_____
“Ramon, the old lady in the suit … which apartment does she live in?” Gina pointed at the figure stepping nimbly into the elevator.
The doorman gave a lopsided grin. “Whazzup with Mrs. Graff today? Everyone’s asking about her.” He shook his head. “She lives on the fifth floor. Five-fifteen. You don’t see her much ’cause she’s one of those what you might call reclusive types. Yvette is the one you’d recognize.”
The little boys were both napping, and one let out a soft snore.
“The skinny woman with the poodle, right?”
“Exactly.” Ramon grinned at the sleeping children and leaned back on his heels. “Why’s everyone so fascinated with five-fifteen today?”
“No particular reason,” Gina said, steering the stroller past the doorman. “Just curious.”
The elevator was empty and Gina pushed in the stroller and selected the fifth floor. She’d learned a long time ago to go with whatever urges she felt, and, except for a few instances (such as that rock drummer from upstate) her instincts had been right.
The doors opened and Gina wheeled the sleeping boys to the condo. She hesitated for a split second, and knocked.
“Yes?” A hesitant voice, slightly accented, on the other side of the door.
Gina explained that she worked in eighteen-twenty-two and wondered if she could speak to Mrs. Graff.
“Why?” A faint accent. French, Gina surmised.
“I …” Gina hadn’t really thought of what she would say, and her mind raced to come up with something plausible. “I think she dropped something in the elevator.”
“What is it?”
“A credit card.”
The door opened a crack, the chain lock still firmly in place. “I will take it.”
Gina bit the inside of her cheek. “Well, uh,” she stammered, “I was hoping to give it to Mrs. Graff in person.”
“You can give it to me, Mademoiselle. I work for Mrs. Graff and I can assure you, I’m completely trustworthy.”
“I’d rather not.”
The woman’s thin face grew wary. “Where is this credit card? Let me see it.”
“You see, I need—” The door shut firmly.
Gina frowned. In the background she heard another muffled voice, and then the maid’s response. “Personne.” No one.
Gina turned the stroller as Sam stirred in his sleep. She thought of the maid’s snotty attitude. “Merde,” she muttered.
There was no sense camping out in front of the door if the reclusive Mrs. Graff hardly ever ventured out. I’m not quite desperate enough to pull a fire alarm, she thought wryly. There has to be another way.
The elevator doors opened and a dainty poodle trotted out on a leash, followed by the tall figure of Miranda Styles.
“Hey, Gina,” the dog walker called out. “Just put a very tired Honey upstairs. She’s gonna sleep all afternoon after our walk.”
“Don’t count on it,” Gina said. “That dog’s always up for something.” She eyed the poodle. “Cute little thing. Whose is it?”
“Five-fifteen. I take her every day, same as Honey.”
Five-fifteen? Gina smiled. “What’s its name?”
“Mimi. You’ve seen her before, I’m sure. They’ve had her forever.”
“Huh.” She nodded goodbye to Miranda and headed into the elevator, maneuvering the stroller into a corner. Humming a little tune, she pressed the button for her floor. Thanks to Mimi and Miranda, she’d find a way into the condo after all.
_____
Miles found Darby pouring over pages regarding mold detection. She’d told him about the Davenports, and that she’d contacted her San Diego attorney. Miles lent a sympathetic ear, assuring her she wasn’t at fault.
“Come on, love,” he said gently. “Leave the mold for a bit. I’ve contacted Natalia for an update and she suggested we meet in the park. What do you say?”
“An excellent idea. I could read through this stuff all afternoon and I don’t know that it would do me much good.”
“Exactly. After all, say worse comes to worse, which isn’t going to happen, but just say these disgruntled people do win some damages, your insurance will cover it, right?”
“I suppose, but that’s not quite it.” She looked up into his face. “It’s my reputation. I’ve always been so careful to get everything right, you know?”
“I do. It’s the same way in my profession.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I understand how you feel, really I do, but let’s put that sharp mind of yours to work on poor Natalia’s problems, shall we?”
