Free Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery by Louise Gaylord

one
ounce of cooperation.
    His brow furrows. “Dios mío, you are as pale as a
ghost.” He points to the empty chair across the small table from
him. “Por favor, Señorita—have a seat.”
    When I do, he settles back into his chair. “Ahhh.
Some color is returning to your cheeks. A good sign, no?”
    He draws his wallet and flips it open to reveal a
gold badge. “Please. My name is Jaime Platón. I am associated with
the Colombian National Police on assignment with the DEA
International Training Section. The TRI.”
    He waits for a response and when none comes, he
says, “You think I murdered your friend.”
    At last, I find my voice. “You lied to me. You said
you were Caro’s grief-stricken brother—a heartbroken widower. Then
you trashed her room and beat it. What do you expect?”
    He lowers his eyes. When he looks up, I see pain. “I
did not lie about losing my wife. Unfortunately, that part was
true. But I assure you I did not kill Miss Montoya. You must
believe me.”
    I point to his weapon. “Why should it matter whether
I believe you or not? You’re in control here.”
    He drags his revolver off the table and slides it
into a holster beneath his suede jacket. “Old habit, sorry.”
    I relax a little. “Did you find what you came
for?”
    “Sad to say, I didn’t. But I’d bank my life that
it’s still here.”
    My pulse kicks up a notch. “Whatever it is must be
really valuable.”
    “Yes. Very.”
    “Maybe I can help you look. But, you’ll have to tell
me what to look for.”
    He studies me for a minute then says, “A small red
address book. Miss Montoya stole it. And, unfortunately, the big
boys were well aware that she did.”
    I suppress a shudder wondering just who the “big
boys” are. “Names and addresses? Is that all?”
    “We haven’t actually seen the book. The DEA is sure
it holds the key to a major drug-trafficking cartel and a very
profitable prostitution ring, both rumored to be headed by a woman.
Most unusual, no? If we can get our hands on that, it would give us
a big foot up.”
    He must see my amusement because he says, “Not
foot?” “I think you’re looking for leg.”
    “Yes. Of course. Leg. It’s the small things in a
language that are so difficult to master.”
    I ignore his obvious attempt to win me over—still
gauging my chances for escape—still wondering what I’ll do if he
makes a move—any move.
    “Angela? May I call you that?”
    I’m not computing all his jargon. I got it that he’s
a Colombian and working with the DEA but—the TRI? New to me.
    He doesn’t seem to catch my confusion. “When the DEA
discovered Miss Montoya’s brother was visiting in Medellín, I was
assigned to tail him. Things seemed to be going well until—” He
raises his hands in exasperation then slaps his knees. “Montoya
suddenly darted into the crowd and disappeared. I went to baggage,
hoping to catch him there, and by the time I got back through
security, his body had been discovered.”
    “So you assumed his identity?”
    “You could say that.” He pockets his wallet. “When
the police reported they didn’t turn up any evidence, we had to get
into this building. Make a search on our own. It was imperative
that we get to the little red book before—”
    He gives a small shrug and a smile. “Since I
somewhat resemble Montoya, I was chosen.”
    “You keep saying ‘We.’ Just exactly who are you
talking about?”
    “I just explained who. Weren’t you listening?”
    I give him an indifferent look but beneath my
nonchalance is the hope that maybe, just maybe, he might know Bill
Cotton. “You mentioned the DEA.”
    “Correct. I am attached to the DEA’s International
Training Section—the TRI.”
    He eyes me a few seconds then says, “You must know
Miss Montoya was using.”
    I look away, remembering the fun-loving beauty I
shared a lot of wine and confidences with. The woman who literally
saved my job for me and, when I offered her a cut of the