Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (6 page)

Max sensed some resistance. What was she hiding? There was one way to find out. He put his fork down. “Daisy, have the police been here yet?”

“Police? No. Why would they come here?”

“Your mother, well someone purposely threw a fire bomb into that apartment. She died as a result of it.”

“Yes, that’s true, but – ”

“Daisy, your mother was murdered.”

“Murdered?” she echoed.

“And whether it’s tonight, tomorrow, or next week, they’ll be here asking a lot of questions. Questions that will need answers.”

She swallowed hard. “What kinds of questions?”

“For one, how often did she stay at Paloma’s.”

“You mean overnight? The first time was this past week.”

“Why was she there? Was it her choice?”

“We agreed it would be like a mini vacation. She’d have the place to herself. Get to visit with some of her old friends.”

“But why this particular week?”

“Well, I needed a break too.”

“A break from your mother? Didn’t you two get along?”

She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Of course we got along. But like I said, we sometimes argued.”

“Daisy, didn’t you tell me you had company from out of town?”

“Yes, exactly. My friend was visiting.”

“So why didn’t you and your friend stay at Paloma’s?”

She challenged his gaze. “Why are you asking me these things?”

“Daisy, I want you to understand the kinds of questions you may have to answer.”

 “Really? Sounds like you’re asking me to get my story straight. But I have no story.”

“Can your friend vouch for you? Account for where you were the night of the fire?”

Her breath caught for a moment. “After the first night, he got a call and had to leave. I haven’t seen him since. As for the night of the fire, I was alone.”

“Did your mother have any enemies? Unhappy customers?”

“Mamá? No, of course not.”

“Are you her beneficiary?”

She reared back. “Are you saying the police would think I killed her?”

“Simple police procedure. They need to investigate.  Family is always suspect.”

She plucked at the table napkin. “Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“I have an explanation,” she said quietly. “For some of it anyway.”

“Listen, I’d like to help. Tell me what you know and we’ll go from there.”

She faced him. “It’s not that complicated. Unfortunately, my mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just know.”

“And how’s that? How can you be sure?”

She pushed her dish away. “I promised not to say anything, but I can’t have people think I murdered my mother.”

Max reached over and wrapped his hand around hers. “Of course you can’t.”

She tried to pulled away. He held tight. “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

“Okay,” she said, “but promise me you won’t tell.”

He nodded.

“Paloma called. She told me someone was trying to kill her.”  

“What!”

“And that she was going away for a while. She wouldn’t say where. She was in a hurry and…Max, I don’t know what your relationship is with her, but she told me not to say one word to you. Are you friends or – ”

“What time did she call?”

“A little over an hour ago.”

“Where was she?”

She looked away. “I don’t know.”

Liars were different, but the way they lied was always the same. “Daisy, I’ve got to get to her before something happens. We don’t need another murder.”

No response. Max gave a final push. “Daisy, Paloma’s the only one who can collaborate your story. I must talk to her.”

For the first time, Max saw how vulnerable she was. The corners of her mouth began to twitch. Barely audible she said, “Queens County Medical Center.”

Max sprinted from the chair.

She looked frightened. “You’re leaving? But what if the police come?”

“Don’t worry.” Max fished through his jacket pocket. “Here’s my home number. If they show up tonight or tomorrow try the Holiday Inn on Canal. Can you think of anything else she said?”

She stared off.

“Daisy, did anything she said stick in your mind?”

“There was one thing.” Daisy braved his gaze. “She asked if you wore a straw hat.”

“Straw hat?”

“That’s what she said.”