Darby grabbed a light jacket and tucked her cell phone into the pocket. “Did Natalia sound worried about that threatening letter?”
“No, I wouldn’t say so. She sounds much better, actually. Perhaps the police have discovered something to do with Rodin’s death.”
“Where are we meeting her?”
“There’s a gazebo by the Great Lawn. It’ll give us a nice walk in the April sunshine.”
Miles slipped an arm around Darby as they exited the elevator and gave Ramon a quick wave. He was speaking with a tall man and barely acknowledged them.
“Looks like Ramon’s in a deep conversation,” Darby commented.
“The man’s a chameleon,” said Miles. “I’ve seen him be serious, flirty, funny, earnest, righteous—you name it, and Ramon can mold his personality to fit whoever he’s speaking with. A first-rate salesman, selling life the way it should be on Central Park West.”
Darby smiled. “The Way Life Should Be” was a popular slogan for her home state of Maine. “I’ll believe you when I hear Ramon using some of your British expressions, Miles. That will be the true test.”
He chuckled. They crossed the wide avenue and entered the park, passing a man selling chestnuts in small paper bags. Miles halted and pulled out his wallet.
“Here’s the ticket,” he said, taking his change and the chestnuts. “Have you ever tried these, Darby?”
She nodded and took one. They peeled them in silence before popping the warm meats into their mouths.
“Delicious.” She took in the yellow-green leaves of the trees, the swaying daffodils, and bright green grass. “Spring. Growing up I didn’t see what the big deal was, but the older I get, the more I appreciate this season.”
“Rebirth and renewal,” Miles quipped. “The promise of life after winter’s icy grip, right?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath, smelled a hint of something blooming. “It’s intoxicating.”
They reached the gazebo and paused. “Nat’s not here yet,” said Miles. He plopped on a wooden bench and patted it. “Put that little posterior next to me, Miss Farr, and let’s pretend we haven’t a care in the world.”
She sat down and regarded him. “We both know what I’m stressed about.”
“Yes.” He craned his neck, looking for Natalia.
“What about you?”
“Me? I’m my jolly old self, Darby. Granted, I don’t like being badgered by that Benedetti chap and the other policeman, nor did I enjoy Ms. Babson’s nasty hints that Rodin’s untimely death had something to do with me, but other than that, I’m just ducky.”
She touched his arm. “Natalia and her bodyguard are here.” His eyes flitted to the approaching pair and then back to Darby. “I hope you’ll remember, Miles—I’m in your court just the way you’re in mine. If something is bothering you, I hope you’ll trust me to help.”
He gave a tight smile but said nothing.
_____
The story in the New York Times gave no new details regarding Alec Rodin’s death, thought Rona, nothing that Sherry Cooper hadn’t shared when she’d called earlier. The Russian man had been murdered a stone’s throw from some of Columbia University’s most important buildings, stabbed with a sharp object.
“What a shame!” Rona exclaimed, although what she’d wanted to do was clap her hands with joy. “Poor little Nikita.”
“Nikita?” Sherry Cooper sounded puzzled. “If you mean Natalia, I wouldn’t waste your sympathy. That woman will be fine. She’s a twenty-two-year-old heiress who no longer has to marry the man Daddy selected. How sad can she be?”
“I see what you mean.”
“The important thing is to persuade them—especially Mikhail—to sell the penthouse.” Sherry paused. “Of course, I can always approach him on my own—”
“No, that wouldn’t be wise,” Rona interjected. “I’ve gotten to know Mikhail very well. Let me have a talk with him.”
Now Rona was searching in her phone for Kazakova’s number, having murmured a few more things about the “tragedy” and promising Sherry she’d find out about the penthouse as soon as possible. “I’m on it,” she assured her. “I’ll be back in touch right away.”
Rona scanned old emails with increasing anxiety. It was here somewhere, she knew it. Mikhail Kazakova’s contact information—but where?
