family or her remains and where they are?
“Alive. And how are you?” Another silence.
“Fine.”
In the background I hear a muffled male voice—a very
familiar male voice. But that can’t be. I glance at my watch. Two.
That makes it one o’clock Houston time. It’s Tuesday. What would
Duncan be doing in my apartment in the middle of the day?
Unless—
Anxious to get out of what I realize I’ve
inadvertently stepped into, I blurt, “Hey, I can’t talk now. Got to
run. Got to be down at the precinct in fifteen minutes. Call you
tonight, okay?”
Before Angela can respond, I break the connection.
If I remember correctly, Duncan wasn’t particularly anxious to pick
up Angela at the airport. And when was it that he called to
“report” and mentioned that he’d seen her quite a bit?
How could I forget? That was the night Jaime Platón
trashed Caro’s room. Has there been enough time for the two of them
to fall in love? I suppose.
I try to stanch the invading jealousy by running
down a list of reasons why I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I
was the one who dumped Duncan and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s
just a friend, nothing more. Actually, the two of them would be
perfect for each other. Still, the list is far too short.
Chapter 22
THE TELEPHONE JERKS me to attention. Is Angela
calling me back? I hesitate because I don’t want to deal with her
lame excuses. Not now.
Still—I yank the receiver to my ear. “It’s your
nickel.” “Miss Armington?”
“Yes?”
“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe—Mrs. Jason
Kingsley-Smythe. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Look, I know you have his granny’s necklace and
earrings. And I’m telling you straight out, no cheap bimbo is
getting away with that much just for a one-night-stand.”
This is hardly the cultured voice of an Eastern
Brahmin. All thoughts of Angela, Duncan and their possible romance
fade. Another delicious crumb has just been dropped in my path.
“I’ll be happy to turn the jewels over to you, if
you can describe them.”
And she does. But it’s almost like she’s
reading.
“Your description is right on, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe,
but I can’t meet with you right now. I have an appointment.”
There’s a long silence, then a timid, “Then when can
you?”
“I promise to call you the minute I get back if
you’ll give me your number.”
Dead silence. Then the connection breaks.
I call Greene and ask him to meet me back at
Blockhead’s. Minutes later, he sinks into the chair across from me.
He doesn’t look too happy. “This better be good. I was going over
my game plan with the boss. Fortunately, he had another meeting,
too.”
“Oh, it’s good. Guess who’s calling me about the
jewelry I was wearing courtesy of the Cardinal?”
I wonder whether the drum roll in my chest is from
the fifty-yard dash I made or the adrenalin high I’m currently
savoring.
“I just got a call from a woman saying she’s Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe. She wants me to return the jewels. But I can
assure you, that woman is not who she says she is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me. There’s no way this woman could have been
Jason Kingsley-Smythe’s wife. The bad news is when I asked her for
her phone number she hung up. But I’ll bet there are lots of
messages on the answering machine when I get back to the
townhouse.”
We luck out and find a parking place across the
street.
As we mount the front steps, the phone begins to
ring. I race to the kitchen, then wait until Angela’s chirp echoes,
“You know what to do, so do it.”
The voice is the same as before, but the words are
slurred. “Lissen. I’m not kidding you. This is big time serious.”
There’s a pause. “I know who you ah. I know where you ah, so you
better goddam well pick up the goddam phone.”
Another pause. “Hello? Did you hear me? I know
you-ah there. I just saw you and some black guy go in. Don’t think
you
“Alive. And how are you?” Another silence.
“Fine.”
In the background I hear a muffled male voice—a very
familiar male voice. But that can’t be. I glance at my watch. Two.
That makes it one o’clock Houston time. It’s Tuesday. What would
Duncan be doing in my apartment in the middle of the day?
Unless—
Anxious to get out of what I realize I’ve
inadvertently stepped into, I blurt, “Hey, I can’t talk now. Got to
run. Got to be down at the precinct in fifteen minutes. Call you
tonight, okay?”
Before Angela can respond, I break the connection.
If I remember correctly, Duncan wasn’t particularly anxious to pick
up Angela at the airport. And when was it that he called to
“report” and mentioned that he’d seen her quite a bit?
How could I forget? That was the night Jaime Platón
trashed Caro’s room. Has there been enough time for the two of them
to fall in love? I suppose.
I try to stanch the invading jealousy by running
down a list of reasons why I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I
was the one who dumped Duncan and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s
just a friend, nothing more. Actually, the two of them would be
perfect for each other. Still, the list is far too short.
Chapter 22
THE TELEPHONE JERKS me to attention. Is Angela
calling me back? I hesitate because I don’t want to deal with her
lame excuses. Not now.
Still—I yank the receiver to my ear. “It’s your
nickel.” “Miss Armington?”
“Yes?”
“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe—Mrs. Jason
Kingsley-Smythe. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Look, I know you have his granny’s necklace and
earrings. And I’m telling you straight out, no cheap bimbo is
getting away with that much just for a one-night-stand.”
This is hardly the cultured voice of an Eastern
Brahmin. All thoughts of Angela, Duncan and their possible romance
fade. Another delicious crumb has just been dropped in my path.
“I’ll be happy to turn the jewels over to you, if
you can describe them.”
And she does. But it’s almost like she’s
reading.
“Your description is right on, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe,
but I can’t meet with you right now. I have an appointment.”
There’s a long silence, then a timid, “Then when can
you?”
“I promise to call you the minute I get back if
you’ll give me your number.”
Dead silence. Then the connection breaks.
I call Greene and ask him to meet me back at
Blockhead’s. Minutes later, he sinks into the chair across from me.
He doesn’t look too happy. “This better be good. I was going over
my game plan with the boss. Fortunately, he had another meeting,
too.”
“Oh, it’s good. Guess who’s calling me about the
jewelry I was wearing courtesy of the Cardinal?”
I wonder whether the drum roll in my chest is from
the fifty-yard dash I made or the adrenalin high I’m currently
savoring.
“I just got a call from a woman saying she’s Mrs.
Kingsley-Smythe. She wants me to return the jewels. But I can
assure you, that woman is not who she says she is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me. There’s no way this woman could have been
Jason Kingsley-Smythe’s wife. The bad news is when I asked her for
her phone number she hung up. But I’ll bet there are lots of
messages on the answering machine when I get back to the
townhouse.”
We luck out and find a parking place across the
street.
As we mount the front steps, the phone begins to
ring. I race to the kitchen, then wait until Angela’s chirp echoes,
“You know what to do, so do it.”
The voice is the same as before, but the words are
slurred. “Lissen. I’m not kidding you. This is big time serious.”
There’s a pause. “I know who you ah. I know where you ah, so you
better goddam well pick up the goddam phone.”
Another pause. “Hello? Did you hear me? I know
you-ah there. I just saw you and some black guy go in. Don’t think
you
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