself for thinking I could pull off something so impossibly daring. I’m going alone with this stranger who maybe killed Caro—who would maybe like to carve an X on my breast. I feel like I’ve just stepped into a nest of fire ants—a few bites can cause extreme pain—too many bites kill.

At Station Two the Cardinal signals to a black, late-model Mercedes 500 with Jersey plates.

Still masked, he turns on the dome light while he leans forward to converse with the driver.

I get hold of myself and do a little sleuthing. Hands have always fascinated me. His are slender with long, tapering fingers, the hands of a man who has avoided manual labor. He wears a heavy oblong signet ring with a family crest.

We’re well out of the gates before he leans back into the seat and says, “I’m sorry about the mix-up last week.”

Tiny icicles boogie down my spine. Angela didn’t mention a Cardinal.

“I hope Jay Three explained why we couldn’t make the switch then. My date was feverish. I felt I should take her home.”

So, Cliff knew who he was trading me to all along! I can’t wait to get my hands around his slimy neck.

After the driver negotiates the Mercedes onto the New Jersey Turnpike, the Cardinal says, “I presume you live in Manhattan.” From that question it looks like he isn’t going to kill me and dump my body in the Newark Bay quite yet. And wait a minute—wouldn’t he know where I live if he were Caro’s killer?

“My roommate and I share a townhouse on Ninety-Fifth between Lex and Third.”

He leans forward, his smooth exterior cracking a little. “You have a roommate? Jay Three didn’t mention that.”

Again, those arctic tickles and that small voice on the far side of my mind nudges me and I burble, “She’s gone for the weekend.”

Not quite a lie. Poor Caro.

“Wonderful. I was hoping for a cup of coffee and a brief chat. It’s so much easier in private.” He relaxes and leans into the cushions.

When the car pulls to the curb and the chauffeur opens my door, I hesitate.

The Cardinal must see me stiffen because he gently taps my bare arm. “I promise—only one cup. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

I hesitate for only a second. This may be my sole opportunity to get the information Greene needs.

“Then one cup it is.” I slide out of the car, hurry up the steps and into the outer foyer. When I turn, a distinguished gray-haired man in his late sixties or early seventies with startling steel-gray eyes stands unmasked beside me.

As the outer door groans shut, he steps forward and pulls me to him. “I’ve been wanting to hold you close since I first saw you. You took my breath away then, but tonight—”

His lips urge mine apart, but I squirm out of his embrace and fish the key out of the silk flowers.

When I fumble for the lock, he says, “Let me.”

In one fluid move, he puts his left arm around my waist and jams me to him while snatching the key from my right hand.

He’s no gentleman, and there’s no doubt he’s aroused. How am I going to get out of this one without a direct knee to the groin?

We fall into the darkness and it’s all I can do to keep the panic out of my voice. “I better get that coffee going. Remember the long drive?”

I find the switch and the room fills with light.

He releases me to take in the pre-war oak floor and the fourteen-foot ceiling. “Not bad. Not bad at all. A few years ago I looked at several townhouses in this area. I might have seen this property then.” He points toward the stairs. “Two bedroom suites? One on each floor?”

Those fire ants begin to crank up. His description is much too close to the mark.

His voice breaks in. “How long have you owned this place?” “Almost eight years.” I edge toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”

He catches up with me. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not letting you out of my sight for one minute.”

What’s he going to think when I start pawing through the cabinets for the coffee? I’m supposed to live here. When I pause at the kitchen entrance, he almost runs me over. I turn and give him a coquettish wink. “As you must know, pre-war kitchens that haven’t been remodeled are very cramped. If you could just give me a few minutes, we’ll be so much more comfortable on the couch.”

Lucky for me, the coffee is next to the pot. When I return to the living room, the Cardinal is seated on the couch and beckons for me to sit next to him.

Once I’m settled, he grabs my hand. “You are so easy on the eyes. I’m glad Jay Three brought you back.”

“So am I. And I’m so glad we could connect this time.”

Big mistake. He’s all over me. His tongue greedily mining my mouth while his hand gropes my breast. My first instinct is to bolt. Then I remind myself I volunteered for this duty.

When he comes up for air, I wiggle out of his clutch and stand. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Who needs coffee?” he pants.

“You do.” I make for the kitchen before he can regain his balance.

It’s in the kitchen that the brilliant idea blossoms: dump the coffee into the Cardinal’s crotch. I take a moment to visualize the scene: the shock on his face, his leap from the couch, his race for the front door. Then the stark realization dawns that it would be a very good reason for him to remove his trousers, and while they were drying—nope. Don’t think I’ll go there.

Resigned to playing it straight, I carry in the tray, pour a cup for each of us, and ease into the cushions, praying that the threat of scalding coffee will keep him at bay.

It’s the Cardinal who begins the questions. “I know your last name is Armington, may I ask your given name?”

I hesitate. Did Cliff say that was okay? Then I remember. I’m not to ask the questions. Just answer. “It’s Angela.”

“And you are an angel. A Southern angel, I think.” “Yes.”

“And a high-fashion model? You certainly have the figure for it.”

“Thanks.”

“I thought I recognized you, though your photographs hardly do you justice.”

The Cardinal drains his cup and sets it on the coffee table. That means trouble. Sure that only one cup of scalding coffee won’t be enough to blunt his advances, I quickly refill his, shove it back in his hand and chirp, “I don’t know all the rules, but I was instructed not to ask your name.”

“Yes, that’s one of the rules. It’s for our protection, as are the names we are given.”

“Cardinal? Like the bird?”

He studies me for a moment, probably trying to figure out how much I know. “That’s right. I’m just a poor little red bird. Your Jay Three is much more important than I.”

When he sets his empty cup on the coffee table and stands, my heart soars. Am I going to be let off this easy?

To my dismay, he heads for the stairs. “Is your bedroom up there?”

He’s on the third step when the kitchen extension rings. Greene’s come through.

I hurry through the dining room with the Cardinal in hot pursuit, scoop the phone from the wall cradle and turn to face him. “Hello?”

It’s a relief to hear the detective say, “Sounds like you could use some diversion.”

Grateful that Greene suggested I make up a story in advance, I smile and fill my next few words with enthusiasm. “Mom! This is a surprise. But, you’re a day early. Where on earth are you?”

I shoot the Cardinal a discouraged pout. “Grand Central? Oh, dear. I have no car. You’ll have to get a cab, but it shouldn’t be a problem at this hour.”

I make a few more sympathetic “oh dears” before I hang up. “I was expecting my mother tomorrow, but true to form she’s arrived a day early. I’m so sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

He sidles toward me, a hopeful look on his face. “If your mother looks anything like you, I’d love to meet her. Threesomes can be so interesting.”

I almost choke on that one. Think, Allie. Think. To buy time, I place my hand beneath his elbow and turn him in the direction of the front door.

“That’s so flattering. I’m sure Mother would love to hear what you said. But Dad is with her and I’m afraid he wouldn’t quite understand.”

His face falls. “Oh, I didn’t realize your father—that is rather unfortunate. Perhaps it would be prudent to make a quick exit.” When we reach the front door, he circles me with both arms. “So beautiful. I’ll be proud to have you by my side at the next gala. I’ll send your dress in a few days.”

He pulls my arms to circle his neck then runs his hands down my body. “I think it should be red—to match my cape and emphasize your coloring. Size four, I’m guessing?”

This guy’s in la-la-land, I haven’t seen a four since I was four. Oh, well, it’s his nickel. I lean to his ear and whisper coyly, “How very flattering, but I’m really a perfect ten.”

He pulls back for another looksee. “Impossible. You’re so svelte. But, if you say so, I’ll send a ten soon enough to be altered to the size four I’m sure you are.”

He nuzzles my neck and croons, “It’s against policy to have contact with the lovelies until after we trade them to another escort. But I’m aching to see you again—aching so badly that I can’t wait until next week. Perhaps we can arrange a quiet tête-à-tête here—” He thinks a moment. “How about Wednesday around four?”

I go ice-cold. This is definitely not a good move. No time to panic, he’s almost out the door.

“Oh dear, aren’t you the naughty boy.” I put on a pout and touch my forefinger to his mouth. “You mustn’t break the rules. What would they do to you if they found out?”

He starts at that. “But I’m—”

I can almost hear the wheels turning. The Big Kahuna wondering how much of a risk he should take, especially since it was he who made the rules.

Caution triumphs over lust.

Before I can answer, his mouth covers mine for what seems like an eternity.

“You’re bright as a penny, my dear—much brighter than the usual—I’ll be counting the days.”

Chapter 11

INSISTENT RINGING jars me out of half-sleep. Though I didn’t have but a few sips of champagne the night before, I’m feeling plenty punk now.

Detective Benjamin Greene sounds like he’s talking through a tin can and string. “I thought we were getting together at eleven. You keeping DA’s hours?”

“Hardly.” I squint at the digital clock on the bedside table. Eleven forty-five. “Sorry. It was a long evening. How’s two?”

By a quarter ‘til, I have been to Gristede’s and back, stocked the refrigerator and made myself a spectacular turkey sandwich. All I have to do is walk to my main mode of travel—the subway at Lex and Ninety-Sixth. It’s so easy to hop on there and, just a few minutes later, hop off at Sixty-Eighth.

As I turn the corner, I see Greene standing on the sidewalk in front of the station talking to a man who seems very familiar. My heart quickens and I pick up my pace, straining to get a closer look. Have my eyes deceived me? Or do I desperately need that to be Bill Cotton, the man I once thought might share my future?

I fell for him two years before when he was a DEA double-agent posing as the Sheriff of Uvalde County, Texas. His efforts broke up a major drug-trafficking operation that crossed the Rio Grande, but the minute the sting went down, he disappeared. Damn him. Not a word since the trial in El Paso.

When Greene spots me, waves and calls my name, the man glances my way, then hunches into his overcoat and hurries toward Third Avenue.

I take the last fifty yards in a lope and am so winded, it’s all I can do to blurt, “Who was that?”

The detective shrugs. “Nobody you’d know.”

I can’t let it go at that. “But, he looked so—familiar.”

“Trust me. There’s no way you could begin to know him.” Somehow, I don’t believe Greene, or I don’t want to.

The detective leads me into the warmth of the building and down the hall to his cubbyhole. “Danes will be here soon.”

After helping me shed my coat, he points me to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Greene settles in his. “We were able to contact the Montoya family a couple of days ago. No easy task,” he says. “Not just anybody can get through.”

Caro’s contorted body looms before me for a brief second as the whole scene replays. I choke back rising bile to murmur, “Will someone be coming for her?”

“No word on that, yet.”

Greene grabs a file from the stack on the console behind him. “Want to see who you’re dealing with?” He opens it and pushes it to my side of the desk.

The Cardinal stares up.

I suppress a shudder and mutter, “That’s him.”

“We’ve had him under surveillance for some time. Name’s Jason Lodge Kingsley-Smythe with the accent on Lodge. He’s pushing seventy-five, but still heads a high-profile downtown law firm, Kingsley-Smythe and Templeton. Married. Grown children. Grandchildren. Big mansion in Greenwich.”

Greene produces an aerial shot of waterfront property. “Take a look. Ten acres, a tennis court and a couple of swimming pools with waterfalls.” He stabs the bottom of the photo. “And six hundred feet on the Long Island Sound with beachfront.”

I cringe at the memory of that man’s tongue drilling my mouth, hating that I went along with it.

“He’s sending me a red dress to wear next week.” “So we heard.”

Cliff ’s whine comes over my right shoulder. “Oh, God, you didn’t give the Cardinal your phone number. If you did, I’m dead meat for sure.”

I give him a long stare, then mutter, “Actually, I thought you might have done that for me.”

He shakes his head and slumps into the empty chair next to mine. “Believe me, I’m not that stupid.”

It takes him a few seconds to notice the Cardinal’s picture. When he does, he jerks forward to jab the photograph with his forefinger. “Are you saying Kingsley-Smythe is the main man?”

He glances my way then back at the picture. “I’m absolutely flabbergasted. I know the members are prominent figures in their communities, but Jason Kingsley-Smythe? He never misses the Governor’s prayer breakfasts. He’s one of the chosen few who sit at the head table.”

The detective runs his finger down what looks like some sort of resume. “Senior Warden of his church. Past chairman of the United Way, Planned Parenthood, the Boards of two museums and a ballet company. Certainly seems public spirited.”

My spine puddles. A respected man like Jason Kingsley-Smythe mixed up in drugs, prostitution and murder? The idea both repulses and intrigues me.

Greene draws another file from the stack. “We have a list of the initiated names for the first tier headed by the Cardinal and the Archbishop.”

Cliff leans forward. “I can tell you who Javelin is. Feldon McCrae. I went through Exeter with him. Never could forget that voice. The guys called him ‘Squeaky’ right to his face.”

The detective runs his ballpoint down the list and puts a mark by a name. “Thanks, Danes, you’ve been a big help.”

Cliff lets out a long breath and stands. “Is that all?”

The detective waves him out. “Just don’t leave town. We might need to talk to you again.”

Greene gathers the photographs and shoves them into their file, then turns to me. “How did the cleanup go?”

To my relief the professional crime-scene cleaning service crew spent hours detailing Caro’s suite—at my expense. Seems the NYPD doesn’t “do” crime-scene cleanups.

Every shred of evidence connected to Caro’s violent end has been removed. Still, each time I pass the second floor, I shudder.

Her remaining possessions are in a cardboard carton. Pictures of her family: her mother and father, a handsome couple—older than I expected; a distant shot of a man I supposed was her brother, who bore a striking resemblance to Caro, but looked ten years her senior; lastly, a shot of two smiling little girls that looked so much like Caro, they had to be sibs. I wondered if they were smiling now?

A surge of sorrow overwhelms me. As far as Greene is concerned, that part of the case is over. But seeing Carolina Montoya strapped to that headboard will forever remain in my mind.

I shove my emotions to the back burner. “So now what?”

He rises and starts for the opening to his cubicle. “It’s back to The Castle for you. This time on Kingsley-Smythe’s arm.”

“But, that’s almost a week from now. Can’t I do something for the department while I’m waiting? Maybe some kind of research?” Greene shakes his head. “There’s nothing more you can do for the project right now. Newark has just loaned us a real computer whiz. Detective Mindy Cha.”

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.

Chapter 12

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?”

Chapter 13

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.”

Greene’s eyebrows arch. “You must have had quite a chat.”

I shudder realizing how easy it would have been for the stranger to kill me. “We talked for almost an hour. He was polite—even solicitous. Frankly, I didn’t get the feeling that he was a murderer.”

He scribbles something. “That’s what’s so puzzling. He must have known you weren’t Angela.”

“Not necessarily. He claims to have met me briefly on the steps last summer.”

One of the men comes down the stairs. “Your battery must be dead. Headquarters has been trying to reach you for the last half hour.”

Greene plays with his cell for a second or two and shakes his head. “Dead as dirt. Isn’t anything gonna go right today?”

He looks around and waves at his cohort’s phone. “May I?” Then, muttering a string of cuss words, he steps into the outer vestibule.

He returns, tosses the cell back to its owner and slumps in the chair. “Jesus, this is getting more complicated by the minute. Seems the DEA had a man on the flight out of Madrid. Apparently, Montoya realized he was being followed and bolted. By the time the guy caught up, Montoya was dead.”

“Then who?” He shrugs.

“No idea, but we’ll catch—”

The shrill buzz of the doorbell cuts off his last words. Greene steps to one side, draws his heavy-duty police issue and motions me to answer. “You’re about as covered as you can get, but if you see a gun, drop.”

“Oh, thanks.”

A man in chauffeur’s livery says, “Miss Armington?”

He shoves a long plastic dress bag into my right hand, an ecru envelope into the other and hustles down the steps.

Greene grabs the hanger and removes the plastic to reveal a scarlet taffeta evening dress.

After he looks it over, he hands it back. “What’s in the note?” The penmanship is barely legible:

I sincerely hope you like my choice. It’s a ten, as promised, hope it fits. Wear no jewelry. I will supply that. Please be ready at seven.

C

I look up. “No formal signature, just a big capital C.”

I hand the note to Greene who scans and pockets it, then motions me to sit.

After pacing for a minute, he takes the chair next to mine. “You can’t stay here any longer. Maybe that guy posing as Montoya thinks you’re Angela—maybe not. But it’s plain this situation is too dangerous.”

I remember the trashed room and how I felt when I first saw it, but for some strange reason I can’t believe that man is after me. “If I bolt now, the Cardinal will know something’s up for sure.”

Greene’s chin juts forward. “Maybe, but after what went down here last night, you’re nothing but a crime waiting to happen.”

“I don’t really think so. Consider this. Whoever that man was, he could have killed me. He didn’t. Why?”

“Maybe he’s waiting to see what you do next. Hell, I’m not a mind reader, but the fact that he was able to gain entry to the house so easily makes me wonder.”

“Then let’s show him what I’m doing next. I’m telling you, deep down I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

Greene slumps back into his chair. “So, I gather you’re not leaving?”

“Not unless you give me a damn good reason.”

“How about this reason? Montoya wasn’t shooting in Argentina. He was in Colombia—in Medellín to be specific.” “Are you saying Caro’s family is connected to drugs?” “Unconfirmed, but it sure looks that way.”

“That’s a pretty damning indictment. Isn’t there any way you can verify it?”

The detective gives me a slow nod. “I’ll have to go through channels. It could take a couple of days.”

The silence hangs heavy between us until Greene stands and pronounces, “So, I guess what I’m asking is, do you want a deluxe funeral or just a simple wooden box?”

Chapter 14

IT’S NEARLY FIVE and dark by the time I fight my way out of Gristede’s with a grocery sack in each arm.

After struggling up the front steps, I dump the sacks on the table and rummage around the bottom of my purse for the elusive key. I was going to buy a bulky key chain so the search would be easier, but the day got away before I could.

I start to push the key into the lock and the door swings in. Prickles skitter across the back of my neck. Then I remember the locks have been changed. Then too, I might not have pulled the door completely shut.

I make my way through the darkened living and dining rooms to plunk the groceries on the nearest counter, turn and freeze.

The man who calls himself Guillermo Montoya is sitting at the small round table. Though he wears a pleasant look on his face, his hand is on the butt of a large weapon that rests on the table in front of him.

As Greene’s warnings echo, my stomach loops and a sour wave surges at the back of my throat. After I swallow hard a couple of times and manage to grab a few breaths, my brain finally kicks in.

Every detail of the small kitchen stands out: the filthy stove, the groaning refrigerator, the faucet with the incessant drip.

And then there’s the imposter: still as handsome as I remember, wearing a chocolate-brown suede jacket with matching cable-knit turtleneck sweater.

My eyes again cut to the firearm on the table before him—much bigger than my Beretta.

“Buenas tardes.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling and puts his hand to his chest. “Sorry, I mean good evening. Please. Don’t be startled. I planned to wait outside for you, but when I tried the door it was open. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s so much more comfortable in here.”

I toggle my mind to escape-mode. The distance to the front hall, where I left my purse containing my Beretta and cell phone, is too far to make. Montoya, or whoever he is, can fire before I take a step.

His voice breaks through my scattered thoughts. “I came by because I owe you an apology and at least some sort of compensation for the damage.”

I remain mute—heart fluttering like a scared rabbit’s—tongue three times its size. Then I try the old stare-at-the-forehead trick, and will my voice to respond. Not one ounce of cooperation.

His brow furrows. “Dios mío, you are as pale as a ghost.” He points to the empty chair across the small table from him. “Por favor, Señorita—have a seat.”

When I do, he settles back into his chair. “Ahhh. Some color is returning to your cheeks. A good sign, no?”

He draws his wallet and flips it open to reveal a gold badge. “Please. My name is Jaime Platón. I am associated with the Colombian National Police on assignment with the DEA International Training Section. The TRI.”

He waits for a response and when none comes, he says, “You think I murdered your friend.”

At last, I find my voice. “You lied to me. You said you were Caro’s grief-stricken brother—a heartbroken widower. Then you trashed her room and beat it. What do you expect?”

He lowers his eyes. When he looks up, I see pain. “I did not lie about losing my wife. Unfortunately, that part was true. But I assure you I did not kill Miss Montoya. You must believe me.”

I point to his weapon. “Why should it matter whether I believe you or not? You’re in control here.”

He drags his revolver off the table and slides it into a holster beneath his suede jacket. “Old habit, sorry.”

I relax a little. “Did you find what you came for?”

“Sad to say, I didn’t. But I’d bank my life that it’s still here.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. “Whatever it is must be really valuable.”

“Yes. Very.”

“Maybe I can help you look. But, you’ll have to tell me what to look for.”

He studies me for a minute then says, “A small red address book. Miss Montoya stole it. And, unfortunately, the big boys were well aware that she did.”

I suppress a shudder wondering just who the “big boys” are. “Names and addresses? Is that all?”

“We haven’t actually seen the book. The DEA is sure it holds the key to a major drug-trafficking cartel and a very profitable prostitution ring, both rumored to be headed by a woman. Most unusual, no? If we can get our hands on that, it would give us a big foot up.”

He must see my amusement because he says, “Not foot?” “I think you’re looking for leg.”

“Yes. Of course. Leg. It’s the small things in a language that are so difficult to master.”

I ignore his obvious attempt to win me over—still gauging my chances for escape—still wondering what I’ll do if he makes a move—any move.

“Angela? May I call you that?”

I’m not computing all his jargon. I got it that he’s a Colombian and working with the DEA but—the TRI? New to me.

He doesn’t seem to catch my confusion. “When the DEA discovered Miss Montoya’s brother was visiting in Medellín, I was assigned to tail him. Things seemed to be going well until—” He raises his hands in exasperation then slaps his knees. “Montoya suddenly darted into the crowd and disappeared. I went to baggage, hoping to catch him there, and by the time I got back through security, his body had been discovered.”

“So you assumed his identity?”

“You could say that.” He pockets his wallet. “When the police reported they didn’t turn up any evidence, we had to get into this building. Make a search on our own. It was imperative that we get to the little red book before—”

He gives a small shrug and a smile. “Since I somewhat resemble Montoya, I was chosen.”

“You keep saying ‘We.’ Just exactly who are you talking about?”

“I just explained who. Weren’t you listening?”

I give him an indifferent look but beneath my nonchalance is the hope that maybe, just maybe, he might know Bill Cotton. “You mentioned the DEA.”

“Correct. I am attached to the DEA’s International Training Section—the TRI.”

He eyes me a few seconds then says, “You must know Miss Montoya was using.”

I look away, remembering the fun-loving beauty I shared a lot of wine and confidences with. The woman who literally saved my job for me and, when I offered her a cut of the profits, laughed it off. That Caro was funny and nice.

Then I remember that Angela had seen her darker side. “Your roommate was a mule. Have you heard that term?” “Someone paid to transport drugs into the U.S.?”

“Correct. We are unclear as to why Miss Montoya wanted to be recruited, but it is rumored she was one of the best. The fact that she was a supermodel provided a perfect cover. She raked in quite a nice profit for her services, but then she was caught—”

His eyes search the ceiling as he mutters several words to himself, then he grins. “It’s what you Americans call skimming. Do you know the word?”

“Yes. But why would she do that? You said she didn’t need money.”

“Could be she liked flirting with danger. The cartel factors losses like drug busts and discovery into their costs, but when a mule skims and is discovered—” He runs his forefinger across his throat.

“Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time.” Platón reaches inside his jacket, takes out a cashier’s check and inches it toward me. “Here. That should more than cover the damage to your roommate’s bedroom.”

I slide it from the table and give it a once-over. Fifteen hundred dollars? That should more than make up for his destruction. “That’s quite generous. Is this from the DEA?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Unfortunately, your government doesn’t pay for destruction of property. But, I do.”

He rises. “Well, my mission here is complete.” He hesitates, pulls out a card, scribbles something and hands it to me. “Who knows? You just might find that book. If you do, how about putting it in the right hands?”

I take the card and see the number has a D.C. area code.

He extends his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Armington. Perhaps we’ll meet again under better circumstances.”

“Yes, perhaps we will.”

He disappears, then I hear his returning steps.

Platón hands me my purse. “You left this in the front hall. You really shouldn’t be without your Beretta.”

Chapter 15

AFTER UNPACKING THE GROCERIES and stowing each item in its proper place, I take out a half-full bottle of California Chardonnay, fill a wine glass and sip. I don’t even taste it. That’s not what my mind is on. It’s the address book.

I’m pretty sure Caro’s suite is squeaky clean. After they removed her body, Greene’s team and the crime scene investigators scoured her rooms.

And later Platón had come up empty-handed after tearing Caro’s bedroom to shreds. Still, my gut tells me the man has to be right. The book is here—somewhere.

Both teams swept the third floor as well, but maybe—just maybe.

I climb the two flights to Angela’s suite and for the next half hour go through every drawer in the bedroom, then every shelf in the closet. Next, the bathroom medicine cabinet, linen cupboard and the drawers beneath. Clean.

I ease down the wall onto the bathroom floor and give a little shiver when my legs come in contact with the chilly white tiles.

The shock fades when I turn my attention to the bathroom sink. No place to hide a thing. It’s flush with the backsplash and mounted on four thin chrome legs. The tub is cemented to both the floor and the walls. The toilet is crammed between the sink and the tub with only enough room to fit a recessed toilet paper roll.

I crawl toward the toilet, lean over the bowl and sweep the back of the tank with both hands. Zip.

Maybe it’s in the tank. Isn’t that the druggies’ choice place for stash? I stand and lift the lid. Empty.

I plunk it back in place, lower the lid to the toilet and settle on it. Pre-war bathrooms are noted for being less than luxurious and this bathroom is no exception. Even the toilet paper holder is poorly set.

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.”

Chapter 16

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.

Chapter 17

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.

Chapter 18

“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?”

I make an attempt but the room rocks. “No way I’m going anywhere right now.”

I crack one eye. The room seems to be as it should be. Then I open the other and the room tilts. Bad mistake. I suppress a rising gag. “I’m really dizzy. Maybe some water would help.”

“You do look a little pale. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

The Cardinal’s return draws me from my fog. “Seems they’ve locked us in. This doesn’t bode well at all.”

He grabs my hand. “Let’s get you in that chair.”

I shake my head and snatch out of his grasp. “Wait a few, will you?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t play games with me. That champagne was drugged.”

He glances toward the bottle, then back at me. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I took maybe four sips of that stuff and I feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

“But, my dear, the bottle was here when we arrived. I opened it, remember?”

He helps me into the chair, then drags the bottle from the cooler, holds it in mid-air for a second and jams it back into the ice. “Damn. I should have suspected something was up when they looked so surprised to see me.”

He lets out a long breath and settles in the other chair. “The meeting didn’t go well at all. Without Larry’s support, there was little I could do to stop what they call ‘progress.’ Those young men have crossed the line. They want to make illegal drugs available to anyone who’ll pay.”

I lick my parched lips and then murmur, “Maybe they already have.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe they’re selling drugs upstairs.” “Upstairs? How can you know that?”

I shrug and look away.

He doesn’t seem to notice my evasion. “Larry handles all the activities on the second floor and runs a tight ship. No. You must be mistaken about the drugs.”

I bite my tongue on that one. “Maybe. But what about the prostitutes?”

“Prostitutes? Oh, I wouldn’t call those darling lovelies names if I were you. They’re our guests here at The Castle. Most of them are college girls just looking to have a good time.”

“Oh, I just bet they are.”

My tongue seems to have swollen to twice its size but I manage a slurred, “If they locked us in, we better find a way to get out.” I shine my mag on the fake bookcase. “Might want to get a closer look.”

He walks to the wall, runs his hand across the bogus book spines and turns to face me. For the briefest instant his face seems to divide. In the half-light, his steely eyes look almost evil. Sure that I must be hallucinating, I rub my own with the heels of my hands.

His words slide through my haze. “This house was built before the Civil War by an abolitionist family. It was part of the Underground Railroad.

“As boys Larry and I spent countless hours looking for the rumored secret passages. Several years later, Larry’s father took us through them. But, sadly, the thrill of discovery was lost on us since we were no longer children.

“And, if I recall—” He presses the mantle and the door slides open to reveal a dark hallway.

“Stay behind me and don’t make a sound.”

The Cardinal throws his cape over his shoulders, jams the hat on his head and disappears into the shadows.

I grab my purse and mask and stagger into the passageway. When I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I hear the measured squeak of the Cardinal’s patent-leather tux shoes.

There’s a muffled, “What the deuce?” followed by a thud and a scuffle.

I wobble forward until I reach a wall and look to my left. Silhouetted against an open doorway, two men are struggling. The shorter of the two is wearing what looks like some sort of oriental mask that I’ve seen before.

The man raises his arm. I see a faint glint as it plunges downward and the Cardinal crumples to the floor.

Chapter 19

HEART JAMMING MY THROAT, I stumble the few steps back to the library, grab the protruding edge of the door with both hands and yank. It doesn’t budge. Then I give it a frustrated whack with my fist and the false bookcase whispers across the opening. I sag against it, my breath hard and ragged, relieved that I’ve bought a little time.