At last she located his number, and a new set of anxieties surfaced. What if he’d changed his number? What if he only answered numbers that he recognized?
Her fears evaporated when the call was answered instantly with a clipped “Yes.”
“Mikhail, it’s Rona Reichels, from the third floor. We met a few years ago, when you first came to the city?” She was determined to keep things positive.
He grunted. “Yes.”
“I’m calling to say how sorry I am about Alec’s death.” Her voice was smooth. “I can’t imagine how you and Natalia feel at this very difficult time. If there is anything I can do, as a neighbor or a friend, I hope …”
“Thanks.” He cut her off, and was about to hang up. She scrambled for time.
“I’ve made a little something—a cake—and wanted to bring it over. It’s—it’s a tradition here when someone passes away. Neighbors like to bring by food. It shows that they care.”
She waited a moment. She was laying it on a little thick, like the frosting on this cake she’d have to hustle out and buy. “Are you home?”
“No.” A second or two passed. Finally, “You’ve made us a cake?”
“Yes—chocolate. I’m sure Natalia will enjoy it. Take her mind off this terrible tragedy …”
“Perhaps.” He paused again. “I’ll be at the condo in half an hour.”
“I’ll drop by then.” Rona hung up and sprang to her feet. She yanked her jacket from a hanger, tied it around a waistline that was just starting its middle-aged spread. Pocketbook in hand, she gave herself an order: Get to a damn bakery—pronto.
_____
Darby thought Sergei Bokeria’s face wore a kinder expression than earlier, but it was hard to tell when the man’s natural expression was a perpetual scowl. Natalia, however, looked noticeably different. Gone were the dark circles, and although she still seemed pale, her demeanor was much more relaxed than it had been in the morning.
“I took a nap after my class,” she confessed, when Miles asked how she was feeling. “I barely slept last night so it was good to get some sleep.”
“I’m sure.” Miles’s voice was kind. “With finals coming up, you’re going to need lots of rest.” He paused, and asked gently, “What about the investigation? Have you heard anything else?”
She shook her head. “No. If the police have new information, they aren’t sharing it with me.” Her face brightened. “The good news is that I believe the threatening note I received is a joke.”
“A joke?” Darby’s voice was sharp. “What makes you think so?”
“I have a friend who says there’s a guy who reads the newspapers and sends out letters, just to see what happens. Other people have received them, too.”
“That’s terrible—not to mention, criminal,” Darby said. “Scaring people like that.”
“I know, but it seems it’s more of a prank than a real threat.”
Miles glanced at Bokeria’s bulging biceps. “The fact that you have Sergei on your side gives me a fair amount of comfort,” he said. “Still, I think you have to be on the lookout.”
Natalia nodded. “I know.”
“Did you show the note to Detective Benedetti?” asked Darby.
“No. I want to put it behind me, and move on to other things.” She tossed her head and her fringe of choppy bangs bobbed with emphasis.
Darby and Miles shared a glance. Just what “other things” did the girl mean?
“Do you need an extension on your paper?” Miles asked. “I’m happy to grant you one, considering the circumstances.”
“Maybe.” She bit her lip, looked into the distance. “Truthfully, I’m not sure if my heart’s still in it.”
Darby shot a glance at Miles. He’ll be disappointed, she thought.
“I understand, Nat,” he said kindly. “You’ve been through bloody hell. Tell you what—we can talk about it when you’re ready.”
She gave a shy smile. “Thank you, Professor Porter. Thank you for understanding.”
Darby met Sergei Bokeria’s eyes, searching his fleshy face for any sign of emotion. If the bodyguard had an opinion, he betrayed nothing.
Miles inclined his head toward Darby’s as they watched the petite woman and her bulky friend depart. “What was that all about?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Natalia wants to forget about the threatening letter and doesn’t seem the least bit concerned for her safety. She’s willing to put her investigative paper—and presumably a new career—on the back burner, too.” Darby paused. “I don’t know what’s going on, Miles, but if I had to guess, I’d say Natalia’s in love.”
