Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery Read online

  “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.

  Back on track with one less man to worry about, Paloma exhaled. Already her hulking fear seemed to be fading. Men were such distractible creatures. After all, even her pursuer had botched the job three times. Slowly, her fluttering heart quieted.

  An announcement came over the loudspeaker. “First Class passengers for United Airline, Flight 970 for Buffalo and Chicago will now begin boarding at Gate Twenty.”

  At last. Several people in the waiting area stood and gathered their belongings. A flight attendant breezed in from the gate entrance. A line began to form. Meanwhile, Santa in the far corner feverishly patted his pockets.

  Sizing up the passengers, her darting eyes shot from one person to another. No one caught her attention. Safety was tantalizingly close, a matter of twenty feet. Gaining confidence, she fiddled through her bag and pulled out her ticket – Seat 23C. The attendant called out row numbers. She was straining to hear when an announcement on the PA system overrode the boarding instructions.

  “Paloma Dove, please report to the United Service desk.”

  She froze. Then regrouped. Certainly her mind was playing tricks. It happened to everyone occasionally – hearing their name being called, or something like their name. She stepped forward.

  A second announcement pealed out. “Paloma Dove, report to the United Service desk.”

  This time there was no mistake. The words were shockingly clear. Her fear slammed back into overdrive. The man! Had he somehow alerted airline personnel to detain her? Stunned, she watched the passengers enter the gate. She couldn’t get on the plane. The boarding pass would identify her. She reeled back around and collapsed against the wall. Her bad leg shook uncontrollably as she fought to stay upright. How much longer could she run, hide, stay out of his grasp?

  Her faith wavered. Maybe she shouldn’t fight death any longer. Frozen, she could almost feel the cold metal barrel pressed against her temple. She swallowed hard, closed her eyes and considered surrender. Perhaps dying was less horrifying than living. Perhaps by dying she’d be free from her self-imposed sentence of endless guilt and inconsolable loneliness. Just let it happen, an inner voice said. But then, from deep in her mind came another voice, a child’s voice. “Mommy, I got you a present.” Warmth spread through Paloma as she remembered Maddie, her doe-eyed daughter. “Feliz cumpleaños,” Maddie said, holding a glittery snow globe. Overcome with emotion, Paloma reached blindly for her daughter’s silky hair. But all she felt was the palpable din of the concourse. And the memory dissolved. With stoic resolve, Paloma took a step toward the gate, then pulled short. Maddie’s eighteenth birthday was only months away, a tentative occasion to make amends. Was giving up an option? Barely ten feet away, two uniformed women sauntered by. Turning on her heels, Paloma rushed to the bathroom.

  Ensconced in the farthest stall, Paloma peeled off her clothes, ripped open her bag, and pulled out a print dress. Quickly, she stepped into it, zipped up the front and slid her bare feet into sneakers. She uncapped a black eyeliner, drew lines into the folds of her neck, wrists, and poked the soft black tip under her fingernails. She then yanked off the wig, pulled out three hairpins, and shook her dark auburn hair. With trembling hands she took a plastic razor, pulled her hair taut and ran the blade against the grain. Tufts of hair floated in the toilet water, along with her shredded ticket and identification. She flushed and watched it all swirled away. Another life gone.

  Before leaving she needed to make one more adjustment. Fingering through her wallet, she pulled out a wad of bills. A homeless woman wouldn’t have this kind of money. About to toss it on the floor, Paloma heard a crying baby. She cracked open the stall door and saw a woman changing a child’s diaper. Paloma slipped out, sailed past them, and dropped the rolled cash into the woman’s open, disheveled bag.

  Back on the concourse, the crowd had not abated. Paloma hurried along the wall. The quicker she reached her destination, the quicker it would all be over.

  Airport security was ahead. Two heavyset men in uniform stood solid, like rocks in a rushing creek as people parted around them.