Still, I can’t stop shaking. What if that man saw me? If he did, and he can open the passage from the other side, I’m as good as dead.

I lurch across the room and try the door to the main hall. Locked.

The wing chair seems to be the safest place in the room. I tuck my feet and dress beneath me. In one hand, I clutch my purse with the lifeless cell phone. My silver mask, the one the Cardinal so proudly presented to me, in the other.

I pull out my cell. Eight forty-five. That can’t be right. Then I remember it’s Houston time. Add an hour and that makes it well past nine.

The breaks in between songs must be synchronized so the couples in both places can chat, then move on at the same time. Unfortunately, the blasts coming from the tent just outside the library fight with the blare from the ballroom across the hall. Now that the drug-laced champagne haze is wearing off, I have a raging headache.

The lock clicks softly and the library door opens. I shrink into the protection of my high-backed chair, hoping whoever is there will go away. No such luck. Footsteps approach. I cringe and clamp my eyes shut until I feel a light touch on my shoulder.

There stands the Cardinal, masked and caped with his wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle. This can’t be—or can it?

Chapter 20

WHEN HE REACHES FOR MY HAND, I hesitate and check his left glove. No outline of a signet ring. My stomach caves. Someone else is wearing the Cardinal’s costume.

“Wait just a minute. I’m not going anywhere until you explain—”

The man in red grabs my hand and pulls me to stand.

I struggle out of his grasp and fall back into the chair, clutching the arms as tightly as I can. “Sorry. No can do. I was instructed to wait here.”

He ignores my feeble protest and manages to get a good enough grip on my arm so that he can hustle me through the study door and into the crowded hall.

Every few steps, I try to resist by digging my heels in—but he hauls me along behind him, nodding this way and that to the masked men and their “arm candy,” who nod back and part to let us through. Not one of them seems to notice my distress or if they do, not one seems to care.

We lurch down the front steps, turn left onto the circular driveway. Once we’re past the tent, he drags me across the broad lawn and to the building at the water’s edge.

Inside, a single bulb sways beneath the rafters giving off enough light to reveal three boat slips with a speedboat in each.

The man in red releases his hold on my arm, then rips off his broad hat and silver mask. Bill Cotton stands before me.

At first, I don’t know whether to slap him or hug him, but even though my heart wins, I stifle the urge and manage a squeaky, “You? What in hell were you doing? Dragging me around like a bratty kid. All you had to do was say who you were.”

He lowers his eyes for only a second. “I couldn’t let you know when we were in there. Believe me—it was for your own safety.”

“I knew it. You’re the DEA mole. But what are you doing in the Cardinal’s costume?”

He ignores my question and tosses the mask and hat into the stern of the nearest boat. “Later. We have to hurry.”

Bill releases the line from its cleat, jumps in and helps me down beside him. Once I’m settled, he presses the silver button on the dashboard, and the motor hums to life.

The boat glides into the channel and moves slowly past The Castle ablaze with lights. In the tent, shadows gyrate to a raucous mambo-beat.

But, what about the Cardinal’s outfit? How did Bill get it? I shake away the thought, not wanting to think about the answer.

I watch as he notches up the throttle, and we speed through the night.

When a bright light blinks from the shore, he arcs the boat landward. “There’s the signal. Right on schedule. It won’t be long now.”

The next few minutes are spent docking the boat, then we follow two men dressed in tuxes carrying Uzis to a waiting sedan.

Bill helps me into the back seat, then slips in beside me. “We don’t have long. In fact this might be the only time we’ll have together. The situation is too dangerous.”

He gathers me to him and his lips softly search mine. Despite the thousand questions that beg to be asked, I can’t pull my lips away.

When the kiss ends, neither one of us speaks. Though I’m sad the kiss is over, I feel as if I’ve reached an oasis in the desert after a very long march.

Bill’s voice resonates against my ear. “I’ve missed you, Allie. I can’t count the times I picked up the phone to call. And then when I saw you the other evening with Danes—so close. I could have reached out and touched you. God help me, I almost did.”

I think back to that first night: the dumb, overdressed women, the men in masks to conceal their identities. There was only one man besides the Cardinal that I can clearly recall—the man in the Foo Dog mask. I worry for only an instant, and shove the thought away. It couldn’t have been Bill. That man was much shorter.

The arrival of a second car sends Bill to greet it. Whoever is behind the tinted windows doesn’t emerge. Bill leans in, has a few words, then hurries back to the car.

“Kingsley-Smythe’s suffered a massive coronary. They have him on life support but it doesn’t look good. Damn. This really complicates the issue.”

The scene in the dim passageway replays. There was something about the other man—something I remember quite clearly now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.

But maybe the man didn’t stab him. Maybe the Cardinal was in the midst of the attack and he was trying to help. I file that thought away for later.

“When did it happen?”

“Does it matter? The poor man is probably dead by now.” Bill slides in next to me. “This is a major setback for my participation in the case. Kingsley-Smythe graced me with his mantle. But now—”

It’s then I remember the jewels. I touch my hand to the necklace. “These belong to Kingsley-Smythe.”

Bill leans forward, fingers the necklace, then moves away. “I can’t deal with that now. Hang on to them, will you?”

“But they don’t belong to me. Isn’t there some way I could get them to his wife?”

He leans away into the shadows. “Not through me. I’ve only met Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe on a few social occasions.”

He’s lying. I can feel it in the depths of my gut. But why? Bill motions to one of the men, who comes our way.

When he starts to exit the car, I grab his arm. “Hey, wait a minute. When will I see you?”

“I don’t know. Not for awhile.”

He slides back in, holds up a hand, and the man stops a few feet away. “Listen carefully to what I’m about to say.”

I look into his face, trying to read his mood, but the night makes that impossible.

“Go back to Texas. You’ll be safe there.” His tone is soft, but his message isn’t.

“I can’t. Not now. I can’t leave until I find out who murdered Carolina Montoya. I owe her at least that much.”

Bill grabs my shoulders. With each word his grasp tightens. “Damn it, Allie, I’m begging you to stay out of this. I shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m in the middle of a major sting operation. People in high places will be brought down if it works. These people are deadly. You have to get out of here before they connect you to me. If they do, I won’t be able to help you.”

“Are the men with the Uzis part of the operation?” He smiles. “What do you think?”

————

It’s past midnight when I collapse on the sofa. I want a drink, but I’m too exhausted to make the effort. Instead, I lean into the cushions and shut my eyes to let the events of the evening tumble forward.

I revisit the darkened passageway. See the two men struggling. The Cardinal collapsing. The other man turning my way for only an instant before disappearing through the open door. Yes. I’m positive now. He was wearing a Foo Dog mask.

I leave that scene to concentrate on seeing Bill once again after so long. Feeling his lips on mine. Heaven. But I have to face it. Bill Cotton is no longer the same man I fell in love with in Texas.

“On assignment” he said, didn’t he? But what about Kingsley-Smythe? Bill has to know what happened because he was wearing the Cardinal’s costume.

That means he’s part of the action. But what part? The half of me in love with Bill wants to believe he’s one of the good guys, but the attorney in me is taking bets.

I remove the necklace and earrings and place them on the end table nearest me, then kick off the heels and prop my feet on the coffee table.

As sleep fights to win, I replay our brief encounter. The attraction between us is still as strong as ever—maybe even stronger. But my last conscious thoughts give me little comfort. When Bill said those people were deadly was he including himself?

Chapter 21

THE WHINE OF TRUCK-LIFTS, punctuated by the metallic slams of garbage cans against cement, signals the break of day. Soon a cacophony of horns drifting from Ninety-Sixth Street will add their fugue. The ever-beating pulse of Manhattan is a far cry from roosters in Lampasas or the soft swish of distant freeway traffic in Houston.

I fall back into a dream-filled sleep, and it’s past ten when I lurch down the hall to the bathroom, peer in the mirror above the sink and let out a small “Erk.”

My eyes could easily be the “Before” in the Visine ad. The smeared mascara and blotchy skin remind me of an old Texas adage: “That gal’s been rode hard and put up wet.” Worse still, both my shoulders ache like hell.

Remembering Bill’s parting words, I take a closer look. The bruises on my shoulders evidence his grasp. If he wanted to make a point, he certainly did.

The long hot shower does little to ease my malaise and the stark truth that what happened to the Cardinal was not a dream. Then I make a decision—one that I plan to execute as soon as I’m dressed.

I skip my usual warm-up stretch on the steps outside the townhouse and hurry to the sidewalk. The sky is bright blue with tiny fluffs racing overhead, and across the street children play inside the chain-link fenced schoolyard.

When I reach Second Avenue, I turn south and ease into a longer stride. It takes less than fifteen minutes to reach the Chase Manhattan Bank on Eighty-Sixth.

By the time I exit, I’ve obtained a safe-deposit box, stashed the jewels and the red leather address book, and pocketed the key.

I’m heading toward home when my cell rings. “Greene here. Where are you?”

“Near Ninetieth. I’m working off last night.”

“We need to talk. I’ll be at Blockhead’s Burritos on Second at Eighty-First.”

At a little after eleven thirty, Greene sits down across from me. We order a burrito to split and two iced teas.

After we each take a couple of sips Greene says, “How did you get home last night?”

I can’t give Bill up. At least not yet. Not until I know the truth.

I jam my mind into third gear and take a couple of sips for a delay. “Why do you ask?”

“I was told you weren’t there.” “But I was. Who was looking?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kingsley-Smythe died last night. Massive coronary. The EMS came. Kept him on support until the party was over. Didn’t want to upset the guests.”

It’s amazing how easy the lies can come once you’re into them. I gasp, then plunge into mine. “Oh, my God. No. I didn’t know. He had a meeting. Sent me home with the chauffeur.”

Even though I’m zipped up to my neck in my warm-up suit, I feel icy cold. Then it’s true, Kingsley-Smythe was killed. And it looks like I’m the only witness—other than the Cardinal’s murderer.

I take a couple more sips and say, “Will there be an autopsy?”

Greene’s brow creases. “Why would there be? Besides, that’s up to the Greenwich coroner.”

“But didn’t he die in New Jersey?”

“I guess you could say he technically kicked the bucket in New Jersey.”

He looks at the bottom of his empty glass for a few seconds, then says, “I guess you can say that since they kept him on life support. But they pulled the plug in Greenwich.”

So they pronounced Kingsley-Smythe dead at a Greenwich hospital. How very convenient. No autopsy. No probing questions.

We both stare away. Then Greene says, “I do have some good news. They picked up Angela’s ‘plastic surgeon,’ Haley Granger, and his group last night. Guess the gang got a little careless. I helped process them this morning. Looks like they’ll be cooling their heels in lockup until the arraignment.”

My first thought is Angela. “Will my sister have to testify?”

He shakes his head. “She’ll probably have to come up when the case is brought to trial.”

————

The burrito lies like lead in my stomach, so I walk back to the townhouse and flop on one of the chairs in the living room.

I should feel relieved that my treasures are safely stashed. Instead, I’m just short of indulging in a few “poor me” tears over the ever elusive Bill Cotton. Is he telling me the truth? I don’t think so. And what in hell am I doing here?

What did I think I was going to do? Save the world from a group of stupid high-powered jerks that are playing dangerous games in New Jersey? End prostitution forever? Cut off the Colombian pipeline?

Duncan’s old admonition, “Just another cockamamie stunt,” echoes. But things are much worse than cockamamie this time.

I haven’t picked up the phone to call Angela or my parents since I paid the first visit to The Castle, and I desperately need to hear a familiar voice. News about Harley Granger is the perfect excuse to call my sister.

The phone rings forever before Angela answers.

I give an overly enthusiastic, “It’s me. I’m so glad I caught you. What’s new?”

There’s a long silence on her end. One I didn’t expect. I hoped for the same enthusiastic response from a sister who’s missed her sib. Instead I get a wary, “Oh, hi. How are you?”

How am I? I’ve stepped into Angela’s shoes, albeit willingly, and she wants to know about my health? No questions about how the New Jersey party turned out? No questions about Caro’s family or her remains and where they are?

“Alive. And how are you?” Another silence. “Fine.”

In the background I hear a muffled male voice—a very familiar male voice. But that can’t be. I glance at my watch. Two. That makes it one o’clock Houston time. It’s Tuesday. What would Duncan be doing in my apartment in the middle of the day? Unless—

Anxious to get out of what I realize I’ve inadvertently stepped into, I blurt, “Hey, I can’t talk now. Got to run. Got to be down at the precinct in fifteen minutes. Call you tonight, okay?”

Before Angela can respond, I break the connection. If I remember correctly, Duncan wasn’t particularly anxious to pick up Angela at the airport. And when was it that he called to “report” and mentioned that he’d seen her quite a bit?

How could I forget? That was the night Jaime Platón trashed Caro’s room. Has there been enough time for the two of them to fall in love? I suppose.

I try to stanch the invading jealousy by running down a list of reasons why I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I was the one who dumped Duncan and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s just a friend, nothing more. Actually, the two of them would be perfect for each other. Still, the list is far too short.

Chapter 22

THE TELEPHONE JERKS me to attention. Is Angela calling me back? I hesitate because I don’t want to deal with her lame excuses. Not now.

Still—I yank the receiver to my ear. “It’s your nickel.” “Miss Armington?”

“Yes?”

“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe—Mrs. Jason Kingsley-Smythe. I believe you have something that belongs to me.” “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I know you have his granny’s necklace and earrings. And I’m telling you straight out, no cheap bimbo is getting away with that much just for a one-night-stand.”

This is hardly the cultured voice of an Eastern Brahmin. All thoughts of Angela, Duncan and their possible romance fade. Another delicious crumb has just been dropped in my path.

“I’ll be happy to turn the jewels over to you, if you can describe them.”

And she does. But it’s almost like she’s reading.

“Your description is right on, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, but I can’t meet with you right now. I have an appointment.”

There’s a long silence, then a timid, “Then when can you?”

“I promise to call you the minute I get back if you’ll give me your number.”

Dead silence. Then the connection breaks.

I call Greene and ask him to meet me back at Blockhead’s. Minutes later, he sinks into the chair across from me. He doesn’t look too happy. “This better be good. I was going over my game plan with the boss. Fortunately, he had another meeting, too.”

“Oh, it’s good. Guess who’s calling me about the jewelry I was wearing courtesy of the Cardinal?”

I wonder whether the drum roll in my chest is from the fifty-yard dash I made or the adrenalin high I’m currently savoring.

“I just got a call from a woman saying she’s Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. She wants me to return the jewels. But I can assure you, that woman is not who she says she is.”

“How do you know that?”

“Trust me. There’s no way this woman could have been Jason Kingsley-Smythe’s wife. The bad news is when I asked her for her phone number she hung up. But I’ll bet there are lots of messages on the answering machine when I get back to the townhouse.”

We luck out and find a parking place across the street.

As we mount the front steps, the phone begins to ring. I race to the kitchen, then wait until Angela’s chirp echoes, “You know what to do, so do it.”

The voice is the same as before, but the words are slurred. “Lissen. I’m not kidding you. This is big time serious.” There’s a pause. “I know who you ah. I know where you ah, so you better goddam well pick up the goddam phone.”

Another pause. “Hello? Did you hear me? I know you-ah there. I just saw you and some black guy go in. Don’t think you can get away with this.”

A sigh, then, “Aw shit.” And the connection breaks. Greene looks up. “This isn’t good. She’s made us.”

“So what? I bet she’s just another one of Kingsley-Smythe’s discarded ‘lovelies’—a ‘lovely’ with a Bronx flat ‘a.’”

We replay the messages. All are about the same. All crammed with the same slurred desperation.

Greene finally says, “Okay, the woman is drunk and, taken in context, the threats are a little toothless. Maybe we can use her.” We go through the drill. Greene will run a telephone trace from his cell if I can keep her on the phone long enough.

When the phone rings he says, “Get it on three.”

After the second ring I take a deep breath, and on the third, I lift the receiver. “Yes?” Silence.

“This is Angela Armington, may I help you?”

“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Did you get my messages?” “Every one. I can meet you wherever you say.”

She clears her throat, then attempts some semblance of Brahmin propriety. “I will not be meeting you poissonally.” “Shall I bring the jewels to Connecticut?”

“No. No. I have a friend in the city. She’ll take the jewelry from you and deliver it to me.”

“Just say when and where. Frankly, I’ll be glad to unload the stuff.”

She coughs, then recovers. “Stuff? Whaddaya mean?”

“The jewels. I’m not comfortable having them. What’s your friend’s name?”

I can almost hear the cogs grind. “Uh—uh—it don’t really matter, does it? She’s parked across the street in a blue Toyota Camry. There’s a dent in the rear door, driver’s side.”

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’ll give those jewels to your friend.”

I hang up, rush into the living room and peer into the street. Sure enough a blue Camry with the described dent sits in back of Greene’s unmarked vehicle.

I feel Greene behind me. “That car wasn’t there when we parked. She must have been following us.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think she knew who we were until we went up the steps. Did you get the trace?”

“The cell is in the name of Sheri Browne. That’s Browne with an ‘e.’”

I cadge some pebbles from beneath one of the ferns in the living room and pour them into a velvet pouch I commandeered from Angela’s bottom dresser drawer. “What’s the drill?”

Greene checks his weapon and holsters it. “Engage her until I can get positioned on the driver’s side.”

I take my time descending the steps and crossing the street. When I get to the passenger side, an attractive but tough-looking brunette leans over to crank down the window. “You Angela?”

I hold up the bag. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

The alcohol fumes are enough to book her on a DUI. “Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe described your car to a tee. You two must be really close.”

She blushes a little. “Fo-ah years. Acshully, I’m like a daw-tah to her.”

It’s then I place her. The brunette I met at the first party. The “off with you-ah head” chick. In the harsh light of day, Sheri Browne has aged ten years. Whoever put her together for that evening at The Castle must have been extremely talented.

When she reaches for the bag, I move it just out of her range. “Not so fast. You’re going to have to give me something in trade. It’s Sheri, isn’t it?”

She drops her hand. “How do you know my name?” “A little checking here and there.”

I see Greene ease down the steps of the townhouse. “Look, we don’t have much time—actually less than a minute if things go right. Do you have a dollar?”

“Wha—?”

“Give me a dollar—five dollars—ten. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

She grabs her purse from the floor and, mumbling to herself, rummages through it and hands me a well-worn dollar bill. “Why—?”

That’s all that she gets out before Greene sticks his badge in her window. “Police. Please step out of the car.”

I lean forward and wave the tattered one in his face. “Miss Browne has just retained me as her attorney.”

Sheri’s head swivels like an owl’s between Greene and me. In between spins I manage to give Greene a conspiratorial eyebrow raise and a slight nod toward the townhouse.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take my client to my place. We’ll be able to talk privately there.”

Greene steps into his role. “Since the goods haven’t changed hands, there’s not much else I can do. But I advise you to tell your client the consequences of attempted extortion.”

Chapter 23

I ENTER THE LIVING ROOM and motion Sheri to the couch. “Want some coffee?”

“Got anything stronger?”

“Haven’t you already had enough?”

“Not near. She promised this would be a walk in the park. All I had to do was get them from you and take them to her.”

“Were you planning to drive all the way out to Greenwich tonight?”

“Not Greenwich. She said—” Her mouth snaps shut. “Then she’s in the city?”

Sheri rolls her eyes. Her brain is obviously on overload.

“Look, I really am a practicing attorney, and to that extent, I can help. But you’re going to have to place your confidence in me.”

“But she said you were a model and that’s why you were at The Castle.”

“Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe told you this?”

Sheri stares away. “I didn’t exactly say it was the missus, did I?”

I want to push, but something tells me to take it slow. “I am a model. And yes, I was in New Jersey. But modeling isn’t a lifetime proposition, so I took night courses.”

“Gee. That’s great. I mean all I can do is turn tricks ‘til I’m too old to spread my legs.” She gives me a long look. “That cop said something about extortion. What am I extorting?”

Poor woman. She’s so dumb she doesn’t know “come” from “sic ‘em.”

“I think he said attempted extortion, but since you didn’t have the jewels in your possession, I guess you’re off the hook.”

For the first time since we were in the car her face brightens. “Gee, that’s a relief. I didn’t mean to do no harm, but I need the money. Just my luck, I’m pregnant.”

That gets my attention. “Oh? Does the father know?” She gives me that age-old look. “It don’t matter. I’m ending it. No kid deserves me as a mother. You been upstairs yet?”

“No. But I know what goes on. My roommate told me all about it. Did you know Carolina Montoya?”

I wait as she goes through her mental Rolodex. “Can’t say I do. There are so many.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath and launch. “So, how did you know about the jewels Mister Kingsley-Smythe loaned me?”

She jerks back. “But she told me you stole them.” Then she slaps her forehead. “Gosh, I’m sorry. O’course, you being a lawyer and all, I guess you wouldn’t steal.”

“Look, Sheri, we don’t have much time. The police will want to question you about who sent you to get the jewels. And as your attorney, I advise you to answer truthfully. After all, to my knowledge, you haven’t committed a crime—yet.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t tell them about Hale.” “Hale?”

She gasps and puts her hand over her mouth. “Did I say that?” “I think that’s what you said.”

She leans close. “I never said it. Hear? You gotta forget I ever mentioned that dame.” Then she lowers her voice. “Or we’ll both be dead.”

————

Sheri is passed out on the couch. Not that I’m surprised. She was already half in the bag when I got in her car.

I can’t believe it’s almost eight. Duncan and Angela were forgotten the minute Sheri called and brought me back into the fray.

The door to the vestibule opens. Greene peeks in and beckons for me to join him out there. “We taped everything she said. One thing stood out—the name Hale.”

He shoves a photo of a woman toward me. “Remember the female pimp I mentioned a few days ago? We’re pretty sure that woman is none other than this woman—Sigrid Hale. Check it out.”

The print is glossy-new, but something bothers me: the stiff pose, the tilted head, the dark lipstick on lips frozen in a too-cute smirk. And the platinum blonde hair rolled away from the face. In the open vee of a scalloped collar, a small cross dangles from a thin gold chain. Worse than that are what I call “pixie” glasses. They slant upward at the edge and end in points. It’s hard to believe they were once the rage.

“Where did you get this?”

Greene shrugs. “It’s a copy. I haven’t seen the original.”

There’s a name printed slant-wise at the bottom of the photograph. I squint to make it out. No luck. “This picture was probably made at a formal sitting. If we could just make out the name of the studio—”

Greene takes it from me and studies it a moment before he hands it back. “I can try to have it enhanced.”

“It might be too late. I’ll bet you money this picture was taken at least fifty years ago. Sigrid Hale won’t look like this now.” Greene says, “It’s supposed to be current.”

“If it is, she’s wearing retro. Old clothes are the rage in some circles. But it’s the ‘do.’ Right out of the early fifties. The makeup is way too heavy and much too dark. The false eyelashes, not as sophisticated as today’s models. And those awful glasses. That photo is dated. I’d stake my rep on it.

“You have other copies of this, don’t you? I’d like to run this under Sheri’s nose.”

After Greene leaves, I step back into the living room. Sheri is curled on her side, one thumb in her mouth. She looks so vulnerable. How did she ever come to this?

I lean down and touch her shoulder. “Hey, it’s time to wake up.”

She makes a whiney noise, then folds into herself.

I raise my voice. “Sheri. Time to get up.”

Her eyes pop wide. “Where am I? Who are you?” The light dawns, “Oh, yeah, you. Sorry, didn’t get much sleep last night.”

I hand her the picture. “Is this Hale?”

She pales then struggles to sit. “God, I need a drink.”

Taking her evasion as a confirmation, I pocket the picture. “How about a ginger ale?”

She makes an ugly face. “Yech. Forget the soda. I’ll take anything you got that’s alcoholic.”

I drag out a bottle of Chardonnay and pour her a glass, which she downs in a couple of gulps.

She slams the glass on the coffee table and stands. “Well, I gotta go. Appointment at ten.”

“Look, Sheri, I’d like to help you with the abortion.”

She looks away and murmurs, “Why would you do that? You don’t hardly know me.”

“Well, I guess I’m offering because you just hired me as your attorney and I’m obligated to assist you in any way I can. It’s too late to do anything tonight, but I could get some definite answers for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, but I really gotta—”

“Look. Why don’t you stay here tonight? There’s a guest suite on the second floor.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Really. You been nice, but my time’s running out.”

“But, what will you tell—what about the jewelry?” Sheri shrugs. “I gotta go.”

“Sure. I understand. But, hey, how about one for the road?” Sheri collapses back into the cushions and shoots me a wide grin. “Thanks. Another glass of wine would hit the spot.”

Sheri isn’t in any shape to go anywhere after she downs a bottle and a half of the wine. Neither am I since I joined her in a few glasses myself.

When her head starts to bobble and her eyes begin to roll, I help her up the stairs to Caro’s bedroom. She barely makes the bed before passing out.

After I make it to my suite, I fall in bed and don’t hear another sound.

————

I jerk awake, sweat slathering my body—heart galloping. It’s dark. The apartment is silent. Something is wrong.

I turn on the bedside lamp and squint. Three thirty.

I slip on my robe, slide into my slippers and descend the stairs to Caro’s suite. The door is closed, just as I left it.

I ease open the door to Caro’s suite and see the light still on. Three steps down the hallway I stop, remembering what awakened me. My recurring nightmare: the swollen wrists, her bruised and savaged body and that one dulled eye staring up at nothing.

I stifle a sudden rush of dread and step into the room to see Sheri Browne lashed to the headboard. Her body doesn’t bear a drop of blood, not even the small X above the nipple of her left breast. The pungent stench of the pine-scented disinfectant stuffs my nose, and I gag until I’m weak.

————

Greene and his team finally arrive. The detective awkwardly pats my heaving shoulder, while he barks orders at the Blues and notifies the Crime Scene Unit to come to the same address for the second time.

It’s then Greene makes a decision.

I barely have enough time to snatch the safe-deposit key from the back of the toilet tank and stuff some clothes in my duffle before a plainclothes is escorting me to a hotel on Madison not too far from the townhouse.

I don’t protest. If my suite hadn’t been double-bolted, I also might be dead. The jagged marks made by some sharp instrument near both dead bolts gave concrete evidence of a foiled attempt at forced entry. Maybe that was what awakened me. Thank God, I’ll never know.

Chapter 24

“TAKE NO CHANCES. Speak only to me. I don’t care who says what.” Greene’s voice fades.

I hear footsteps—hear a familiar voice at my back. “Grab her. Grab her before she talks.”

I look behind me to see Bill in the Cardinal’s costume, arms extended. How many more steps can I run in place before he catches me?

————

I bolt upright, then slowly let out my breath. Even though I’ve already spent a couple of nights at Hotel Wells, I’m still suffering from that same recurring nightmare. But that’s all it is—a nightmare.

When sunlight fills the airshaft outside the window of my room, I check my watch. Almost eleven. It’s then I realize that for the first time since the murder, I’ve slept through the night.

I exit the bed, only to stub my toe on the desk as I head for the bath.

The Wells is a nice hotel, but the accommodations are quite a comedown from Angela’s digs. There’s barely enough space in the room to turn around and the bath is a joke. But once I hung up my scanty supply of daytime outfits and put a few things in the dresser drawers, it seemed a little more like home.

Fortunately, most of my attention is now focused on the next party in New Jersey. Since I wasn’t officially seen in the outfit the Cardinal chose for me, I’ll be wearing the same red dress along with paste replicas of his grandmother’s rubies and diamonds, which Greene had copied especially for the occasion. This time, I’m carrying a larger evening bag—one that can hold both my Beretta and a cell.

When Greene mentioned Cliff Danes as a possible escort, I reminded him that it was against the rules for Cliff to take me back to The Castle after a transfer was made.

But, Cliff is nowhere to be found. His phone is no longer a working number. His apartment has been sold. In short, Cliff has flown the coop.

————

I’m dressed when my cell phone sings its siren song and Greene says, “You okay?”

This is the first time we’ve spoken since that dreadful night and I warm to his voice.

“Fine. Except for the nightmares.”

“I’m not surprised. Ever heard of post-traumatic syndrome?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Hey, I haven’t been in a war.”

“That’s your opinion. Look, I called for two reasons. First, the good news: The perp wasn’t so careful this time. We were able to pick up a couple of partials. Unfortunately, when we ran them through the database, nothing came up.”

He pauses, then says, “It could be this man has never been booked so he’s not in the system. But, don’t worry, we’ll keep looking.”

I hear conversation in the background, then a “thanks” from Greene. “I was just handed the half-page write-up on Kingsley-Smythe in the Times. Not a bad looking old dude. He was cremated. There’s to be a memorial service at a later date. You might want to pick up a copy. I’m putting this in his file.”

“Thanks. And thanks for getting me out of the townhouse so quickly.”

“My pleasure.” Then Greene says, “I need to tell you something else. Don’t freak out, but word has it Bill Cotton flipped and is working for the other side.”

