Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  Darby chuckled. Miles had already paid the tab and had no reason to go back to the bar, unless …

  “You’re right!” he exclaimed, trotting back to the table. “Maker’s Mark 46.”

  “And the cherry juice?” She stood and shrugged on her jacket.

  “Right again. The bartender apologized for making us Sweet Manhattans. He’s absolutely gobsmacked.”

  “In other words …”

  “Amazed. Next time we come in we get a drink on the house.”

  “Well, what do you know,” said Darby, as Miles led her out of the bar. “Maybe it’s a parlor trick after all.”

  _____

  Sergei watched the cook walk down the hallway from Natalia’s room.

  “She’s on the telephone,” the woman said, in Russian. “I told her that dinner was ready.” Her lips pressed closely together so that myriad wrinkles formed around her mouth. “She sounds pretty happy for someone who just lost the man she was to marry.”

  The bodyguard frowned. He did not like the cook and never had, although he did enjoy the hearty meals she prepared, especially her pelmeni—pastry dumplings filled with meatballs. “Isn’t it time you went home?” he asked gruffly.

  She sniffed and continued down the hall. A moment later he heard the main door slam.

  He shuffled toward Natalia’s room and paused outside, listening. Her voice was lilting, and although he could not hear distinct words, he knew she was speaking English. Suddenly she giggled and the sound was so unusual it made him start.

  Slowly he turned and headed back down the hall. In the morning her father, Mikhail, would arrive, and he could deal with this impetuous daughter. Sergei’s job was to protect her, not to babysit.

  The big man reached the dining room where the long table was set for two. His stomach gnawed with hunger as he beheld the silver dishes, steaming with something fragrantly delicious. He eased himself into the chair made specifically for his girth and waited. Hopefully she would conclude her phone conversation quickly and come to dinner, but where Natalia was concerned, one never quite knew what would happen.

  _____

  “That was a fabulous dinner, Miles,” murmured Darby holding his hand as they walked down Central Park West. Knowing her fondness for French cuisine, he’d taken her to a small but bustling bistro tucked a few blocks from Broadway. “Brings back such good memories of my mother’s efforts to master every dish in Julia Child’s cookbooks.”

  He chuckled. “I was hoping you’d like it, love. There are so many options for fabulous food in this city. I had a very difficult time deciding where we should go. Do you think Jada would have approved?”

  “Yes, I believe she and my father would have enjoyed themselves there.” Darby felt a quick stab of regret at having lost her parents at such an early age. They hadn’t had many opportunities to visit restaurants other than the few on the small island of Hurricane Harbor, Maine, where Darby had grown up. Their death in a sailing accident when Darby was thirteen had seen to that.

  The spring air had turned chilly and the trees lining the edge of the park shook in the wind. Darby thrust her hand—the one that wasn’t holding on to Miles—deep into the pocket of her trench coat.

  “Here we are, then.” Miles stopped in front of an opulent limestone building which covered the whole block. Grinning, he nodded at the heavy front door. “Right this way to my Big Apple flat.” He reached for the door and a uniformed doorman quickly appeared.

  “Let me get that for you, Mr. Porter.” The man ushered them in and grabbed Darby’s small suitcase at the same time.

  “Thank you, George.” In a low voice he said to Darby, “I feel like a real New Yorker. I actually know both the night and day doormen.”

  Darby smiled appreciatively as she entered the lobby, her feet tapping on the polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers spilled soft light onto an enormous flower arrangement of spring blooms. “It’s lovely—a new building with old world charm.”

  “Custom English oak paneling,” grinned Miles, gesturing toward the walls. “And a staff of forty. Makes me feel right at home.”

  “I’m sure.” Darby elbowed the tall Brit good-naturedly. “You’re from the landed gentry, I suppose?”

  “You’ll just have to take a trip with me at some point and find out.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it works. You know everything about my upbringing, while yours remains shrouded in mystery.”

