Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery Page 4

  Paloma did understand. She proceeded to give him a name, date of birth, social security number, all bogus.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Paloma stood in a corridor, waiting with others to use the phone. Carts and stretchers rumbled past. Doors slammed open and shut with the jingle of keys. During an earlier time, being in a locked ward would have ignited a mindless panic that would’ve compressed every cubic inch of air into unbreathable space. But today, being behind locked metal doors was comforting. Feeling safe, at least temporarily, she began to think more clearly.

  The car in Chicago. Maybe it was her imagination. Or maybe they were teenagers playing around, spooking pedestrians for kicks. And what about the other people who were waiting? Could one of them have been the target? No, forget the car. The man on the subway who put a bullet in her side was real. Was he crazed? High on drugs? Did she look like his cheating wife? But the firebomb. How would he have known where she lived? And then there was the obvious. Her life had been threatened in the past. By the entire Buffalo Police Department, by the Catonis. Both brothers might be out of prison by now. A chill went through her. Was it payback time?

  “Lady, if you don’t want to make a call, move on.”

  Paloma stepped into the small office and sat at the desk.

  “Five minutes, that’s it,” the thin-lipped woman said. “And no long distance.”

  The woman’s face was soured, pinched, as if she were smelling bad meat. Paloma had a theory about people and how they looked. It wasn’t just diet or gravity or genetics that made someone appear as they did, but a recurrent emotional state that bled from the inside to the outside, like a paper towel that soaked up a spill.

  Paloma picked up the phone and punched in the number. Each ring seemed inordinately long.

  “Hello?”

  At the familiar voice, Paloma choked up. “Mi hija.”

  “Paloma, where are you?”

  “Queens Medical Center.”

  “What happened?”

  “Daisy, I’m fine. I’m calling you about my apartment.”

  “So you know,” Daisy said.

  “About the fire? Yes.”

  “Oh, Paloma. Mamá’s dead.”

  “What? ¿Qué dices?”

  “In your apartment, she died in your apartment.”

  “Mamá? Mamá’s dead? But how? Why was she – ”

  “It’s all my fault.” Daisy’s voice trembled. “You were out of town and I thought you wouldn’t mind. Brandon was coming in for a few days. I wanted some privacy. Oh, I’m so selfish. Still, she said she wouldn’t mind. So we dropped her off last Monday. I called her every day. Te lo juro…” She sniffled.

  “Dios mío. Daisy, I’m so sorry. But you can’t blame yourself.”

  “The coroner said she died of smoke inhalation. She didn’t get burned. That’s a good thing. ¿Verdad?”

  Paloma’s stomach churned. “Yes, I’m sure she didn’t suffer.”

  “Why would someone do such a thing?”

  “Daisy?”

  “What?”

  “Be calm and listen very carefully.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  Paloma cupped her hand around the receiver. Lowering her voice, she said, “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “What? Kill you? Why? Who?”

  “I don’t know. I must go away for a while. About the Cordelia letters. I’ll send you what I can. I just need a new paper supply.”

  “But what happened to – ”

  “The fire ruined everything.”

  “You were at the apartment?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “I thought you were out of town.”

  “I was. Listen, it’s a long story. Anyway when I found out about the fire, I had to see what I could salvage and make sure nothing was left lying around.”

  “So you have what you need?”

  “I couldn’t take much. I had to get rid of some stuff.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Burned it.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I packed up the basics and mailed them to someone.”

  “Was that wise? You could have brought them here. What if they get lost?”

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Paloma, Mamá’s funeral will be on Monday.”

  “Oh, Daisy, I’m afraid I – ”

  “Your friend has offered to help. In fact he’s coming over for dinner.”

  “Friend?”

  “From Buffalo. Max Laurent.”

  Max? The small room wavered. Paloma grabbed onto the rim of the desktop and squeezed hard.

  “He saw the article in the paper and was worried that

  you – ”

  “Daisy, that’s not possible. He couldn’t be Max. What was this man wearing? Was he in a trench coat? Did he have a straw hat?”

  “No. Blue pants, white shirt. He had a snapshot of you.”

  A picture? Impossible!

  “Are you sure it was of me?”

  “Yes. Your hair was pulled back. You were on the stairs of your apartment building.”

  “Daisy, did you say he’s coming to your place?”

  “Yes, any minute.”

  “Did he mention what he does for a living?”

  “No, we didn’t get – ”

  “He works for the FBI.”

  “The what!”

  “FBI.”

