Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (21 page)

As Paloma fumbled through her bag for a change of clothes, she thought about the last time she had sex. There was the married guy she had met at the auction house, fresh in from Kansas City. Tom or Tim or Ted. A beefy guy with a nice smile, who was amenable to an uncomplicated freestanding one-nighter, just the way Paloma liked it. While Agnes and maybe Nancy craved intimacy, Paloma believed feelings just got in the way. Body mechanics of friction and release occurred with or without the emotional baggage. 

With some clean underwear and a different dress, Paloma went to the bathroom. While washing up, she tried to define her reaction to Max. The tethered emotions had long since frayed and disintegrated. Old memories die hard, but they do die. Curious how for years she had only thought of him, his intense driven nature and the way he’d played her body. Even after he sent her away, she had pined until Clay, the gentle geek, came along. Clay, who wore his heart on his sleeve, who never let a night pass without a kiss, a smile; a man who loved and gave unconditionally. Two men could not have been more different. Paloma adjusted her lipstick. If she were to choose now, who would she pick? Perhaps Max for the night and Clay for the rest of the time. Yes, she had become callous.   

At the foot of the stairs, the living room was dark. Following the pungent smell of garlic and ginger, she made her way into the kitchen.

“Welcome to Chez Laurent,” he said, pulling out a chair.

Candlelight softened the hard chrome edges and worn Formica counter. Patterned china and matching silverware sat atop a checkered tablecloth. White napkins, folded into crowns, rested on two empty plates. At some point he’d been domesticated. Had the woman from the library been his trainer?

“You’ve been busy,” she said sitting down. “Place looks different.”

“Candlelight can be very forgiving. Anyway, I figured we’d eat and work at the same time.”

From the microwave, he removed three take-out containers. “There’s beer, water, or if you like scotch, brandy.”

A drink would definitely suit her, help her relax. But at what cost? She had to keep her wits. “Water’s fine.”

“I ordered a few different things.” He gave her a serving spoon. “Help yourself.”

He moved around the kitchen, first pulling a beer from the fridge, then rattling some ice cubes out of a tray. He placed a glass of ice water in front of her, sat, then raised his can of beer. His eyes glimmered. “To better times,” he said, waiting for her to join the toast.            

She hesitated, then clinked the glass. “So where do we start?”

He filled his plate. “From the beginning. The firebomb at your apartment should be the starting point. Is it possible that somebody made a mistake or could someone have been after Daisy’s mother?”

“No, I was the target.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I was shot earlier that day.”

“What!”

“In the subway. The bullet grazed my stomach.”

Disbelief flashed across his face. “You saw him?”

“I’m not sure.”

He reached for a pad and pencil. “Tell me every detail.”

The incident was still raw. She felt weak but garnered the strength. “I was in the subway on the platform when someone brushed by me. I heard something like a thump and felt a push to my side. I fell. I wasn’t sure what happened, but my eyes followed a tall man in a trench coat and straw hat who wove through the crowd. People came around me blocking –”

“What was the weather like?”

“Sunny, warm.”

“Go on.”

“Anyway I was carrying some books in my shoulder bag and the bullet went through them and must have ricocheted. Someone called an ambulance and I was taken to St. Vincent’s. Spent the rest of the evening there.”

“Why did you think it was the man in the trench coat?”

“I had noticed him earlier.” Paloma gave a nervous laugh. “That’s odd, isn’t it? Before I went into the subway, I felt like I was being watched. I looked around. The minute I noticed him he turned away. I only saw his back.”

“How tall was he?”

“Over six feet.”

“And what about his hair?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“So it must have been short.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He jotted down notes. “And what about the trench coat?”

“Tan, like a London Fog, you know the kind with a belt and rain guard…Yes, now I remember, that’s what drew my attention. He wore a coat. No one else was. I wonder why?”

“Maybe he needed to be covered up because he had a gun. Maybe he wasn’t from New York. What else?”

“And there was Chicago that morning.”

“Chicago?”

“I thought I saw a rifle coming out of a car window. But it could have been my eyes playing tricks.”

“How long were you in Chicago?”

“A few days.”