Miles grinned. “Ah! You think she’s met a prince, and he’s swept her right off her feet. In other words, a bloke kind of like me, is that it?”
Darby reached up and kissed him. “Let’s hope Natalia’s that lucky.”
six
Friday afternoons in New York were full of anticipation. The weekend, with all of its promise, lay before the hordes of business-suited office workers like a treasure chest of possibility. Stiletto-wearing women longed for the comfort of forty-eight hours in flat shoes, and nannies, such as Gina Trovata, looked forward to a weekend free of diapers, oatmeal, and fraternal fighting.
Small wonder she found herself astonished when she volunteered to take a Saturday morning shift.
“Just the little boys,” Sherry pleaded. “The big guys have tee-ball tryouts, and Penn’s got to work.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Great. He’s going to have to stop these crazy weekend hours if we’re going to have any semblance of a family life, but you know Penn—his work is like a drug. And after all, it is tax season.”
Gina nodded. There were times she suspected that Penn stayed away for more reasons than just work, but she kept those suspicions to herself. Instead she smiled fondly at Trevor, reached down to hug him. “We had a good time in the park today, didn’t we Trevvie?” He gave a sloppy grin before scooting off to find his older brothers.
Sherry kept an eye on his progress. “Does he seem as if he’s doing any better?”
Gina answered quickly. “Definitely.” Trevor was taking his time in learning to walk, a development which greatly worried his Type A mother.
A sigh. “I hope so.” She brightened. “I’ve ordered in Chinese. Want to stay for dinner?”
“No, thanks.” Gina gathered up her vintage Dolce and Gabbana. If she hurried she would just make the crosstown bus. “See you at eight.”
The lobby bustled with activity as Gina worked her way through the executives returning home from work. She gave Ramon a wave, an
d when he called out, “Have a good weekend,” told him to do the same. Stopping to explain that she’d be back in the morning to put in more time might mean waiting twenty minutes for another bus.
A couple pushed by her, talking animatedly. The young woman looked familiar, and Gina took in her petite frame and two-tone hair while racking her brain for the name. Then it came to her: this was the Russian heiress with the murdered fiancée. Natalia Kazakova. The man with her was tall, sandy-haired, and good-looking in an angular sort of way. His gaze was directed toward Natalia, and yet Gina noticed that he seemed to be scoping out the lobby by looking over, rather than directly at, her. Gina smirked. He obviously didn’t realize he was already with the richest person in the room.
Where’s the bodyguard? Gina asked herself. Not like he’s usually hard to spot or anything. A moment later she saw the big, bulky man enter the building, his demeanor alert, a discreet seven or eight steps between his client and himself.
The bodyguard gave Gina a nod of recognition as they passed. He’s good, she thought. After all, I only met Natalia the one time.
She left the building, emerging into the late afternoon sunshine and throngs of purposefully striding people. The mood felt light, as it should on a Friday in spring, but Gina was remembering a very different scene, months earlier, when she’d first met Natalia. It was back in the fall—October, she realized—just before Halloween. In fact, it was the holiday (if that’s indeed what a day devoted to disguise and way too much sugar really was—a holiday) that had prompted their meeting.
Gina’s business partner, Bethany, had suggested they check out a new bar on the Friday before Halloween. When Gina demurred, complaining that she didn’t own a costume, Bethany merely laughed. “I’ll bring something for you and meet you right after work,” she said. Gina couldn’t think of any more excuses, and so she’d said okay.
The weather had been very different on that Friday afternoon.
Gina recalled a cold rain that poured down from gray skies, the kind of day that made Manhattan look its worst. Nevertheless, Bethany’d bustled in, costumes in hand, bringing along an extra one, because that was the way she was. “In case we meet someone else,” she’d said. The outfits were minimal but striking, befitting two women hoping to launch a vintage clothing store: three exquisite feather hats, two sets of silk gloves, a mink stole, and a beautifully beaded purse.
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 8