  “I’ve visited your island and found it perfectly charming. Now you need to fly across the pond and visit mine.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Shall we save the grand tour of this building for another time?”

  “Yes. I’m ready to see Professor Burrows’s pad, I think.”

  “Follow me.” Miles steered Darby to a sleek elevator and pushed the button for the ninth floor. “Charlie’s place is stunning, as you’ll see, but the condominiums on the higher floors are supposedly magnificent. I’m told there are several full-floor penthouses that exceed six thousand square feet.”

  “I’m impressed.” Darby knew—as did anyone who sold real estate—that there were some of the most expensive and unique properties in Manhattan, covering everything from coveted pre-war mansions, to spacious lofts, to Donald Trump’s fabulous towers. She also knew that this building, covering a full city block and across from the Park, was one of the more notable projects built in recent years, if not the star.

  “How long ago was this built?”

  “Five years, I think.”

  The elevator hummed to a halt and the doors opened with a quiet whoosh. “Here we are,” Miles said. They stepped into a hushed hallway lined with sconces and framed artwork.

  “I feel like I’m in a deluxe hotel, not an apartment building,” murmured Darby.

  Miles unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. “Voilá, Mademoiselle.”

  Darby was immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling panes of glass looking out on a darkened but still grand Central Park. “Wow, what a view,” she breathed. “It’s like the heart of the city is right there, waiting.” She turned and took in the open living and dining space, noting the soaring ceilings and polished wood floors. “What’s this, about twelve hundred square feet?” she asked Miles.

  “A thousand, I think. It’s one of the smaller units in the building, but Charlie was smart to buy it, don’t you think?”

  “Depends what he paid, Miles. If he got in on the ground floor, so to speak, chances are he is going to make a profit when he sells, providing the market keeps improving.” She admired the sleek kitchen with its gleaming appliances, bearing the best names and brands. “Either Charlie had a decorator for this place, or his wife is pretty talented.”

  “Decorator. Mrs. Charles Burrows flew the coop just after they bought it. I gather our friend is a fabulous teacher but not quite the doting husband. He had an affair and she went back to wherever they were from.”

  Darby took in the comfortable furnishings, eyeing a particularly appealing leather couch. Suddenly she felt very tired, as if the flight from Southern California had finally taken its toll.

  Miles made a sympathetic face. “Your busy day is catching up with you, love. Ready to turn in?”

  She nodded, stifling a yawn. “As soon as I check in with ET. He’s called a couple of times, so I’d better see what’s up.”

  “A multimillion dollar deal, no doubt.”

  “That would be totally fine with me.” Darby tossed her black hair and listened as her assistant Enrique Tomaso Gomez, or ET as she called him, answered the phone, his voice smooth and professional as always.

  “New York calling San Diego,” she joked, waiting for him to make a funny quip back.

  He exhaled. “Thank goodness you’ve called. There’s some trouble, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Let me go
into your office a moment.” She waited while ET, obviously wanting more privacy, changed phones. “It’s the people who bought the property in Poway.”

  “The Davenports? Jill and …” she thought a moment. “Carl. That was back in December, I think. What’s up?”

  He sighed. “They called yesterday and then again today. They’re very unhappy.”

  “Really? They were thrilled on the day the property changed hands.”

  “Yes, well, it seems that the addition on the back of the house has a moisture problem that the building inspector didn’t see. According to them, it’s fairly serious.”

  “Yikes. I can see why they are upset.” She pictured the great room with its stone mantel and distressed pine floors.

  “They asked for a mold expert and I gave them a few names. Hopefully, it’s something that can be taken care of promptly.”

  “Was there any indication in the property disclosure information that moisture was, or had been, an issue?”

  “No. I checked the disclosures and the inspector’s report as well and there were no special notations regarding the addition.” He paused. “I hope it will all blow over, but I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you. You did the right thing in contacting me. How is everything else going?”