  “Uh oh, that’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not. Daisy, none of this makes sense. Something is terribly wrong.”

  “I’ll call him, cancel dinner, then you can come here

  and – ”

  “No, Daisy, that’s not a good idea. You need to find out as much as you can.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Ask him how he and I met. Some of the things we did together. I need to make sure it’s him.”

  “Is he an old boyfriend?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really? What does that mean? Anyway, I don’t think he’s married.”

  “Daisy, if it’s Max, the guy’s trouble. Besides you have a boyfriend.”

  “Ay mi hija, that’s the thing. I’m wondering now if Brandon has a wife.”

  “Oh, Daisy, how do you get yourself in these – ”

  A voice interrupted. “Hey Motor Mouth. Time’s up.”

  Paloma turned. The scowling woman stood behind her.

  “Daisy, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “Sure. I – ”

  The woman’s finger descended onto the phone, disconnecting the line.

  It didn’t matter. Paloma’s heart was beating hard and fast. She had to run. If it was Max, he’d find her in no time.

  Chapter Six

  The neoclassical style of Daisy’s apartment building was austere, somber, and decidedly understated. Besides its clean, simple lines, the gray, smooth-faced ashlar stood well against the ravages of time and weather. Quality materials seemed tragically overlooked to Max. The added expense was traded in for cheap imitations and stylistic meanderings that were here today and gone tomorrow, not unlike the ‘what’s hot/what’s not’ vernacular of American culture. Max climbed the three marble steps that led to the entryway. The reason he felt this way was simple – if something served its purpose with resilience and grace, why muck it up? The outer door, hung between sidelights, opened into a small vestibule with a ceramic hexagon floor and cherry wood wainscoting. To the left, call buttons were embedded in a brass plate. The small rectangular slots originally allocated for an occupant’s name, were empty, another modern-day reality where anonymity was preferred and far safer. Max ran his finger up to row four, over to column D, then pressed the small black button. Within moments a buzz sounded and Max entered.

  Riding up the groaning elevator, Max wondered how forthcoming Daisy would be. He had to find out more about Paloma. His obsession was taking a firm hold, grabbing him by the throat. The scare she might have died taught him a valuable lesson and more importantly gave him a second chance to go for the gold.

  Max exited onto the fourth floor. The smell of garlic and onions filled the hall as well as a lingering dampness. Clearly, pots were boiling, pans frying. Turning left, Max stepped to Apartment D and stopped. He had an agenda, a slew of questions about Paloma, aka Agnes. Where was she? Was she in danger? Secondary to these concerns, was a more personal agenda. But that would be between him and Agnes. He knocked on the door and stepped back, making sure Daisy got a clear view of him through the peephole.

  “Coming,” he heard her say, and the door opened.

  Her smile was bright and wide. She wore black slacks and a shimmering black top. Her hair was pulled back, off her face and neck, showcasing her high cheek bones and even tone skin, the warm color of toffee.

  “Max, welcome.”

  “Good evening.”

  “Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

  He crossed the threshold and walked into the living room. The place was filled to the gills. Sofas, settees, several occasional chairs were crammed into the room along with a collection of desks, armoires and tables. Atop every surface, were clustered groups of lamps, figurines, crystal and china. The walls were likewise covered with framed paintings, tapestries and an array of sconces.

  “As you see, I work from home. My mother had an antique business in the Village, but when she couldn’t keep up, we decided to downsize.”

  He followed Daisy along a tight circuitous path. “Do you have a specialty?”

  “It depends on the market. I prefer art nouveau pieces, jewelry specifically. But when I find them, I’m reluctant to sell. Unfortunately, that’s not good for business.”

  Max noticed several remarkable pieces,
an inlaid, mother-of-pearl screen, a chandelier with peacocks, and innumerable, finely carved figurines. His knowledge of antiques was spotty. Still, if the screen was Imperial, the lamp Tiffany, and the figurines ivory, the contents of the room would add up to a sizable fortune. “How long have you been in business?”

  “Mamá opened the shop over fifty years ago.” She stopped at a couch. “Would this be comfortable? Or would you prefer to sit by the window?”

  “No, this is fine,” Max said and relaxed into the sofa.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  Max recalled the previous night’s losing streak and consoling shots of brandy. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Drinking, like sex, had recovery time, that as he aged, was decidedly longer. “No thanks.”

  Daisy settled into the opposite end of the couch.

  “Have the arrangements been made?” Max asked.

