Rooms to Die For (16 page)

Chapter Thirty

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the orange tote, my cell chirped. I dashed over to the couch where I’d dropped my bag and caught the call on the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

“Deva? This is Beatriz Vega.”

“Oh.” I sank onto one of Imogene’s new chairs. “How are you, Beatriz, though I fear to hear your answer.”

“Sad. I am a sad old woman.”

Tears sprang into my eyes. She was suffering, and there was nothing I could do to ease her pain. I tried, though, murmuring words of comfort into the phone, hoping they didn’t sound hollow, that she understood I grieved for her.

“There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “It won’t wait. Can you come to the mall today?”

“Of course. I’ll be there within the hour.” At least that was one thing I could do for her. Rossi would have a fit if he knew, but I couldn’t possibly refuse. Not now, not after all she’d been through these past few weeks. Besides, that powerful demon, curiosity, had me in its grip. Beatriz had something to tell me that couldn’t wait, and I wanted to hear it, whatever it was.

“The shop is closed. If you knock on the glass, I’ll let you in,” she said. Before I could reply, she hung up.

I made a quick call to Lee so she wouldn’t expect me anytime soon, locked up Imogene’s house, and ran down the stairs.

In the mall parking lot, I eyed the scene carefully before stepping out of the Audi. Buzzing past Phil at the door, I gave receptionist Sandra a wave of hello—and nearly bumped headfirst into Claudia Lopez and Oliver Kent. Oliver’s “Whoa!” caught me one step away from crashing into him.

“In a hurry, Deva?” Claudia asked.

“Yes.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m late for an appointment.”

“Sorry you’re in a rush. I wish you had time to talk to us.”

Us? That slowed me down long enough to listen.

“Oliver and I have been working on a PR project, and we’d love your input. In fact, I was about to call you. What do you think about a mall tie-in with the Sprague Mansion? Maybe a glossy publication featuring shop owners and designers like you who helped create the Showhouse.”

“Sounds wonderful. As long as the Showhouse committee agrees.”

“They’ve already given their verbal okay,” Oliver said. “Can you meet with us tomorrow? We have a few other ideas we’d like to share with you too.”

“No, sorry, I can’t. I’m busy all day.” No point in mentioning that I had a doctor’s appointment and was hoping to high heaven he’d remove the stitches in my scalp. Besides they could see the scarf and hadn’t mentioned the mugging, so why bring up what was obviously a sore subject, especially for Oliver? After all, I’d been injured on mall property—his turf.

He opened his smartphone and checked his schedule. “I’m free tomorrow, but not Thursday. What say we meet in my office on Friday. One o’clock?”

“Fine. I’ll save Friday for you, but now I do have to run,” I said, and dripping with guilt, hurried to the bank of elevators. Once again, it looked as if I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Claudia and Oliver might not be having an affair after all. Maybe they were together a lot for business reasons only. After all—and I should have remembered this—Claudia’s husband was a very attractive man, a man fully capable of giving her that hickey I’d seen on her neck. It honestly felt good to be totally wrong, and I stepped off the elevator happier than I’d been in days.

The feeling didn’t last long. A funereal quiet had settled like a pall over much of the third floor. Except for Breeze City. I peeked in the front windows as I passed by. Lights were blazing in there, and sample fans whirred overhead. Behind the sales desk, Ted chatted with a customer. And in the center of the shop, Raúl was pointing out one of the overheads to a middle-aged couple. Making a sales pitch, no doubt. So it was business as usual—at least at Breeze City. But the Spanish Galleria told a different tale.

The exquisite needlepoint Closed sign hung inside the glass door. Through it, I peered in, straight to the backroom office, and as instructed, I tapped on the glass. Slowly, her pace halting and stiff, Beatriz shuffled toward me. She was dressed in black silk, her hair plaited and wrapped around her head like a tiara. Jet beads circled her throat and wrists. A queen in mourning.

After unlocking the door, she relocked it, lowered all the blinds and beckoned me forward. Once we were inside her office, she closed that door too, her hush-hush behavior boosting my curiosity level sky-high.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, Deva,” she said. “You must have heard the panic in my voice.”

“No, not really. I heard a friend in need.”

The shadow of a smile lifted her lips. “I trust you,” she said, “and truthfully did not know who else to call. But before I show you, please be seated. You’re going to be shocked.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked, perching on the edge of the carved chair beside her desk.

Bending over, she reached into a desk drawer and removed a clear plastic bag. She laid it on the desktop and sat down.

A white powdery substance filled the bag to near bursting. I stared at it, then across at her. “That isn’t sugar, is it?”

She shook her head. “Cocaine. Maybe heroin. I don’t know for certain.”

“Where did you find this?”

“In Hugo’s room. I was packing his belongings to ship to his family in Bogotá. This was hidden under some clothing.”

I eyed the bag without touching it. It looked as if it weighed about a pound. If cocaine or heroin, the contents would be worth a small fortune. How much exactly, I couldn’t even begin to guess.