“What were you doing there?”

Paloma didn’t want to say. “I don’t see why that’s important.”

An exasperated look crossed his face. “Everything’s important. Please just tell me.”

Paloma weighed the consequences of telling the truth. Admitting that she’d been stalking Maddie seemed so pathetic. What did it matter? “I went to Maddie’s graduation.” 

She waited for him to chide her, to ask what kind of mother she was, but instead he asked, “What date would that have been?”

“The graduation was on the thirteenth. I left the next day.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“A white sedan with dark windows.”

“The make?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“What window did the gun come out of?”

Paloma replayed the event in her mind. The traffic in front of the hotel was one-way. It was a dark overcast day. “It would have been the rear passenger side.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Couple of things. Sounds like two people might have been in the car, the shooter and the driver.”

Paloma hadn’t thought of that. “And the second thing?”

“Chicago is where Nancy Abbott lived. But she drowned almost fifteen years ago. No sense in killing a dead woman.”  

The page he was writing on was becoming filled with boxes and arrows. He put the pen down and looked intently at her. “So who do you think is after you?”

Paloma shrugged. “The Catonis?”

“Possibly. But there’s one thing to remember.”

“What’s that?”

“The Catonis are enemies to Agnes. Not Paloma.”

Paloma’s stomach bottomed out. Why hadn’t she separated the three women in her mind? Maybe the assassin had nothing to do with either the Catonis or Agnes. “Yes, of course.”

“Besides you would have recognized them. Short pricks that they are. That’s not to say that they couldn’t hire someone. But that costs money. They’ve run the shop into the ground. Still, it’d be easy enough to find out. Just rattle their cage and see where they run.” He grabbed the fork and held it in midair. “Anything happen since the fire?”

“Yes. He found me at the airport. I was about to board a plane when he paged me.”

“Really? What name did he use?”

“Paloma Dove.”

“When was this?”

“Last Friday. Late afternoon.”

His brow furrowed.

“Why?” she asked. “Do you know something?”

“No. It’s just that…” He scratched his neck. “Well, if it isn’t one of the stooges after Agnes, and Nancy Abbott is already dead, that brings us back to Paloma. Would someone want Paloma dead?”

“No.”

“You sound certain.”

“I live a simple life.”

“Okay. Did anything happen in the weeks before the incident? An argument with a neighbor, problems at work, threats of any kind.”

Paloma rubbed her face. He was entering dangerous territory. Her work was not to be discussed. “No.”

“Any hang up calls.”

“No.”

“Did Daisy’s mother often stay at your house?”

Paloma shook her head. “I hadn’t thought so. Whenever I went out of town, Daisy would checked the apartment, get the mail. She has a key. We’re like family. Apparently that week her boyfriend was coming in and Daisy decided to have her mother stay at my place. Mrs. Humara loved the Village. She still had friends there.” Paloma stared off. “Of all the weeks to pick.”

Max nodded. “Bad luck.” He piled his fork with rice. “So how do you support yourself?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you do for a living?”

She shrugged. “Cleaning jobs.”

“Really? I had assumed you were a collector.”

“Why did you assume that?”

“I was at your apartment after the fire.”

Paloma’s stomach flip-flopped. “You were at my apartment? When?”

“The following day.”

“But how did you know where I lived?”

“It was in the
Times
. I get it everyday.”

Yes, it was in the paper, but had her name been mentioned? “Why did you go there?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Listen, I was worried about you. They found a body. I had to find out for myself. I saw a lot of books there.”

“I enjoy reading.”

He took a sip of beer, then said, “Evidently. Anyway, I thought Daisy said you worked with her in the antique business.”

He was smooth but clearly fishing. Stay calm. “I do. I clean antiques. Items from estate sales that have been in attics and basements need a lot of elbow grease to make them salable.”

“Interesting. Do you do restoration as well?”

Suddenly she wanted the inquisition to end. “I do whatever Daisy asks me. By the way, how’s your job going?”

“I retired. And don’t change the subject.”

“Change the subject?”

“Agnes, you’re being defensive. How am I supposed to help you?”

She stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She felt heated. All at once the candlelight, the interrogations were playbacks of twenty-five years earlier. And just like then, all in the name of help. But help for whom? She leaned forward and blew out the candles. “Turn on the lights,” she demanded.

The hard, worn surfaces of the kitchen materialized. 

“Agnes, what’s –”

“And don’t ever call me Agnes. I’m not Agnes. Stop trying to resurrect her. She’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

Paloma seethed on the inside. She was angry at herself for allowing him to wheedle back into her life.

She glared at him. “I’m very tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

“But we’re not done. You gave me some great leads.”

“Follow them yourself.”

“You’re safe here. I’ll stay out of your business. Just give me a few days.” 

She stood from the table. He reached for her arm. His grasp sent chills through her. She jerked free and walked out. 

“You were always so god-damned stubborn,” he yelled out.

Blood rushed in her ears. Climbing the stairs, her anger swelled. How dare he continue to refer to Agnes and their shared past. Agnes was dead. She’d prove it to him. 

And to herself. 

Chapter Twenty

Max, fearing she might leave at any moment, lay awake in his bed. The red numbers on the alarm read
2:20
. Last time he’d gone to the bathroom, a sliver of light had cracked from the bottom of the closed bedroom door. In the event that she might sneak out, he remained watchful. His eyelids felt heavy, but with any sound – a distant siren, a slamming car door – they sprang open, expectant.

How would he stop her if she were to leave? Would he have to tell more lies? Saying he’d seen Maddie was probably one of the worse lies he’d ever told. But it made her happy. How her face lit up, how instantaneously she followed him. Yes, clear proof that the ends justified the means. He sighed deeply. Besides, the chance of Agnes finding out the truth was, if possible, next to nil. She’d made that decision after she’d abandoned her child.

The candlelight dinner replayed in his head. She was ravishing in the yellow muted light, like an angel, her movements so graceful, her hands and neck so delicate. He had to control himself from picking her up and taking her upstairs. Would she have kicked and screamed, or would she have surrendered? Max shook his head. He was no Rhett Butler. He glanced again at the clock
2:55.
He was having more difficulty staying awake, keeping his thoughts on track. Impressions, dark shadows began to intervene. His body jerked. Soon a pull towed him under. 

A small voice called to him. “Max,” she said.

He looked around. “Agnes?” But only a dark haze filled the room. 

Quickly he realized his mistake. “Paloma?”

“Yes. Paloma.”

“Please don’t leave.”

“Never.”

As if a gauzy veil were lifted, she stepped into a beam of moonlight. She wore the same dress as at dinner. Her hair appeared wet. She was barefoot. And there was that smell again of cocoa butter. He imagined that she had just come up from the beach after a midnight swim. In the distance the rhythm of tiny waves was clear. 

She looked intently at him. “I want to show you something.” 

She moved her hands to her neck, where her fingers fiddled with the top button of the dress. The collar opened. He looked at her slender neck. What did she want to show him? A necklace, tattoo? Her fingers glided to the second button. With a slight twist it came undone. Slowly, she reached for the third. He watched mesmerized as the seam parted. This couldn’t be happening. His eyes riveted to her face. Something was very different. She looked like Agnes, but the eyes were darker, more recessed, smoky and distant. It didn’t matter. He was desperate for the dream to continue.

Her nimble fingers continued their descent down the front of her dress. “Do you want me to stop?” she asked playfully.

“No,” he managed to say.

The dress was now unbuttoned but hanging closed. His eyes strained as they followed the slit that ran open from her neck to her knees. From what he could tell, she wore nothing underneath. Slowly she pulled the dress aside. More olive skin became exposed, uninterrupted from her neck to the darkened patch below.

“I’m a very bad girl,” she said smiling.

He shook his head. “Good girl.”

Slowly, she removed the dress from her shoulders. The material fell to the floor. She was naked in front of him. She looked as though she was made from alabaster, smooth but solid with a translucent sheen. Shadows and light played along her curves. Her breasts were fuller than he imagined, and ecstatically supple to his eyes. He wanted to put his arms around her narrow waist, feel her skin in handfuls and draw her close. His body reacted.