  She neared the metal detectors, the bottleneck, Checkpoint Charlie. Uniformed men and women increased in numbers. Some stood, some sat. They were busy with the job they had to do, sizing up the passengers, looking for anything suspicious. She scurried by. But she wasn’t leaving, not out the front doors. She turned back and rejoined the throng of passengers that swelled behind the X-ray machines, metal arches and rolling tabletops. Every few seconds the mass moved along. Four… Three… Two people were ahead of her. Suddenly, shuffling footsteps, murmuring voices faded into the background. She focused, catching details.

  The security guard, less than a foot away, wore a shirt with crisp-ironed lines. Cuffs were buttoned and the collar was tight around his neck. He looked buffed and shined, a school boy. His lips moved. “Ma’am, please place your bag down.”

  Paloma ignored the request.

  “Lady, put your bag down.”

  She took a step forward. The concourse blurred. Her heart revved up anticipating what she must do. Suddenly, she felt his touch on her sleeve. It was time. She lunged forward through the metal frame, tripping the alarms. His grasping hand was unable to hold tight.

  She was running now like a wounded dog down the concourse. Her shriveled leg could hardly stand the pressure. Jolts of pain rose up her back, but she couldn’t stop; she must put up a fight, be driven down. Her only thought was the mechanics of falling: the bending of the knees, the leaning into the fall. Then it happened. An iron weight rammed into her back, and like a cue ball, her head cracked against the floor.

  Chapter Four

  At four-forty in the afternoon, Max stood at the corner of MacDougall and St. John’s. He took in the panoramic view. Streets in New York City were all the same to him – tireless avenues of never-ending traffic closed in tight by concrete, metal and humanity. He gazed at the six-story, center-entrance building, he’d seen hours earlier in the Times. Clearly, the first floor apartment had taken the brunt of the assault. The rest of the bu
ilding remained occupied. Tenants climbed the front stairs, weighted down with plastic bags, bikes and strollers. Catcalling kids leaned out from open windows.

  Amid the normalcy, Max looked for answers. Was Daisy’s mother the target? Or could it have been a mistaken apartment? He’d seen that often enough. Cretins who’d reverse letters, numbers, then show up at the wrong place with their pricks on backwards. He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Could they have found Agnes? Max sauntered down the length of the building, passing beneath the bay window that was now boarded and tagged Emergency Enclosures. The smell of burnt wood hung in the air. Of course, there was one other possibility. Maybe, like in Chicago, it was another staged death. Only this time there had been a catch, a complication. After all she couldn’t have intentionally killed someone. Not the person he knew, not Agnes.

  Beyond the damaged area was a rear first floor apartment. The jostling of pots and pans filtered out an open window. Max continued to the end of the building where, on a small patch of grass, a wiry, gray-haired man lounged in a lawn chair. The man’s eyes were closed and his head was tilted back as if he were trying to get a tan. Smoke curled from a cigarette planted between his fingers.

  “Excuse me, sir. Laurent, FBI.”

  The man’s body jerked. He then opened his eyes and sat straighter.

  “I’m investigating the fire. Need to ask you a few questions.”

  The man eased up from the chair and strolled over to Max. “What can I do for you?”

  “You live here?”

  “For twenty-five years.”

  Max nodded toward the front. “Looks like a pretty bad situation. I hear it wasn’t electrical.”

  “Some moron lobbed a bottle of gasoline through the window. Landed on the couch. At least that’s what the police told me. They were all over here, like nightcrawlers after a rain.”

  “I bet,” Max said. “You awake when it happened?”

  “Nope, asleep. Woke up to the smoke alarm. I got out of bed fast, then scooted my ass out.” The man pointed at the sidewalk. “Ran down here. That’s when I saw the flames. The living room was lit up like a pumpkin. Made me sick. Anyway, I yelled for Paloma to get the hell out. That I’d catch her if she’d get to one of the windows. But she never came. Turns out she wasn’t home.”