“You see this pestilence,” Beatriz said, pointing to the bag with a shaky finger. “The sight has dried my tears. I have none left for Hugo, a boy I trusted like a son. But he was no son. He was a stranger.”

“Perhaps you’re mistaken, Beatriz.”

“Pah! What’s to mistake? Do you have a bag of cocaine in your lingerie drawer?”

Who could argue with logic like that? “I’m so sorry, but I can’t help you with this. You need to call the police.”

She reared back in her chair. “No, no, no! I am afraid. Hugo lived in my home. He kept drugs there. Suppose he was selling them? Then he was tied to evildoers. If they think I know about him, they may kill me next.”

She got up and paced the small room, wringing her hands in rhythm with each agitated step. “I can’t believe Hugo would do such a thing. But why should I not believe? Look at what my José did? And now they’re both dead.” She stopped mid-pace as a sudden thought struck her. “José may have known about these drugs. He may have been in league with Hugo.”

“Beatriz, slow down. And sit down, please. You don’t know for sure if Hugo was dealing drugs. Although if what’s in the bag is cocaine, he might have been. Your only protection is to go to the police.”

To my relief, she went back to her chair, slumping on it in silence. A moment only and she sat erect. “Shhh.” She held up a warning palm. “What was that?”

I cocked my head toward the shop’s display room and listened. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Something there was. At the front door. I heard a click.”

The sole exit from the office led out to the Galleria’s display room. Had it been broken into, we were trapped. A door closed, the sound strangely muffled as if someone were trying to shut it quietly. Beatriz froze in place.

“Does this office door lock?” I whispered.

She shook her head. “No.”

My tote lay on the floor next to the chair. Searching in it for the cell would take too long. I leaned across the desk and reached for the office phone. Before I could raise the receiver, the door burst open. A man, backlit by the display room’s arc lights, stood silhouetted in the opening. Other than noting that he was over six feet tall, all I really saw was the Glock in his hand.

Chapter Thirty-One

He kicked the door closed. “Ladies, don’t move.”

Beatriz couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. And I sure didn’t want to, not with the muzzle of that gun staring me in the face.

“Who are you?” I asked. “And how did you get in here? Pick the lock?”

He didn’t bother to answer. The plastic bag on the desk had caught his attention.

“I see you got something belongs to me.” He aimed the gun at Beatriz. “Where’s the rest?”

“I know nothing of any drugs.”

He snorted through his long nose. “You know plenty. Too much.” He stepped forward, big muscled and overweight, a Sherman tank of a man. “Now I want to know. Where did Hugo hide the shipment?”

Beatriz’s mouth fell open. “There’s more?”

“You got your hands on this much, you got the rest.”

“I swear I do not.”

The gun swiveled over to me. “How about you? Where is it?”

“I’m just visiting my friend, Mrs. Vega. I know nothing about Hugo Navarre’s activities.”

“You’re not getting my message here. I want the rest of the powder, and I want it now.”

“We can’t help you.”

“No? Don’t force me to get serious. I don’t like hurting old ladies.”

“Hey, I’m only thirty-four!”

He eyeballed me, head to toe. “You don’t look it, baby. Twenty-four tops. But my advice is get rid of the scarf. Let that red hair shine. So...you going to give me what’s mine? Or you want to play rough?”

“How can we give you something we don’t have?” Beatriz asked.

Without bothering to answer, he angled the gun my way. “You. Take everything out of that file cabinet and throw it on the floor.”

“You,” he said to Beatriz. “Empty the desk.”

We did as he ordered, trashing the office, turning its neatly stacked records and drawers into a pile of rubbish.

“You girls got handbags? Dump them out on the desk.”

We emptied them, though I could have told him we didn’t walk around with bags of cocaine slung over our shoulders.

He eyeballed the pile on the desktop then waved the gun in my direction. “Nothing there, huh? All right. Now strip. You first.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “That’s insulting. Do I look lumpy enough to have bags of cocaine strapped to my body?”

“That’s what I’ll find out. Maybe you use them for implants.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on. Hurry up. Let’s see what you got.”

With the gun inches from my face, I knew he meant business. So I stood and yanked off the scarf, not really caring if my hair looked like shit. I undid the top button of my shirt.

“Faster. Speed it up.”

“I do better with music.” Why let him know how scared I was?

“Forget the comedy act. Get on with it.”

For some stupid reason, I was glad I’d worn my lilac bra and matching panties today. When I was down to them and nothing else, he whistled, then, grabbing my arm, whirled me around. “Okay. Get dressed.” He turned to Beatriz. “You next, grandma.”

“Shoot me. I will not disrobe for you.”

“Yeah, you will.”

He strode over to her and slapped her across the cheek. His fingers left red welts on her skin.

Tears flooded her eyes, but her chin came up. “Pig.”

“Do what he asks, and he’ll leave you alone. Right?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Could be.”

“Beatriz, this is not the time,” I said, my unspoken words hanging in the air. Defiance would come later, when we had a fighting chance.