  “Fine. Claudia is listing a new executive ranch in Carlsbad, and I’ve booked you a few appointments for when you return. I’ll send you all the information.”

  “Thank you, ET.” Darby hung up her phone and turned to look out at the twinkling lights of Manhattan. It wasn’t like ET to be so succinct. He hadn’t even asked about her reunion with Miles, a subject of which he never seemed to tire. Was there more to the issue with the Davenports than her assistant was letting on?

  She groaned and turned from the window. Images from her flight and reunion with Miles flitted through her tired brain, including the bulky figure of Detective Benedetti flashing his badge.

  Was it her imagination, or did Miles seem to be uncharacteristically stressed? Usually the Brit was low-key and relaxed, but today Darby had detected an undercurrent of anxiety, even before they’d learned of the Russian’s death. Now I have my own issues to worry about, she thought. I can keep Miles company and get frantic over mold. The idea did not cheer her.

  Darby went to find Miles in the bedroom. He smiled warmly from the bed where he lay on his side, wearing only his boxers and reading a magazine. The muscles in his chest and arms were taut, well-defined, and as he flipped a page, Darby felt a surge of well-being edged with lust. Mentally she banished the strange encounters of the day, determined to put on something sexy as quickly as she could.

  three

  “Murder? No fricking way.”

  Sherry Cooper, dressed and perfectly made-up at only six-thirty in the morning, thrust her hands on her hips, stunned. A second later she reached for an enormous coffee mug and took a gulp. “The penthouse girl’s boyfriend is the big guy, right?”

  “No. That’s her bodyguard.” Gina Trovata shook her head as she licked strawberry jam from her finger. “The boyfriend’s not here too often, but when he is, he goes down to the pool and swims laps.” Gina herself was partial to the hot tub, so she saw who swam on a regular basis.

  “I’ll be damned. A Russian guy?”

  “They’re all Russian, sweetheart.” Penn Cooper strode into the kitchen, his arms entangled in a vibrant silk tie which he knotted as he walked. “Alec Rodin is—or was—Natalia’s fiancé. They found his body in an alley, apparently. He’d been, as they say back in Louisville, stuck like a pig.”

  “Holy sh—sugar.” Sherry was making an earnest effort to curb her affinity for swearing, now that one of her sons had been heard trying out her colorful vocabulary. She narrowed her eyes and looked at her husband. “Maybe that means the penthouse will open up.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Both father and daughter seem to love New York.” Penn pointed at his tie and Sherry reached out to straighten it.

  “Yes, but maybe they’ll realize they don’t need all that room.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll text Rona in a little bit, see what she knows.”

  “Rona? I’ve told you, honey—Rona didn’t make that sale.”

  “I know, Penn, but let’s face it—the woman knows everything that goes on in this building. She’s sold nearly every condo at least once.”

  “She didn’t know squat when it came to that deal.”

  He’s right, Gina thought, as she screwed the lid on the jam, licking her fingers again as she did so. She put it back in the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs and some milk, listening for Sherry’s response.

  “It can’t hurt to ask Rona. Then we should talk to the Russians directly, too.”

  Penn frowned.

  Gina reached for a bowl and a whisk. Uh-oh, she thought. Here it comes.

  “I don’t see why we need that place, Sher. We’re fine here.” Above the colorful tie his square jaw was set, immovable, chiseled as if from granite.

  “We’ve been through this a hundred times, Penn. This unit just isn’t big enough.”

  “We’ve got four bedrooms! And some of them are big enough for a Little League team, never mind a couple of small kids.”

  “The boys need their own rooms. It’s what every educator says, what all the self-esteem research bears out.” Sherry was very big on self-esteem, mentioning it nearly every time she spoke about parenting. Now she waved a hand in Gina’s direction. “Plus we need a room for the nannies.” Gina arrived early each weekday to get the boys off to school and daycare, but there were two more caregivers who worked the afternoon and evening shifts, and sometimes stayed overnight.

