“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?”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 13