She nodded and released the clasp on her jet beads. They clattered to the desk. She unzipped her silk dress and stepped out of it. Thin as a shadow in her black slip, she could have no bags of drugs concealed about her person. The guy knew that. This whole stripping scene was about intimidation, not drugs. I wanted to slug him for trying to humiliate us this way.

“Turn around,” he ordered. Beatriz did, her head held high.

“Okay, put that rag back on.”

“It’s a Dior,” she retorted, slipping into her dress.

“Yeah?” He used the gun like a pointer. “We’ll look in that other room. We know the shipment’s not in your house. The boys searched it.”

A ragged intake of breath escaped Beatriz’s throat. She waved a trembling arm around the disheveled office. “You did this to my house?”

He gave her a snarky smile. “A little more.” He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and tossed it to me. “Put the bag of stuff in here.”

Fingers shaking, I did as he asked. He grabbed the pack out of my hands and upped his chin at the outer room. “Okay, go ahead of me. Go on. Both of you. Move. Any sounds, I shoot. Understood?”

We nodded and, prodded by the Glock, I took Beatriz’s arm and helped her out to the display room. With the blinds drawn, even the arc lights in the ceiling didn’t dispel the feeling that we were in an isolated hacienda in the middle of nowhere.

He dropped his backpack on a chair and said, “Start looking. All those drawers and jugs and those wooden boxes—turn them upside down. Be quick.” He aimed the gun at an exquisite writing desk. “Get those old books out of there. Shake them open.”

Nada.
Our search turned up nothing. Wherever Hugo had hidden the drugs, he hadn’t picked the Spanish Galleria. But our intruder wasn’t satisfied. Still brandishing his weapon, he reached into his pants’ pocket and removed a Swiss army knife. Using his teeth, he opened the blade for action. It glittered in the overheads. At the sight, Beatriz whimpered.

Knife in one hand, gun in the other, he approached us. With fingers trembling like hummingbirds, Beatriz clung to me.

“You shoot off that cannon, the whole mall will be in here,” I said, a marshmallow trying to act tough.

“Quiet,” he ordered, and walking up to a settee from the palace of Mexico’s Maximilian I, he bent over and plunged the knife into the original nineteenth-century upholstery, slashing it over and over. The horsehair stuffing, as dry and brittle as hay, spurted out onto the showroom floor.

Beatriz gasped. “
Madre de Dios
, are you
loco?
That’s a national treasure,”

He ignored her and plunged the knife into yet another place in the upholstery. It caught on the stuffing, and as he struggled to wrench it free, Beatriz let go of my arm with a bloodcurdling scream. Shrieking like a jungle cat, her face purple with rage, she flung herself on his back. Her sudden attack caught him off balance. He fell to his knees with Beatriz’s matchstick arms clamped around his neck, her anger giving her the ferocity of a leopard on a kill.

The Glock in one hand, he raised his arms and tried to fling Beatriz away. No dice. She hung on, bonded to him like superglue.

Opportunity only knocks once.

As he struggled to get rid of the wildcat on his back, I leaped for the knife stuck in the upholstery. He must have loosened it. With a few hard tugs, I pulled it free, and while the Glock was still aimed at the ceiling, I plunged the knife into his gun hand. With a howl of pain, he dropped his weapon and, reaching up, flung Beatriz off his back like a sack of meal. She slid along the floor, coming to a stop in front of a heavy wooden chest, a
cómoda.

I kicked the knife across the floor and dove for the gun. Grabbing it, I aimed at his head. Blood running down his arm, he cradled his injured hand in his good one and took a step toward me, fury flaming in his eyes.

“Try,” I said. “I’d like that.”

“Shoot, Deva, shoot,” Beatriz urged from the floor. She was on a roll, no doubt about it.

I stared into his eyes. “You want me to shoot?”

No answer. And no neighbor rushing in to help either. “Beatriz, go into the office and call 9-1-1,” I said.

Leaning on the
cómoda
, she pulled herself to her feet, wisely giving our visitor a wide berth. As she hurried past me, I noticed the sleeves of her silk dress were ripped from their armholes. That was probably a first for Beatriz, and for once I knew she didn’t give a damn.

Inch by inch, our visitor was closing the distance between us. I guess he thought I was stupid. “Take another step and I’ll take out a kneecap.”

“Fat chance. You’re not that good.”

“See that wall switch by your ear?” Before he could turn to check it out, I shot the toggle off the switch.

He stood still as a hunk of stone.

I was too disgusted with this guy to bother telling him my father was one of Boston’s finest. I grew up target practicing with him on weekends. But I did ask a question.

“Why did you kill Navarre?”

“Me?” He actually looked astonished. “I didn’t kill anybody. I figured the old broad did. For the shipment.” He shrugged. “Why would I kill him? It don’t make sense.”

I didn’t know if it did or didn’t. He could do his explaining to the cops, more specifically to Rossi. With a sigh, I realized I’d have to do the same thing.

Rossi wouldn’t be pleased with my story either.