Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  She turned on her tablet and did a search for Vera Graff. On the list of New York City property holders, she found Vera’s maiden name: Ikanov. Quickly she typed it in as a search.

  Nothing. Darby sat back, discouraged. You can’t expect everything to be easy, she thought, vowing to look again with Miles’s help. She was about to turn off her laptop when she decided to open her email.

  Along with the usual requests for property information, updates from clients, and notifications of new listings, Attorney Debbi Hitchings had sent Darby a terse note.

  The Davenports are indeed filing suit for damages on the mold issue. Looks flimsy to me. I don’t see that they have much to go on, but will be in touch on Monday.

  Darby groaned. “Much to go on” wasn’t as comforting as “nothing to go on.” She typed her thanks to Debbi and shut off the machine.

  Back in the room, Miles had stopped singing and was already dressed. He noticed that Darby was still in her jeans and raised his eyebrows. “Six-thirty, love. We should head out the door in a minute or two.”

  “Afraid I got a little distracted.” She explained seeing Natalia on the fifth floor, going into Vera Graff’s apartment.

  “Fascinating. So our reclusive Mrs. Graff is the source for Nat’s story.”

  “So it appears. I searched for Vera’s maiden name and looked to see if there is any news about her having been of Russian nobility. I didn’t find anything, so we’ll need to keep digging.”

  “Hmm … I suppose we should be searching under Graff, too? Perhaps it was her husband’s family who was of royal Russian stock.”

  “Excellent point, Miles.” She pulled on the pantyhose and reached for her dress. “If it is Vera, I suppose I can understand her extreme need for privacy. It must have been dangerous for her family back in the day.”

  “If everything Natalia’s said about the FSB is true, it could still be dangerous for Vera, especially if she starts making waves about stolen real estate.”

  “If Alec Rodin were a member of the FSB, it would make sense that he wouldn’t want his fiancée digging up a whole lot of dirt on this whole thing, right? But why would someone kill him over it?”

  “Maybe someone killed him wanting to protect Natalia.”

  “Her father? Sergei?” Darby turned her back to Miles so that he could zip her up. “Let me run a brush through this hair and I’m ready,” she announced.

  He watched her walk into the bathroom. “We’ll take all this up another time,” he said. “And I’ll try Jagdish again. This whole thing is right up his alley. Meanwhile—you look lovely, messy hair or not.”

  “Why, thank you, Professor Porter,” she said, coming back into the room. “Let’s go meet the perfectly punctual Hideki Kobayashi, shall we?”

  _____

  How did a person not get covered in blood when they stabbed someone? This was the question Peggy Babson was trying to answer as she traveled back to her home in the Rockaways. Obviously Miles had been wearing gloves—that was why there were no fingerprints on the murder weapon. He must have had some sort of lab coat as well, because wouldn’t the splatter from a stab wound have been significant? She thought back through the vast array of crime scene reconstructions she’d seen on the cable networks and shook her head. If he had been wearing something, where would he have put it?

  There was a dumpster in that alley, Peggy remembered, but surely the police would have checked it. She thought about the route back to Pulitzer Hall, wishing she had walked it following her search of Miles’s office. It was odd the police hadn’t found anything yet—or if they had, they weren’t making it public.

  The train pulled into the station and Peggy climbed down the steps and onto the platform. She walked around to the front, past boarded-up stores and mounds of rubble. This was one of the days she feared nothing would ever return to normal, that the “superstorm” that had destroyed her town had triumphed.

  She said hello to the butcher on the corner whose meats her mother had purchased for years. He’d tried opening up after the disaster, only to find that his heart just wasn’t in it anymore. In that way, he was like a lot of people living in these working class towns by the sea—downtrodden and discouraged. Last week, he’d announced his shop would close. Another casualty of Hurricane Sandy, Peggy thought, watching him head back into the building.

  She passed his piles of trash, bundled neatly into black plastic garbage bags. Tossed on the top, obviously as an afterthought, was the butcher’s soiled white apron.