***

On the cab ride over the bridge to Queens, Max watched the girders rise and fall. Slats of sunlight glinted into his pupils, flooding his brain with flashes of blinding light. How could he let this happen? He was supposed to protect her, that much he’d promised, if not to her, to himself. Had he gotten lax, lulled into a state of complacency? But he had tried. At the last two parole hearings he was the only one who pleaded a case for Joey Catoni to serve his full sentence. Even Michael Mays’s family made the decision not to appear succumbing to Mama Catoni’s crocodile tears and Tony Catoni’s stammerings that the family needed Joey back to help care for their mother and run the store. Even Joey, the not-so-model prisoner, had a spiel, how he was going to help the black community, provide a scholarship fund in Michael Mays’s name. Yada, yada. Even after Joey was released, Max visited the donut shop and threw his weight around the best he could. The scene was always the same. Old lady Catoni, forgotten in a corner, sat in her wheelchair with a glazed donut to gum, as her two moronic sons drank coffee and yelled orders to the hired help, mostly black and Hispanic kids who, oblivious to the family’s history or simply desperate for a job, worked behind the counter. So much for rehabilitation. The Catoni boys still had bowling balls for brains, pine nuts for balls. If they were behind this, Joey’d be slamming the ham for life and Tony’d be watching. 

The cab turned onto the hospital grounds. “Where do you want to be left off?”

If Paloma was in the airport a few hours ago but now in a hospital, that meant only one place – the ER. The cabbie swerved into a narrow drive and stopped behind an ambulance. After tossing a fifty to the driver, Max bounded from the cab, rushed up the ramp, and barreled through the automated doors.

The place was teeming. People of all ages, sizes, were slumped in chairs, leaning against walls. Babies cried. Others coughed and moaned. Nurses, doctors yelled orders over ringing telephones. Max scanned the area, looking for a petite dark-haired woman. His gaze fell on potential candidates. No one appeared familiar. He approached a woman seated at a computer terminal. She stayed focused on the screen. “Sign in.” 

“I’m not here for myself. I’m looking for someone.”

“Name?”

“Paloma Dove.”

“D O V E?” she said.

“Yes, Paloma.”

She typed, stopped, then moved the mouse. Her gaze skittered across the screen. “She’s not here.”

Max reached into his pocket. “She arrived from LaGuardia. Here’s her picture.”

The woman gave the photograph a passing glance then shrugged. “Probably left before she registered. People often do that. They think this place is a deli, pick a number and you get called. Problem is we have a protocol and have to deal with the most serious cases first, no matter how long you wait or scream.”

Max wanted to reach out and grab the woman by the neck. “Yes, I understand that, but my wife has episodes.”

“What kind of episodes?”

“Fugue states, confusion, forgetfulness. She might not be using her name. Please try and remember if you’ve seen her.”

The woman looked again at the photograph. “Does this happen often?”

“Often enough.”

“Have a seat. I’ll see if someone can help.” She picked up the phone and spoke into the receiver. Her voice echoed through the public address system. “Doctor Sanjay, please report to the registration desk.”

Max stepped to the side. There was always a time in an investigation when intuition took over. It was a feeling that he was on the right track, like a dog driven toward a scent. Agnes was close by. He felt it.

Minutes later, a man in a white coat approached him. “I am Doctor Sanjay. How can I help you?”

Max showed Agnes’s picture again. “Have you seen this woman? She’s missing.”

The doctor took the picture and gave it some thought. “For how long?”

“Since yesterday.”

“Is she related to you?”

“She’s my wife.”

The doctor looked pointedly at Max. “Her name?”

“Paloma Dove.”

“So you are Mr. Dove?”

Max suspected the next question would be to provide identification. “No, actually, she’s retained her maiden name. My name is Laurent, Max Laurent.”

“I see,” said the doctor, glancing back to the photograph. “She is a very pretty lady.”

“Yes, she is.”

The doctor handed back the picture. “I haven’t come across anyone by that name. And if I did, I must tell you, it would be confidential.”

“But she gets confused.”

“Why would she be in this hospital?”

“She called me from here two hours ago.”

“Really? And what did she say?”

“I didn’t speak with her. The call showed up on caller ID.”

“Then how did you know it was her?”

Max was being interrogated. There could only be one reason. “Doctor, have you seen her?”

“As I said before, whether I have or have not, I would not be at liberty to say. My best advice is for you to contact the police and file a missing person’s report. They then can have our records subpoenaed.”

“Doctor, this woman is in danger.”

