Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (2 page)

Max placed the coffee on the floor and closed his eyes. Their first phone call was twenty-five years earlier. She had information about the Michael Mays murder case, the case that had subsequently transformed his career, marking him with distinction and booting him up to Special Agent in Charge. Her voice had been quiet, hesitant. He’d asked her repeatedly to speak up. She’d seen it all – the squad car, the huddled form in the back seat, the thick lines of blood draining from the young man’s ear and nose. Max had been obsessed, utterly determined to nail the police. Agnes was the star witness, the only witness. His feelings for her grew, but they were secondary to the cause. Maybe he’d pushed too hard, made assumptions, took her for granted.

“Mr. Laurent?”

Max stood.

“I’m Dr. Braun. You wanted to see me?”

Max shook hands with the baldheaded, thick-browed man.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I’m here about this.” He reached for the
Times
article. “A very close friend of mine lives in this apartment and I came to – ” Max cleared his throat. “Identify her.”

The doctor glanced at the paper. “Yes, of course. She arrived in critical condition, but didn’t make it. Smoke inhalation. Her daughter’s here now.”

“Daughter?”

“Yes. In fact, she’s still in my office. Very upset, as you can imagine.”

Max couldn’t imagine. Identifying your own mother! He reached for the wall and steadied himself. Agnes, your poor kid shouldn’t have to go through this.

“Are you all right?” the doctor asked.

Max nodded. “I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. Not even close. 

“Perhaps you’d like to meet with the daughter of the deceased,” the doctor said. “She could use some support.”

Max remembered Madeleine as a pensive, black-haired child with wondrous brown eyes, a knock-off of her mother. Now she’d be grown. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Max squared his shoulders. “I’ll help anyway I can.”

“Right this way.”

The doctor led Max down the hall through a swinging door, and into an office. Immediately, Max saw the crown of a dark-haired woman. She was seated, facing toward a large window. Brilliant sunlight streamed in, engulfing her slumped, round-shouldered frame.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” the doctor said. “This gentleman, Mr. Laurent, was a friend of your mother.”

Max braced himself.

The woman swung around and regarded Max with bloodshot, blue eyes.

Blue? And she was grown, far older than seventeen. She couldn’t possibly be Madeleine.

 “You knew my mother?” the woman asked quietly.

Max froze, embarrassed by the presumption he had made  about Agnes. She must have moved out of the apartment after all. Or was it just another ruse? Another staged death, only this time with a body. Fumbling for words, Max reached out to the woman. “I’m very sorry. So sorry, Miss.”

She clutched his hand between clammy palms. “Thank you. Please call me Daisy.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” the doctor said. “I have some final notes to make. Take as long as you like.”

Max stepped back, allowing the doctor to pass, and the door swung shut.

“My name is Max. I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake. I thought you were the daughter of a friend who lived on MacDougall – ”

“You mean Paloma?” 

“Paloma?”

“Yes, Paloma Dove. She lives there.”

Max wasn’t able to keep track of the names Agnes had used over the years, except for the one the Bureau had assigned to her – Nancy Smith. Still, he wasn’t about to make another mistake. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out the photo he’d taken twelve years earlier. “Is this her?”

The woman’s eyes flitted to the picture. A quick smile passed her lips. “Yes, of course. You see my mother – ” Her face began to crumble.

Max pulled out his handkerchief.  “Take this. Can I get you something? Water, coffee?”

“No thank you,” she said, blotting her eyes. “I’ll be all right.”

Max stood back. She was attractive and well-taken care of. A snug, black sweater barely contained her well-rounded breasts. Layered glittery necklaces dipped into her cleavage.   

“It’s all my fault,” she said, her eyes still brimming with tears. “I was having company from out of town for a few days. I thought my mother would be more comfortable at Paloma’s. Mamá had a lot of friends in the Village and since Paloma wasn’t returning until Sunday, I didn’t think she’d mind.”

“Where was Paloma?”

“On one of her trips.”

“Trips?”

Daisy shot Max a suspicious look. “You’re Paloma’s friend?”

“An old friend. From Buffalo.  Haven’t talked to her in a while. You see, I saw her apartment in the paper and – ”

“Yes, that’s how I found out.” Daisy ran her hand along her stomach and leaned forward. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

There was another door in the corner of the room. Max took a few steps and checked inside. “Here’s a bathroom.”