My heart stops and air leaves my lungs. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m sure you know he was a double agent.”

“Yes. Bill once told me he played both sides but, if he was caught by the wrong people, he could be convicted and end up in prison.”

“Is that so? I don’t know much about the DEA or their double agents, but surely they protect their own.”

“Not according to Bill. Apparently, the DEA ‘loses’ double agents all the time. They inform recruits about that right up front. It’s part of the job risk.”

“Don’t get all bent out of shape. This is new information and let me stress it’s only a rumor. The Medellín may have ID’d him as DEA and are circulating the rumor to compromise his position.”

He starts in on that infernal one-note whistle and I know trouble is coming.

Finally he says, “In spite of what I’ve just told you, there’s only one man left to ask.”

I beat him to it. “Bill Cotton.”

Another long silence. “How do you feel about that?” “How am I supposed to feel?”

“I’ve called all the people who should know who’s doing what for who. Nothing. Cotton’s like Jello. Slides right out of the mold.”

Back comes the whistle. When he stops, I can barely hear him say, “Allie, there’s no one else.”

I sigh, hating to admit that a major portion of my heart is still devoted to the handsome DEA agent no matter what side he’s playing. “Okay, okay. Do what you have to do.”

Chapter 25

FROM HIS SULLEN GREETING I can tell Bill is not at all happy about the assignment. But here I am seated on the passenger side of a black Lexus sedan with Bill at the wheel.

We’re in the tunnel before he breaks the silence. “You realize our being together is not good for either one of us.”

He’s angry about something. “Then why are you here?” “Greene. I owe him. He has a sound plan—on paper—but things can go bad fast out there.”

He drives on, gripping the steering wheel so hard it looks like he might snap it in two. Finally he mutters, “When I heard what went down at the townhouse, I tried to find out what happened to you. Even Greene wouldn’t tell me where you were stashed. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did what Greene told me to, which was not to speak to anyone. Not even you.” Then I add, “Gee, I don’t seem to remember exactly when it was that you gave me your number.”

He stares into the traffic for a time, then says, “It’s better that way. Believe me.”

He takes his eyes from the road long enough to size me up and smiles. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Bill is wearing a dark gray flannel tux with velvet lapels. The shirt is a shade lighter than the tux, and his tie and cummerbund are a shade lighter than that.

“In fact, you’re a sartorial vision in gray.”

He glances down. “Of course, I am. It’s standard Government Issue.”

At that, we both laugh away the tension.

After a few miles pass, Bill says, “Don’t be alarmed when you spot someone dressed as the Cardinal. Larry Templeton has taken that spot.”

A tiny voice asks how Bill can know this if he’s not in with the bad guys. “Who told you that?”

He keeps his eyes on the road as he says, “Nobody. Somebody. Look, it’s my job.”

Until that moment I had been planning to tell Bill what I saw in the passageway and then ask what really happened to the Cardinal, but now something warns me not to.

————

Bill tells the man in the tux at the gate, “Raven Two and date.”

I do a little calculating. He’s the “R” in the second alphabet panel. Number 44. Pretty high up in the ranks.

The gates close behind us, and I ask, “How long have you been in?”

“Almost a year. Most everyone in the firm is a member. Kingsley-Smythe wanted to sign me up right after I joined, but I didn’t want to appear too eager.” He laughs. “I made the right move. My initial turn-down just made him all the more determined to recruit me.”

We enter Station Two and go through the same drill—champagne and mask selection.

This time I choose a feathered creation sprinkled with silver and scarlet glitter, a perfect match to my dress.

When the handle to my dressing room turns, I brace myself, sending up a small petition that when I turn back, my date will not be wearing the Foo Dog mask.

My prayer is answered. He’s wearing a fuller-faced version of a Phantom of the Opera mask in steel gray. Still, a chill races through me. What if everyone changes costumes for each event?

Bill’s assignment sends us to the ballroom. We enter to stand a couple of steps above the dance floor. Chandeliers matching the ones in the hall softly light the whirling forms below us. Beyond the crowd, the French doors to the terrace are open to reveal a full moon hanging low in the sky and reflecting off the water. On the surface it’s just a nice group of friends enjoying the evening, but upstairs, there’s a different kind of party going on.

We ease into the circle. Bill gathers me to him and I melt into his embrace. It’s all I can do not to reach up to meet his lips. I turn away from the temptation, reminding myself that I’m here on a mission.

When the music stops Bill exchanges the usual pleasantries with one of the men in our group while I take a glass of champagne from one tray and a crudité from another. This time, I follow the rules and, like the other women, stare into the crowd, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone.

That’s when I notice a page coming toward us. When he presents Bill with a gilt-edged card, I freeze. That card can mean only one thing. We’re going upstairs.

After we reach the hall, I grab Bill’s hand. “Not up there.”

He winks, then whispers, “But I thought you were aching for a little excitement.”

When I shake my head, he sobers. “Look, Allie, I’m pretty sure this might be the invitation you’ve been waiting for. Don’t chicken out now. Besides, I’m right here beside you.”

Why isn’t that a comforting thought? If Bill’s flipped, maybe he’s helping to set me up. I give him a tentative smile. “That may be so, but something’s not right. It’s all too easy.”

Before Bill can answer, a man appears at the railing above us wearing a cape in a bright flame stitch. His golden mask contours his face, but a halo of rays painted to match the colors in his cloak gives the appearance of a small sun.

“There you are, Raven Two. I see you got my invitation. Unhook the rope and come up.”

When he disappears, Bill murmurs, “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be okay.”

He takes my arm and urges me upward.

As we walk down a wide, paneled hallway, the buzz of the crowd below fades and the band music mutes. The hallway opens into a long, barrel-vaulted, paneled room with clerestory windows above. Fires dance in two large fireplaces that grace each end of the room. The soft, sensuous notes of an oboe float from a balcony above.

After my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I see couples on chaise longues among strategically placed potted palms. Some of the women are bare to the waist. A few are completely nude. All of the couples are engaged in some form of sexual amusement.

At the sound of polite applause and low “bravos,” I turn to look into a shallow alcove. There, on a raised, padded table, surrounded by masked men in capes, a couple performs. The man wears his mask and upper clothing, the woman beneath him wears nothing.

I stop, almost toppling Bill. “Sorry, but I have no intention of—”

He puts a protective arm around my waist. “I told you not to worry. We weren’t called up here for that.”

Just then, one of the men calls out, “Ready to make a trade?” Bill ignores the offer and we hurry past. When we reach the far end of the room, I recognize the masked man who called down to us.

When we join him, he waves his arm toward the room and its occupants. “So, tell me. What do you think about all this?”

Bill looks around, then at me, and says, “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“After the meeting, you should take a few minutes to enjoy our little sexual buffet.” He points to the hall we just came down. “There are pleasure chambers on either side. Behind those closed doors you can choose orgy, voyeur or girl-on-girl. Feel free to eat all you want or just take a nibble, it’s up to you. Whatever you do, I’m sure you’ll find it pleasurable.”

He waves us into a smaller paneled room with a fireplace.

In front of the fire a table is set for two with fine crystal and china. On one wall, a sideboard offers a bounteous feast. On the opposite, a matching piece boasts several bottles of fine wine and high end liquors. And at the end of the room is a seating area with a comfortable couch and two easy chairs done in burgundy-colored brocade.

The man closes the door behind him. “Please remove your necklace and earrings and give them to me.”

That’s the last thing I expected him to ask. Will he know I’m wearing paste? What happens when the new Cardinal finds out?

I glance at Bill. Has he known about this all along? Is he setting me up? Here comes that black hole in the bottom of my stomach.

I ignore it, rise to my fullest height and say, “I don’t think so. The Cardinal gave me these. I will return them only to him—in private.”

The man does a double take and retrieves a cell from beneath his cape. He punches in a number, then turns away and mumbles something.

After he pockets the cell, he opens the door and ushers Bill into the larger room.

He turns. “The Cardinal asks that you wait here. Raven Two and I will be just outside.”

I’m alone only seconds when one of the panels glides open. A man who I suppose is Larry Templeton dressed as the Cardinal enters followed by a tall imposing woman gowned in a powder-blue nun’s habit, wearing an exquisitely fashioned wimple and an intricately carved mask that covers her entire face.

The Cardinal extends his hand. “The jewels, please.”

When I remove the earrings and place them in his outstretched hand, the woman gasps and whispers. “They’re paste.”

I find my voice. “You’re right, but I have the real McCoys in a safe place.”

The woman takes a step in my direction. At over six feet, she looms above me. I take an involuntary step backward and clench my hands to keep them from trembling.

When she finally speaks, her voice is low and husky. “I want those jewels. They belong to me.”

Though the mask covers her face, I look into cold, gray eyes—the “see-through eyes” of the woman in the photograph Greene showed me only days before. The skin around my lips begins to tingle as I realize this has to be Sigrid Hale.

The Cardinal joins her and mutters, “She knows too much. We can’t let her go.”

“We have to let her go. I want those jewels, and she’s the only one who can get them to me without arousing suspicion.”

“How can we be sure she’ll turn them over?”

The nun’s next words stun. “Miss Armington has a family. A family she’ll do anything to protect.”

It’s the Cardinal who makes the final thrust. “We’ll contact you with delivery instructions.” He studies me a few seconds, then says, “If you value your life, you will not return to this place. Understand?”

When I turn for the door, his words follow. “I warn you, don’t do anything stupid or you’ll regret it.”

Chapter 26

I’M SO ABSORBED in going over the details of my meeting with Cardinal Larry and the nun, I hardly notice when the Lexus exits the gates to the main road.

I turn to Bill, describe the pair and end with, “When they discovered the jewels were paste, they threatened me—said if I didn’t follow through with the delivery, they’d go after my family.”

Bill lets out a long breath. “What have I been trying to tell you? These people don’t like to be compromised.”

There goes that funny little feeling that rolls across my gut when I remember Bill might be playing a double game.

After a few more miles in the darkness, I try another probe. “So you have no idea who this Sigrid Hale is?”

He takes a deep breath. “How could I possibly know who she is? I’m in the dark just as much as you.”

Somehow, I doubt that. “I think she’s Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. When I showed Sheri Browne Hale’s photograph, she said she didn’t know her, but I’m sure she was lying. That poor woman was scared to death.”

He shakes his head. “It just doesn’t add up. Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe has been in a wheelchair for years.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugs off my question.

“Maybe Hale was Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s maiden name. That shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I’m sure the Kingsley-Smythe marriage was well covered in the newspapers.”

Bill gives me a brief glance. “Sorry, but I can’t even begin to see Kingsley-Smythe’s wife running drugs and heading up a group of prostitutes.”

“And why not? Kingsley-Smythe certainly managed to fool a whole lot of people.”

“Yes, he did. But this Sigrid Hale has quite a reputation for being a tough and aggressive competitor. Rumor has it she’s even put some of the competition away—personally. Does that sound like she’s operating from a wheelchair?”

I wait a few minutes, then say, “If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth?”

Bill shakes his head. “I’ve never lied to you, Allie. My sins are only those of omission.”

“Rumor has it you’ve flipped.”

He glances my way as his hand covers mine. His voice is soft. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be sitting here beside me, would you?”

Again, I think back to that cave in Uvalde. How Bill took a bullet for me. Told me he loved me. I desperately want to believe he’s playing it straight. I want to trust him. “I suppose not, but I really need to know where you were the night Kingsley-Smythe was murdered.”

He almost loses the wheel. “Murdered? Where on earth did you get that idea? Kingsley-Smythe suffered a massive coronary. You were with me when I got the news.”

Bill pulls into a darkened driveway and cuts the engine. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“Who told you I was in the library?” “Kingsley-Smythe.”

“He gave you my name?”

“No. He said there was a ‘lovely’ stranded in the library that needed to be taken home.”

“That certainly sounds like him. What time did you two exchange costumes?”

“I remember looking at my watch. It was around nine-thirty. We met and stepped into the men’s room where we swapped.”

“Did you ever see his face?”

“Not that I recall. He used the stall to change, and we traded costumes over the top. But it was Kingsley-Smythe. I’m positive. He was wearing his ring with the family crest.”

Bill must be telling the truth—or at least the truth as he knows it.

I grit my teeth, hating to ask, but knowing I have to, “What costume were you wearing?”

“The same one I’m wearing now. It’s my tux, but they issued the mask and the cape to me the first time I went out there.”

“And what happened to the Cardinal’s costume?”

Bill leans his head back on the headrest and mutters, “Lessee. I left it in the boat.”

“What about your costume?”

“All I can tell you is my mask and cape were waiting for me. The cape had been cleaned and pressed.”

Bill’s version of the evening seems plausible enough, even though the timing is wrong. I was in the library at least an hour after I saw Kingsley-Smythe stabbed. So, to my mind, the costume trade took place after the man in the Foo Dog mask did the Cardinal in.

It’s then I decide to tell Bill my version of the events of the night.

When I finish, the car is dead silent. Bill is staring straight at me. He hasn’t taken a breath since I spilled my guts.

“Does Greene know?”

“No one knows except you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before now?”

I shake my head.

“My God, Allie, if you think you witnessed Kingsley-Smythe’s murder, you should have come forward immediately. Then the authorities might have been able to take some action. We could have protected you and, just maybe, Sheri Browne might still be alive.”

I snap back as if he’d struck me in the face. “I didn’t think—I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you were Kingsley-Smythe’s killer.”

Bill’s mouth drops. “What gave you that idea?”

“You. You’re so different. You don’t act the same. You don’t sound like a Texan anymore, and what I miss the most is your aftershave.”

He doesn’t say a word; instead, he places his hand behind my neck and brings me forward until my mouth touches his.

When we come up for air, he says, “I sound different because I have to. And the Sandalwood had to go. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, Allie, I love you.”

Chapter 27

GREENE POURS ALL THREE of us a second cup of coffee. It’s well past one. Going to be a long night.

He puts down his pencil and takes another sip of the molten liquid. “And that’s all?”

I suppress a yawn. The three of us have been at this for what seems like a decade.

“So, Bill, you’re positive about the time?”

“It was Kingsley-Smythe that switched costumes with me. I know—knew the man. I’m positive it was his voice. I saw the signet ring on his left hand.”

I shake my head. “But it just doesn’t add up. I saw somebody stab the Cardinal right before my eyes. I saw him fall to the floor.”

Then Greene says, “And I heard Kingsley-Smythe suffered a coronary in New Jersey but they kept him alive until they could get him to Greenwich.”

The detective points to my sheet and taps on the top item. “You and Kingsley-Smythe arrive at seven. The place is deserted. You go to the library, where there’s a bottle of champagne and one glass. He pours the champagne, gives it to you and departs. So far so good?”

“He locked me in. Said it was for my safety. I tried to reach you, but there was no signal on the cell, so I sipped a little more champagne and explored. That’s when I found the fake book spines and what looked like the outline of a door. But then I got dizzy and passed out.”

“And you have no idea how long you were unconscious?”

“Not a clue. I don’t remember anything until he revived me. After that, things happened pretty quickly. When I told him about the fake bookshelves, he found the latch-spring and we started down the passageway. That’s when I saw the man murdered. Why can’t you believe me?”

I’m tired, cold and hungry and neither one of these guys can add. “Look, I was huddled in that chair in the library scared out of my mind for at least an hour after I saw the murder. I heard the people arriving. I heard the bands start playing. On top of all that, I had a horrible headache.”

Bill says, “And I’m positive it was around nine thirty when I traded costumes with Kingsley-Smythe.”

I add my two cents. “What difference does all this make? The man is dead. Isn’t there an autopsy report?”

The detective takes a sheet from one of his many files, scans it, then hands it to me. “This is the EMS write-up a friend of mine on the Newark force faxed me. Says here Kingsley-Smythe suffered a massive coronary in New Jersey. Per his friend Lawrence Templeton’s instructions, they kept him on life support until he reached the hospital in Greenwich. He was pronounced dead there. No formal autopsy.”

“But Larry Templeton wasn’t at The Castle. He called Kingsley-Smythe on his cell to say he couldn’t make it.”

Bill leans forward, an earnest look on his face. “But maybe Larry came later. Maybe you didn’t see him.”

Greene tips back in his chair to study the ceiling. “Looks like we’ve hit another dead end. It’s almost like someone is pulling strings.”

He suppresses a yawn then leans his elbows on the desk. “I appreciate you two coming forward about this. You’ve both been a great help.”

He stacks the yellow sheets and slips them in a file, then turns to me. “Your part in this case is over, Allie. It’s time you got back to Houston.”

I start to protest, but it’s late and I’m so exhausted I think better of it. Maybe it is time to fold my cards. Frankly, at this particular moment, the idea of facing Sigrid Hale doesn’t have quite the appeal it once did.

Still, there’s the matter of the red leather address book and Kingsley-Smythe’s grandmother’s necklace and earrings safely stashed at the Chase Manhattan. Two aces waiting to be played.

Chapter 28

WHEN BILL STEPS INTO my cramped accommodation, I edge past him into the darkness, flick on the lights and turn to put my arms around his neck.

I feel his breath on my forehead and shiver, happy there’s still that same powerful electricity that connects us.

The next item on my agenda is to raise my lips. I don’t want to think about the consequences of the kiss. It just doesn’t matter. We’re alone.

Bill seems to be much more in control of his emotions. In fact he’s all business. “What about the jewels? If you’re wearing paste, where are the real necklace and earrings?”

I lean away and sigh. “In a safe place. I promise.” “They won’t let you get away with that.”

“Then they’ll have to come after them.”

“And they will. And when they do, it won’t be pretty. You saw those people tonight. You heard what they said. They’re not kidding.”

“I know.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder; his next words are barely audible. “How can I get it through that thick skull of yours that this is serious?”

“I know it’s serious. But the necklace and earrings are the key. If Hale wants them, she’ll have to come and get them.”

“But do you think she will? She’s managed to keep a low profile this far. Don’t forget, the last messenger she sent for those jewels is dead.”

He studies me for a few seconds, his expression in neutral. “You need to hand them over to the proper authorities. How soon can you get them?”

There are only centimeters between us and my knees are noodles. “Not tonight.”

I put my arms around his neck for a second time and lightly lean my body against his. That gets his attention and our breaths quicken in unison until Bill breaks the silence. “When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow—maybe.”

I stand there looking into those incredibly blue eyes filled with worry, remembering how I let Bill walk out of my life in El Paso. If I had stopped him then, maybe things would be very different now.

“Do you need to go?”

He presses me to him and murmurs, “No.”

Our lips touch in a tender, searching kiss, then our bodies lock.

With mouths connecting and reconnecting, we take the few steps to my narrow bed.

He looks around the room, then at me. “I didn’t plan on this. I wanted—” I feel his tux trousers slide south. “But it doesn’t matter where we are, does it?”

Bill settles on the end of the bed. He turns me away to unzip my gown, then moves me to face him as it slowly slithers to the floor.

I kneel and peel his shirt away from his upper body. It’s still there, the scar on his shoulder. The result of the bullet he took protecting me. Tonight it seems like that happened a lifetime ago on another planet.

I kiss it. “You saved my life.”

“Lucky I did, or we wouldn’t be here now.” He buries his face between my breasts and lets out a low moan. “I’ve dreamed about this a million times.”

Moments later we lie facing each other, our bodies barely touching.

Neither of us says a word. We take it slow and easy. This isn’t the time to hurry.

Chapter 29

I DON’T REMEMBER BILL’S LEAVING, except for a long, lingering kiss and a “Safe trip home. I’ll be in touch.”

It’s mid-morning when I awaken to replay the scenes of the previous evening, taking time to reinforce the moments I’ll treasure when I return to my lonely life in Houston.

Then my attention turns toward the day, and I damn the fact that a one-way, weekday fare is going to cost a bundle.

I grab my cell with every intention of making a reservation on the late afternoon flight. Instead, I call Duncan’s apartment.

When Angela answers I blurt, “Surprise. I’m flying in tonight.”

“But you can’t. Not yet. If you come home now, it’ll ruin everything.”

“I don’t understand. Ruin what?”

“Duncan’s asked me to marry him. The wedding’s in Chicago the Saturday after Christmas. Mom’s already lined up the Deer Path Inn for the rehearsal dinner. And Duncan’s given me the most beautiful engagement ring.”

When she describes it, I have to cover the receiver so she can’t hear me chortle. It’s the same engagement ring Duncan once placed on my hand—the same one I saw on the ring finger of the pale blonde fiancée who was my successor for a few short months.

Duncan had been engaged to a woman before he met me. Knowing him, it was probably the same ring I wore. The devil in me takes odds on whether or not Angela, as fiancée number four, will make it to the altar.

“Are you okay with this? I mean Duncan and me? It all happened so fast. I mean, I never thought—never meant—it just happened so fast.”

“Of course it’s more than okay. You and Duncan are perfect for each other.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way. Just think, I never would have gotten to know Duncan if you hadn’t come to New York.”

I squelch the small surge of ill will. “Look Angela, I had some free time. You needed help. So, I came. That’s what sibs are for.” After a few seconds she says, “Guess who called this morning?”

I don’t feel like playing Angela’s game of twenty questions and I’m about to say so when she rattles on.

“Cliff Danes. Can you believe it after all this time? And you won’t believe this in a million years.”

She catches her breath and plunges on. “Cliff bought my townhouse. I have to confess, I didn’t pay much mind to the buyer since the lawyers were handling all the details.”

My heart lurches sideways. “Are you telling me that Cliff Danes bought your townhouse?”

“Who else do you know named Cliff Danes? Said he always loved the rooms and the high ceilings.”

“Cliff called you?”

“Are you in an echo chamber or something? When I told him I was getting married, but couldn’t find a halfway decent dress here, he’s insisting I fly to New York. He’s lining up some private showings downtown and thought since I would be staying with you, you could come to the appointments with me.”

My mind is running in ten directions at once. Why has Cliff suddenly resurfaced? And where did he get so much money?

“How did Cliff get Duncan’s number?”

“I have no idea. Does it matter?”

“Did you tell him where I’m staying?”

“How could I? I don’t even know where you are.”

I squelch my panic. No point in alarming Angela if I can avoid it. I take a deep breath and ask, “When are you coming?”

“Cliff ’s calling me back when he lines up some appointments.”

At least there’s time to get in touch with Duncan and have him head her off. I struggle to find my most enthusiastic tone. “Great. Call me as soon as your plans are firm. I’ll be waiting.”

Hoping against hope that I still have Duncan’s office number in my cell, I roll through the list on my speed-dial and see that I do.

When he answers, I smile to myself. He’s always prided himself on giving his clients personal attention.

We trade small talk for a moment, then I leap right in. “Look, Duncan, this is really important. Angela must not and I repeat not come to New York. Send her to Chicago. Send her to San Francisco or Los Angeles, but you have to keep her out of Manhattan and harm’s way.”

Duncan’s voice is filled with concern. “What happened up there?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it. There are more important issues now.” I take a deep breath and plunge onward. “I just hung up from talking to Angela. She tells me you’ve set the date.”

“That’s right. We couldn’t be happier.” He pauses. “You’re all right with this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.”

He clears his throat a couple of times, but his voice is husky. “You know, there will always be a special place in my heart—”

“Hey, no need to go on about the past. Angela is your future.” “There’s one thing Angie and I want you to know. As soon as you decide what you’re going to do and where you’re going to be, we are sending you a check for twenty thousand.”

I almost drop the phone. He wants to repay the money Angela borrowed for her bogus face-lift.

“No, no, Duncan, that really isn’t necessary.”

“Of course it is. We’ve discussed the matter and Angie wants you to have it and so do I. Please don’t make this difficult for us.”

“Well, we’ll talk about that after things settle down here. Just keep her out of the way, will you?”

He clears his throat again, but his words wrench my heart. “Allie, please take care of yourself. You’re one in a million.”

————

Greene answers on the second ring.

“It’s Allie.”

“I was hoping you’d be on a plane by now.”

I run through the conversation with Angela, saving the clincher until the end. “And here’s the newsflash. Guess who bought Angela’s townhouse? Cliff Danes. For a little over half a million. But I know he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Just trust me. I’m telling you he doesn’t. Somebody else made the deal. It might be worth your while to find out the details. It’s public record.”

“I’ll take care of that, but, I want you on the next plane out of here.”

“I’m not leaving, Greene. I know I can get Hale.”

“Oh, yes you are. Those people told you to get out of town, and they meant business.”

My pulse quickens. “All they said was to stay away from The Castle. That’ll be easy to do. Look, Greene, I’m willing to take my chances. Besides, if you consider all the angles, I’m probably the only one who can draw Hale out in the open.”

He sighs and mutters an expletive. “I should send you packing, but to be honest, we hit a brick wall this morning. Seems we’ve been compromised. Someone’s obstructing, and whoever it is has the DA’s ear. Damn. I was so sure we were inches away from breaking this case I could taste it.”

“Then let me help.”

There’s a long silence on his end, then he says, “Understand, I’m not promising you anything, but there’s a meeting this afternoon at one. We’re using a safe house situated above the deli on Eighty-Eighth and York—” He adds, “I think I told you about the woman on loan from the Newark force? And the other member on the team is someone you’ve met before.”

I gasp. Could the fourth member be Bill? Then I shake away the thought. That would be too perfect. I hang up and do a small cha-ching. At last—I’m back in the loop.

Chapter 30

GREENE HAS MANAGED to transform two small rooms into a pretty good office setup. In the front room sits a long table with two chairs on each side. There’s a laptop computer with a printer at one end and a whiteboard against the wall.

The door to a second room has been removed. Several rows of boxes line the wall and two two-by-four planks propped on two orange crates groan beneath stacks of files.

The room is empty except for the detective. “Thanks for being so prompt, Allie.” He rises to greet me and points me to the chair across from him.

Once I’m seated, he flashes those dimples. “You’re now officially an independent agent with our team, which makes you sort of a Blue. Not much pay, but it should cover your room at the Wells.”

I’ve hardly absorbed the news when a familiar face peers in the doorway. “Ahhh. The señorita has finally arrived. Now, everything is perfect.”

My cheeks heat as Jaime Platón settles in the chair next to mine, extends his hand and says, “This is a pleasure. I look forward to working with you.”

Greene passes Jaime and me a stack of pages. “Homework for later. I think you’ll be very impressed with the detective on loan from Newark.”

As if on cue, an attractive Asian woman with straight black shoulder-length hair and bangs that almost cover her black round glasses-frames enters with a raft of papers clutched in one hand. She wears a bright red turtleneck sweater and matching slacks that showcase a petite, well-defined physique.

The detective waves a hand her way. “This is Mindy Cha. At my direction, she has collected and compiled all the information for this case and will be keeping track of it for us.”

He gives her an encouraging smile then says, “Detective Cha, meet Allie Armington, who goes by Angela outside these rooms, and Jaime Platón. Both are independent agents on payroll for this project.”

Detective Cha peeks through her glasses to acknowledge us and plunks the papers on the table in front of her.

Greene goes to the whiteboard filled with multi-colored boxes connected with arrows. He points to the five squares bordered in black that run across the top of the board. “These first squares represent the three prostitutes who were at the New Jersey parties and met their deaths in the Nineteenth Precinct. The other two include information on Allie’s friend, Carolina Montoya, and the latest victim, Sheri Browne, both who were murdered in this precinct.

“Though these five women’s deaths will still be a major priority, there is now another concern. That is the connection between these murdered prostitutes who were definitely from the Sigrid Hale stable and the drugs coming in from Colombia.” He lowers his eyes only a few seconds. “This is where our interest goes a little extra-legal, but because of the connection to the prostitution ring and the knowledge that Hale is connected to both, we’re going to color a little outside the lines—if you get my drift.”

He taps a lime-green square at the top of the board. “This square represents Jason Kingsley-Smythe, the latest murder victim. We know he was the top dog out at The Castle, but someone wanted him dead. Why? Not sure. Who? Maybe Hale. “Thanks to Jaime and the DEA, we know the drug shipments never hit a snag and are still coming in from Colombia right on schedule.

“Now, that strikes me as very strange since the red leather address book that Montoya lifted is still missing.”

The detective drags his finger to the next two blocks: one blue, one red. He taps the blue box. “The New Jersey setup. Thanks to the joint efforts of Allie and DEA Agent Bill Cotton, we know what’s going down out there.”

Greene turns to face us. “So. Now. What are we going to do next?” He jabs the name blazed in red. “Nab Sigrid Hale. Despite the cease-and-desist orders from the top, I was able to get a little wiggle room from the captain, but only if we stay below the radar.”

He looks at me. “You were right, Allie. The deed to the townhouse on Seventy-Fifth isn’t in Danes’s name. It’s being held in trust by Kingsley-Smythe, Templeton, PC, Attorneys at Law.”

Bill had to have known about that. Why didn’t he tell me? I brush away the creeping sense that I’ve been sleeping with the enemy and recover my composure. “That’s too bad. It won’t be easy to trace real ownership without a subpoena.”

Ms. Cha grabs a purple marker and makes yet another box on the whiteboard. She prints Cliff Danes in the center and adds an arrow pointing to Sigrid Hale’s box.