  “I agree that when one of our nannies spends the night she needs her own room, but I fail to see why it has to sit empty in the meantime. And I maintain that there is no reason why those boys can’t share a few rooms, for Chrissakes.”

  “I want that unit.”

  “I know you do, believe me, I know that.” Penn shrugged on his suit jacket. “You’ve made that perfectly clear, Sherry. Never mind that Kazakova paid eighty million for it …”

  “Eighty-three,” Gina said, cracking an egg into a small ceramic bowl. The number was out of her mouth before she could bite it back.

  “Eighty-three, then. How the hell are we going to come up with that?”

  Sherry’s smoky eyes smoldered. “Some of us don’t have to ‘come up with it,’ Penn.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Some of us already have it.”

  Gina knew from past arguments that although the Coopers were both hugely successful attorneys, Sherry made slightly more money than Penn, and had a generous source of inherited wealth to boot. Penn’s response was predictable, and came as the milk splashed into the bowl and over the eggs.

  “Do what you want,” he muttered, moving fast toward the door. “I’m out of here.” Gina saw him grab his briefcase.

  The slam of the door reverberated for a few moments.

  “Shit,” said Sherry Cooper. “That didn’t go well.” She sighed and repeated the epithet, this time with more emphasis. “Shit.”

  “Mommy?” The eldest boy, Ryan, entered the room, sliding in his slippers on the wood floor as if he were skating, followed by a taffy-colored yellow Labrador retriever. The boy wore superhero pajamas and a worried expression on his seven-year-old face. “Nobody likes it when you use swear words.”

  Sherry reached out and gave the boy a quick hug. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re absolutely right.” She kissed his cheek. “Is Kyle awake?”

  He shook his head. The younger boys, Kyle and Trevor, sometimes slept until seven thirty, with the baby, Sam, good for a half-hour after that.

  As if contemplating the size of her brood, Sherry Cooper asked, “Gina, how many siblings do you have?”

  It was a complicated question. But there was an easy answer, and that
was most likely the one Sherry wanted.

  “One sister,” she said, picturing Paula, who had been born eleven months after Gina’s adoption by an American couple.

  “I’d like to have at least one more,” Sherry said absently, stroking Ryan’s hair. She gave him a quick squeeze. “Mommy’s got to get to work.” Turning to Gina, she added absently, “Don’t forget: no sugar on Kyle’s oatmeal.”

  _____

  He was one of the largest men Darby Farr had ever seen.

  At least seven feet tall, with a neck like a tree trunk and arms the size of standing rib roasts, he stood outside the door to Charles Burrows’s apartment, a look of pure menace on his wide face.

  “Mr. Porter?”

  Darby’s heart thumped as she checked the man’s hands. No weapons, although his pure bulk was a threat in itself.

  Miles’s voice showed no hint of concern. “That’s right. And you are?”

  “Sergei Bokeria. I am here because of Natalia.” He coughed, accentuating the gruffness of his voice. “May I come in?”

  Although clearly not his first language, the man’s English was very good, reflected Darby. It had none of the stiltedness normally present in foreign accents, and he seemed very comfortable speaking.

  “Of course.” Miles flashed a look at Darby as they turned back into the apartment. Breakfast will have to wait, it said. “Is Nat—Natalia—okay?”

  “Yes.” The man looked around and Miles indicated one of the leather couches. He eased onto it with surprising grace. “She is naturally disturbed by the events of yesterday.”

  “The attack on her fiancé,” offered Miles.

  “Yes.” He said it as if there were more to the answer.

  “Are you a relative of Natalia’s, Mr. Bokeria?”

  He shook his head, a massive motion that made Darby think of a bull elephant. The antagonistic look on his face had not changed, and she was starting to think it was just his normal expression. “I am her bodyguard.”

  “I see.” Miles’s eyes met Darby’s for a brief second. “Is Natalia in danger?”