“Thanks. Excuse me.”

“Certainly.”

After she closed the bathroom door, Max went to the window and looked out. A woman, eyeing oncoming traffic, made a move and stepped off the curb. Out of nowhere, a taxi barreled into the lane. She jumped back to safety. Max winced. Getting from point A to point B had its hazards. Undeterred, the woman braved a second attempt and shot off into the street. This time, weaving helter skelter through careening traffic, she arrived safely to the other side. Max had a choice of his own – to cross the divide or sit on the sidelines. 

“Such a sunny day,” Daisy said.

Max turned. A flowery scent filled the room, but that wasn’t the only bloom. She flashed him a glossy beet-red smile. “I’m feeling much better.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She drifted beside him and gazed out the window.

“Do you have anyone to help with the arrangements?” Max asked.

“The doctor gave me some numbers to call. I’ll be handling everything myself.”

“What about Paloma? Have you tried to reach her?” Max said.

“If only I could. She didn’t give me a number where she could be reached. You know how secretive she is. Anyway, I’m expecting her back by Sunday. Of course, she’ll have to stay at my apartment.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Thank so much. But won’t you be heading back home?”

“Actually, no. I have some business here. I’d be happy to help.”

She smiled. “How kind of you.”

“Are you finished here? Can I escort you home?” 

“No, that’s quite all right. But…perhaps you’d like to come for dinner? The thought of being alone tonight –” Her eyes welled up.

“Yes. I’d like that very much.”

“Wonderful.” She reached for her purse and pulled out a wallet. From an interior fold she found a business card and handed it to Max. “See you around seven?”

“Sounds good.”

They walked out of the hospital together and parted company on Seventh. As she walked away, Max watched how her body moved beneath the tight, straight skirt. Funny how two women so different could be friends. He turned in the opposite direction. Maybe once things were settled between them, he could take Agnes shopping and encourage her to break loose in something tight and shiny.

Chapter Three

On the escalator at La Guardia, Paloma Dove shifted her weight. Her knees were trembling because of the slightly vibrating stairs, nothing else. She needed a clear head, not runaway fear. But the thought returned – was her moving profile centered in a sharpshooter’s scope, marked in the cross hairs? Was a pointed rifle tracking her slow ascent, a finger teased on the trigger? 

But this wasn’t possible, not today, not in an airport.

Through dark glasses she peered into the teeming, sinking crowd and scanned for a man in a straw hat. Her gaze skittered across the busy concourse. People scurried every which way, like bees in a swarm. How could she possibly spot him? 

For the third time in fewer minutes, she pivoted and glanced behind to make sure no one was elbowing through the clotted mass on the escalator. Suddenly the moving stairway shifted. Vertigo. Tightening her hand around the rubber rail, she faced forward, fixed a steady stare and braced herself. Perhaps he’d be up ahead, the first person she’d see.

Three lanky older boys, not yet men, wired for sound and weighted down with backpacks, stood in front of her. Their studied grubbiness, frayed jeans and untucked T-shirts, masked their likely status – not poor city kids but college students. The tallest one, facing sideways, peered down and gave her the once over. She patted down the bangs of the ridiculous blond wig – a mistake, she now realized, a prop that snagged male attention. His glance passed on.

The expanse of the second level began to fill her field of vision, another sea of moving bodies loaded down with briefcases, overnight bags, and children in tow. Her pulse quickened. Perhaps she could follow the young men, tuck neatly behind until she was well-absorbed into the dense crowd. As the stairs flattened and rolled from sight, she gripped the strap of her carry-on and readied herself. With downcast eyes, she raised her foot and stepped onto solid ground. Within moments she became one among many, entrenched in the mass, a welcomed safety zone. In her forty-seven years she’d learned the two best places to hide were in a cave or in a crowd. Anywhere else and you were taking chances.

She parried for position in the stream of travelers. The lack of rest coupled with jangled nerves made the limp worse. Still, she needed to conceal it as best she could. He might be watching for that very thing. Each right-footed step sent pain up her hip, back. She focused recalling how, as a young girl desperately shy and embarrassed, she had practiced walking, shoulders back, stomach in, with a book balanced on her head. Soon she fell into a rhythm.