  “Yes. It only took one call. The funeral director sounds very nice and capable.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Better.”

  “That’s good.”

  With a weak smile, Daisy looked around the room. “Mamá started the business from nothing, taught me everything. It wasn’t always easy. She worked hard and was very successful. When I think about her life, I feel better. She did things her way.”

  “That’s a fine legacy.”

  “Of course we had our moments. But mothers and daughters are like that, don’t you think?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. I never had children.”

  “Yes, but you were once a child with parents of your own. Did you always get along with them?”

  Both of Max’s parents were stoic. His relationship with them had been distant. “We did have our disagreements but tended to keep them to ourselves. We rarely argued.”

  Daisy gave a rueful smile “How families can be so different. Mamá and I…well, sometimes that’s all we ever did.”

  “Love can be expressed in many ways.”

  “How insightful. Yes, you’re right.”

  For a moment, Max became distracted – Daisy’s eyes were no longer blue, but a deep chestnut color.

  “I roasted a chicken and I hope you like rice and beans.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “It’s always been comfort food for me,” she said with an engaging smile.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”

  “Cooking relaxes me.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  “If you don’t cook, how do you manage?”

  “Drink a lot of coffee. Canned soup’s always good. And I am capable of a tuna fish sandwich.”

  “Sounds like you’re always on the run. Tell me, what sort of work are you in?”

  “Actually, I’m retired.”

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Surprised? Well…You look too young to be retired.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “So you’ve known my friend Paloma for sometime? Did you two go to school together?”

  Max smiled at Daisy. She was giving herself away. He was eight years older than Agnes, and looked it. There was no way they could have met in school. Either Daisy was daft or she was trying awfully hard to be flattering.

  “No. I met her at my job. She was a witness in a police brutality case I was working on.”

  “Really? She never told me that.”

  “And how did you meet Paloma?”

  “She knew my mother first. They both lived in the Village. I met her at the shop and we hit it off.”

  “Did she work for your mother?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “She was a collector then?”

  “A collector?”

  “I thought she had an interest in books.”

  “Books? No, definitely not. By the way, what kind of business were you in before you retired?”

  The change of topic was obvious. “I was an agent for the FBI.”

  “How fascinating.”

  But if Max was reading Daisy correctly, she didn’t think it was ‘fascinating’. Her eyes diverted away and her crossed leg began to shake. She was either getting nervous or wasn’t telling the truth. Possibly both.

  “Yeah, I had a long run. Worked there thirty-two years.”

  “Since your retirement, do you remain on active status?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Like some type of honorary agent.”

  “No, once you’re retired, that’s pretty much it. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  An uncomfortable silence came between them.

  “So you’ll be expecting Paloma back on Sunday?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

  “I thought that’s what you told me in the hospital.”

  “Did I? Yes, I may have, but I meant next Sunday and that’s tentative. You know how Paloma is.”

  “Yes. She does keep to herself.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Max smiled. They agreed on an irrefutable point.

  Daisy rose from the couch. “Dinner should be ready. I’ll set up a spot near the window.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No. You sure I can’t get you anything? How about a bottle of water?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Feel free to browse. If there’s anything you like, I’ll give you a good price. Be back in a minute.”

  “Thanks for the offer.”

  As the clatter of dishes filtered from the kitchen, Max considered Daisy’s offer. The volume of merchandise was intimidating. He wouldn’t know where to start. Instead, he stood and wandered to the window.

  The evening sun bathed the city in a soft yellow haze. Between the towering buildings and reflecting stories of glass, the city was Oz-like, magical. But what truly caught his attention were the pigeons roosting on a shadowed ledge. How well they acclimated to city life, living in the open but unreachable in another realm where no matter what happened in the sewers or alleys, the streets or parks, they survived. So where was his little bird?

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Max turned. Managing two heaping plates of food, Daisy walked to the table.

  Max rushed over. “Let me help.”

  “No, please sit.”

  “Ladies first,” Max said and pulled out her chair.

  “Thank you.”

  Max slid into a seat beside her. “My pleasure. The food smells delicious. Compliments to the cook. Perhaps you could give me the recipe.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t use a recipe. Maybe you should find a nice boricua girlfriend.”

  “Boricua?”

  “A Puerto Rican girl.”

  Max smiled. His thoughts precisely. He took a bite of food. “Tell me about Paloma.”

  “Paloma? But you know her.” She broke eye contact and reached for a glass of water. “I suspect she hasn’t changed.”

  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.”