Free Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery by Louise Gaylord Page A

profits,
laughed it off. That Caro was funny and nice.
    Then I remember that Angela had seen her darker
side. “Your roommate was a mule. Have you heard that term?”
“Someone paid to transport drugs into the U.S.?”
    “Correct. We are unclear as to why Miss Montoya
wanted to be recruited, but it is rumored she was one of the best.
The fact that she was a supermodel provided a perfect cover. She
raked in quite a nice profit for her services, but then she was
caught—”
    His eyes search the ceiling as he mutters several
words to himself, then he grins. “It’s what you Americans call
skimming. Do you know the word?”
    “Yes. But why would she do that? You said she didn’t
need money.”
    “Could be she liked flirting with danger. The cartel
factors losses like drug busts and discovery into their costs, but
when a mule skims and is discovered—” He runs his forefinger across
his throat.
    “Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time.” Platón
reaches inside his jacket, takes out a cashier’s check and inches
it toward me. “Here. That should more than cover the damage to your
roommate’s bedroom.”
    I slide it from the table and give it a once-over.
Fifteen hundred dollars? That should more than make up for his
destruction. “That’s quite generous. Is this from the DEA?”
    He slowly shakes his head. “Unfortunately, your
government doesn’t pay for destruction of property. But, I do.”
    He rises. “Well, my mission here is complete.” He
hesitates, pulls out a card, scribbles something and hands it to
me. “Who knows? You just might find that book. If you do, how about
putting it in the right hands?”
    I take the card and see the number has a D.C. area
code.
    He extends his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss
Armington. Perhaps we’ll meet again under better
circumstances.”
    “Yes, perhaps we will.”
    He disappears, then I hear his returning steps.
    Platón hands me my purse. “You left this in the
front hall. You really shouldn’t be without your Beretta.”

Chapter 15
    AFTER UNPACKING THE GROCERIES and stowing each item
in its proper place, I take out a half-full bottle of California
Chardonnay, fill a wine glass and sip. I don’t even taste it.
That’s not what my mind is on. It’s the address book.
    I’m pretty sure Caro’s suite is squeaky clean. After
they removed her body, Greene’s team and the crime scene
investigators scoured her rooms.
    And later Platón had come up empty-handed after
tearing Caro’s bedroom to shreds. Still, my gut tells me the man
has to be right. The book is here—somewhere.
    Both teams swept the third floor as well, but
maybe—just maybe.
    I climb the two flights to Angela’s suite and for
the next half hour go through every drawer in the bedroom, then
every shelf in the closet. Next, the bathroom medicine cabinet,
linen cupboard and the drawers beneath. Clean.
    I ease down the wall onto the bathroom floor and
give a little shiver when my legs come in contact with the chilly
white tiles.
    The shock fades when I turn my attention to the
bathroom sink. No place to hide a thing. It’s flush with the
backsplash and mounted on four thin chrome legs. The tub is
cemented to both the floor and the walls. The toilet is crammed
between the sink and the tub with only enough room to fit a
recessed toilet paper roll.
    I crawl toward the toilet, lean over the bowl and
sweep the back of the tank with both hands. Zip.
    Maybe it’s in the tank. Isn’t that the druggies’
choice place for stash? I stand and lift the lid. Empty.
    I plunk it back in place, lower the lid to the
toilet and settle on it. Pre-war bathrooms are noted for being less
than luxurious and this bathroom is no exception. Even the toilet
paper holder is poorly set.
    I reach over, grab the roll and try to wrestle the
holder into the wall. Then I stop. Pull. And out it pops. A plastic
sandwich bag is thumbtacked to the wall behind the toilet paper
holder. In that bag is a small red book.
    My