“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?”
Chapt
er 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.
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 20