Greene says, “We hope to gain entry to the townhouse without a warrant. That’s Jaime’s department.”

Jaime riffles through a few papers, then looks up. “This morning I set up surveillance of the townhouse from across the street in the school service area.”

The detective breaks in. “I don’t hold out much hope for the bugs we installed in the townhouse when Allie was living there. They’ve been remodeling.”

I wonder how that could happen so quickly. According to Angela, no one works that fast in the Big Apple.

Jaime continues. “Danes has kept mostly to himself except for one visitor—a female of a certain age. Not his mother; she’s been dead over twenty years.”

Greene points to the adjacent orange square. “This represents Georgina Kingsley-Smythe, Jason’s wife.” He looks at me. “Do you still think this Hale is Georgina Kingsley-Smythe?”

I shrug. “Could be, even though Bill insists Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe is an invalid. Still, I think we should go see for ourselves.”

“I agree,” he says, “but we can’t use a warrant. It’ll have to be a friendly visit.”

“I’ll be happy to call her.”

Mindy Cha speaks up for the first time. Her voice is low, her tone measured. “And you’re going to say, ‘Hey, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’m an old girlfriend of your late husband. Mind if I drop in for tea?’”

I squelch the urge to be cute. After all, it is my first day on the job. “I was thinking of something a little more subtle than that. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, actually, I do. I’ll call Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Introduce myself as your secretary at the Kingsley-Smythe firm and say that you have a document for her to sign. If she buys, I’ll make an appointment, and we’ll go out there together. Two well-dressed women seem harmless enough, don’t you think?”

I have to admit Cha is good. “Sounds like a winner.”

She picks up the telephone and in a matter of minutes the deal is done. “Tuesday at eleven? We promise not to keep Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe very long.”

Greene’s cell rings and he moves into the hall to take the call. When he returns he says, “The surveillance team reports the bugs we installed at the townhouse are no good. I’m not surprised, but it will cost us time.”

Jaime leans forward. “I’d like to try to get in on my own. It should be easy to install a few new ears.”

Greene looks around the table. “As far as I’m concerned, if we get Sigrid Hale and that elusive red address book, everything else will fall into place. And, ladies and gentleman—” He gives us a wide grin. “This case will be a wrap.”

————

It’s past five when we pour into the street and I invite Mindy to have a drink with me at a nearby bar where we trade the usual girl talk.

After I run down my résumé, Mindy gives me her background. The only daughter of a beat cop in Chinatown, all she ever wanted was to work with the law.

“I just graduated from John Jay College of Criminal Justice with a joint BA/MA degree in forensic psychology.”

“So I heard. Greene said you were in a couple of his classes.” She flushes and looks down. “Yes. He’s a wonderful instructor. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again after I took a position with the Newark force.”

She ducks her head so that her hair almost covers her face and murmurs. “I was so surprised—and flattered—that Detective Greene requested my services. But, I thought we would be working alone. I must confess I was very surprised when he added the two of you.” She pauses, brow engaged. “What did he say your jobs were?”

“Independent agents. All I get is room and board. I have no idea what Platón is making. He’s also working for the DEA.”

I take a sip of my drink to cover my beginning smile. The woman is crazy for Greene. Could he feel the same?

“So, are you seeing anybody?”

Mindy, hair still a screen, shakes her head. “No. No one. My parents are very distressed—especially my mother, who longs for grandchildren.”

“Then, you live at home?”

She gives me a triumphant grin. “Only two more days. I’ve leased a two-bedroom flat on Howard. It’s in lower SoHo, not far from the Holland Tunnel. That way I can still live in the city, but get to Newark plenty fast. Now, all I need is a roommate.”

I jump on that like a duck on a June bug. “Hey, if you’re serious, maybe we could work something out.”

My offer hangs in the air as Mindy gives me a thoughtful once-over then drains her martini. “Gee, it’s much later than I thought. I’d better head downtown. See you Monday.”

Chapter 31

MINDY LOOKS JUST LIKE the secretary she’s playing: glasses in place, hair twisted up in a severe bun, a black suit with a tailored white jabot spilling at her neck.

One nice addition: a police issue stashed in her briefcase. Greene assures me she’s a crack shot. I slide my hand in my leather tote to test the safety on mine and envision the latest fashion slogan: Women in the know pack heat.

The rental car she navigates north on Interstate 95 is a non-descript sedan—fitting for the nondescript day. Low clouds scudding above are the remains of a wet, windy, cold front.

We take Exit 3 and wind our way southeast through lanes lined with rock walls until we come to the Kingsley-Smythes’ address.

Mindy slows the car. “Wow.”

She eases through the tall stone pillars and stops. “Ready?”

At the end of the long drive sits an impressive two-story mansion that looks much larger than the picture Greene showed me. “Not bad.”

Mindy laughs. “The Kingsley-Smythes have been in the green for generations. First whale oil, then steel.”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

She gives me a baleful look. “That’s about all I do.”

————

The butler greets us and leads us down a wide gallery displaying several ancestral portraits. In some, familiar cold gray eyes stare down, the same eyes I saw in the grainy photograph of Sigrid Hale. At that, my pulse steps up a notch.

I turn to Mindy, eager to point out the resemblance, but she is closely examining a Jacobean library table butted against a massive stairway that rises to the second floor.

Every inch of the patinaed oak is crammed with photographs: there are several of the young Kingsley-Smythes with a little girl and a young boy; some include the Kingsley-Smythe children at a later age—a teenage girl leading the pompom squad, a young man in a football uniform. Others feature the four of them posed before landmarks in practically every major European capital. I note Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe is always in a wheelchair.

We enter the library, a long room with a fireplace on one wall, a grand piano on the other and floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows surrounding double doors leading to a flagstone terrace. Beyond, a broad lawn ends at the water’s edge. And in the distance one can make out the Long Island shore.

A whirring noise heralds a motor-driven wheelchair bearing a small handsome woman with white hair piled high, dressed in a long lavender cashmere ensemble. Once she is inside the room, a tall dark-haired man turns.

I barely suppress my gasp as Bill Cotton, wearing a navy cashmere blazer, faces us. Instead of the rush of joy I should feel, spots dance before my eyes and a deafening buzz drowns out the “hello” I read on his lips.

Mindy must see my agitation, because she leans to touch my arm. “You okay?”

I see concern in Bill’s eyes, look away and take a deep breath. The noise and spots subside and by the time Bill has come to stand behind the wheelchair I’m pretty much in control.

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe looks up at him. “This is my nephew Billy. But, of course, you must already know him from the firm.”

Nephew? Am I hearing right? Did she say he was her nephew? Has he ever told me the truth? First he’s a sheriff in Uvalde, Texas. Then he appears in New York on assignment as a lowly attorney who “barely” knew Kingsley-Smythe. And now he’s the beloved nephew?

Bill places a hand on her shoulder. “Aunt Georgina, may I introduce Angela Armington and her secretary, Mindy Cha? They brought a document for you to sign.”

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe gives us a small acknowledgement. “I’m so sorry you came all this way. Billy could have brought it home.” Bill leans down. “I haven’t been to the office since Uncle Jason’s memorial service, remember?”

Mindy does her part. “Since the firm is eager to wrap things up concerning your late husband’s estate, we need your signature on this one document so the probate can move forward.”

I get Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s attention. “Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Your husband was a fine man.”

She peers at me through sad brown eyes. “You knew him?” Bill leans down. “She worked for Uncle Jason.”

After shooting him an “I knew that” look, she turns to me. “Of course you did. Thank you, my dear. My Jason’s sudden death was quite a shock. He had just taken his annual physical, and the doctor pronounced him healthy as a horse.”

She turns to gaze lovingly up at Bill. “My nephew has been such a godsend.”

It seems as if we are all holding our breaths until she says, “Well, let’s get on with it.”

Mindy places the bogus papers on the smooth side of her briefcase and hands it with a pen to Bill.

He scans both pages, which in actuality state that we made the appointment with Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe by telephone and visited her on this date. From her dazed condition, it’s doubtful that she will pick up on the nature of the document.

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe signs the paper and turns to Bill. “If that’s all, darling, could we go back to our gin game?”

Her request is overridden by a hushed but intense argument in the hallway, followed by determined footsteps heading in our direction.

She’s tall, blonde and gorgeous, dressed in a chic chocolate riding habit sans derby.

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s face fills with sun. “Dierdre. What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you for lunch.”

Dierdre glides across the Oriental carpet to give Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe a kiss, then turns to do the same for Bill.

I hardly have time to absorb the latest terrible reality when the woman slides an arm around Bill’s waist, gives him a squeeze, and says, “I’m so sorry to intrude, I didn’t know you had guests.”

I have to give it to him. The man doesn’t miss a beat. “Dierdre, please meet Angela Armington and Mindy Cha. Both women work with me at the firm. They were kind enough to drive all the way out here to accommodate Aunt Georgina.”

He looks down at her, then at us. “And this is Dierdre Wainwright.”

I expect him to add “of the blah-blah Wainwrights, who preceded God and the Mayflower to America,” but he spares us that.

Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s eyes brighten. She motions toward the piano. “Dierdre has given me so much pleasure since my Jason passed away. He used to entertain me by playing his jazz compositions on the Bosendorfer. Now the dear girl often pops by to do the same.”

The silence that follows seems to last an eternity until Mindy stands, retrieves the signed document and shoves it in her briefcase.

————

My eyes don’t fill until we are in the car. To hide the tears, I peer out the window until they dry and the catch in my throat dissolves.

To ease the pain, I roll the tape of Bill above me, crooning my name with each deep thrust. Then after, spooning his body around mine, hugging me close and saying how nicely our bodies fit together.

I remember his concern for my well being. How he cautioned me to keep a low profile until I could get on a flight out of New York. Now, I can’t help but wonder if his only goal was to get me out of the way?

Mindy doesn’t speak until we’re on the I-95. “Okay, what was all that about? First, the white-face-I’m-about-to-faint look; then your zombie-mode when Miss I’m-somebody-really-important walked in.”

I look away so she can’t read the pain in my eyes. But why get into it with Cha? Why should I spill my guts to someone I barely know—a person who isn’t overly enthusiastic about taking me on as a roommate? Besides, I’m still reeling from the shock of seeing Bill in this new setting and, much to my dismay, well attached to that blonde.

When I first learned Bill was married for a short time to a Southern belle from the First Families of Virginia, I couldn’t imagine the sheriff married to a blueblood, but now that I know a little more, it’s obvious he’s attracted to the type.

Mindy’s “Well?” brings me out of it. “I’m hypoglycemic.”

“Don’t smoke-screen me. I didn’t make detective grade for nothing. The tension between you and the nephew was so thick I needed a hacksaw. Greene told me you were involved with a DEA agent. Is this the same guy?”

“This is the last place I expected to see him. He mentioned he had met Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, but he failed to tell me just how close he was.”

Mindy glances my way. “No wonder you went so pale.”

She concentrates on the road for a minute, then says, “Wow. Did you get a load of that blonde neighbor? The caring little piano player? Where do you suppose she fits in the scheme of things?” “Good question. But, at this point, not only do I have no idea, I really don’t care.”

When Mindy shoots me a “liar-liar” look, I change the subject. “Okay, Miss Detective, answer me this: Why would Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe be so dependent on a nephew when she has kids of her own? Weren’t those pictures on the table in the entry hall the children?”

“You betcha.” She puffs up. “But did you notice the pictures went only through adolescence? Where are the wedding pictures? Where are the pictures of the grandchildren?”

I start to mention the cold gray eyes in some of the ancestor portraits but decide to save that information for Greene.

The rest of our drive back to Manhattan is mostly silent. Mindy seems lost in her own thoughts, and I certainly am in mine.

The shock of seeing Bill again, and in such an unexpected venue, has thrown me for a loop. His words echo, “I’ve never blatantly lied to you, Allie. My only sins are those of omission.”

Boy, has he got that right! At first, he implied he didn’t even know Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Now he’s Aunt Georgina’s favorite nephew with the gorgeous next-door neighbor draped around his neck.

Chapter 32

MINDY AND I SPEND the next several days trying to dig up information pertinent to the Kingsley-Smythe case by going through investigative documents from the DEA and other law enforcement agencies.

On this particular morning we are setting up the Kingsley-Smythe family file. To her credit, that woman is like a Jack Russell terrier when it comes to unearthing odd little pieces of esoterica.

Mindy goes to the pile of files in the corner and retrieves a thick one. “Though the Kingsley-Smythes had no kids of their own, they seemed to be very much in love at first. You know—in those early pictures they looked so happy. Then after a while they didn’t.”

“Do you still have those pix? It might be interesting to see who else shows up.”

“There are over thirty in here.” She hands me the stack. “Be sure to keep them in order.”

I open the file. The first photograph shows a younger and very dashing Jason Kingsley-Smythe posing with his wife. But in the next one there’s a drastic change. Georgina stares into the camera with vacant eyes, while Jason’s attention is focused on an attractive brunette, who returns his gaze.

There’s another man in the picture with his arm draped over the brunette’s shoulder. Knowing Mindy leaves no detail unturned, I flip to the back side. The man is Lawrence Templeton. The woman is his wife, Norma.

Though Templeton’s hairline is receding, he wears it brushed back. His face is too big for his body and though his features are coarse, they reflect a certain sensuality.

“Are the Templetons still married?”

“If you can call it that. Mrs. T is in the final stages of advanced alcoholism. She’s just come back from one of her bimonthly visits to Silver Hill.” “Children?”

“Two sons. Both attended California colleges. Never came back to the East Coast.”

I can’t quite bring myself to see Jason and Norma as lovers. She doesn’t hold a candle to Georgina. But in the light of Norma’s alcoholism, Larry could be involved with Sigrid Hale.

I shuffle through the rest of the stack, hoping to pick up another lead, but the photos deal mostly with the Kingsley-Smythes at the club, at tennis parties, cocktail parties, social suppers and the like.

“Did you ever find out why the Kingsley-Smythe kids suddenly disappeared from view?”

Mindy looks up. “I found out who, what and when, but, unfortunately, not the why.”

I give her a grin. “I’ll settle for the first part. I’m sure you’ll unearth the second.”

“In a nutshell, the Kingsley-Smythes adopted Frank and Sallie Stone when their parents died in an automobile accident. The boy was fourteen and his sister eleven.

“Frank, nicknamed Bud, graduated from Andover, which coincidentally was Kingsley-Smythe’s alma mater. He entered Dartmouth and never returned home. Then Sallie enrolled at Emma Willard between Thanksgiving and Christmas and remained there until she went to Wellesley. She never came home either.

“And—get this—when Bud turned twenty-one he legally changed his last name from Kingsley-Smythe back to Stone.

“Seems the Stone-slash-Smythes have no current contact with the widow, nor were they in evidence at Kingsley-Smythe’s memorial service.”

“But I don’t understand. Why haven’t they rallied around their mother? Poor lady, she’s alone except for Bill. Thank God, she has him.”

“Oh, so now he’s not such a bad guy?”

I look around the room. We’re alone. Greene and Platón slipped out while I was riffling through the photos.

“I didn’t say that.”

Though I still haven’t heard a word from Bill since the trip to Greenwich, for some stupid reason, I feel the need to jump to his defense. “Look, I’m not trying to excuse what happened in Greenwich, but dealing with his aunt can’t be easy for Bill. That’s an added burden on top of the DEA assignment.”

“You mean a burden like Miss Got-Rocks?”

I shake my head, hoping Mindy will melt into the floor. I don’t want to discuss Bill with her.

When she gives a derisive snort, I look into Mindy’s all-knowing smirk and realize I’m trapped in my own agony. “Do you know something I don’t?”

She settles across from me. “I like you, Allie, but you just refuse to face the truth. That’s why you’re so willing to buy this guy’s bullshit.”

Damn her. Who does she think she is? She barely knows me and doesn’t know Bill at all.

I’m about to say as much when she offers, “I’ll give you five to ten, Got-Rocks knows all about you.”

I try to think back to what happened in the library that day. I was still in shock from seeing Bill. Then Dierdre appeared. Yes, I was jealous. Yes, I felt threatened. Still, I can’t admit it to Mindy so I put forth a lame lie. “I didn’t pick up on anything unusual.” Another, louder snort. “Not looking. Too scared. I’ll bet money they’ve been doing the nasty for months.”

I almost choke on that. “Do you really think it’s gone that far?”

She goes to her stack of files, eases one out, shoves a red cardboard square in its place and slaps the file in front of me. “It might be wise to learn a little more about your wonderful, invincible Mister Cotton. I’m taking a bathroom break. Be back in a few.”

I stare at the unopened folder with “William Randolph Cotton” neatly lettered on the tab. “Randolph.” I never thought to ask his middle name, but then he never mentioned it. In Texas he was just plain Bill Cotton, the Sheriff—a handsome, sexy, drawling guy with piercing blue eyes, who wore Kryptonite aftershave and captured my heart. I knew so little about him then. Come to think of it, I know damn little about him now.

How could I possibly be so besotted with a man I’ve been with—I try to count our encounters—four or five times in Uvalde—less than that since I’ve been in Manhattan. Except that now we have stepped past that last line of intimacy.

————

Platón’s call puts Bill’s folder on the back burner. He was able to gain entry to the townhouse and is on his way back.

When he arrives, he describes the space pretty much as I remember it, noting that Cliff took the smaller suite on the second floor rather than the one I was in.

“I made sure both Danes and his ‘mother’ were out before I jimmied the front door. No problem getting into Danes’s suite, but the third floor is locked. No actual keyhole. Some kind of high-tech system I’ve never seen before.

“I placed one bug on Danes’s telephone, put one in the living room and one in the kitchen.” Jaime pauses, then says to Greene, “Know anything about the flat downstairs?”

“We used it for surveillance when Allie was living there. What about it?”

“I tried to get into the townhouse that way, thinking I could come up the stairs into the main house without having to be so obvious. The windows and doors all seem to be boarded up on the inside. I scoped out the front of the ground floor. Every window as well as the front entrance is covered in Bermuda shutters. I guess that’s for appearance’s sake.”

The rest of us make sympathetic acknowledgements of the bad news until Jaime taps the table and says, “Hey, don’t be so down in the mouth everybody. I do have some good news. The surveillance team was able to bore a small hole in the molding over the entry side of the living room door and ease a wire camera probe in there. Now we can see the woman’s face full on.”

He flicks out the overhead lights and a grainy surveillance tape rolls. Two figures are walking through the outer double doors into the entry.

Jaime points to the shorter of the two. “This is Danes, and that is his ‘mother.’”

I think back to the one evening I spent with Cliff and remember dancing with him. He was taller by at least a couple of inches than I was in heels. “This woman must be huge. Danes scrapes six feet. Maybe it’s the high heels.”

After Jaime turns off the tape player and the lights go up, I say, “Wouldn’t a firsthand make be better?”

Greene looks up. “You?” “Yes, me.”

“But Danes knows you’re working with me.”

“He won’t rat me out. After all, he took me to The Castle under false pretenses. He can’t afford to let that cat out of the bag.”

Greene shakes his head. “How do you know it already isn’t?”

“Does it matter? Maybe they’re waiting for me to make the first move.”

Greene gives a slow shake of his head. “You’ll have to go in alone. Are you up for that?”

“No problem. Cliff will probably be delighted to see me.” Greene taps his pencil on the table for a minute, then says, “Let’s hope he is.”

Chapter 33

NOT ONLY IS CLIFF DELIGHTED to get my call, he can’t wait to show me what he’s done to the townhouse.

It’s a little after three the following afternoon when I step into the glazed porch of Angela’s once-prized quarters.

Though the familiar black-and-white marble floors remain intact, the Chinese Export vases and half-moon tables have been replaced by stunning red lacquer chests topped with contemporary tall black urns filled with generous bouquets of pussy willow.

I sneak a glance at the modillion molding and search for the camera. A more practiced eye would pick it up, but I can’t see a thing.

When I ring, Cliff answers.

He’s wearing shades of blue: navy pants, silvery blue shirt, navy Gucci belt and loafers—much like the gray outfit he wore when Angela and I met with him at the Wells Hotel. How long ago that seems now.

He leans forward, brushes my cheek with a passing kiss and murmurs, “Are we still masquerading as Angela?”

“Yes, we are.”

Sotto voce he says, “You tell her I’m really mad she cancelled. I had five appointments arranged. Too bad she couldn’t make it.”

“Sorry about that.” I give him a toothy grin and raise my voice. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Cliff. Thanks for asking me by.”

“Oh, entirely my pleasure. To confess, I was dying for you to see what we’ve done.”

He steps aside and I glide past him into a completely remodeled living area. It’s nothing like the comfy chintz-covered décor of a few weeks before. Black leather couches and chairs piped in tan with chrome legs rise above blond wood flooring. The walls are charcoal gray, the ceilings a lighter shade.

Contemporary sconces up-light the room and above the couch a spot highlights a line drawing of a voluptuous nude looking skyward as she fondles her breasts.

“Quite a difference, don’t you agree?” Cliff ’s mellifluous voice drips over my shoulder.

I turn to face him. “A true bachelor pad, Cliff. So you.”

By the look on his face I can tell he doesn’t know whether I’m kidding or not.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He motions me to sit. “Wine?”

“Too early for that, how about a diet-something.”

He frowns. “The larder is rather bare right now. But keep the faith.”

We pass through the dining room. Gone is the elaborate molding from the pre-war era. Instead, the walls curve into the ceiling. Above the oval glass table surrounded by high-backed upholstered armchairs, a matching recessed oval defined by dim up-lighting gives added interest.

Cliff touches the wall and well-placed spots dance down. “What do you think?”

“I love it. Of course, I liked the way it was before, but this is stunning. So sophisticated. And how did you get this done so quickly? Most remodels take months or even years.”

He gives me a smug look and rubs his fingers together. “A lot of grease helps the squeaky wheel.”

We step into the once-drab kitchen. What a change from the filthy four-burner stove and the groaning 1930s refrigerator with the coil on the top.

It’s double the size with black granite floors and countertops, a Viking six-burner range and a GE side-by-side refrigerator.

Cliff says, “Our designer suggested we include the maid’s room as part of the new kitchen but keep the bath as a powder room. So much more space, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, but grabs a half-empty bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator. “Is this okay? Sorry, I don’t even have a lemon to dress it up.” “Fine by me.”

The wall that once separated the kitchen from the maid’s room is gone. Over a comfortable couch in soft back leather and dotted with large pillows in reds and grays, a buxom nude faces away; her legs are spread, and in lewd invitation her hands pull her inner thighs apart.

“The same artist?” I ask.

Cliff whirls. “Uh, uh, yes. We found the pair in a TriBeCa gallery. French, I believe.”

He motions me back toward the living room.

Once we’re seated, I take a sip of the flat, tasteless water. “You say ‘we.’ Do you have a roommate?”

“I’m rather embarrassed to tell you this, but my roommate is my mother. She was the reason I bought the place. Poor thing, she was renting a great sublet on Park Avenue, but the building went co-op last month. Such a shock.”

Cliff lies very well. It’s almost as if he’s been rehearsed.

He takes a gulp of wine. “It’s the perfect setup. We’re hardly in each other’s way. Of course, you’re familiar with the floor plan. If I want to entertain, she’s quite comfortable in her own space.”

“Is she in? I’d like to meet her.”

Cliff takes a second swig. “I must say I’m surprised she hasn’t popped down. Curious creature that she is, she usually comes when the doorbell rings. But then, she hasn’t been well. She must be resting.”

When I stand, Cliff jumps to attention, plainly relieved I’m not going to press the issue.

“I know she would want to meet you. Perhaps you could come again when she’s having one of her good days.”

“That would be nice. I’m back at the Wells.” “Ah, within walking distance.”

————

I head for Lex, then go right and enter the Ninety-Sixth Street entrance to the elementary schoolyard. When I knock on the side of the truck, the panel slides open to reveal Greene and Jaime standing behind two men in earphones.

The detective waves me toward a speaker. “Listen to this.”

He pushes a button and we hear Cliff say, “I’m sorry. There wasn’t any way I could bring it up without seeming suspicious.” There are unintelligible words, then, “How in hell am I supposed to know about the jewelry? I wasn’t there—remember? You and Larry were.”

More muted conversation followed by a door slamming. Cliff, muttering beneath his breath, fades for a few seconds before the bug picks up his returning footsteps and his knock.

“Look, we don’t have to involve Larry. Not if you don’t want to. Just let me in. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Jaime touches my arm. “What do you think that means? What Danes just said about not involving Larry?”

One of the men in earphones turns. “There’s more.”

He takes the tape out of the machine and inserts another.

Cliff is saying, “Not yet, we’re not quite ready. There’s at least three full days’ work left to do before we can even think of proceeding with the plan.”

More whispers.

Cliff seems agitated. “No. No. I said not yet. I won’t be comfortable until we discuss this with Larry.”

There’s another muted exchange, then both doors bang shut. Cliff clomps down the stairs to his suite, slams the door and, once he’s in the bedroom, starts throwing things. Next it sounds like he falls on his bed and slams against the headboard, then the phone clicks in and a number is punched.

After a few rings, a voice says, “I told you not to call this number.”

The connection breaks, then a number is punched in on a cell and Cliff says, “Damn it, this is serious. She wants to push up the date. But there are things that still need to be done before we can properly execute stage one.”

Another silence, then Cliff gives a terse, “I know, I know. But I can’t stop this without your help. Please, Larry, we have to meet. You’re the only one who can control the situation.”

Chapter 34

I’M SEATED ACROSS a narrow table from Jaime Platón, who is studiously trying to avoid touching my knees with his. Pretty hard to do since we’re both tall people.

His hesitant invitation was almost comical until I realized that, until this afternoon, he considered me his colleague. And now, depending on how the evening progresses, things will forever be different between us.

I’m not a mind reader. Those very same thoughts raced through my head when Jaime asked me to dinner.

He waited until Greene worked out the surveillance schedule with the two men in earphones. When he dismissed us, we headed back to our makeshift office above the deli.

After exiting the van, we walked over to Lex and hailed a cab and rode in silence, until the cab stopped for a light at Fifty-Ninth.

Throngs of shoppers poured out of Bloomingdale’s clutching bags of their Christmas purchases, their heads bowed against the opposing phalanx, who also wove and dodged.

Jaime covered my hand with his and said, “Would you consider having supper with me this evening? I’ve discovered a wonderful French restaurant that has incredible foie gras.”

The fact that this man is a hunk has not gone unnoticed. And what single woman in her right mind would even think of turning down an invitation from a hunk?

My slight hesitation prompted a quick and resigned, “Of course, if you are uncomfortable, I would certainly understand.”

I put my hand on Jaime’s and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’d love to share some foie gras with you.”

————

And so here we are. The sauterne, ordered to accompany the first serving of foie gras, is perfect. The presentation of the tender morsel—sublime. And to top everything off, random snowflakes flitter gently past the picture window facing the street.

Our waiter hovers above us. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

Jaime nods. “A touch more sauterne would be nice.”

I can’t help but note that his manners are impeccable.

At that, a small voice says, “Bill’s manners aren’t so bad, and what’s this have to do with manners anyway?”

I mentally swat that away. This is no time to be thinking of Bill Cotton or his long-legged blonde. Not only have I not heard one word from the worm since our heated encounter, but Mindy Cha’s assessment of Bill’s relationship with the toothy woman still grates on my gut.

I take a few bites of the foie gras before I bring up Bill.

Jaime stares at me for a few seconds and takes a sip of his sauterne. “I was hoping it might be over between you two.”

“Who says it isn’t?”

“The look on your face every time his name is mentioned.”

I let out a long breath, partly to relieve the ache where my heart should be, partly to gather my thoughts.

Jaime stares down at his empty plate for a second, then looks up. “No more about Bill Cotton, okay? I’m more interested in your future. Not your past.”

He waits a few minutes then says, “You know about next Monday?”

When I shake my head, he continues. “Greene and I are going in.”

I raise my brows. “In?”

“The townhouse should be empty. Both suspects will be in New Jersey. It’s supposed to be the Christmas Bash. The last party before the holidays.”

Damn. I’d kill to be in on that little foray, but the signals he’s sending don’t seem very inviting. Best just to let it slide and try Greene. After all, he’s the leader.

The rest of the evening flies by. Jaime is not only a highly entertaining raconteur but has a great sense of humor. By the time the crème brûlée arrives, we are more than good friends.

Since the flurries have stopped, we leave the cab at Madison and Ninetieth to stroll arm in arm the few short blocks back to the Wells. And when Jaime suggests we have a drink in the almost empty bar, I readily agree.

We settle on a comfortable love seat off to one side.

Jaime waves at the bartender and asks me, “Do you like tequila?”

“I’m a Texan. What do you think?”

The bartender stands there until Jaime asks, “Do you carry Corazón? The Añejo? If so, we’ll have two. Neat.”

Everything between Jaime and me seems so relaxed, so right, that I hardly notice I’ve ended up in the curve of his arm.