  Peggy paused. This was the kind of thing she was expecting the detectives to find in Manhattan. A bloodied apron, or scrubs, or lab coat—something Miles had slipped over his clothes before he killed Alec Rodin. She stood rooted to the sidewalk, contemplating the stained apron. Slowly she edged closer.

  No one was watching and no one was nearby, but touching the cloth would mean transferring her fingerprints. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It’s not like this is the real apron Miles Porter wore.

  But what if it was? Or what if it could be? In the absence of anything else, wouldn’t the police rather have something with which to incriminate Miles? Besides, I can always decide to throw it away myself, she thought. Just because I take it now doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.

  Peggy looked right and left, but she and the garbage bags were quite alone. Upon closer inspection she saw that there was an empty, discarded one on the muddy ground by the building. She scooted over to pick it up. Using it like a glove, she picked up the apron and managed to slide it inside without touching it. Quick glimpses to her right and left revealed that still no one was near.

  Bag in hand, Peggy started back down the street, imagining the look on smug Detective Ryan’s face when he found this latest evidence.

  _____

  Darby enjoyed watching the chemistry develop and deepen between Hideki Kobayashi and Miles Porter. Here were two intelligent, international men, both believers in the power of hard work and careful preparation; both determined to succeed with their values and integrity intact. Hideki was older and more conservative than Miles, and yet they shared enough traits that this difference in style didn’t seem to matter. “We’ve got one very important commonality,” Miles would tell Darby later. “We both have an enormous sweet spot for you.”

  She smiled as the men chuckled at something. The evening was winding down, and Hideki insisted on paying the bill for the dinner, saying it was not often that he enjoyed such stimulating company.

  “I hope that we are successful in finding my building tomorrow,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And now, I am afraid I must return to the hotel for my beauty sleep.”

  They bid him goodnight and waved as he climbed into a cab. “Fancy a walk back home?” Miles asked.

  “Definitely. I’ve been somewhat of a couch potato since I’ve been here.”

  “You’ve done a fair amount of walking, but none of those power runs, right?”

  “Exactly. Maybe if I get myself up nice and early tomorrow, I can trot around Central Park for a while.”

  “You do that,” Miles grinned. “I’ll be home waiting for you, making coffee and toast.”

  She laughed. Just then, they heard a familiar voice saying their names.

  “Darby? Miles?”

  It was Natalia, her face wearing a radiant smile, arm-in-arm with a sandy-haired young man. “This is my friend, Jeremy Hale.”

  They shook hands and chatted briefly about the pleasant spring evening. “We just had a great dinner—Ethiopian food,” Natalia gushed. “We sat on the floor. It was so unique! Tomorrow we’re going to the opera.” If it was possible, she smiled even more at her companion.

  “The Met?” Miles asked.

  Jeremy nodded. “We’re seeing Rigoletto. Supposed to be fantastic.”

  “Jeremy’s firm has season tickets,” interjected Natalia. “Isn’t that
great?”

  Darby marveled that a girl whose family could buy their own theatre was so taken with her boyfriend’s good fortune. “Wonderful. I hope you have a terrific time.”

  “We will.” Jeremy smiled down at Natalia. “Hey,” he said, looking up, struck with a sudden thought. “Do you want to join us for a nightcap?”

  Darby and Miles exchanged a quick glance. “Thanks for the invitation,” said Miles, “but we’ve got an early day tomorrow. Best be heading home.”

  As they left the couple, Miles elbowed Darby. “I would say Natalia isn’t spending too much time grieving over Alec Rodin.”

  “No. I can’t say I fault her for wanting to have some fun. She’s only—what—twenty-two or so?—and her engagement to Alec was obviously something Mikhail arranged.”

  “I agree. Jeremy seems like a nice chap. Wonder which firm he works for?”

  “Between the Financial District and Midtown, there certainly are enough of them in Manhattan.”

