Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Read Free Page A

Hopkins. She says your
sister made a consultation appointment for Friday last week but
never showed.”

Chapter 4
    ONCE WE’RE SEATED in his tiny cubicle on the second
floor of Nineteenth Precinct headquarters, Detective Greene turns
to Angela. “Maybe you did have laser surgery. And maybe after the
wire transfer was deposited in your account, you went home, popped
some meds and were so zonked you didn’t hear your roommate being
murdered.
    “But things just don’t add up. Your current bank
balance is three thousand and change. Worse still, there’s no
record that a wire transfer was made to your account from
anybody.”
    Angela’s starting to cave, so I leap in. “I don’t
care what it looks like. She’s telling the truth. I personally made
the transfer two days ago.”
    “Three thousand and change. That’s all.”
    “But if it’s not in Angela’s account, where in hell
is it, Detective?”
    Greene pulls air through his teeth in a tuneless
whistle, then says, “When I get through with this, I’ll tell you
what I think, and you’re not gonna be happy.”
    He turns to Angela. “Okay. Let’s run through this
again. The limousine picked you up.”
    She rolls her eyes. “There was a man sitting in the
back seat. He asked for the money. When I said I didn’t have it, he
said he would ruin my face if I didn’t pay up.”
    He jots a few sentences. “And after you got to the
bank?”
    “A nice lady showed us to a private office.” Angela
turns to me. “I’ve already gone over the details once. Is he
brain-dead?”
    When my sister first told me about this not an hour
before, I was stunned. How could she be so stupid? She got into a
car with a man she didn’t know. Accompanied him to her bank, then
let him take her to her townhouse where she wrote him a check for
$20,000. I bite back my bitterness and urge, “Keep talking. It’s
routine.”
    Angela turns toward Greene. “I didn’t have my
checkbook with me and I’m not good at memorizing numbers, so the
nice lady looked my account up on the computer.”
    “I’ll just bet she did,” Greene mutters and searches
the ceiling. I’m sure he wants to strangle her. I know I do, but
I’m too numb to confront what’s staring me in the face, too numb to
vent my growing frustration. Not only is Angela the prime suspect
in Caro Montoya’s murder, but if my hunch is correct, she’s—no,
make that we— have been had.
    “And after the transfer was made?”
    “It’s bad enough that my ex-DA sister grilled me
about this, but I told you everything not five minutes ago. Give me
a break, will ya?”
    Greene shoots me an appraising look. “DA?”
    I feel my cheeks heat. “Ex assistant.”
“Interesting.”
    The detective turns back to Angela. “So that’s all?”
“Oh, I forgot. He gave me a bottle of pain pills.” “What time was
this?”
    “I don’t know exactly. It was getting dark.” “And
your roommate wasn’t home?”
    “I remember going up to Caro’s door. It was closed.
Not unusual these days. I was starting to feel punk, so I got a
bottle of Evian out of the fridge, went up to my room, popped a
couple of pills and crashed.”
    “Never heard a thing?”
    I rush to her defense. “Angela sleeps like the dead.
Hardly moves a muscle.”
    Greene fishes a file from a stack on the side of his
desk, opens it and turns the black-and-white photograph of a man in
her direction. “Is this your Doctor Severeid?”
    Angela squeals and shoves the picture at me. “I told
you. That’s him. That’s Severeid.”
    I peer into the face of a handsome, graying man. His
expression is confident and caring. His eyes radiate
trustworthiness.
    Greene punches the photo with his index finger.
“Wrong. That man is Haley Granger, who, with his wife and several
accomplices, is running a very profitable scam. Someone tells a
woman she’s looking a little droopy, then recommends this terrific
laser surgeon.”
    Angela pales. “Oh, my God, that’s exactly