“I am sorry to hear that. You have another good reason to contact the police. Now I must get back to work.” The doctor reached out. “Pleasure meeting you Mr. Laurent. I wish you the best of luck in finding your wife.”

Max shook the firm hand.

The doctor turned to leave, stopped, then spun back around. “Mr. Laurent, did you happen to leave a straw hat by the reception desk?”

The straw hat again. “No.”

“Very well,” said the doctor. “Have a nice evening.”    

Max left the hospital with one answer – yes, the doctor had seen Agnes, and one question – where was she now?

Chapter Seven

Degrees of separation. Paloma knew the concept well. How people, unrelated both in time and space, were closely connected, rooted indelibly together by strange and unlikely circumstances. What providence had caused her to be in that particular spot at that time, when, just a few feet away, Max Laurent had passed through the double door entry into the emergency room? At first, he was just another man in a rush, self-absorbed, unaware of those around him. It was his gait that caught her attention, a brisk walk with his jacket wide open, the tails of his sports coat flying behind him. She wondered what terrifying news he might have heard, when his features became familiar, rising to the surface like answers in an eightball. His hair was grayer, still unparted and combed back. Unfamiliar deep lines cut across his forehead, but the square face and straight nose were his. Her breath caught in her throat, fearing he’d sense her presence. But he hadn’t, and as soon as the automatic doors closed behind him, she scurried down the ramp. 

Now at the foot of the driveway, she took a sharp right onto the street. In the background, horns beeped, but she kept a scattered pace. She felt disoriented due to an unsettling thought – when someone reentered your life, someone you had loved but learned to hate, how was that reconfigured? Quite simply, it wasn’t. Max was dead to her as she was to him, ghosts to one another, end of story. Apparently, however, this wasn’t the end of the story, but another traumatizing sequel. 

Feeling nauseated and shaky, Paloma stopped and leaned against a lamppost. To think she’d fallen for him, then gotten so screwed. They’d been connected by the trial, but when the battle ended and the war was won, he moved onto other fronts, fronts where she could no longer compete with or be a part of. 

Had they kissed? They had. Had they made love? She did, but not he, because the next day he hardly knew her, stammering on the phone he couldn’t see her again because of work. Then to feel less guilty, he sent her away. Bye, bye, take care of yourself. See ya ’ound. And she wasn’t going to beg or throw herself at him. If he wanted her out of his life, then she was gone. No, I’ll see YOU around. And so it went, two camps, she in Chicago, he in Buffalo. But he still hovered with the occasional visit. That was until the last time.

How had he tracked her to her new home? She couldn’t recall what he’d said, always so cryptic. He sat at the kitchen table. Clay was at work and Madeleine was finger painting, making big blue swirls. He told her not to worry, but (there were always ‘buts’ with Max) Tony Catoni had been released from prison and, “be careful.” What was that supposed to mean? Hadn’t he promised that she’d be protected? Wasn’t that why she’d been given a different name and a new place to live? How exactly was she supposed to ‘be careful’ with a family? What about Clay? Did he need to ‘be careful’? And Madeleine? Would they go after her? His response was “Probably not.” Probably not? Hardly definitive or comforting. Damn him. And now the prince-turned-frog was back. What could he possibly want? 

Continuing south, her breathing slowed, became less choppy. She had to think things through. Was there a connection between Max and the man who was after her? Had he come to warn her that Tony Catoni was finally making good his threat of ‘splattering her guts to kingdom come’? That could explain his resurrection. But what was she supposed to do about it? Kill herself off like last time? Whatever. At least there was one thing to be thankful for. She’d seen him first and gotten away. Enough. To hell with him. She needed to get back on track and find a phone. 

A bar with a neon Blue Flamingo appeared a few doors away. It was as good a place as any other. She turned, pulled the heavy door and walked into a dark, cool room that reeked of beer. Coming in from sunlight threw her into a state of temporary blindness. Her glance gravitated toward the front window to get some bearings. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw a phone. She marched over, lifted the receiver and punched
O
for the operator.

“How can I help you?” 

“I’d like to make a collect call to Curtis Mays on Grape Street in Buffalo, New York. I don’t have the phone number.”