We laugh about our first meeting in Angela’s apartment. How he answered my phone, found me sleeping and how indignant the man on the line sounded.

Jaime brushes my cheek with his lips. “You know, I think I fell a little bit in love with you right then.”

I’m not shocked. He’s been sending eye messages all evening, and I’ve enjoyed every one.

I like the way he slides his other arm to circle me and turn me to face him.

His kiss is the natural next step. His lips are soft against mine, but he doesn’t force the issue and allows me plenty of opportunity to make a graceful exit if I choose.

“Corazón. The Añejo.” The bartender sets the glasses on the table and departs.

Jaime leans forward and hands me my drink. Then he settles back beside me. “I think that was very, very nice. No?”

I nod and meet his gaze. “I think that was very, very nice. Yes.” We linger for a moment at my door. It would be so easy to ask Jaime in and give my sagging ego a much-needed boost. Instead, I accept a friendly kiss on the cheek and watch him disappear into the elevator lobby.

Jaime cares for me. And more than just a little. He’s bright, witty and a hunk. What’s not to like?

So, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I let go of Bill and get on with my life?

Chapter 35

I’M WELL INTO MY dark hotel room before I see the outline of a man standing against the dimly lit window. I jam my hand inside my purse, grab my Beretta and release the safety, then realize it’s Bill.

For the briefest second I picture him standing much the same as he is now, wearing that great-looking sheriff ’s uniform, his pilot’s sunglasses reflecting the rolling Texas hills behind me. It’s then I yearn for the heady Kryptonite scent he wore in Uvalde, the aroma that once telegraphed his presence and made me go weak in the knees.

I relax, latch the safety on my weapon and toss my purse on the lonely twin bed I’ve called mine since I moved back into the Wells.

“What are you doing here?”

He settles into the darkness. “I was beginning to ask myself that same question.”

The silence hangs between us until he says, “I shared an early dinner with Aunt Georgina, then caught the ten o’clock. I was hoping to surprise you.”

“I’m surprised. So leave.”

He moves to stand only inches away. “That’s quite a change in your attitude from the last time we were together in this room.”

“You mean when you made love to me and walked out?”

Bill circles my waist. “You made the first move, remember? I believe you said, ‘Do you need to go?’ But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was seriously considering the same idea.”

I fight the temptation to stay put and step back. “I thought you might at least have tried to contact me after that rather strained meeting in Greenwich.”

“I had every intention of following you into the city, but after you and Miss Cha left, Aunt Georgina had a bad afternoon. I was with her until she fell asleep.”

He lets out a long breath. “Being the only source of comfort to an aunt I barely know has been hard duty. The good news is my parents are coming to stay with her for most of December.”

“So, you do have parents. For all I know you could have arrived here in a spaceship.”

His response is not what I expect. His voice is as harsh as his words. “Cut it out. After this evening, I’m the one who should be asking the questions.”

“And why is that?”

“I called your room from the Lobby. When there was no answer, I stopped by the bar for a drink.”

I’m thankful I haven’t turned on the lights. My heart jumps and my cheeks go hot. I feel as guilty as a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

I try to recall if there was someone else at the bar. When Jaime and I entered and ordered, it was well past eleven and we were the only two customers. Then. But as time passed, neither one of us was concentrating on much else but each other.

A sigh signals Bill’s dejection, then I hear it in his voice. “I saw you there with Platón.”

I snap on the overhead light. “So what? It’s a free country. I was having a drink with a friend.”

“And does having a drink with a friend include letting him chew on your face?”

He’s jealous and I’m enjoying every second of it. Why not take advantage of the chink in his armor?

My words tumble forward. “The last time we were together, you said you loved me—only me. Then I hear nothing for weeks. Did you lose my telephone number? Forget my address? Have a lobotomy? And when I do turn up, obviously unexpectedly, I find not only that the person you told me you hardly knew is really your mother’s sister, but there’s a good-looking blonde glued to your side.”

At that Bill gives me his wonderful, crooked smile. “So that’s what this is about? Dierdre Wainwright? Hey, I can explain that real easy. We met at Yale. I found out she lived next door to Aunt Georgina. We dated. But that ended when I graduated. I swear. There’s nothing going on between us.”

Pin a gold star on Mindy Cha. Dierdre isn’t a new addition to Bill’s life; she’s an old flame, a stunning, well-bred, well-educated old flame. What can a woman born and raised in Lampasas, Texas, with a BS and a LLD from UT possibly have to offer against that stacked deck?

Bill takes a few steps toward me. “I was hoping that after the other evening—that maybe someday—”

I turn away and move to the window, keenly aware that if I let him touch me again, my thin shell of defense will dissolve.

Across the airspace is another hotel room. The sheers are drawn, but inside I see a woman on a single twin bed similar to mine, watching television. Alone. If I look at her much longer, I’ll get depressed. I could so easily be her.

I turn to face him. “So, why are you here?”

“I needed to see you. To tell you what’s going on.”

When he steps closer, I cross my arms in defense. “Is this another tall tale? Something else to cover up?”

“I haven’t lied to you, Allie, at least not in the venial sense.”

“Ahhh, the venial sense. I didn’t know you were Roman.”

“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “For Pete’s sake, what difference does religion make? I’m trying to make a point here.”

“Which is?”

“Until I learned you were coming to scope out Aunt Georgina, I thought you were safe and sound a thousand miles away.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so good. To know you thought I was safe and sound—and, from the looks of it—waaay out of sight.”

I take a step back. “Was I mistaken? Didn’t we have something going between us—something more than the usual sexual attraction?”

It’s Bill’s turn to sound exasperated. “Sex? Is that all you think I want from you?”

He takes a deep breath. “Keeping space between us in Texas was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” Then he murmurs, “I love you, Allie. I don’t want to lose you.”

When his eyes telegraph the same message, I can’t help but relent a little. “Okay. Okay. So maybe you didn’t know I never left town. Though I would have thought you just might have called to see if I arrived safely in Houston. What I don’t get is when you found out I was coming to Greenwich, you didn’t at least give me a heads up?”

He stares at me a few seconds. “I didn’t want to miss the chance to see you again. Besides, if I had let you know, would you have made the trip?”

I think about that for a few seconds. “I don’t know. Probably. But why didn’t you tell me Georgina Kingsley-Smythe was your aunt? You knew all along there was no way she could be Sigrid Hale.”

“I told you Aunt Georgina was in a wheelchair. Remember? They discovered she had a benign but inoperable tumor on her spine shortly after she and Uncle Jason were married. Poor thing has enough on her plate without learning what I really do. She’s an old woman who’s grieving for more reasons than Uncle Jason’s death.”

He opens his arms in invitation. “Allie, you have to believe me. I’ve just left a few things out—mainly to protect you. Can’t you forgive me for that?”

When I back toward the door, his arms lower and he says, “You can’t, can you?”

“What’s to forgive? You’re doing your job and I’m trying to do mine. I told you I was committed to finding Carolina’s murderer, and I intend to do just that.”

He’s been edging my way ever since he started speaking, but I’m backed against the door and have no place to go.

Before I can make a move I’m trapped in his arms, and when his mouth captures mine, every last shred of resolve disappears.

When Bill murmurs, “I want you, Allie. I want you now,” I verify all the arousal responses: pulse racing, breathing shallow and quick, heat throbbing in all the right places. All systems are go with one minute to liftoff.

Then I check the one site I’ve been ignoring my gut—where sadly, a voice-over is screaming, “Mayday. Mayday. Abort. Abort.”

I break the kiss and rest my head on Bill’s shoulder. “This isn’t going to work.”

He stiffens, then steps away. “Why not? Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t fall on that bed and spend the rest of the night there.”

I can’t tell him about the sirens and the mayday. So I just stand there like a mute and shake my head.

“Okay, you’re mad. I get that. You still think Dierdre and I are lovers, but we’re not. It’s over between us, damn it. It’s been over for years.”

I find my voice. “Did I say that?”

“No.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans his forehead against mine. “I need you, Allie. I need you to give me a sane place to go in all this mess. The DEA can’t get a decent handle on Hale. The pipeline the Colombians were trying to cut off at their end is still pumping like hell, and the drugs and prostitution are still going strong. Damn it, Allie, I’m up to my ass in alligators.”

He gives an exasperated moan, then his body makes full contact.

I’m pinned to the door by an aroused male. Worse still, the erogenous zones of my body have cranked back up to the danger zone: knees jelly, mouth greedily harvesting his kisses, arms dangling at my side as my body curves eagerly against his.

But down deep in my gut: the siren is still screeching, and the mayday calls are louder than ever. There are too many unanswered questions about Bill. Or as he puts it: too many sins of omission.

I slide out of his arms and lurch toward the window.

When Bill turns, he looks like a small boy who’s just learned there’s no Santa Claus.

He starts toward me and I hold up my hand. “Stop right where you are.”

His disappointment turns to disgust. “I get your message. Loud and clear. It’s Jaime. Right?”

I shake my head. “Wrong. I’m in love with the man you were in Uvalde. But he’s not here. Someone else is. A Yale Law graduate with a Yankee accent, whose aunt lives in a mansion in Greenwich just across the hedge from his classy ex-girlfriend, who’s very busy trying to reclaim her territory.”

Bill slumps on the bed and leans forward to cover his face with both hands. “I told you weeks ago that what you see are the exterior traits I alter in order to do my job; just like I made changes when I was in Uvalde. Underneath, I’m the same person.”

“Are you? I wonder.”

He peers up at me. “Do you remember the cave? How I held you in my arms until you fell asleep?”

I can feel my defenses fading. “Oh, yes, I remember that night very well. But as you so often say, that’s not the point. The point is that I desperately need to find that man again.”

I rise and open the door, then turn to face him. “Keep in touch.”

He joins me and brings my lips to his in a tender kiss. “You have to know I love you. Why can’t you accept that?”

When I don’t answer, he steps into the hall, then turns to face me. “By the way, we found out who wore that Foo Dog mask. You know, the black one with Chinese red accents. It was assigned to Larry Templeton, the current Cardinal.”

“Guess he couldn’t wait until his best friend died of natural causes.”

He gives me a fleeting grin. “I hear Larry is in high cotton now that he’s Cardinal. That’s motive enough for murder, don’t you think?”

Bill leaves me standing there open-mouthed.

Chapter 36

IT’S MONDAY. Time for the Christmas Bash at The Castle. To say the team’s enthusiasm is at fever pitch would be an understatement.

Jaime is seated next to Greene, across from Mindy and me. Ever since our evening together he’s been conducting himself with the strictest decorum. Not once have our eyes connected to share a knowing glance. Not one sign that we spent a few hours together outside of work. On one hand, I’m relieved he’s not putting the moves on me, but on the other his behavior is very puzzling.

Maybe I’m the one who’s not in step. Maybe I read more into that kiss than he meant.

Greene has been lining up tonight’s operation for over a week. Hampered by having to keep a low profile, he’s limited the “invasion” force to Jaime, himself and the two men in the van in the schoolyard across the street from the townhouse. I understand his reluctance to include Mindy and me, but I’m itching to get in on the act.

The four of us have been going over the tapes from the previous evening.

Absolutely nothing happened. Hale stayed in her suite, and Danes watched television. No communication from Larry.

Greene looks at Jaime. “Danes has to know the living room and his suite are bugged.”

Jaime scrunches his shoulders. “I agree. But why hasn’t he gotten rid of them? He’s not a stupid man.”

“Plain as day to me,” Mindy says. “He wants some sort of backup for protection. He’s scared. You can hear it in his voice.” Greene gives her a brief smile, shuffles through the tapes and slips one into the player. “These particular exchanges made last week really concern me. I don’t think it would be wise to send Allie back there.”

He replays the conversation between Cliff and Hale. In the beginning Cliff seems in charge of the situation. But minutes later, in reaction to whatever Hale whispers, Cliff ’s voice goes shaky. Then he calls Larry. That conversation ends on an ominous note. “Please, Larry, we have to meet. You’re the only one who can control the situation.”

Greene leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling. “I don’t like this at all.”

“But,” I say, “I’m the only one who can get in there without arousing suspicion.”

Jaime turns to me. “I have to agree with Greene. It seems like they’re making a plan that might possibly involve you.”

Greene waves him off. “Let’s table this for now and see what happens tonight.”

He motions to Mindy. “Don’t you have some kind of new spin on this, Detective Cha?”

She lowers her eyes. “Yessir, I do, but it’s so far out—” She shakes her head. “I’d like a little more time on this before I present it to everyone.”

“Fine. But don’t wait too long. Today just might be the big one.”

Greene motions to Jaime. “Let’s get some coffee. I need some fresh air.”

When he looks our way, eyebrows raised, we both shake our heads.

I wait until the men’s footsteps fade, then turn to Mindy. “Just exactly what did you find?”

Mindy lowers her eyes. “It’s so dumb, I hate to even put it into words.”

“Try me.”

“Seems that in the late twenties and early thirties Kingsley-Smythe’s father and Michael Templeton were sympathetic to the German plight. Though the stock market crash didn’t seem to affect either the Kingsley-Smythes or the Templetons, both families had relatives in Munich who were devastated by the European depression.”

She pushes a paper toward me. “Look at this.”

I scan a copy of an article from the Greenwich Time dated July 1930, which reported that both Melchior Kingsley-Smythe and Michael Templeton were returning from a three-month stay in Munich.

She waits until I finish reading and says, “Maybe we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. Maybe this Sigrid is Kingsley-Smythe’s distant cousin.”

“But there’s no mention of Melchior Kingsley-Smythe returning with a child. Aren’t you pushing the envelope just a bit?” Mindy flushes. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. But the name ‘Sigrid Hale’ bothers me. How about you?”

“I’m bothered only because I don’t know who she is.”

“No, no. I’m not talking about the woman. It’s the name. Doesn’t ‘Sigrid Hale’ sound a lot like ‘Sieg Heil’?”

“I still don’t get your drift.”

“Do you know what ‘Sieg Heil’ means?” “Something to do with Hitler?”

She nods. “It means ‘Hail Victory.’ Don’t you remember the old black-and-white films when the Nazis would greet one another by sticking their right arm in the air, clicking their heels and shouting ‘Sieg Heil’?”

Mindy waits for my response. When I shrug she says, “Don’t you see some kind of connection?”

“I suppose.”

“I know it’s a thready correlation but I have that funny feeling I always get when I’m on to something. But at this point, I sure don’t want to make a fool out of myself.”

“In front of Greene?”

She lowers her head so that her heavy black mane covers her face. Out of the depths comes a barely audible, “Yes.”

The door flies open and Greene says, “We’ve got some action. Want to come along?”

————

The four of us are crowded into the van in the schoolyard, where the men in earphones are hunched over their audio-visual control unit.

One turns, a wide grin on his face. “Not only do we have sound, but a full frontal of the woman.” He pushes a button and the surveillance tape stutters forward.

We look into the face of Sigrid Hale and give a collective moan.

Then Greene says, “Big deal. Funny lookin’ dark glasses and a turban. It could be anybody.”

“Hey. We didn’t dress her. We just got her on camera.”

I inch my way past Greene to the console. “What about the sound?”

“Danes, as usual, comes in loud and clear. Nothing from Hale.”

“What about tonight? Can’t you use Mindy and me? Wouldn’t getting in and out of the townhouse go faster if there were four of us?”

The detective shakes his head. “This surveillance doesn’t warrant four people.”

“But, Greene, if I’m the one going in, I want to see what’s there.”

Greene’s face is stone and his response is firm. “I understand why you want to go. But, not tonight.”

Chapter 37

MINDY GRABS MY ARM. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Both of us are dressed in black: jeans, heavy sweaters, down parkas and running shoes.

We’ve just arrived at the back door of the sealed-up basement level of Cliff ’s townhouse. It’s almost ten but the glow from the city lights reflecting on low-hanging clouds gives us ample light. The bad news is I’m acutely aware of the damp cold creeping beneath my turtleneck.

Mindy gives an expletive deleted under her breath.

I turn. “Afraid we’ll get into trouble?”

“Easy for you to say,” she hisses. “You’re not a cop. You’re an ‘independent agent,’ whatever that dumb title means. Greene can’t do much to you, but my career—my future is on the line here. If I’m caught going against his orders, he can get me demoted easy as swatting a fly.”

I want to make some smart remark about how Greene has no intention of firing her since the two of them have been trading cloying looks across the conference table for a couple of days, but now is not the time.

“Don’t make such a big deal out of it. You thought it sounded like a great idea over dinner.”

“Don’t rub it in,” she sniffs. “Lost my big fat mind, that’s what.”

“Don’t worry. Greene and Platón won’t see us. We’re out of sight under this overhang and they’re too busy creeping around inside to notice anything.”

I shine my flashlight on the back door. The glass panes are covered on the inside with paneling of some sort. I reach for the doorknob—there is none. Only the hole where it should go.

“The doorknob is missing.”

“Surprise, surprise. Didn’t you hear a word Jaime said after his surveillance?”

I ignore her. “Looks like they’ve done some kind of cheap paneling job.”

Mindy tugs at my sleeve. “Okay. We’ve scoped the place. I’m freezing. Let’s make tracks.”

I shake her hand away. “Relax. I’m telling you, Greene and Platón don’t have a clue we’re here. I just want to check out one more thing.”

I move to the window next to the door, use my light long enough to see that it’s paneled and move to the window next to it—same treatment.

Mindy’s hovering so close to my left shoulder, I can feel her nonstop quake. “What did you see?”

“The bedroom window is paneled as well.” “How do you know it’s a bedroom?”

“I saw the place once. It was a dump then, but it looks like Cliff might have had it remodeled. As best as I can recall, the front door opens into the living area. To the right were some stairs to the kitchen above but those were sealed before Angela bought the place. There used to be a pre-fab kitchen unit built into the wall and just past that was the back door where we’re standing. To our right there’s a bedroom just big enough to hold a twin bed and a dresser. Off that, there’s a midget-sized bath.”

I move to the final window. This has to be the bath since the opening is several feet higher than the other windows and isn’t as large. No luck here. Frosted glass.

When I turn to say as much to Mindy, I realize I’m alone. Detective Cha has abandoned me.

I’m about to follow when there are heavy footsteps on the porch above and I hear Jaime say, “I thought I saw a light down there.”

A beam cuts through the dark, and I flatten myself into the corner beneath the metal circular stairs.

His foot hits the first step just as Greene’s warning saves me. “Careful, man, those steps are metal and slick as hell. You don’t want to bust your keester.”

“You are right. Only a fool would come this way.”

Their footsteps fade into the house and then down the front steps. My guess is they figure they don’t have to be very careful since Cliff and Sigrid Hale are out in Jersey.

I wait for a few minutes, then go back to the frosted window. With a little urging it inches up, enough for me to take a peek inside.

My flashlight beam floods the bath. It’s bigger than I remember and it’s squeaky clean: shiny white tiles, new pre-fab shower, and state-of-the-art Kohler toilet and sink. The bad news is the door to the bedroom is closed.

I struggle to shut the window, turn off the light, then stop dead when I hear footsteps crunch on the gravel path at the side of the townhouse. I manage to make the shadowed corner beneath the stair when a man rounds the corner and heads in my direction.

He stops at the bathroom window and shines his flashlight on the frosted glass. It’s then that he turns slowly in my direction. It’s Bill.

We both let out our breaths at the same moment and he moves to take me in his arms. All is forgiven—at least for the moment. To feel his mouth on mine is sheer heaven.

He can barely get his words out between his heavy breathing. “What in hell are you doing here?”

Unfortunately, I’m having the same problem with my air intake and pant, “I might ask you the same thing.”

“I was in the area and dropped by the trailer. Surveillance told me Greene and Platón were over here, but they never mentioned you.”

“That’s because no one knows I’m here.”

He studies me a few seconds then says, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.” Before I can get out some wise retort, Bill draws me back into his embrace.

Gasping, I step away, embarrassed that I can’t seem to control my feelings for him in spite of my suspicions. “We better save this for another time.”

Bill gives a low laugh. “All business, aren’t you?”

I ignore the dig. “What are you looking for?”

He goes back to the bathroom window. “Our other operative assigned to The Castle made a sweep of all the rooms and reported them clean. We think they might have moved the drug distribution to this site.”

His mention of The Castle brings back the conversation I had with the detective only the day before. “Speaking of The Castle, I told Greene what you said about Larry Templeton and his Foo Dog mask.”

When Bill doesn’t say anything, I add, “We also have tapes of Cliff talking with Templeton about Sigrid Hale. I mean we have Cliff ’s end of the conversation, so it’s obvious they’re connected.” “Makes sense. Our surveillance reports a laundry truck with the name Dee’s Linen Service has been delivering large bundles wrapped with brown paper ever since Danes moved in. That’s a hell of a lot of linen.”

I sidle past him and point to the window. “Before you got here I was able to raise the sash far enough to see in. It’s a brand-new bath.”

Bill shoves his flashlight at me. “Hold the beam on the window, maybe I can open it all the way.”

With little effort on his part, the window squeaks upward. Bill sticks his head through the opening. “You can still smell the paint. Too bad the window is so small.”

“I might be able to wiggle through if you help me.”

“Not a good idea. We don’t have a clue what’s on the other side of that closed door.”

I briefly describe the layout as I remember it. “Would that space be big enough to handle cutting and distribution?”

“I’d have to see it.” “Then let’s do it.”

Bill shakes his head. “Much too risky. The window is too small for me to get through. Maybe you could get in there, but if something were to happen, I couldn’t cover you.”

He shines the flashlight on his watch. “Besides, it’s almost eleven.”

“That still gives us more than a good hour. What are we waiting for? All you have to do is lift me high enough so I can slide in feetfirst.”

“I can see that, but it won’t be so easy getting you out.”

“Don’t worry about that. We have to move now. This might be our only chance.”

I’m already untying my shoelaces. “I’ll slip out of these, that way I won’t track up the area.”

As I predicted, getting in is easy. But once I hit the floor, I turn toward the window and realize that the sill is now a good six inches higher.

Bill notices the discrepancy from his side. “I told you getting out wouldn’t be that easy. Maybe there’s a box or something you can stand on.”

“No good. They’ll know someone’s been in here. Let’s worry about that later.”

He hands me my flashlight. “Don’t take too long.”

I turn the handle to the door. When it swings open, I freeze. There’s no drug-cutting going on in this place. Dee’s Linen Service has been making legitimate deliveries.

The walls, including the windows and doors, as well as the ceiling, are upholstered with pleated white sheets.

Gone is the partition that separated the small living area from the bedroom. At the center of the wall at the far end of the room is a king-sized bed. To its right, against the back-window wall is an ornately carved armoire. To the left of the bed is an empty space that gives the room a lopsided appearance.

The old pre-fab kitchen unit has been replaced with a brand-new model. To the right of that is a door. I open it to see stairs and realize the only visible entry to this room is from the kitchen above.

Several feet in front of the kitchen unit is a sitting area made up of a round-skirted table with two ice-cream parlor chairs. To one side is a chaise longue covered in the same fabric and next to that is another small table bearing a single lamp.

I walk to the bed. Though there are no signs of the ropes or leather thongs that were once attached, I know. The wrought iron headboard is Caro’s.

Images of Angela’s brutalized roommate and the hapless Sheri Browne flash. I shake off a shudder, but others quickly follow as it dawns that this setup really might be for me.

With my heart in overdrive I lurch into the bathroom to hear Bill’s reassuring, “You okay?” “Get me out of here.”

There’s no other way to extricate me from the bathroom than by pulling me backward over the window ledge.

Once I’m out, I turn and throw my arms around him. “Hey there,” he says, “everything’s going to be all right.”

“No, I don’t think it will be.” I bury my head against his shoulder.

“Okay, just what did you see in there?”

“The bed—the bed is Carolina’s. I’m dead-sure about that because I saw both Caro and Sheri Browne strapped to that wrought iron headboard. Oh, God, I need a drink.”

————

I finish my martini and turn to Bill. “I think I’ll have another.”

“Here, take mine.” Bill shoves his drink next to my empty glass, waves at the bartender and leans close. “So, you saw a bed—a bed you recognize?”

I take a sip from his glass, but I can’t get the next sentence out on first try. After a second slug that dances down my gullet to warm my stomach, I say, “I think that room is being prepared for me.”

Bill moves away, his blue eyes searching mine for a moment before he speaks. “For what purpose?”

I shake my head, afraid to put it into words. Afraid that if I did, the reality would be too much to bear. “They want the jewels. They know I have them.”

“What do you mean by ‘they’?”

“Cliff isn’t in this alone. Larry Templeton and Sigrid Hale are somehow involved. Greene’s picked up on a couple of interesting phone conversations.”

Bill shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“I’m not too keen on it myself, but I have to be the one to get in there. I don’t see any other way. At least none I can think of.” He leans forward to take my hand in his and squeezes it with each word. “You cannot. And I mean cannot go back there.”

“But I’m the only one, don’t you see that? We’re so close to exposing Hale.”

“The DEA will take care of Hale. Plans are already—”

Bill’s martini arrives at the same moment his pager beeps. He checks it, shakes his head and stands. “I have to take this. It’s urgent. Wait here, will you?”

He disappears around the corner and, after a few seconds, returns to lean down and touch my raised mouth with his.

“Gotta go. Sorry.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine. Or I will be after I down these.”

“I’m going only because I know you’ll be safe here at the hotel. Please, Allie, promise you won’t do anything about the townhouse until you hear from me.”

He takes a few steps toward the door, then turns.

I shake off the first effects of the vodka to wave the glass in his direction. “So, go.”

Chapter 38

THE SOUND OF THE HOTEL MAID shoving the vacuum cleaner against my door jolts me awake to squint at the digital clock. Nine already. I’m in trouble. I drank all three martinis and not only do I have one of my rare jackhammer headaches, but my back is a mass of painful bruises. I crab through my morning routine like a hundred-year-old woman with one ear cocked for Bill’s promised call.

By ten, I give up waiting for the telephone to ring. Still, that makes me twenty minutes late for the scheduled report meeting at our chilly makeshift office.

When I give a halfhearted, “Sorry, took forever to hail a cab,” and slide into my chair next to Mindy, she shoots me a nervous glance, then shuffles through her papers until Greene begins his report.

“No problem with the entry. Or with Danes’s suite. But Jaime was right; the lock system on Hale’s door is something I’ve never seen before. We took detailed photographs of the apparatus and sent them to Quantico. If they can’t help us, we’ll try the CIA lab next.”

Greene stares down at his hands. Jaime gazes at the ceiling, and Mindy’s glare dares me not to say a word.

I ignore it. “What about the first floor?”

The detective looks up. “What about it?” “Were you able to scope it out last night?”

Mindy slips her hands from the table into her lap.

I look down to see them clenched together and slide my hand over to give her a reassuring squeeze.

Greene’s voice brings me to attention. “Couldn’t get to it. We can cover that later.”

“You don’t have to. I got in.”

The two men lurch forward at the same moment. Greene says, “You did?”

“I know you said to stay out of this, but I couldn’t. I was below the back porch when Jaime started down the steps and you warned him about slipping on the ice.”

They look at each other then back at me, and Greene says, “You couldn’t do it alone.” He looks at Mindy, who remains focused on the papers in front of her.

“You’re right. Bill Cotton helped me.”

I feel Mindy’s eyes on me as Greene gives Jaime a look, then says, “Are you saying he just happened by?”

“I guess. He said he was in the area and stopped in the trailer. The guys told him where you were.”

The detective scribbles something on his yellow legal pad and shoves it over for Jaime to read.

After Jaime leaves the room, Greene stands, puts a cautionary finger to his lips and says, “I’m starved. How about taking an early lunch at the Grill before we tackle that problem? I’ll give Jaime a call and tell him to meet us there.”

————

We’ve all ordered when Jaime slides into the chair next to Greene and shoves the yellow paper he took with him in front of the detective.

I lean forward. “What’s with the notes, you guys? I thought we were a team. If you have some information, Mindy and I would appreciate your sharing it with us.”

Greene whistles that awful tuneless tune before he says, “Sorry, Allie, I wanted Jaime to speak with the men in the van before—” He looks at Jaime, then back at me. “I know you’re involved with Bill—”

“It’s not good news,” Jaime says. “Neither of our men spoke with Bill Cotton last night.”

My mouth drops. But how could Bill know what was up? I snap my mouth shut and turn to Mindy. I can almost hear her saying, “I told you so.”

Greene pulls out his notepad and begins writing. “So, let’s start from where you’re at the back of the house.”

“I was able to raise the window in the bathroom just enough to peek in. Then Bill showed up. He was able to push the window open as far as it would go.”

“And he helped you in?”

“Not at first. He was against my going in alone because he couldn’t cover me. But you know me, I bugged him until he finally gave in.”

I tell Greene about the boarded windows and doors, the new kitchen unit and the refurbished bath. Then I describe in detail the walls covered with sheets and the king bed with the wrought iron headboard.

But when I mention the newly opened stairway to the upper floor, Greene turns to Jaime. “So, that’s where the door in the kitchen leads.”

