Read Online Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery by Louise Gaylord - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Gaylord
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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
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
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