Security approached. It wouldn’t be long before takeoff and safety. The knot loosened in her neck as one simple, miraculous thought came to mind. She’d be leaving New York City the same way she arrived. Alive.

At the metal detector, she followed the officer’s directions and placed her bag on the rolling tabletop. Barely breaking stride, she then eased through the archway, recouped the carry-on and continued. The gate neared. Only one last precautionary step remained – she had to make sure he wasn’t on the plane.

The waiting area loomed. She crossed to the edge of the crowd. Empty seats against a far wall drew her attention. There no one could sneak up from behind. She broke from the pack and rushed to the spot. At one end an older man sat reading. Perhaps he could provide additional cover. Anyone glancing at them might assume they were together. 

“Is this seat taken?”

The man peered up from the newspaper and shook his head. She collapsed into the plastic molded chair and, for the first time in thirty-six hours, realized how tired she was. It wasn’t only her leg that ached but her entire body. Settling back, she asked the gentleman, “Excuse me, do you have the time?”

He glanced at his watch. “Five-fifteen.”

“Thank you.”

The boarding call would come within ten minutes. Throwaway time, hardly any time at all. Certainly she could manage that. The tension in her chest loosened.

“Where you headed?” the older man asked.

The bald, pale man reminded her of a clean-shaven Santa. She smiled. “Upstate.”

“I’m going to the Falls,” he said.

“That’s nice.”

She sat taller. A man, six feet, maybe more, wearing a hat strolled through the harried mob. His towering head pivoted side to side. Who, what was he looking for? But his coat was wrong, too light-colored. She slumped back.

“You have pretty hair,” Santa said.

“Thank you.”

He leaned over. “And nice titties.”

She stopped cold. Surely she must have misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

A yellow-tooth smirk played on his face. “What do you charge? Twenty, twenty-five?”

She reached for her bag. He grabbed her arm and pinned it down. 

“Let go,” she said through clenched teeth.

His grip tightened. “Hard to get. I like that.” He leaned closer. His heated, sour breath fell on her neck. “Don’t play innocent with me. You’re the one who came over here thinking I was an easy mark. Hell, we can work something out.”

Of all the lousy spots she had to pick. She looked at his thick hand and recalled others; creeping, sweaty, disembodied ones that had run up her legs, squeezed her breasts in movie theaters, subway cars. She glanced around. No one seemed interested. Under normal circumstances, she would have gone for the neck, eyes, or lower where it really counted, but causing a scene now would be suicide. Instead she considered the time. Five more minutes, maybe less. Just sit tight until the boarding call. He’d have to let go then.

“You could ride me like a bull,” he said.

She looked straight ahead and tried to jerk her arm free.

He clamped down harder. “Feisty little
Mamita
.”

She stiffened.

“Do me good and I’ll buy you some rice and beans.” 

Her heart pounded furiously. She needed to stay calm. Or maybe….

She removed her glasses and looked into his cloudy, pinhead eyes. Edging her body closer, she gave him a catlike smile. His grasp loosened as his gaze became entangled in her dark chestnut eyes. 

“I have a better idea,” she murmured.

He leaned closer. She touched his thigh.  

Spit gathered in the corners of his mouth. “Go on.”

She parted her lips. His eyes, like a magnet, riveted to her mouth. 

“First, let me suck you dry,” she said. 

A glazed, faraway look crept onto his face. Carefully, she reached for his front patch pocket. Without pressure, her nimble fingers found a corner of his boarding pass. Suddenly he readjusted himself in the seat. Had something stirred in the clammy creases of his milquetoast thighs? Most likely, but it hardly mattered. The movement was all she needed. She grabbed the strap of her bag and sprang from the chair. 

“Hey,” he said, “we have a deal.”

She smiled at the few people who looked in her direction. It wasn’t right, of course, but she had no choice. She couldn’t afford a scene on the plane either. With a silent
Forgive me Lord
, she picked up a candy wrapper that was tossed on the floor and pushed it, along with his boarding pass, through the flap of the trash can. She then slipped around a corner and slumped her shaking body against a wall.