Jaime looks at me. “We got the door open, but there was nothing but sheetrock. Guess they’re not done yet.”

Greene and I stare at each other for a few seconds before he says, “What do you think the rooms are for?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

And it’s pretty plain Bill Cotton was playing me for a fool. My mouth goes dry and I have to swallow a couple of times before I get the next question out. “So how did Bill know you were going into the townhouse?”

“He’s one of them—the wrong side—the people who have our place bugged.” Greene says. “That’s the only way he could have known about last night.”

When I shoot the detective a baleful look, he says, “I’m sorry, Allie, nothing came from us.”

Greene looks around the restaurant dining area for the second time in as many minutes. It’s still early so the place is practically ours. Despite that, he leans in close, his chocolate eyes searching mine. “Are you still willing to go along with whatever these people have in store for you?”

I slap a large bandage of enthusiasm over the quivering hole in my stomach. “Isn’t this what I—we’ve been waiting for? We’re so close to getting Hale, we can’t stop now. What’s our next move?” “We press.” Greene gets out his spiral notepad and flips to the back, reads some scribble, then looks at me. “You told me you had to be in Chicago for your sister’s wedding at Christmas, right?” “Yes. That’s a must.”

Greene pockets his notebook. “Let’s see what happens when you announce your departure. That’ll be the first item of business when we get back to the office.”

Chapter 39

AFTER FINISHING LUNCH, we step into the gray December afternoon to head down York with Greene and Jaime in the lead.

Mindy falls in step beside me, and mutters, “Thanks for not involving me. I owe you a big one.”

I touch her sleeve. “I was hoping you’d say that. Because I have a big one—a really big one, and I need your help.” She gives me an inviting grin. “You got it.”

I take a few more strides before I unload. “I possess some evidence that no one else knows I have. And by that, I mean no one. It wasn’t my original intention to hold it back from the investigation. Actually, that’s not quite true.” I let out a long sigh. “At first this evidence didn’t seem terribly pertinent to the case. Then time got away from me and not only was I too embarrassed to own up that I had it, I’m an officer of the court and I could be collared for obstruction.

“But now, I know this information is crucial. It might even bring the Colombian cartel to its knees. Or, at worst, screw up the drug shipments.”

Mindy hasn’t said a word, but she’s nodding and her breath is coming in small, frosty puffs.

“Everybody has been looking for this evidence: the DEA, Greene and especially the baddies. But that’s what’s so strange: the shipments have continued. Either there’s a duplicate of the info someplace else or—I don’t know—there’s a piece of the puzzle that I’m missing.

“Anyway, I need someone besides me to know about this. I believe that someone is you.”

“Oh, Allie, thank you so much for trusting me. I promise I’ll guard the information with my life.”

I look down the street to see that Greene and Jaime have already turned into the doorway to the office.

“It’s an address book.”

Mindy’s face is a total blank. Of course she wouldn’t know. Greene didn’t find it. Jaime didn’t find it. And she’s been onboard for only a few weeks.

“Carolina Montoya, my sister’s roommate, stole this book. And someone murdered her because she did. Nobody could find it—believe me they tried. Finally, I figured out where she hid it. “This address book not only contains the names of prostitutes operating at The Castle, but there are also several pages of code names, followed by a string of numbers, that somehow deal directly with the drug-trafficking operation out of Colombia. It’s my guess the numbers are somehow associated with the bank accounts where they stash the drug money.”

Mindy walks beside me in silence for a few steps. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure, but if for some reason I don’t—” I pause only a second. “If I don’t get out of the townhouse, you have to get to that book and somehow alter the numbers. That way, no one will be able to do much with it. There are still too many people I can’t quite peg. I mean, I’m sure Greene is clean, but—”

Mindy wrinkles her nose. “Not so sure about your Mister Cotton. Did you ever read his file? Of course not. Too afraid. But you might be surprised to find that he’s received several honorable commendations from the DEA. And, I bet you didn’t know he was once married. To a Julia Lee. They eloped. Only lasted a couple of months.”

I’d love to strangle her right this minute because she’s so right about my being afraid of what I would find. But I have to bite my tongue to keep from blurting that I know about the marriage. Then I remember Bill didn’t tell me about that either. The information came from his best friend.

Instead I say, “The address book is in my safe-deposit box at the Chase Manhattan on Eighty-Sixth. Number fifteen forty-two.”

“That’s great, but how do you expect me to get at it?” “There are ways. I’ll tell you how, if it ever comes to that.”

Chapter 40

IT’S BEEN SIXTEEN HOURS since we returned from lunch to the safe house above the deli.

I announced the date of my departure to Greene, Platón and Cha. As planned, all three voiced their disappointment and begged me to stay on. But I stood firm, saying I had done everything I could to find Caro’s murderer, and all my leads had dried up.

After spending a fitful night, Greene knocks on my door at a little past seven. His first news is that the rooms over the deli have been swept for bugs. Two were found—one in each room. But he plans to make daily checks.

Two pots of coffee and several caraway bagels later the phone next to my bed rings.

“Good morning, Angela.” Cliff ’s oily voice oozes through the receiver. “I remember your saying that you were staying at the Wells. I was hoping you were still in the city.”

I look at Greene, give him a thumbs-up and he slides the receiver from the desk phone cradle to his ear.

“Why, Cliff, this certainly is a surprise.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t called too early, have I?” “Not at all. In fact, I was just going out for a jog.”

“Then I’m glad I caught you.” He lowers his voice. “We had our Christmas Bash Monday night. Too bad you weren’t there. You would have enjoyed the festivities.”

“I’m sorry, too. What can I do for you?”

“You said you wanted to meet Mother. Are you still interested?”

I go hot and cold at the same time and try to keep the shakes out of my voice.

“Mmmm, I might not have the time. As you know, my sister is getting married in a couple of weeks. I’m planning to go back to Houston for a few days, then onto Chicago for the wedding.” The silence on Cliff ’s end seems to last an eon, but I can do nothing but wait.

“Uh, I was really hoping you could give us a few minutes. We’ve acquired a third line drawing by that French artist you admired. It’s really quite intriguing. I thought you might want to see it.”

Greene shakes his head and mouths, “Stall.”

“Gosh, Cliff, I have so many things to tie up before I get away.” I slowly count to three. “Sorry for the delay; I’m checking my calendar.” Again I drag the seconds out. “No. No. How about a rain check? I’ll give you a ring the next time I’m in the city.” “Pity.” He rushes on. “I wanted to surprise you, but I guess I’ll have to let the cat out. Thing is, Angela, the woman in this drawing looks exactly like you.”

I decide to jiggle the bait just a little. “Really? Exactly like me? That’s intriguing.”

Cliff bites. “You really do have to see this. Did you say you were leaving today?”

I glance at Greene who shakes his head. “No. I’m not leaving until—”

When the detective holds up three fingers, I count ahead. “First thing Saturday morning.”

Cliff ’s relief is more than evident. “Then surely you can give us an hour or two. How about cocktails tonight, say around six?” “Not tonight. Old friends are giving me a small farewell dinner party. Let me get back to you.”

There’s a tinge of panic in his voice. “No need to play telephone-tag, let’s make the date now. Say tomorrow at six?”

I purr, “See you then.”

After I hang up, Greene gives me a high five.

I return a halfhearted one and sink onto the bed.

Chapter 41

WIDELY KNOWN FOR ITS THICK, juicy veal chops, Arturo’s is packed. Not a problem. Mindy knows the owner so our usual table in the far back corner is waiting for us.

Greene is asking who wants cocktails or wine when I spot Cliff and Larry Templeton standing at the small bar near the entrance. They weren’t there when we walked in.

Each man has a drink in hand. Cliff is looking down at Larry, but it’s plain Larry’s in charge. He’s jabbing Cliff in the chest with his index finger. He only stops when a waiter appears and leads them to a table for two on the opposite wall from us.

Mindy must see them, too, because she taps my shoulder and points toward Cliff. “Isn’t that the man we saw on the video tape?”

“Seems so.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Who knows? It’s a free country.”

Once the two men are seated, I’m able to catch their reflections in a mirror slightly above and across from them. To me it seems as if they are engaged in an intense discussion.

Cliff ’s plea to Larry echoes in my head. “Damn it, Larry, this is serious. Hale wants to push up the date. But there are things that still need to be done before we can properly execute stage one.”

Is that what they’re discussing—Hale? Does she mean to kill again? Am I her next victim?

Mindy’s tinkling laugh draws me back to the conversation. Her small, pale, well-manicured hand touches Greene’s sleeve. He’s smiling down at her, dimples engaged, and obviously pleased that he’s made her laugh.

I turn to see Jaime studying me, but the minute our eyes meet he looks away.

I wonder what that’s about for only a few seconds, then scope out the mirror. The table is empty except for two half-filled glasses.

Mindy puts one hand in front of her mouth and laughs again. This time both Greene and Platón join in. They look my way, eyebrows raised, and Greene says, “What do you think about that? Can you believe it?”

When the drinks come, we all clink glasses, and Mindy gives the detective an adoring look. The woman is totally smitten.

We finish our cocktails and go through a bottle of merlot before the veal finally arrives. Greene orders a second bottle and we dive into our entrées.

Over dessert, the detective tells everyone about my invitation for cocktails at six the following evening and calls a meeting for ten a.m. to talk strategy.

It’s near midnight by the time we exit.

When Greene and Cha head for his car parked around the corner, Jaime offers to escort me back to the hotel.

We walk a few blocks in silence. Jaime’s hands are jammed in his pockets, and his head is slightly bent forward. I keep in step, glad I am wearing loafers with thick rubber soles.

When we stop for the light on Park Avenue, Jaime says, “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

“Yes, a little, but if I can get Sigrid Hale out in the open, it’ll be worth it.”

“But, Allie, why all this effort to find Carolina Montoya’s killer? She was a criminal—a drug-runner. She wasn’t innocent.”

“That may be true, but I knew her long before she got dragged into the loop. You could say she was almost like a sister. So delightful and so funny—and a good friend to Angela.”

The light turns green and we forge across Park Avenue.

When we turn north on Madison, I say, “Thanks for walking me this far. I can make it back to the hotel from here.”

He puts a restraining hand on my arm. “I thought we might take a nightcap in the bar. You up for that?”

That’s a surprise. Jaime’s been ignoring me since the last evening we spent together.

We choose the same table, but this time he takes the seat across from me.

When the tequila arrives, Jaime takes a sip then settles back. “I enjoyed our last nightcap together very much. In fact I was hoping that evening would be the beginning of—well, you know.”

Then I hadn’t misread that kiss. Something happened. But what? I take a sip, set my glass on the table and gather my courage. “What changed your mind?”

He stares at me through lowered lashes. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“Why waste time being coy? I’m eager to clear up whatever seems to have gotten in the way of our friendship because I really like you a lot.”

He gives me another once-over, takes a sip of his drink and says, “When I got down to the lobby, it struck me like a bolt of lightning.”

“Lightning?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but the evening we shared was wonderful. And then kissing you felt so right. I suddenly realized how very much you had come to mean to me. So, it seemed to make good sense that I return to your room to—to—” He gives me a half smile.

“I was about to knock when something or someone hit the other side of the door to your room. God help me, I’m embarrassed to say I put my ear against it and listened.”

I remember backing into the door, trapped in Bill’s arms as every last shred of my resolve melted.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away.

Jaime leans across the table to touch my hand. “I heard Cotton say he wanted you. That’s when I decided to make my exit.”

“You should have waited. Bill left right after you did.”

Jaime gives me a hopeful look. “Then it’s finally over between you two?”

“It should be, shouldn’t it? Bill has lied to me—again and again. There’s no doubt he’s in with Danes and Hale. In fact you were the one who confirmed that there was no contact between Bill and the men in the van. But, heaven help me, I can’t bring myself to believe he’s solely working with the other side.

“He was very worried about what I saw on the ground floor of the townhouse. In fact he told me not to make a move until I heard from him. Good thing he didn’t tell me to hold my breath. It’s been two days—and I’m so damn frustrated I could scream.” My tears come as a complete surprise, but it’s impossible to hold them back. Ashamed, I cover my eyes with my hands.

When I feel Jaime’s arms around me, I lean into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted.”

His voice is soft above me. “Betrayed is more like it.”

Chapter 42

THE TEAM, including the two men who will be stationed in the van across the street from the townhouse, is seated around the table. Though we all have on our outerwear, we shiver while Greene goes over the plan.

The men in the van will go on duty at five forty-five, track my arrival and departure and report my movements to Greene and Jaime, who will be parked not far from the townhouse.

After the detective gives everybody a high five and sends us on our way, he stops me at the door. “I gotta hand it to you, Allie. You’ve got guts. Don’t worry. We’ll be on you like white on rice.” I’m about to thank him when he grows serious. “I mean that about the coverage. We’re solid on you. Just know that the men will be tracking the transmitters and reporting to Jaime and me.”

I suppress a small shiver and give him my biggest smile. “Hey. I’m not one bit worried. I should be in and out of there with no trouble at all.”

The detective gives me a long hard look. “Yes, if all our plans go well, your visit should be a ninety-nine percenter. But remember that precarious one percent. A lot of things could go wrong, like what if Danes frisks you and finds your weapon?”

I shrug. “I’m licensed in Texas to carry a concealed weapon. I have my permit on me.”

Greene nods. “If he takes it?” “He takes it.”

“Okay then, say both transmitters go dead and we have no ears. What do you want Platón and me to do then?”

“This may be my only chance to find out who Hale is. The chance that both transmitters would conk out is slim to none. But, if you should lose contact, give me until tomorrow morning when the bank opens. After that, it’s your call.”

————

Because I’m a freak about being punctual, I’m at the front door of the townhouse at one minute to six.

Cliff opens the door. “Right on time, I see. Come on in.”

Once were in the living room Cliff turns. “Let me take your coat.”

I slip it off and hand it to him. “Where is she? I thought we were to meet.”

“In her suite.” He pauses, “Or should I say yours? Cocktails will be there. But first, I want to show you your doppelganger. I’m telling you, the resemblance is eerie.”

He motions me into the dining room and points to a large square canvas above the sideboard. “Voilá.”

I gasp and take a step back. The face is definitely mine. The body is not. The line drawing is of a Rubenesque nude reclining on a chaise longue, legs splayed—the expression on her face—pure ecstasy.

At first glance, the picture seems more decorous than the other two due to the bright floral print draped over the model’s lower torso. But closer inspection reveals that one of her hands is also beneath the material—the apparent reason for her delight.

When I turn away in disgust, Cliff chuckles. “A little too raw for you?”

“News flash. It’s the beginning of a new century.”

He smiles and waves away my comment. “Oh, don’t be so PC.”

We take a few steps to the foot of the stairs and Cliff turns. “The third floor is a secure area. Do you mind leaving your purse down here?”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Usually, I would say not at all, but Mother’s been a little paranoid lately about meeting strangers.” He points to the console. “Your purse will be safe here. I promise.”

An unexpected move, but one I can handle; after all, I have the second transmitter on me.

When Cliff sees my hesitation he says, “It’s either the purse or meeting Mother. Her conditions, not mine.”

Reluctantly I set my purse on the console and pray the men in the van will still have contact.

Cliff leads me up the two flights to Angela’s old room. I hesitate before the closed door, heart rolling against my rib cage. Sigrid Hale is on the other side.

He steps around me, and gives a gentle rap. “We’re here and thirsty. Open up.”

A series of clicks and slides precedes the snap of a bolt, then the door swings in.

Standing before me is a woman dressed in a gray floor-length, long-sleeved, wide-shouldered crêpe jersey à la Joan Crawford. On her head is a matching turban. Her neck is concealed with a high collar. She wears darkly tinted silver-rimmed pixie glasses studded with tiny diamonds.

Sigrid Hale looks me up and down, then whispers. “Hello, Miss Armington, please do come in.”

Cliff skirts us and heads down the hallway to the seating area of the bedroom.

What a change from Angela’s taste. Though after seeing the entry floor, why should I be surprised?

The walls and shutters are a deep green. In fact the whole room, with the exception of the white ceiling, is monochromatic. Two easy chairs that share a round table and an ottoman are across from a comfortable love seat flanked by small end tables. All are upholstered in a matching fabric, as is the coverlet for the single twin bed. The effect is stunning—like stepping into a jungle at dusk.

On one wall is a small desk with chair and, next to it, a butler’s tray with a wide selection of liquor and wines along with several sizes of glasses.

Hale sinks into one of the easy chairs and beckons me toward the other. “Cliff has chosen a very fine vintage for us. I hope you like it.”

I have to admit I’m totally mesmerized by Sigrid Hale even though her foundation looks like it’s been put on with a putty knife and her lipstick and rouge are a garish red. Behind the darkened lenses of those outdated pixie glasses, long false eyelashes bat with each word she utters.

While Cliff busies himself at the butler’s tray, pulling the cork and pouring the wine, I attempt conversation. “This is very nice. Not that I didn’t enjoy my décor, but the way you have it arranged is a triumph of spatial use.”

She rapidly bats her false lashes. “Oh thank you. It was totally my idea.”

Cliff hands her a glass, then offers one to me. “This is a two-thousand William Fèvre Chablis. We managed to cadge a case from Sherry-Lehman last month. What do you think?”

I take a sip. “It’s very nice.”

When Hale raises her glass, I notice she’s wearing gloves. The shape of a ring beneath the left glove catches my eye.

Cliff cuts through my muddle. “Is something wrong?” “Not at all. This has a lovely nose and a great finish.”

Sigrid gives an approving cluck. “Ahhhh. Then you do know something about wines.”

Cliff settles on the love seat across from us and says to Hale, “Not to change the subject, but I’m afraid Miss Armington is not enamored of her likeness over the sideboard.”

Hale turns my way, eyebrows arched above the pixie glasses. “I think the face is quite lovely. But I do have to agree with you. Cliff seems to have slightly naughty tastes.”

I try to keep my eyes off Hale’s glove, but the oblong on her ring finger is like a magnet. I tear my gaze away and stammer, “How long did the re-do take?”

Cliff says, “Not long at all. The kitchen took a few weeks, but there was no reconstruction up here, just a nice coat of paint.”

I look around the room and say, “This color is an interesting choice. In contrast to the cold weather, it gives the room cozy warmth, but during the summer heat I would imagine it seems like a cool, dark refuge.”

“Exactly.” Hale touches my hand. “You’re a very observant young woman.”

She turns to Cliff. “Did I hear the doorbell?”

He jumps to attention. “Sorry, I must have missed it. I’ll be right back.”

When the door shuts, Hale takes a sip, sets the glass on the table between us, and says in a thready bleat, “So, you’re leaving us?”

I start at that, then remember that’s how I got the appointment. “On Saturday. My sister is being married in Chicago the day after Christmas.”

“Oh, I adore Chicago. Actually, I prefer it to Manhattan. Sounds a bit disloyal for a native New Yorker, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know that much about the city itself. But every summer when my sister and I were little, our family used to visit my uncle and his family on the North Shore.”

The front door slams, then there are footsteps on the stairs. “Open up, I’m loaded.”

I look at Hale who motions toward the front hall. “Do you mind, my dear? This chair is a little too deep for easy exit.”

Cliff jams two plain-white pizza-size boxes in my arms and closes the door. Then he grabs them and hurries down the hall.

By the time I enter the room he has plunked one box on the desk and the other on the ottoman between us. “I ordered one Pupu Platter and the idiot brought two. Lucky I had enough money on me.”

Cliff opens the lid, hands me a napkin and presents the assortment.

I take a couple of miniature egg rolls and settle back to munch, thinking how weird this whole evening has been. Here I am seated next to a woman who not only controls a large stable of prostitutes but who is purported to be a major player in a drug-trafficking operation between Colombia and New Jersey. I don’t know what I expected but not an overly made-up crone who seems fairly helpless.

I glance at my watch. Almost seven. In some ways the time has flown—in others, it’s crept by like lava.

Cliff shoves the box in my direction. “Try the dumplings before they get cold.”

I scoop three onto my napkin and pop one in my mouth. It’s warm, tender and delicious. I make a mental note to ask Cliff the name of the restaurant so I can order some for the final wrap-up at the safe house on Friday.

When the doorbell rings a second time, Cliff dashes down the stairs.

I hear muffled voices below followed by the click of high heels that fades toward the kitchen.

Minutes later, as footsteps hit the stairs, Hale rises from the easy chair with a small grunt and straightens her gown.

I take that moment to have another sip of wine. The cool, luscious liquid has just trickled down my throat when I hear, “Now then, Miss Armington, will you please move to the desk?”

I look up and gasp. Hale stands above me with a Luger aimed at my head.

Chapter 43

I SET MY HALF-FILLED GLASS on the table and frantically try to remember what I did with my purse.

Then my heart folds in half.

The purse is sitting on the console at the foot of the stairs, just where Cliff asked me to leave it.

Hale motions toward the desk. “Move.”

Fear still doesn’t compute. I’m too much in shock to react. Then I try to stand and the blood leaves my head. “Can you give me a minute? I feel a little woozy.”

The Luger touches the center of my back. “Don’t try to be cute. Head for the desk.”

Cliff reenters the room, and I glance his way hoping against hope he might come to my rescue.

No such luck. He’s busy placing sheets of paper and envelopes on the desk along with several pens.

He turns to Hale. “She left the manila envelope with the concierge just as you instructed. Getting the stationery was no problem.”

I notice the stationery reads HOTEL WELLS. “What’s this?”

Hale stands to my right, Luger at my head. “Just tying up a few loose ends. After all, we didn’t think you were stupid enough to come here without alerting your associates.”

A gloved hand pushes a page in front of me. “You’re going to write two notes. The first will be to Detective Greene. Tell him you’ve been unexpectedly called away for a family emergency, and you will not be returning to New York anytime soon. Tell him you have left the cell and the transmitter in a manila envelope with the concierge but that you are taking your Beretta with you.”

That’s good news. I have the other transmitter on me and my weapon must still be in the townhouse. If I can locate that—

Hale’s hand moves to rest on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze as she whispers, “Oh, yes, you might as well sign it ‘Allie.’ Cliff tends to blab after he’s had a few nips.”

Panic crams my chest. My cover’s blown and I’m trapped in a room that has been soundproofed—a room that has a lock no one from Greene’s team has figured out how to open.

The gun barrel caresses my temple. “Get on with it.”

I slide the blank page toward me and pick up the pen. This will be my only chance to alert Greene. Somehow, I have to leave clues, but they can’t be too obvious, or Hale or Cliff will pick up on them. Finally, I get myself together and begin.

Dear Greene,

The bride has a bad case of nerves and needs my support. Besides, it’s only a few days before I was planning to go, and since nothing but nothing is going on, I took the liberty of leaving earlier than we planned.

Give my best to your wife, and hug the kid for me.

Allie

Hale snatches the letter, reads it and is about to slip it into an envelope when Cliff grabs for it. “Let me see that.”

She moves the letter out of his reach. “Not necessary.”

Cliff glances my way and murmurs, “If you want me to participate in this scheme, I need to see everything.”

When Hale lets out a long sigh and hands it over, Cliff scans the letter and looks up. “I didn’t know Greene was married.”

He reads the letter again, then waves it in my face. “We can sure check that out.”

I take a second to enjoy my good luck. Neither of my abductors has bothered to investigate the team’s backgrounds.

“Be my guest. Make the call.”

He hesitates, then looks at Hale, who says to me, “You’re sure Greene’s married?”

“Why would I lie? You’d catch me in it and then what?”

When neither seems eager to pick up the phone, I reinforce. “The detective is married to a lovely woman. She was a receptionist for some mogul at ABC until the baby came.”

Hale grabs the paper out of Cliff ’s hands. “What good are you?” She jams it into the envelope and slaps it on the desk. “Address it.”

I look up to see my reflection in those ugly, tinted pixie glasses. “But, I don’t know the address of the Nineteenth Precinct.”

Hale shoves the envelope at me. “Never mind. Just address it to Greene. I’ll find out the rest.”

Once I’ve written Detective Benjamin Greene, Nineteenth Precinct, Hale places a second sheet of paper before me. “And now for the letter to your parents.”

My stomach caves. I didn’t expect that.

“In this letter you will apologize for not being able to stand up for your sister since you will be in Madrid for the Montoya funeral and are unsure of your return.”

“No way. I would never do that to my sister or my parents and they know it.”

“Perhaps, but if you refuse to go along with this, we’ll have to arrange a little chat with some other member of your family. I don’t think you’d like that, would you?”

When the letter is sealed and added to the one written to Greene, Hale waves me back to the easy chair. “Pass the girl some more pupus, Cliff, she’s been working hard.”

Cliff pushes the box my way and mutters, “Do what she says.”

I take a couple of ribs and drop them into my napkin. The farthest thing from my mind right now is food.

Hale slumps into the other chair, drains her glass and raises it in Cliff ’s direction. “I need a refill.”

After Cliff obliges, he tops off my glass and his as well.

Hale lifts her glass in a mock toast. “I know you think someone will come for you, but we’ve taken care of that. Half an hour ago a woman about your height and wearing a wig in your hair color left the townhouse wearing your all-weather coat and carrying a bag similar to yours. Cliff transferred only the important contents to that bag—the transmitter and the cell.”

I stare back, hoping my small smile of triumph isn’t too noticeable. I’m sure Greene and Platón will check the woman out and find she’s bogus. Besides, the second transmitter is safely stashed inside my bra.

At that, Cliff disappears down the hall, returns and tosses my purse to me as Hale continues. “Your purse still contains your regular necessities with the exception of your weapon.”

I rummage through the contents. Wallet, lipstick, comb and my makeup are intact. No Beretta. No room key. But, to my relief, the safe-deposit key, sheathed in its cardboard case, is still there.

Satisfied that I seem to be satisfied, Hale continues. “Our decoy strolled back to The Wells where she will spend the night in your room and check out before the day clerk comes on duty.”

I’m aching to tell Hale that Greene and Jaime will follow the woman. But even if they take her in, I’ll be in the same spot. There has to be some way to get out of this mess on my own. Then I give my self-confidence level a little psychic boost. Yes, I’ll be fine as long as the second transmitter is operational.

Greene won’t get the letter until tomorrow. Nothing I can do about that. If they nab the imposter, they’ll already know what’s going on.

I can’t worry about my parents or Angela. By the time my letter arrives in Lampasas, this situation will be resolved one way or another. At least I’ll have the night to think it through.

I take a sip of the wine and lean toward Hale. “Just what is it you want from me?”

Hale bats her eyelashes. “Ah, the girl minces no words.” She leans in. “Take a guess.”

“The necklace and earrings.” She nods.

“But they belonged to Kingsley-Smythe’s grandmother. The one who raised him after his mother died. He had no siblings.” I pause to let that sink in, then add, “Just how are you related?”

Hale’s gloved hand flies to her chest and Cliff comes off the couch like a shot to hover at her side. “Are you all right?”

She pushes him away. “I’m just revisiting some painful memories. That poor boy was absolutely desolate over his mother’s death. That’s why Jason was so attracted to you. You reminded him of her.”

Hale extends a hand to Cliff, who pulls her to her feet. She points to the bed. “You’ll be quite comfortable up here. We’ve furnished the basic supplies.”

I follow them to the bedroom door and watch them retreat down the hall.

Halfway there Hale turns, “Don’t waste your time trying to escape or attracting anyone’s attention. This area is soundproof and quite secure.”

I slowly walk back into the bedroom as the now-familiar clicks and slides end in a final snap of the bolt.

Chapter 44

RECONNAISSANCE IS THE FIRST ORDER of business. I try the shutters hoping that by moving them up and down I can attract someone passing by. No such luck. The louvers are metal and seem to be welded in the closed position.

I hurry down the hall to the door. On close inspection, I find that it’s not wood at all, but solid metal. And the area where the locks and bolts once were is now a smooth panel attached to a frame by a rod at the top and the bottom.

The concept is brilliant. When Hale is in the suite, the locks face in, when Hale leaves, she rotates the panel to face out.

I remember Jaime saying there was no actual keyhole; but some kind of high-tech system he’d never seen before.

When I reenter the bedroom, a glint catches my eye and I look up. In the corner near the door and placed at the ceiling line a small lens tracks my moves. I suppress the hysterical urge to wave. No point in letting on.

I hurry to the bath. No changes there. After a cursory sweep, I see the room is basically unchanged. No camera that I can detect. Guess Hale doesn’t like to be seen in the buff either.

I cross the hall to open the closet door. It’s one-third the original size. A wall has been added with a padlocked door.

The remaining section is empty except for a hook holding a floor-length satin robe trimmed in marabou and a pair of matching marabou-trimmed bedroom slippers.

I comb the closet for a camera. If there is a camera, it’s been well concealed. Hoping there isn’t one, I huddle next to the robe and ease the remaining transmitter from beneath my sweater into my shoulder bag.

Since it’s just eight thirty, I return to the bedroom, grab a cold rib and fill my glass with the rest of the wine.

