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.”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 9