  “Quite. Seems like every other person in this city is in finance.” He frowned. “Why do you think Mikhail was so keen for Nat to marry Alec? Connections? Security?”

  “I don’t know. I wonder if our friend Sergei has an opinion.” As Darby said the words, she already knew Miles’s next question.

  “I wonder where the devil Sergei is? I didn’t see him protecting Natalia, did you?”

  Darby shook her head. “Do you suppose he gets a night off now and then?”

  “He’s not a very good bodyguard if he’s not on the job, is he?”

  “True.” She stopped and faced Miles. “Speaking of being on the job, it really bothers me that a man was killed barely a block from your office and there are no leads in the case.”

  “Or none that we know of. Darby, this is New York City. I hate to say it, but there is an awful lot of crime that happens in a city of eight million people.”

  “I know it’s not little Hurricane Harbor, Miles, but after all, this murder involves one of the city’s wealthiest residents! Wouldn’t you think there would be some pressure on the authorities to make some headway? Alec was killed on Thursday. Two days later, there seems to be no progress.”

  “And the first forty-eight hours are the most critical.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s beginning to seem as if neither of the Kazakovas is concerned about the crime, isn’t it?”

  “Natalia isn’t shedding any tears, that’s for sure.” She cocked her head to the side, thinking. “Did Rodin have any family, and, if so, are they demanding answers?”

  “Let’s hope they’ve been notified,” Miles said grimly. He took Darby’s arm and resumed walking. “We could contact the detectives and ask for an update. Whether they’ll give us any information or not, who knows.”

  “I’d like to do that, Miles. I can’t stand this feeling of being powerless.” She sighed. “I supposed it has to do with this mold issue, too. I’m stuck waiting for the shoe to drop on that one, as well.”

  “These are the times that try men’s souls,” Miles said. “Women’s, too.” He pulled her closer as they continued down the avenue and toward the park.

  _____

  In Rona’s dream, Devin was a little girl of six years old or so, and she was wearing roller skates. They were in a small park—Rona couldn’t quite tell where—and had just finished an enormous soft pretzel. It was a sunny day, and Rona felt light and happy to be trotting alongside her pony-tailed daughter. The metal of the skates made a clacking sound when Devin hit them together, and Rona could see from her little freckled face that she was working hard to keep her balance. Suddenly they were at the crest of a big hill, then up and over it, and Devin started picking up speed. Rona tried to run faster, but her legs wouldn’t move. They were heavy things, rooted to the ground, as if she were stuck in a pile of hardened cement. All she could do was stand frozen, immobile, while her daughter careened down the hill.

  She woke, took a moment to get her bearings. Only a dream, she told herself, feeling her racing heart slow a little. Thank God. The park … it did not exist, not with a huge hill like that. And Devin had never really liked roller skating.

  Rona rolled over and looked at her watch. Two-thirty in the morning. The point of the dream—if indeed there was a point, and Rona wasn’t sure she believed in dream analysis—was that Devin was headed toward something and Rona felt powerless. I couldn’t help her in the dream, and I can’t help her in real life.

  She rose, pulled on a silk robe, and headed to the kitchen. She took an individual portion of coffee and put it in her brewer. The familiar routine was soothing to her jangled nerves, and she took a deep breath while she waited.

  You help her plenty! The voice sticking up for her was strident. All those bills you’ve paid, all her fancy trips to take ropes courses and gain self-esteem, all her clothes … You have no reason to feel guilty.

  She pulled open the refrigerator and took out her fat-free half-and-half. Devin was on her own path now, nineteen years old and figuring things out for herself. I never could tell that girl anything, anyway, she thought. The only thing they communicated about was how much money Devin needed. Hopefully those days were over and Devin really had found a good job …

  Rona took the mug of coffee and splashed in some half-and-half. She returned the cream to the refrigerator and entered the living room. Outside, the sky was dark, the beams of the passing cars streaking through the night in an unending light parade. Can I afford to keep living here? She took a sip of the coffee. Can I afford to leave, to lose the only contacts I’ve amassed?