While I munch and sip, I go over my predicament. I still have one of the transmitters but no weapon or cell, and I’ve been locked in for the night with no way to escape. On top of that, there are several unanswered questions. How was Hale related to Kingsley-Smythe? How did she know about the necklace and earrings? And why does she want them? And finally, why has someone been killing her prostitutes?

I grab another now-gelid dumpling and then another. I can’t believe it, but I’m famished.

————

Sounds of the door to the outer hall being unlocked wake me from a dreamless sleep. Then a motor whirrs and the shutters slowly open to reveal the morning glow.

As footsteps approach, I gather the covers around my neck.

It’s Cliff, bearing a tray with a coffee pot and cups, a bowl of fruit and a stack of toast with the usual accompaniments.

He’s alone and from the lack of clicking locks, he’s left the door open. If I were dressed, I could make a dash for it. I make a mental note to make sure I don’t let the next opportunity to escape pass me by.

He sets the tray on the ottoman. “Hale will be up in a few minutes.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

He settles on the ottoman next to the tray. “Depends on the subject.”

“You shouldn’t mind my asking the obvious. Why does she whisper?”

He studies me for a few seconds then shrugs. “She’s talked that way for as long as I’ve known her. I once heard she was playing goalie in a field hockey game and was accidentally struck in the throat.”

“That certainly would explain it.”

He grabs a piece of toast. “That’s it?”

“No. Hale isn’t your mother, why do you call her that?” “She’s my boss. What the boss asks—you do.”

He slathers the slice of toast with butter and marmalade. “I’ve been with her for twenty-some years. It was she who suggested I become a model’s agent. We used the business to attract young women.”

He must see the shock in my face because he adds, “Not Angela. I represented her on the up-and-up. In fact, I have quite a few clients who aren’t prostitutes.”

“But why take the criminal route? You have connections.”

He rubs his fingers together. “Money. When you’re used to it and lose it—” He sighs. “We had the pedigree but not the really big bucks. Dad’s brother took his inheritance and invested it well. Unfortunately, Dad was a dreamer who never quite got it together. We lived on the interest from his part of the estate until I was around ten.

“That was when he squandered everything we had on the only Edsel dealership in Hoboken. You remember the Edsel, don’t you? He couldn’t face the consequences and committed suicide.

“My mother and I lived with my uncle and aunt until her death. A few weeks after the funeral, I was politely asked to come pick up my things.”

It’s then I see another Cliff. Not the effete, well-dressed snob he seems but a lonely and disillusioned man who wasn’t secure enough to make it on his own.

“So, how did you hook up with Hale?”

“There was some money left—not much—enough to get me through college. After I graduated I mooched a room off an old prep-school buddy.

“He told me about Hale. I visited one of her brownstones for an evening of pleasure. We met and immediately hit it off.” He pauses, then says, “Not in a sexual sense—strictly business. I needed the income; she needed an assistant. Voilá.”

He takes a bite of his toast. “I handled all the organizational work for Hale. God knows she needed it. But the deal worked in my favor. I could work several days a week or cram it all into the end of the month.

“Back then my life was my own. All that changed when we bought this place. I’ve been on a choke chain ever since.” He looks away. “But she’s promised me—” He gives me an emphatic nod. “There will be compensations—big compensations.”

“But Cliff, everything connected to Sigrid Hale is illegal. And that makes you an accessory.”

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Take my advice and don’t play cute. Okay? Just do what she asks. If you do, you just might escape intact.” He gives me a stare freighted with warning, then mutters, “Some of the others haven’t been so lucky.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I hear footsteps and Cliff shakes his head. “Just be careful.” Hale is swathed in the same design as the one she wore last night, with the same matching turban and gloves. Only this costume is menopause red—definitely not her color.

I slide out of bed clutching my robe about me, and rush past them. Since there’s no time for a shower, I throw on my clothes and “replant” the transmitter. After a quick splash of water on my face, a cursory brush of my teeth, and a swipe at my hair, I’m back in the bedroom in minutes.

Cliff hands me a cup of steaming coffee and points to the tray. “Fruit or toast?”

I shake my head. “Just coffee.”

I drain the cup, get a refill and nibble on a piece of the cold toast. Then I realize Hale has been staring at me through those stupid tinted pixie frames.

Finally she says, “What about the necklace and earrings?”

No point in playing games. So, I give her what she wants. “They’re in a safe-deposit box at the Chase Manhattan on Eighty-Sixth.”

“Ahhh,” she says. “The key in your purse. We thought that might be the case.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that no one can get in the box except myself.”

“We’re aware.” Hale turns to Cliff. “You will accompany Miss Armington to the Chase.”

She opens her purse, pulls out the Luger and hands it to him. “It has a silencer. Use it if you have to.”

Cliff pockets it. “Don’t worry. I won’t have to.” He turns to me. “Will I?”

Chapter 45

IT’S A GRAY, RAW DAY, herald of the fast-approaching winter solstice. I’m wearing Cliff ’s all-weather coat while he hunches into a down-filled, knee-length parka to avoid the stinging gusts of the latest cold front.

When we descend the front steps, I notice the surveillance van has vanished from the utility area of the school. That could either be good or bad depending on what Greene knows.

Grateful for Cliff ’s silence, I go over my two options: Once we reach Third Avenue I could easily bolt and seek refuge. Cliff would be insane to draw a weapon on a crowded street. But that means I would never get back into the townhouse. That option is definitely out. Better that I play along. Just get the jewels, give them to Hale and see what happens next. Besides, I still have the address book to use as a bargaining chip.

When we arrive at the entrance to the bank, I put my hand on Cliff ’s arm. “Hold on. Looks like there might be a metal detector inside the front door. You’re armed. You could set it off.”

He instinctively pats the pocket holding the Luger.

“I didn’t think about that.” He cranes his neck toward the entrance. “Maybe they don’t have one here.”

I stare at him a few pregnant seconds then say, “It’s up to you. But, if that alarm goes off—”

He shifts his stance from one foot to the other for a minute, then says, “But, Hale said not to let you out of my sight.”

“Where in hell do you think I’m going to go? She threatened my family. Remember?”

“I remember.” Cliff looks both ways. The street is almost empty. “I don’t know—”

“Look, Cliff, it won’t be good for either of us if I don’t get into that box. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I suppose I’ll have to. Because there’ll be worse trouble if we go back without the necklace and earrings.”

He gives me a gentle shove toward the doors. “Don’t be too long. It’s freezing out here.”

Once inside, I hurry toward the safe-deposit box sign-in desk. After the woman checks my signature, I produce the key, and she leads me into the vault. In seconds I have the pouch containing the necklace and earrings in my purse and make for the nearest available phone.

Though all of Greene’s numbers were programmed in my commandeered phone, I took time to memorize one, his personal cell.

No answer. It’s been fourteen hours since Cliff greeted me at his front door, but to hear the detective’s voice asking me to leave a message brings a brief warm feeling that I’m still connected to the outside world.

“It’s Allie. I met Hale. She lifted my weapon, and my cell, then forced me to write the letter to you. There’s also another bogus letter in the mail to my parents. Could you give them a heads up and tell them not to worry?

“I’m at the Chase Manhattan on Eighty-Sixth to retrieve the necklace and earrings from safe-deposit box fifteen forty-two. Cliff is with me. He’s got a gun, but I don’t think he’ll use it. I could run, but I still don’t have any concrete evidence on Hale’s identity. I’m requesting another twenty-four.”

I start to lower the receiver, then pull it back to my ear. “Greene, this is urgent. I gave Mindy some instructions the other day. I think they should be carried out immediately—like now. I’m pretty sure all you need to get a court order is this recording.”

I hang up and head for the glass doors.

Cliff, head bowed against the stinging wind, looks up. “It’s about time. What took you so long?”

“It’s the new lock on my box. They must have had to drill out the last one. Had a heck of a time with my key.”

We start back on Eighty-Sixth toward Third when Cliff grabs my arm. “Wait a minute, I need to talk.”

I try to pull my arm away. “Not now, I’m freezing.”

Cliff doesn’t budge. “Just listen for a minute, will you? I want you to give me the pouch and walk away. I won’t stop you.”

He’s offering me a way out. Only moments before I had seriously considered doing just that. It’s like he’s reading my mind.

“I’ll say we had a fight, I grabbed the pouch and you bolted. That should satisfy Hale since she’ll be getting what she wants. She’ll be mad as hell but so happy to get the jewelry back that she won’t do much to me.”

“Why are you offering this?”

Cliff looks both ways, and even though no one seems within earshot he takes a step closer. “You must have some idea of what’s in store for you. Hale hasn’t roughed you up because she wants those jewels, but once she has them, I don’t know what might go down.”

I take a few seconds to think things over. As tempting as it is, I’m in that townhouse with one mission—to expose Hale. “I can’t.”

He gives me a puzzled look. “Why in hell do you want to get in the middle of this mess? What could you possibly gain?”

Then he starts patting my shoulders. As his hands begin to trail down my back, I jump away. “Stop that!”

“Are you wired? Is that why you want to go back?”

“How in hell could I be wired? I was out of your sight for less than—”

“Jesus, you’re a stubborn bitch—I’m trying to give you a break, damn it.”

“Then give me one. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”

Finally he says, “Just remember I tried.”

Chapter 46

IT’S ALMOST NOON by the time we make our way back to the townhouse, where Hale is pacing the foyer like a caged cat.

She’s poured into a long, black fur. A second look confirms my first impression. It’s Angela’s mink. How the hell did she get hold of that? The last time I saw it, Kingsley-Smythe asked me to leave it in his Mercedes the night he was murdered. I really hadn’t given much thought to its whereabouts until this minute.

Hale holds out a trembling glove. “Give them to me.”

When I remove the pouch from my purse and drop it in her eager grasp, she wheels and hurries toward the dining room with the two of us right behind her.

The near end of the glass-topped table is covered with a black towel. Hale opens the pouch and the jewels tumble to sparkle against the inky background. I suppress a gasp; the diamonds and rubies are much larger than I remember.

Hale looks up at the two of us. “I never thought I would see them again.”

She lowers herself into the chair at the head of the table. “Cliff, take the chair to my left. And you—” She motions me to the end near the kitchen door.

Once Cliff and I are seated Hale says, “The Luger?”

Cliff shoves it to her. “There was no problem at the bank.” Then he lies. “She was in and out in less than five minutes.”

If I add this lie to his offer to let me escape, I’m pretty sure I have an ally. A smirk twitches at the edge of my mouth and I lower my head to hide it.

Footsteps rise from below. I look in the kitchen and see Larry Templeton coming through the door to the inside stairway.

Hale points to the chair on her right. “Have a seat.”

“I parked on Ninety-Seventh and entered just like you said. I don’t think anyone saw me.” Larry settles in the chair across from Cliff. “I detest coming here. If we’re ever discovered, it’ll be the end for all of us.”

Hale pushes the towel toward him. “Let’s get down to business.” Larry extracts a jeweler’s loupe from the inside pocket of his jacket, and after careful inspection shoves the jewels her way. “They’re genuine. How did you get them back?”

Hale points at me. “They went to the Chase on Eighty-Sixth, where she removed them from her safe-deposit box.”

Larry jumps up. “You let her go to the bank? How can you be sure she didn’t tell someone she’s being held against her will?”

Hale waves Larry’s words away. “Cliff was with her the entire time. He had a gun. She’d be crazy to try anything. Sit down.”

He slumps into the chair. “Okay, okay. Maybe nobody saw them. What happens next?”

“We proceed with my plan.”

“No!” Larry slams his fist on the table. “You can’t go forward with what you have in mind. It’s the absurd meddling of an old—”

Hale raises a warning hand. “Don’t push me.”

Larry’s mouth drops, then he recovers. “Think this through.” He glances at me then back at Hale. “There’s no way you can be sure that your—experiment will succeed.”

Hale leans forward. “But it will work. She’s young. My tests are positive. The odds are definitely in my favor.”

“But, you can’t keep her locked up indefinitely. They’ll come looking. You’ll be discovered. Ruined. Not the way to end your days. Please. I beg you.”

“My mind is made up.”

“Unmake it. She knows too much. We should have taken care of her when we had the chance.”

Hale stands and gathers herself to her full height. “We will proceed. With or without you.”

Larry jumps up. “Then it’s over. I’m leaving.”

Their voices fade as the first inkling of what Hale has in store for me insinuates itself and my stomach gives a queasy heave. My age. Hale’s tests. That room below, covered in white sheeting. Was the space to the side of the bed meant to accommodate a surgical table?

It’s then I take time to carefully study Sigrid Hale. Her foundation is applied with a trowel, the rouge—daubed and smeared. Of course there are the ubiquitous false eyelashes that seem to continuously flutter behind those infernal, tinted pixie glasses.

But when I concentrate on the physique beneath the Joan Crawford costume, I notice there are no enormous shoulder pads like Crawford wore, only the muscular outline of Hale’s physique.

Why didn’t I pick up on all the obvious signs before? The whisper, the false eyelashes, the floor-length, high-necked dresses, the long sleeves and the gloves.

Sigrid Hale is a man.

My thoughts are too scattered to make much sense of anything else going on. All I know is this situation has ramped to red alert.

Distracted by Larry’s unpleasant and abrupt departure, Hale doesn’t seem to notice my confusion.

“If I know Larry, he won’t drop that bone any time soon.” Hale turns my way. “He’ll be back and when he comes, things may get a little rough. You’ll be better off on the ground floor.”

Hale motions to Cliff. “Take her down.”

“But I got you what you wanted.”

Cliff grabs my arm and mutters, “You had your chance.”

After Hale disappears up the stairs, I jerk out of Cliff ’s grasp and hiss, “I don’t get it. You practically begged me to leave this morning and even lied about how long I was in the bank.”

“Things are different now. You know who Hale really is.” “Do I?”

“Don’t play stupid. The look on your face was priceless. Talk about the proverbial light bulb.”

Cliff pushes me through the kitchen, down to the basement and shoves me into the room.

When he turns to go, I grab his arm. “How long have you known?”

“For a long, long time.” He shakes my hand off. “So. Now you have your answer. But, don’t try anything cute. There’s no way out.”

He pulls the door behind him, and the lock snaps shut.

I listen to his footsteps climb the stairs, cross the kitchen floor above me and fade to nothing.

I don’t sense the creeping fingers of panic until Larry’s words echo. “She knows too much. We should have taken care of her when we had the chance.”

That was a threat, but what disturbs me even more was his admonition. “You cannot go forward with what you have in mind.”

And what did Hale say? “She’s young. My tests are positive.” Now that I’m almost certain who Hale is, that throws a different spin on those words—a very different spin.

I take a few steps to the armoire and throw open the doors. It’s jammed with matching nightgowns and negligees.

I sag onto the bed, mind spiraling at the grim realization that the plan is for me to spend a lot of time down here—at least nine months. Worse still, I might not make it out of here alive.

Chapter 47

NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. No way. No how. I’m getting out now.

I grab one of the ice-cream parlor chairs and head for the bathroom.

Though there’s barely enough space to build any momentum, I swing the chair into the small window as hard as I’m able.

Just a dull thwack. No exploding shards. No broken glass tinkling across the tile.

I try again.

The chair leg hits the window and bounces away.

From behind me a familiar voice says, “No point in straining yourself, my dear. It’s a plastic composite, not only durable but soundproof.”

It’s Jason Kingsley-Smythe—makeup removed—wearing a Tattersall in blue under a navy sweater with gray slacks that crease over the tops of black tassel loafers.

My first emotion is relief—relief that the man wasn’t murdered. This lasts about a nanosecond as anger pushes past whatever fear lurks at the bottom of my gut.

“You bastard! How dare you do this to me?”

He gives me this stupid grin. “I dared because I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. That’s why.”

I ignore him to take stock of the situation. His hands are at his side.

He’s not holding a weapon.

Neither of his pockets seems to be sagging under the weight of his Luger.

The man is in his mid-seventies. Not quite as quick or as strong as he once was.

I can take him if I make the right moves.

I look down at the chair clutched in my hands. Metal legs ending in lethally shaped spade-feet.

A swift jab in the groin will send him down. Then I can go for the head.

Once he’s unconscious, I can get up the stairs and out the front door.

Kingsley-Smythe breaks into my thoughts. “Put the chair down.”

He motions me into the bedroom, but I stand firm, knowing this may be my only chance to escape. I’ve identified Sigrid Hale. Now, all I have to do is get to Greene and spill the beans. He’ll handle the rest. Mission accomplished.

“I asked politely, but if you insist—” Kingsley-Smythe reaches his right hand behind him and produces the Luger.

No point in rattling the rattler. Game over—for now.

I set the chair on the tile floor and slide past him into the bedroom, searching my mind for some way to stall what might be coming next. If I’m ever going to get out of here, I have to distract him.

I choose the chair by the table instead of the chaise. At least there will be some sort of barrier between us.

After Kingsley-Smythe retrieves the chair from the bath and places it across the table from me, he sits. “I suppose you want to know why I went to the trouble of faking my death?”

When I shrug, he continues. “I assure you it wasn’t because of your startling resemblance to my mother—though that did eventually figure into my grand plan.

“When the young Turks threatened me at that meeting, I realized I was done for as Jason Kingsley-Smythe. I was too old and sad to admit it—powerless. It was then I made the decision to end that part of my life. I needed a witness. You filled the bill. And, since you now know who I am, I suppose you deserve to hear some of the details.”

Kingsley-Smythe, Luger still in hand, leans back in his chair. For the next few minutes, he describes a life of a privileged but motherless child at the mercy of a distant and disapproving father who sent him to live with his maternal grandmother.

“Though Grammy loved me, she was very old and a little strange. She would take me up to the third floor, open her wedding chest and let me try on her trousseau.”

His see-through eyes soften. “Such lovely creations—so beautifully made. Over time, I came to enjoy wearing women’s clothing. So much so that I took several outfits with me to Andover.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying. To imagine a seventh-grader dragging women’s clothing to an all-male boarding school, even during the late nineteen-thirties, is a stretch.

“Larry and I were two lonely young boys struggling into manhood. He was terribly gifted—had a photographic memory. He could glance at strings of equations and never forget the sequences.

“We had an affair of sorts—mostly kisses and the like, since neither one of us knew too much about anything else. Larry hated dressing up as much as I loved it, so I played the woman.”

Kingsley-Smythe must see the shock on my face, because he raises a cautionary hand. “I assure you I’m not gay. It was just a passing phase that ended before the spring term was out. When Larry and I returned to school the following fall, we laughed about it. It seems that during the summer we had both discovered women. Though Larry’s interests have always been somewhat skewed.”

He pockets his Luger, walks to the Bosendorfer and begins to play. After a few bars, he looks over his shoulder. “I composed this piece. How do you like it?”

“Never been much into jazz.”

“Pity, I was quite good once upon a time.” He runs through a few more riffs. “In fact I had my own jazz combo in high school and studied under the great jazz pianist Helmut Reisend the summer before college. He was a great master—almost lost his life escaping from the Nazis.

“I was absolutely fascinated with Adolf Hitler and how he gained such power. How the Germans looked the other way while his army exterminated the Jews. How in the end, his closest comrades turned on him.

“Still the man fascinated me so, I ultimately chose the name Sigrid Hale when I began my rather nefarious business ventures.” He turns to face me. “Surely, you must get the connection?”

“But why masquerade as a woman?”

He laughs. “You’re a woman. That should be easy to figure out.”

“Not a clue.”

“Men are basically afraid of women. After all, women completely control their early existence. Think about it. A powerful woman is much more potent than her male counterpart. Harks back to Oedipus I suppose.”

Why is he telling me this? And now? A small chill feathers down my spine, as the ultimate possibility flits across my mind. Then I comfort myself with the fact that as long as he’s talking I’m safe. Sort of like a reverse spin on Scheherazade, only he’s the one who’s telling the tales.

Thank God, women have been blessed with the ability to multi-task. While half-listening to his tale, I search my mind for a plan. There has to be something plausible enough to seem real. Something.

His drone breaks my thoughts. “I took up my double identity when one of my cronies was killed doing loops in his biplane. He had a very nice stable of high-class call girls, with whom I had become acquainted through the years.

“My favorite approached me, explained the situation and asked for help. I must say it came at a time in my life when I needed diversion, so I was only too happy to take them on. I had three houses in SoHo that ran around the clock.

“Thank heavens Larry came into the partnership. His photographic memory has been extremely valuable in the light of our loss earlier this year. It was Larry who stumbled onto the Colombian Connection. So lucrative. So very easy.”

When I say nothing, he goes on. “In order to accommodate the reception and distribution of the goods as well as showcase the girls, we needed a larger space, water access and a situation where the law generally looked in the other direction if you paid them enough. Larry’s family home on the Jersey shore was perfect.”

We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before I say, “Would you let me go if I told you I had access to something valuable?”

“And what might that be?”

“The address book. After Caro was murdered the police searched the townhouse and came up empty-handed. Several days later another person came looking for it.”

“Yes. We knew about that. But, of course with Larry’s photographic memory we didn’t need it. How in heaven did you unearth it?”

“Seems the men weren’t as snoopy as I was. All I had to do was figure out where Caro hid it. I have it in the safe-deposit box at the Chase. I can get it for you, but once I do, you’ll have to release me.”

He studies me for a few seconds. “Describe it.”

“The first several pages are filled with women’s names. But toward the back of the book the names are different.” “Keep talking.”

I struggle to pull the names from my panicky memory.

“Horus? And then—Ishtar? The names seem to be in alphabetical order. After each name is a long string of numbers that don’t make any sense to me.”

Obviously satisfied, he starts to rise.

I put up my hand. “But there’s something else we must talk about.”

He settles in the chair, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been looking around and from what I’ve seen, I’ve figured out what your experiment is.”

“Yes. By now I’m quite sure you have. I must confess I was furious when Larry told me that you and Angela had switched places. However, I found you to be a bright young woman. Much brighter than your sister.”

I want to tell him he’s dead wrong on that score. Angela’s in Houston wrapped in the safe embrace of her fiancé, while smart-aleck Allie is trapped in the basement with an aging loony-toon. “But why do you want a child? You’re near the end of your life. You’ll never see it grow up.”

“So you think I’m crazy too?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think because the issue is moot. What you’re asking of me is impossible.”

“Not at all.” He puffs a little. “My sperm are quite vigorous for a man my age.”

“Congratulations. But you didn’t hear what I said. What you are asking of me is impossible.”

Those icy, pale-blue eyes pierce mine for a second or so before he says, “Explain.”

I take a deep breath to fight the roll in my gut. Only one chance to sell this lie—only one chance.

“I’m barren.”

That gets him. “Explain barren.”

Only one chance. Don’t blow it. “Unable to conceive? Sterile?” He stares at me for a few seconds and I lock my eyes with his, hoping they’re loaded with honesty.

He breaks first and murmurs, “But, you’re so young—how?”

“I had an abortion when I was in college.” At least that part is true. Then, counting on the fact that the man won’t exactly be a gynecological genius, I embroider a little.

“The abortion was a success, but it resulted in extensive endometriosis.”

“Explain.”

“Only one chance” keeps echoing at the side of my mind. I check him out to see if he’s buying. Looking good. He’s leaning forward.

“Endometriosis is a disease of the lining of the uterus. Over time cysts and adhesions form on the uterine lining. These growths make it extremely difficult to conceive. Even if I did, I wouldn’t carry a fetus to full term.”

Kingsley-Smythe’s reaction is totally unexpected. He reaches across the table and gently pats my arm. “I’m so sorry. How sad for you.”

He lowers his eyes and lets out a long breath. “I hadn’t counted on this.”

He rises, slowly walks toward the stairs and turns. “I’ll need time to consider the consequences of what occurred today. You now know who I am. Larry seems to have turned on me. And another trip to the bank could be dangerous.”

He gives me a halfhearted salute and disappears up the stairs.

After the bolt snaps, I look around the room. The bed with the wrought iron headboard beckons, but there’s no way I’m sleeping in the same bed where two women met their deaths.

I move the lamp off the table and begin a search of the general area where the door to the backyard might be.

I pat down the material. Nothing. Next, I lie back, press my feet against the wall and push with every ounce of strength I can muster.

Touchdown. I hear a muted rattle—glass on the other side of the paneling. I press again. Again, the rattle.

Kneeling next to the wall, I run my fingertips downward trying to visualize where the hardware would be. Then I remember. The door is covered with some sort of cheap paneling.

Frustrated and tired, and sadly aware that my last ace in the hole isn’t as important as I thought, I struggle to my feet and put the lamp back on the table.

I suppress a yawn and yank several pillows, the coverlet and blanket from the bed. After making a comfortable nest, I fall onto the beckoning chaise and turn off the light.

————

The sound of descending footsteps cuts into my dreams. I pull my arm from the warm cocoon and squint at my watch. It’s ten thirty-seven. Because there’s no daylight I’ve lost all track of time. Still, my stomach is growling.

The door opens. It’s Kingsley-Smythe still dressed in his sweater and slacks, which leads me to believe that only a few hours have passed since I turned out the light.

“What’s the matter?”

He points toward the bath. “We’ll have plenty of time for questions after you take care of your basic needs. I’ll wait.”

I slide into the bath. There’s no privacy lock, but I can’t worry about that. Something’s up. But what?

In minutes I’ve brushed, splashed and lipsticked. I reenter the room, grab my bag and start toward the stairs.

Kingsley-Smythe is about to open the door when a stampede of steps approaches, and Larry appears with Cliff behind him.

Kingsley-Smythe slides his hand into his right pocket. “What’s going on?”

“Cliff called. Yanked me out of a dead sleep. Said she knows who you are.” Larry points an accusing finger at me and glares at Kingsley-Smythe. “From the way you’re dressed, looks like Cliff was right.”

Kingsley-Smythe glances my way. “We can take care of Miss Armington after we get the address book.”

Larry’s mouth drops. “What in hell does she have to do with the address book?”

“Miss Armington discovered where Miss Montoya secreted it.” “But, Jason, we don’t need it. I have everything memorized.” “Ah, Larry, but we do.”

“But why jeopardize the situation? I can dictate the information.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can. But we’re both getting up in years now. You could forget a thing or two. Having that book in our hands would be insurance—in case something might happen to you.”

Kingsley-Smythe turns to Cliff. “It took me a while to realize you were the one who stole the address book and stashed it with Miss Montoya. Ah, the perfidy of women. She never told you where it was, did she?”

When Cliff lowers his eyes, Larry jumps up and points an accusing finger in his direction. “For God’s sake, Jason, this man is nothing more than a common thief, and a disloyal one at that. You’ve had others killed for less. What’s stopping you now?”

Chapter 48

IT’S CLOSE TO NOON by the time Cliff and I head back to the bank, leaving Larry and Kingsley-Smythe behind. After much discussion, the two finally reached a tenuous agreement on how to handle Cliff and his indiscretion.

Both Cliff and I sat there listening with mouths agape. As far as the two old friends were concerned, we might as well have been on another planet.

Though I’m shivering in Cliff ’s all-weather coat, my thoughts are on the news I have about Sigrid Hale and the dilemma I face. If I squeal, they’ll all come running. Then what will happen? Poor Kingsley-Smythe has had enough problems. What would a long term in prison serve? He’s been defanged. And it seems that Larry is the really bad actor.

When Cliff lets out a pained grunt, I look over to see he’s shuddering in his down-filled, knee-length parka. That sort of puts us in the same boat with one major exception: the Luger, safety off, is clutched in Cliff ’s hand jammed inside his right pocket.

We trot to keep our blood circulating. Not one word out of Cliff. Not that I expect casual chitchat. If he feels anything like I do, he’s so cold his mouth has stuck shut.

My message to Greene was for nothing. Even if they had a chance to “duplicate” the address book with changes, it won’t do any good. Larry will catch the discrepancies in seconds.

————

I make my way through the bank to the vault and hand over my key to the same woman as before.

She looks at my signature, then up at me. “Oh, yes.”

After she inserts both keys into box fifteen forty-two, she opens the door. The safe-deposit box has been removed. “Is this what you requested, Miss Armington?”

When I nod she points me toward the private rooms. “Room three, please.”

Mindy, bundled like she’s about to be off for one of the Poles, is waiting.

I’m so happy to see a friendly face I throw my arms around her. Then I feel her tense beneath all those layers and realize I’ve overstepped my bounds.

I drop my arms and take a step back. “Thank God, Greene came through.”

She hands me the red leather address book. “We got a court order and were in here an hour after you left. All done. Just like you asked.”

I open it. “Is this the copy?”

“This is the book with the changes. Your guess was a good one. We’re pretty sure these are the numbers of Swiss bank accounts where the laundered drug money is stashed.”

She points to one string of numbers. “Only two of the digits have been altered in each sequence. The numbers chosen are random so the untrained eye can’t pick up a pattern. One would have had to memorize the string to catch the inconsistency.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s the problem. I’ve just found out Larry Templeton has a photographic memory. That’s how the drug shipments were able to continue after Caro was killed. I sure hope you have the original here.”

