can get away with this.”
A sigh, then, “Aw shit.” And the connection breaks.
Greene looks up. “This isn’t good. She’s made us.”
“So what? I bet she’s just another one of
Kingsley-Smythe’s discarded ‘lovelies’—a ‘lovely’ with a Bronx flat
‘a.’”
We replay the messages. All are about the same. All
crammed with the same slurred desperation.
Greene finally says, “Okay, the woman is drunk and,
taken in context, the threats are a little toothless. Maybe we can
use her.” We go through the drill. Greene will run a telephone
trace from his cell if I can keep her on the phone long enough.
When the phone rings he says, “Get it on three.”
After the second ring I take a deep breath, and on
the third, I lift the receiver. “Yes?” Silence.
“This is Angela Armington, may I help you?”
“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Did you get my
messages?” “Every one. I can meet you wherever you say.”
She clears her throat, then attempts some semblance
of Brahmin propriety. “I will not be meeting you poissonally.”
“Shall I bring the jewels to Connecticut?”
“No. No. I have a friend in the city. She’ll take
the jewelry from you and deliver it to me.”
“Just say when and where. Frankly, I’ll be glad to
unload the stuff.”
She coughs, then recovers. “Stuff? Whaddaya
mean?”
“The jewels. I’m not comfortable having them. What’s
your friend’s name?”
I can almost hear the cogs grind. “Uh—uh—it don’t
really matter, does it? She’s parked across the street in a blue
Toyota Camry. There’s a dent in the rear door, driver’s side.”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’ll give
those jewels to your friend.”
I hang up, rush into the living room and peer into
the street. Sure enough a blue Camry with the described dent sits
in back of Greene’s unmarked vehicle.
I feel Greene behind me. “That car wasn’t there when
we parked. She must have been following us.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think she knew who we were until
we went up the steps. Did you get the trace?”
“The cell is in the name of Sheri Browne. That’s
Browne with an ‘e.’”
I cadge some pebbles from beneath one of the ferns
in the living room and pour them into a velvet pouch I commandeered
from Angela’s bottom dresser drawer. “What’s the drill?”
Greene checks his weapon and holsters it. “Engage
her until I can get positioned on the driver’s side.”
I take my time descending the steps and crossing the
street. When I get to the passenger side, an attractive but
tough-looking brunette leans over to crank down the window. “You
Angela?”
I hold up the bag. “Is this what you’re looking
for?”
The alcohol fumes are enough to book her on a DUI.
“Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe described your car to a tee. You two must be
really close.”
She blushes a little. “Fo-ah years. Acshully, I’m
like a daw-tah to her.”
It’s then I place her. The brunette I met at the
first party. The “off with you-ah head” chick. In the harsh light
of day, Sheri Browne has aged ten years. Whoever put her together
for that evening at The Castle must have been extremely
talented.
When she reaches for the bag, I move it just out of
her range. “Not so fast. You’re going to have to give me something
in trade. It’s Sheri, isn’t it?”
She drops her hand. “How do you know my name?” “A
little checking here and there.”
I see Greene ease down the steps of the townhouse.
“Look, we don’t have much time—actually less than a minute if
things go right. Do you have a dollar?”
“Wha—?”
“Give me a dollar—five dollars—ten. You’re going to
have to trust me on this one.”
She grabs her purse from the floor and, mumbling to
herself, rummages through it and hands me a well-worn dollar bill.
“Why—?”
That’s all that she gets out before Greene sticks
his badge in her window. “Police. Please step out of the car.”
I lean forward and wave the
A sigh, then, “Aw shit.” And the connection breaks.
Greene looks up. “This isn’t good. She’s made us.”
“So what? I bet she’s just another one of
Kingsley-Smythe’s discarded ‘lovelies’—a ‘lovely’ with a Bronx flat
‘a.’”
We replay the messages. All are about the same. All
crammed with the same slurred desperation.
Greene finally says, “Okay, the woman is drunk and,
taken in context, the threats are a little toothless. Maybe we can
use her.” We go through the drill. Greene will run a telephone
trace from his cell if I can keep her on the phone long enough.
When the phone rings he says, “Get it on three.”
After the second ring I take a deep breath, and on
the third, I lift the receiver. “Yes?” Silence.
“This is Angela Armington, may I help you?”
“This is Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Did you get my
messages?” “Every one. I can meet you wherever you say.”
She clears her throat, then attempts some semblance
of Brahmin propriety. “I will not be meeting you poissonally.”
“Shall I bring the jewels to Connecticut?”
“No. No. I have a friend in the city. She’ll take
the jewelry from you and deliver it to me.”
“Just say when and where. Frankly, I’ll be glad to
unload the stuff.”
She coughs, then recovers. “Stuff? Whaddaya
mean?”
“The jewels. I’m not comfortable having them. What’s
your friend’s name?”
I can almost hear the cogs grind. “Uh—uh—it don’t
really matter, does it? She’s parked across the street in a blue
Toyota Camry. There’s a dent in the rear door, driver’s side.”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’ll give
those jewels to your friend.”
I hang up, rush into the living room and peer into
the street. Sure enough a blue Camry with the described dent sits
in back of Greene’s unmarked vehicle.
I feel Greene behind me. “That car wasn’t there when
we parked. She must have been following us.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think she knew who we were until
we went up the steps. Did you get the trace?”
“The cell is in the name of Sheri Browne. That’s
Browne with an ‘e.’”
I cadge some pebbles from beneath one of the ferns
in the living room and pour them into a velvet pouch I commandeered
from Angela’s bottom dresser drawer. “What’s the drill?”
Greene checks his weapon and holsters it. “Engage
her until I can get positioned on the driver’s side.”
I take my time descending the steps and crossing the
street. When I get to the passenger side, an attractive but
tough-looking brunette leans over to crank down the window. “You
Angela?”
I hold up the bag. “Is this what you’re looking
for?”
The alcohol fumes are enough to book her on a DUI.
“Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe described your car to a tee. You two must be
really close.”
She blushes a little. “Fo-ah years. Acshully, I’m
like a daw-tah to her.”
It’s then I place her. The brunette I met at the
first party. The “off with you-ah head” chick. In the harsh light
of day, Sheri Browne has aged ten years. Whoever put her together
for that evening at The Castle must have been extremely
talented.
When she reaches for the bag, I move it just out of
her range. “Not so fast. You’re going to have to give me something
in trade. It’s Sheri, isn’t it?”
She drops her hand. “How do you know my name?” “A
little checking here and there.”
I see Greene ease down the steps of the townhouse.
“Look, we don’t have much time—actually less than a minute if
things go right. Do you have a dollar?”
“Wha—?”
“Give me a dollar—five dollars—ten. You’re going to
have to trust me on this one.”
She grabs her purse from the floor and, mumbling to
herself, rummages through it and hands me a well-worn dollar bill.
“Why—?”
That’s all that she gets out before Greene sticks
his badge in her window. “Police. Please step out of the car.”
I lean forward and wave the
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