  She hunted for her cell phone, texted a message to Devin: You were in my dream. Roller skating.

  She waited. Devin was probably asleep in her apartment. The phone buzzed.

  I hate roller skating. What are you doing up?

  Couldn’t sleep. What about you?

  Coming home from a club with a friend. XOXO

  Be safe, Rona texted.

  Always, was the reply.

  Rona smiled and sipped her coffee. The girl was her change-of-life surprise, a living, breathing, reminder of a brief love affair and even briefer marriage long gone, a stubborn, selfish child who had caused her mother an inordinate amount of anguish, and yet …

  And yet I love her, Rona thought. I do.

  ten

  Gina maneuvered the Volvo station wagon down Central Park West through light Sunday morning traffic, pulling into the motor court reserved for residents of the building. “Mrs. Vera Graff,” she said, telling the uniformed man why she was entitled to park the borrowed New Jersey car in such a privileged spot.

  He gave a brief nod. “Very good.”

  Once parked, Gina scooted into the building, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. Bethany had wanted to accompany her, but her shift at the restaurant came first. “I shouldn’t take your parents’ car,” Gina had protested. “You ought to be the one driving it.”

  “Why is that? You’re a much better driver than me. My parents don’t care—they love you—and besides, I can’t get out of work.”

  “The Coopers said I can borrow their car …”

  “Yeah, but that’s back in the city. This is easier. Go ahead.”

  Reluctantly Gina had pocketed the keys, found the car, and negotiated the trip into Manhattan. Driving was nervewracking in the city—it always was—but at least Sundays were somewhat saner than the rest of the week.

  Yvette answered the door with her customary glower, but to Gina’s relief, said nothing. She stepped to the side, allowing Gina to enter, and moved soundlessly away.

  Gina watched her sloping shoulders sneak off and shuddered. Yvette gave her the creeps, pure and simple. She reminded her of some aging movie star from the forties harboring a grudge against the whole world—

  “Good morning, Gina,” said Vera, breaking her reverie. “
You were deep in thought.”

  Gina flushed. “I was just thinking—”

  “You were thinking about Yvette, weren’t you?” Vera gave a soft laugh at Gina’s startled look. “It’s alright, she can’t hear us. She’s gone into her bedroom, her little fortress of solitude.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Graff, I didn’t mean anything unkind …”

  Vera bit her lip. “I know Yvette’s behavior is very strange, but if she’s cold and unfriendly, I’m afraid she has her reasons. That woman has had a very hard life, a struggle that left her wounded at a very young age. I’m not excusing her rudeness, but I am trying to explain it.”

  “Where did you and Yvette meet?”

  “In Paris, just before the second war. My husband was a diplomat and we lived in several European cities. Paris was the last. Yvette worked for us and we became friends.”

  “Was she—was she as skittish as she is now?”

  Vera nodded. “Worse, if you can believe it! She darted in and out of our apartment as if she were a terrified mouse. One day I found her sobbing on the stairs, and she told me some of her story.” Vera sighed. “Her family history is traumatic, put it that way. She asked me not to repeat what I’d heard, not even to my husband, and I’ve kept that promise. But I, in turn, made her pledge to accompany us wherever we were posted, even back to the United States. She became our live-in housekeeper.”

  “That was very kind of you, Mrs. Graff.”

  “Oh, please—call me Vera.” Her blue eyes were softer today, reminding Gina of the Hudson River rather than glass. “I don’t know if it was kind or not. One does these things for certain reasons, and sometimes it appears to others to be something other than what it really was.” She laughed. “Goodness, I’m sounding very philosophical in my old age. Suffice to say that Yvette, for all her crustiness, has proved to be a loyal friend, keeping a lonely woman company for many years now.” She smiled. “And she’s a decent housekeeper as well.”

  Gina shoved the car keys into her pocket. “I feel as if she doesn’t trust me.”