Mindy raises the lid of the safe-deposit box. “Voilá.” She takes out the second book, but doesn’t hand it over. “Actually, they’re both copies. Though the original is in good shape, Greene wanted a little insurance. We purchased two address books. The lab ‘aged’ them with identical stress marks and tears. The only way you can tell the ‘real’ from the bogus is the small tear in the last page of the bogus.”

I turn to the back of the book. The tear is so small that unless you were comparing the two page by page you’d never notice the difference.

“Greene thought it best to remove the original to a safer place.”

She hands me the bogus original, and I put it in the right-hand pocket of Cliff ’s all-weather and shove the altered book into the left-hand pocket of my tweed jacket.

“Greene told me the woman impersonating you was picked up and interrogated. Not much there. She was an out-of-work actress who needed money. She was just carrying out orders.”

When I start for the door Mindy catches my arm. “Greene’s worried we can’t cover you as close as we’d like. My orders are to bring you with me.”

“But I’m right in the middle of this. If I don’t go back to the townhouse—look, Mindy, things are pretty dicey between Cliff, Larry and Hale. If Cliff comes back without me, I’m almost positive they’ll bolt. And then what?”

She studies me for a few seconds, then says, “He won’t like it. But—” Mindy pulls her .38 snub-nose revolver from her shoulder holster and hands it to me. “Greene told us they lifted your weapon.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to return it in good condition.”

I check the safety and shove it in the back of my waistband beneath my jacket.

When I emerge into the beginning snow, Cliff is jumping up and down slapping his gloved hands together. “God. I’m freezing. What took you so long?”

I reach in my pocket. “Do you want it now?”

He looks around. “Wait until we start north on Third.” We walk in silence to the corner, then he says, “Now.”

I pass him the address book. He riffs through the pages. “That’s it.”

Chapter 49

AGAIN SEATED around the dining room table, we watch Larry go through the address book and pronounce it authentic.

When he starts to pocket it, Kingsley-Smythe holds out his hand. “Your brain and this book are too important to be in such close proximity. Don’t you agree?”

Larry shrugs and hands the book over. “You’re the boss.” Then he points at me. “But we still have a problem.”

“I’ll handle her. Just so you know, I’ve covered all the bases. They think she’s in Texas.”

Larry rolls his eyes. “‘They’ think she’s in Texas? She’s working with ‘they.’ Don’t you get it, Jason? ‘They’ want to bring us down.” Kingsley-Smythe slowly shakes his head. “I’ve been patient with you, Larry—more than patient. Over the years I’ve tried to overlook your atrocities toward women. Yet, despite my loyal efforts on your behalf, you refuse to support the plan I’ve already put in motion.”

Larry shakes his head. “For some time now, Cliff and I have been trying to find a way to stop this wacky plan of yours. We both agree you should abandon this project immediately.”

He turns to Cliff. “Right?”

Cliff ’s face registers surprise followed by disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Larry. You and I have never discussed—”

“What?” Larry jerks back to stare at Cliff for a few seconds, then spits, “You’re not going to tell Jason about our phone calls and meetings over the past few weeks? How worried we’ve been? How we both came to the conclusion that this insanity must not go forward?”

Cliff looks away.

“Okay, okay, I apologize. I didn’t mean to call you a thief and disloyal. I was a little overwrought. Sorry.” He stands and extends his hand. “Let bygones be bygones, you and I need to pull together on this. C’mon Cliff.”

“No, Larry. This time you went too far.”

Larry lowers himself slowly to his chair. “Why did I ever think I could trust you? You’re Jason’s bitch. You’ve never been anything but.”

Then his puzzlement fades. “Oh, I get it. You found out about this summer.”

Kingsley-Smythe stands up so quickly his chair clatters to the floor. “Cliff doesn’t know anything, Larry. Trim your sails.”

Larry ignores the warning tone and gives Cliff a self-satisfied sneer. “Guess your hot tamale never got around to true confession time. Well, I’m not afraid to tell you what went on. Caro was seeing me on the sly. She was nuts about me. I had her anytime I wanted. Went crazy if I tickled that cute little freckle on the inside of her left thigh. First lay I ever had who didn’t fake multiple orgasms.”

Cliff gives a strangled cry and leaps to his feet.

Kingsley-Smythe raises a cautionary hand. His words are low and measured. “It’s best you leave now, Larry.”

Cliff leans across the table to wave the Luger in Larry’s face. “Sit down, old man, Larry’s not going anywhere except to hell.”

Then it hits and my heart hammers so hard I see yellow spots. Larry Templeton killed Caro. Carved the X—wiped her down with that disinfectant. I’ll never be able to smell pine again without seeing her puffy discolored face.

He was the one she called “Mi Amor.” But why would she choose Larry over Cliff? Next to Cliff the man was an ugly brute. It had to be the drugs.

It’s then I have the sudden urge to make sure Cliff has backup. He must not fail. Larry Templeton, that despicable bastard, deserves whatever Cliff deals him.

My hand slides beneath my jacket to reach for the snub-nose just as Larry screams, “Don’t just stand there, Jason, do some—”

Cliff fires before he can finish the sentence.

The bullet shreds a gaping, blood-spurting hole in Larry’s dark-blue pinstripe. The impact hurls him and the chair back to strike the floor. There’s a grunting groan. Then silence.

Kingsley-Smythe wrenches the Luger away from Cliff, who collapses into his chair, puts his head in his hands and blubbers, “Why didn’t I pick up on what was happening this summer? When I realized Caro was doing drugs, I begged her to stop. She laughed at me. Said she could stop anytime she wanted. But she couldn’t. Not with that bastard supplying the stuff.”

He looks up at Kingsley-Smythe with accusing eyes. “You knew what Larry was. What he did when he got tired of his women. You knew he was supplying her.”

“No, Cliff, no. You have to believe me. I didn’t know about the drugs. I wish I had. Maybe I could have done something.” Kingsley-Smythe leans over to pat the man on his heaving back. “We can give thanks for one thing, dear boy. Larry’s sick little games are over.”

I finally find my voice. “What happens now?”

“I’ll call for help.” Kingsley-Smythe disappears into the kitchen. I hear him lift the receiver and punch in a number. After a long pause he says, “Come now.”

Cliff wipes his nose on his coat sleeve then rises. “I need a drink.”

He lurches into the kitchen leaving me to stare through the glass table at Larry. The least I can do is get something to cover his face.

When I enter the kitchen it’s empty, but Kingsley-Smythe’s voice draws me to the top of the basement stairs. “Don’t even consider that as an option, dear boy. We still have the address book and we have a way out of the country. Once we’re in South America, Sigrid Hale can take over. Then when I pass on, you’ll be well set up. A brand-new life with a brand-new woman.”

I grab a clean dish towel, hurry back to the dining room and cover Larry’s tortured face. He might have died instantly, but the pain from that instant is still etched in his stare.

The muted sound of the doorbell brings footsteps from below and Kingsley-Smythe appears. “They mustn’t see you. Upstairs, please.”

I take the steps up to the third floor two at a time and peer through the louvers.

Since Cliff and I returned from the bank, a dusting of snow has fallen to cover the once-sooty sludge piled on the sidewalks by the snowplows. Though hardly a blizzard, the effect resembles a miniature fairyland in strange contrast to what just happened in the dining room.

I watch as two men in white uniforms with “Hermann’s” embroidered on the back emerge with the rolled-up dining room rug slung across their shoulders and descend the front steps.

They cross the street, heave the rug into the rear of a white van with “Hermann’s Oriental Rugs” stenciled on the side and slam the double doors. Then the truck slowly moves away from the curb.

Chapter 50

THE SOUND IS MUFFLED, but I know a gunshot when I hear one. I hurry down the two flights and through the living and now rug-bare dining room and stop in front of the door to the stairs below.

“Cliff? Are you okay?”

His reply is a strangled “I need help.”

Kingsley-Smythe is sprawled on the floor facedown, his right hand beneath his body. There’s a hole in his sweater weeping blood.

“Oh, my God, what happened?”

Cliff is kneeling, his hand on Kingsley-Smythe’s carotid artery. “He’s alive.”

“Did you shoot him?”

He shakes his head. “It was an accident. I mean, he was trying to stop me.”

“Stop you?”

Cliff leans back on his haunches as his eyes fill, and he shakes his head. “I loved Caro. We were going to get married. Go to Colombia. Start a new life together. That bastard deserved to die. Now, my only options are prison or wasting away in some Colombian jungle until the old man dies. What kind of existence is that?”

Realizing he’s going to be no help, I take over. “We can talk about that later. Roll Kingsley-Smythe on his back.”

By the time Cliff does, I’ve joined him to see that the bullet entered near the collarbone and exited without doing much damage. “Looks like a clean shot, but we better get him on the bed.” Between the two of us we struggle Kingsley-Smythe off the floor and onto the bed.

I turn to Cliff. “He’s losing blood fast. You’ve got to go for help.”

“But I can’t get just anybody. Can you imagine what will happen when they discover Jason Lodge Kingsley-Smythe faked his death? To his family and his friends he died of a massive coronary. There was a huge memorial service. Remember?”

“I don’t care. He’s alive, and we have to save him.”

Cliff grabs the Luger off the floor and pockets it. “He wouldn’t want that.”

“I don’t care what he wants. This man is your mentor. Without him, you’d be nowhere. Besides that, he just saved your stupid life. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I’d call Larry if he was alive, but he’s not. We were the only people who knew the truth except—” His eyes light up. “I just remembered. There is someone. You watch Kingsley-Smythe. I’ll be back.”

————

After Cliff goes upstairs, I drag one of the ice-cream parlor chairs over to the side of the bed and minister to Kingsley-Smythe.

The wound doesn’t look good, but I’m able to stanch the flow of blood by compressing a folded pillowcase against his chest with my hand.

After a few minutes Kingsley-Smythe rouses.

I release the pressure and lift the ersatz bandage to see that the wound is oozing only a little.

Somewhere from the vast pool of trivia stored at the back of my mind a factoid floats up. It’s important to hydrate a person who’s lost blood. The poor man must be parched.

I open the small refrigerator to find it well stocked with small bottles of Evian and soft drinks.

Kingsley-Smythe downs the first bottle then motions for a second and drains that. “Much better. Much better.”

He may think he’s better, but his voice is plenty thready. He grabs my hand. “You must go. Now.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not leaving you like this. Save your strength. Cliff ’s gone for help.”

“No. No help. To the rest of the world I’m officially dead. No point in dredging up another tragedy for my family to bear. Better to let me bleed out. It’s not a painful death.” “You’re not going to die if I can help it.”

He squeezes my hand and I’m surprised how much strength he has. “You must press evenly against the door—”

He loses consciousness for a few seconds then revives. “You’ll feel the release give and a click. It’s then that you must push harder. But not before you hear the click.”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the info, but I’m not going anyplace.”

His eyes flutter shut and he takes a few breaths before he says, “When you get out, you must not come back. Promise me you won’t come back.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

“But I want you to know something.”

No sound of footsteps from above. Cliff is taking his own sweet time. “Don’t talk. Try to rest.”

“But I must make you understand why I wanted an heir and thought perhaps I could persuade you to go along with my project.”

I perk up at those words. It’s the first sane sentence I’ve heard out of his mouth in quite a while.

Kingsley-Smythe’s story pretty much follows what Mindy dug up except for one interesting addition: The eye-opener comes after Kingsley-Smythe tells me about the brother and sister—how cold the boy was—how loving the girl.

Then he looks away. “Through the years it became my habit to stop by our adopted daughter’s room for a goodnight kiss. Over those years she grew from a pretty little girl into a lovely teen. One evening I must have had too much port with my cigar because my kiss was not a fatherly one.

“When she accepted my apology and said she forgave me, I never darkened her bedroom door again.”

He heaves his chest. “But when her brother came home from college for Thanksgiving, she told him of the incident. He immediately went to Georgina, who sent both of them to stay with a relative. I haven’t seen them since.

“I gave up having heirs even though I knew the Kingsley-Smythe stock would die with me.” He pats my hand. “Then I saw you. So beautiful. And I liked your independent streak. Liked your brains. And I thought, why not another generation? That’s when I started my plan.”

He gives me a sad smile. “Of course, Larry was right as rain. He always was. Please—tell me you understand.”

Tears push at the back of my eyes. The poor man has no one. And there is the sad but undeniable fact: Jason Lodge Kingsley-Smythe is officially “dead.”

Chapter 51

THOUGH SOME COLOR has returned to his face, Kingsley-Smythe keeps fading in and out of consciousness.

I look for his pulse. The beat is strong and regular, the bleeding is minimal.

It’s then I remember the address book. Without that book, the drug connection will die. No money, no drugs. No drugs, no money.

I think back to the moments before Cliff shot Larry. Larry hands the book to Kingsley-Smythe, who pockets it. I look down at his right pocket. If the book is there—

Though Kingsley-Smythe appears to be unconscious, I don’t take any chances. I lean and place my left hand on his wound, hopefully blocking his sight line while I slide my right hand into his right pocket.

I suppress a small squeak of triumph. It’s there. Now, all I have to do is get it out before Kingsley-Smythe revives or Cliff reappears.

I’m finally able to slide the address book from his pocket, place it in mine and ease the bogus book in the original’s place.

I settle back and try for a few deep breaths but the room seems stuffy—almost airless. I need a shot of oxygen.

What did Kingsley-Smythe say? Something about pressing against it. That the release gives with a click.

I take the few steps to the back door and use both hands. I hear a click. When I press again, the door springs into me with such force that I have to leap out of the way.

————

I step onto the covered back porch to see the snow is now coming in big, fat flakes that mute the usual city buzz. No construction noise. No chattering jackhammers. Even the screeching horns seem remote. Guess they were right about that blizzard.

Against a darkening sky and pushed by a gentle breeze, the heavy snow swirls across the porch above to land on the circular stairway or settle gently to the ground. It’s peaceful—too peaceful.

I take a couple of deep breaths, do a few stretches and start to go back in when I hear footsteps coming down the side path.

Grateful that Mindy loaned me her .38, I ease it out of my waistband, slip off the safety and step into the shadows.

When I see that familiar silhouette, my first reaction is anger. “What in hell are you doing here?”

Bill closes the gap between us and tries to take me in his arms. “Thank God, you’re all right.”

I duck and step away. “No thanks to you. It’s been five damn days since you told me not to do anything until I heard from you. Good thing I’m not much on orders.”

He places his fingers beneath my chin and raises my mouth to his. There’s always been that electric charge between us. It thrives despite all I have learned about this man. It thrives even though there’s so much I still don’t know.

When we break I ask, “What about Kingsley-Smythe?”

His reaction isn’t what I expect. He’s not at all surprised by my question, or if he is, he’s a good bluffer. “What about him?”

Then it dawns. Bill knows everything. He’s known all along. He’s the one Cliff called.

“How long have you known that your uncle was Sigrid Hale?” “What difference does that make?”

“This is really important, Bill. Important to what happens next between us—if anything. So please, don’t answer my questions with questions.”

He pulls me to him and murmurs, “Why do you always have to complicate things?”

“Asking you to tell me the truth isn’t complicated. I need to know.”

I hear his answer resonate against my ear. “Briefly, because we don’t have much time, when the DEA discovered Uncle Jason’s role in the operation at The Castle, they pulled me up here. To them it was the perfect solution—to me it was hell. In retrospect, I don’t think the old man knew exactly what the setup out there really was. I think his ‘death’ gave him a way out of the situation, but I’m not sure why he planned it.”

“What about Sigrid Hale?”

He shakes his head. “There’s a plane waiting to take Uncle Jason and Cliff out of the country. At least I was able to arrange that.

“I owe the old man big-time. He literally strong-armed me into Yale. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be standing here.” Bill looks into my eyes. “That’s why I’m asking you to withhold this information. What would be the point in telling anyone about the true identity of Sigrid Hale? After today, she’ll no longer exist.”

“Maybe it’s okay for you. You represent your uncle and Cliff. But the only reason I went back in the townhouse was to find out exactly who Sigrid Hale was.”

“So you found out. It’s not like you’re a reporter on a hot lead.”

“True, but I’m an officer of the court, or at least I once was, and perjury carries a pretty stiff penalty.”

“If you don’t tell, you won’t be lying.” He plants a soft kiss on my forehead then heads inside to the bedroom. “At least think about it, will you?”

Chapter 52

KINGSLEY-SMYTHE’S FACE is a sickening gray and there’s a line of sweat coating his upper lip.

I look at Bill, shake my head and slowly lift the sweater. The man’s shirt is soaked with blood. “He must have tried to get up. Maybe he heard us talking.”

Footsteps descend the stairs. It’s Cliff carrying two small suitcases, a turban and those awful pixie glasses.

When Bill starts for the bed, I grab his arm. “You can’t move him now. If you do, he’ll bleed to death.”

Bill shakes me off. “If we don’t get him out of here now, he’ll be discovered. And if he’s discovered, we all go down.”

All go down? What does he mean? I pat my pocket, where the address book is safely stored. If I have anything to say about it, no one is going to get into those Swiss bank accounts except Greene or Jaime and whoever they want to contact.

Bill places the turban and glasses on Kingsley-Smythe, then says, “Put your arm around my neck, Uncle Jason.”

“I can’t, dear boy. I’m too weak. Leave me here. Let me go.” “You know I can’t do that, sir. We have a deal. We have to do our part or the government won’t do theirs.”

Bill motions for Cliff to take Kingsley-Smythe’s other side and, between the two, they get him started for the door.

I stand there, not exactly sure what to do, when Cliff points to the suitcases and motions me to follow.

Once we reach the end of the path they muscle Kingsley-Smythe to the rear of a waiting van.

It’s then I notice the sign on the side. “Hermann’s Oriental Rugs.”

The double doors open and the same two men in white who carried Larry away help guide Kingsley-Smythe onto what looks like a gurney.

Bill motions Cliff to follow. “He’ll need monitoring. Bang on the partition if you notice any change. And remember, he must be completely covered except for his head when we remove him from the van.”

Cliff starts to protest then, shoulders slumped, inches in the rear to hunch next to Kingsley-Smythe.

After Bill and I squash into the seat behind the driver, I point to the front seat. “Who are they?”

“They work with me.”

I shake my head trying to make some sense out of the dreadful afternoon. Larry killed. Removed by those same men. And they work with Bill. The equation doesn’t add up. At least it doesn’t add up to suit my satisfaction.

“Where are we going?”

Bill puts his arm around me, draws me to him and whispers, “Teterboro.”

Chapter 53

THE VAN MAKES ITS WAY up Park Avenue to One Hundred Twenty-Fifth, then takes the Henry Hudson Parkway to the George Washington Bridge.

It’s warm inside the van, or at least I feel warm. Maybe it’s because I’m pleasantly plastered to Bill’s right side. I like the feel of his strength against me. Like that his arm circles me protectively.

Timing. It’s all about timing. I’m dead-sure we belong together. But how can we get there? Are there too may stumbling blocks in our way?

When I was ready, he wasn’t. When he was ready, I wasn’t. I look into the blurry lights and send up a fractured prayer, “Please, whoever’s running this show, there must be some way the two of us can get in synch.”

As the van speeds along Highway 46, Kingsley-Smythe’s fate, the red address book and the Colombian connection fade from importance as I remember the only night Bill and I spent together. Peeling his shirt away to see the scar his shoulder took for me. Feeling his face between my breasts.

Hearing him murmur, “I’ve dreamed about this.”

Overcome with longing, I fold into Bill and nestle my head against his shoulder.

At first he plants soft kisses on my forehead, then on my eyes, and then his mouth covers mine.

The van is dark. The thrum of the engine drowns our rising passions. We could be two teenagers in the back of a balcony during a Saturday Matinee. Instead we are two people in love, making up for lost time and banking a little hope for the future.

We arrive at Teterboro much too quickly. Once the van is inspected and allowed through the gate, a cart with a blinking yellow light leads us to a small jet parked some distance from the hangar.

Bill and I exit the van in time to see the two men in Hermann’s uniforms roll the gurney to the door of the plane and watch as Sigrid Hale disappears into the interior.

Cliff, who has followed the gurney, hurries toward us. “We’re all set. What next?”

“Wheels up in five. Go ahead and board. I’ll be right behind you.”

Bill slips his arm around my waist and turns me to him. “I’ve decided I’m not cut out for cops and robbers. This is my last assignment. I want time for the better things of life—mainly you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Damn, you’re tough. What in hell do you think I mean?” When I don’t answer, he says, “The government has cut us a deal. They’ve promised to let Uncle Jason and Cliff slip out of the country in return for idents and corroborating testimony. All I have to do is get them settled. Then it’s over.”

“Over?”

“I’ve already handed in my resignation.”

Can I believe what I’m hearing? If it’s true—I go hot and cold at the same instant. One part of me wants to scream with joy while the other waves that old familiar red flag.

“It’s a little over two weeks until Angela’s wedding. Can you be there?”

Bill draws me to him for a long goodbye kiss until the engines begin their whine.

I watch him stride toward the waiting jet. Halfway there he turns and shouts, “I’ll try like hell.”

Chapter 54

IT’S STOPPED SNOWING but I hardly notice the arctic temperature as I stand alone watching the jet taxi to the runway and disappear into the deepening sky.

I wait until I can no longer see the running lights, then turn and almost bump into the golf cart with the flashing yellow light on the roof.

“Ride?”

At the sound of a familiar voice, I peer inside the plastic cover to see Jaime Platón at the wheel.

My mind reels. What in hell is he doing here? Spying? Or did Bill know who was in the cart? Has Jaime been working with Bill all along? And does he also know who Sigrid Hale really is? So many unanswered questions.

I slide beneath the plastic and stare ahead as the cart jerks forward.

Finally my curiosity wins over my confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to escort you back to the hotel. Greene and Mindy are waiting. I think he’s made dinner reservations downstairs.”

“But how did you—never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Jaime laughs. “That’s the first time I’ve heard those words out of your mouth. Of course you want to know. And there are some things we want to know too.”

He stashes me in the car then enters the hangar offices. Only a few minutes pass before he returns and we’re on our way back to the George Washington Bridge.

We ride along in comfortable silence until Jaime clears his throat and says, “From what I saw, it looks like you and Cotton are still very much a couple.”

I allow myself a pleasant warm shiver before I say, “Guess you could say so.”

I wait for the usual warning or at least the customary look he gave me in the past, but none comes. Instead he gives me a brief raise of his eyebrows and a thin smile. “Guess I never stood a chance.”

I feel the heat in my cheeks, partly from the pleasure of hearing his wistful tone, partly from the embarrassment of enjoying it. “Oh, Jaime. You’ve been such a good friend and so wonderful to me. Any woman would be—”

He raises his hand. “I’m not begging. I just wanted you to know how I feel.” He stares into the oncoming traffic for a few seconds then says, “If you ever need me, all you have to do is call.”

Chapter 55

MINDY AND GREENE are seated on the same side of the table, leaving Jaime and me to do the same. Only, things are very different. Greene can hardly keep his eyes off the diminutive detective, and her cheeks are flushed with excitement.

Once the champagne arrives and is poured all around, Greene raises his glass. “Here’s to the success of our dream team. Thanks to Danes’s supplying us with a glass that had Larry Templeton’s fingerprints on it, we were able to match his with the ones we picked up when Sheri Browne was murdered. We now know for sure that Larry Templeton murdered Caro, Sheri and the other three women.”

I’m on the verge of asking if they found Larry’s body, but decide to hold that back until I get more information.

Greene saves me the trouble. “When Bill informed Jaime that the DEA was moving Hale and Danes out of the country, he asked that Jaime be there to witness the transfer. In return for that, Larry Templeton has been turned over to us. The good news is there’s a toe tag attached. It’ll save the state a pile of money. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.”

Before anyone has gotten a glass to his lips, Greene hurries on. “And here’s to you, Allie, and you, Jaime. This case would never have been solved without your help.”

Again the glasses don’t make their target because Greene pulls Mindy’s left hand from her lap to the table. “And here’s to my Mindy. The brains of the outfit, who loves me enough to say yes.” Mindy quickly lowers her head and pushes her hand to the center of the table. There on the ring finger is a modest but brightly sparkling engagement ring.

I lunge across the table to embrace her. “How wonderful. I’m so excited for you.”

Then I grab Greene’s hand and pump it until he gives a pained “Thanks” and pulls it away.

While Greene and Jaime trade information on the latest basketball scores, I reach for Mindy’s hand a second time. Just the right size for her tiny hand. “Gee, that was fast.”

She blushes and lowers her eyes. “I feel badly that I kept this from you, Allie. Greene and I have been dating since last April, but we decided to keep it professional in public. That’s why I hesitated to ask you to be my roommate.”

I smile. “I understand—perfectly.”

“Greene gave me the ring after the four of us left Arturo’s the other night.”

“How about your parents?”

She shrugged. “They were ecstatic to hear I was engaged. Not so happy about my marrying a black man, but Greene and those dimples of his won them over.” She turns to give him an adoring look.

“Is that what you call him? Greene?”

Mindy covers her mouth with her hand and giggles. “That’s what I call him except when we’re making love.”

I decide to drop it at that. “Greene” has always suited me just fine.

“When’s the big day?”

“Not sure yet. New Year’s is too soon. Maybe April. We had our first date on April Fools’ Day. That would make a proper anniversary.”

Chapter 56

THE NORTH SHORE

AS WEDDINGS GO IT WAS LOVELY. The ceremony was held at six in the evening in a quaint Episcopal Church on Sheridan Road. The place was packed—mostly with Duncan’s family and friends.

The Other Armingtons, who live in Wilmette and who we fondly refer to as the “OAs,” represented our side. Dad’s brother, Aiden, and his wife, Sallie, have three kids. Alan and Ardythe, who live in the Chicago area, came with their spouses. Arlene, the only cousin I really like because she isn’t the prettiest one in her family either, was absent.

No one but our immediate family made it from Lampasas. Mother was furious until Dad quietly pointed out that it was the day after Christmas.

Angela was radiant in pale pink, with a fingertip veil falling from a crown of pale-pink roses. I wore a deeper shade of that color and carried a smaller bouquet of the same.

And now we are in Lake Bluff at a small but elegant club perched at the edge of a high bluff above Lake Michigan.

It’s only seven thirty, but it seems like we’ve been standing in the receiving line for an eternity. I’m next to Duncan’s father, who is best man. He’s very nice. Even made some comment about how he and his wife hoped I would be the one. That was embarrassing.

The line is still snaking out the double doors into the entry hall. I lean out a little further hoping to see someone familiar. Someone who said he’d try like hell to make it.

To my amazement, dinner is served very close to the appointed time. Duncan’s mother runs a tight ship.

My parents, the Other Armingtons and I are seated at a table for ten, but since we are only nine Mrs. Bruce has supplied a very attractive cardiac resident working with her husband at the local hospital.

He’s single. Knows how to make small talk. Properly interesting and moderately interested. Still, I find myself looking toward the open double doors every five minutes or so. I must be so obvious that he asks if I’m expecting someone.

I smile. “Not really.”

He smiles back. “I’m glad.”

And the dinner goes on and on. Toasts. Duncan’s is so sweet. More toasts. Welcome to the family. More wine. More champagne.

And finally the cake. The garter. The bouquet Angela tries to toss my way but someone else snatches it in midair.

Seconds later Angela grabs my arm. “You have to help me change. It’s time to get out of here.”

She looks so radiant I could scream. The little green gremlin from my childhood returns, but only for an instant. I put my arms around her. “You look wonderful. I know you two will be happy.” “We will.” She gives me a steady look. “And you will be too. I’m sure about that.”

I turn away, not wanting her to see my beginning tears. “Someday. Maybe.”

A knock at the door saves the moment, and Angela rushes to open it. It’s Duncan, tapping at his watch. “How much longer? They’re waiting to pelt us with the birdseed.”

I had forgotten about his obsession with being on time. Poor Angela.

I pull the heavy coat over my shoulders and follow the bride and groom out to the central hall.

Angela plants a kiss on my cheek; then Duncan drags her into the cheering crowd.

I turn and walk to the back of the room to look out over Lake Michigan. From there you can see the lights of Chicago to the south.

In the background there are cheers and the sound of wheels screeching away. Then the beginning goodbyes. It’s time to go.

Not yet. Not yet.

I shiver and grab my coat around me, then feel his warmth before Bill’s arms reach around me and pull me into him. “I’m a little late. Sorry about that.”

I turn into his embrace. “You made it. That’s all that matters.”

Acknowledgments

I’m most grateful to Ellen Reid, who together with Dotti Albertine, Laren Bright and Brookes Nohlgren, brought this second book to life.

LOUISE GAYLORD is the award-winning author of Anacacho, first in the Allie Armington Mystery series, and the novel Julia Fairchild. A world traveler and opera buff, Louise divides her time between Houston, Texas; Santa Barbara, California; and Old Forge, New York, in the Adirondacks. Louise is currently at work on the third book in the Allie Armington Mystery series.

Photo of the author by Priscilla

www.santabarbaraseen.com

www.louisegaylord.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56