“Yvette? Of course not! She doesn’t trust anyone!” Vera laughed, and then took a deep breath. “She suffers from extreme paranoia, along with some other psychological traumas. Right now, she insists that things are disappearing from the apartment.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Parts of collections that we have here and there. A figurine of a horse—a glass paperweight. A rusty sword and its sheath …”
“A sword?” Gina’s voice was quick.
“Yes. She’s correct in noting that it’s missing. I don’t know if it was anything valuable, but it was quite old.”
“Mrs. Graff—Vera—when did that sword disappear?”
“Oh, months ago.” She thought back. “Let’s see—I first noticed it missing in February.” She saw Gina’s look of alarm. “What is it?”
“Maybe nothing,” Gina said, giving a calming smile. Why mention that the Russian girl’s boyfriend was killed with some sort of sword? After all, he’d been murdered blocks and blocks away, and antique swords were a dime a dozen in the city’s flea markets and pawn shops. “Sorry—I’m being dramatic.” She put a hand on Vera’s arm. “Be sure to tell Yvette why some of your clothes are gone,” she said. “I don’t want her thinking I’m a thief.”
“Indeed.” Vera motioned for her to follow and they walked toward Vera’s room. With blue eyes twinkling, she put up a hand and whispered, “We still have a few of those swords lying around. The last thing you need is Yvette chasing you around with one.”
_____
Darby and Miles were on their way out for a quick breakfast when they nearly ran into Detectives Benedetti and Ryan in the lobby.
“Good morning,” Miles said, nodding at the two men. “Any new developments on the murder of Alec Rodin?”
“Nothing we can share, Professor Porter,” Detective Benedetti said, shifting his bulky weight from one foot to another.
“Not with you, anyway.” Detective Ryan’s sarcasm was thick.
Detective Benedetti gave him a look. “We’re here on other business, I’m afraid.”
“Nothing’s happened to Natalia …?”
“Gee, Mr. Porter, we’d tell you about anything important, wouldn’t we, Detective Benedetti?”
The older detective frowned. “Come on, Ryan.”
Darby pulled Miles toward her and let the detectives pass by. “We can see you’re busy.”
When they were out of earshot, Miles snorted, “Right. Is it my imagination, or do those two men think they are God’s gift to the world of law enforcement?”
They walked quickly out of the building and down the street. He pointed at a little diner wedged between several high-rises. “Mind the homeless guy on the corner. I always give him a little something, but he can be kind of aggressive.”
They crossed the street, coming close to a figure crouched against the side of the building. He wore an oversized black coat and a neon pink knitted hat.
“I wonder who the detectives were going to talk to.” Darby fished in her pocketbook and put a few dollars in the old man’s coffee can.
“Who knows. There are more than two hundred units in that building, Darby.” Miles stuck money in the can as well. “There you go, my friend.” He opened the door of the diner, and the smell of toasted bread, grilled pancakes, and coffee wafted out, mingling with the man’s muffled grunt of thanks.
_____
The fat blue jay jabbed its beak at the smaller bird until it took wing, fleeing the solitary feeder that still dotted Peggy Babson’s backyard. She watched dispassionately, not really noticing the chickadees darting back in for a quick bite, now that the blue jay had flown to the tall pine tree. She was thinking about the soiled butcher apron safe in its plastic bag in a corner of the den, now jammed nearly full with old toys, clothes, discarded magazines, and knickknacks and called the collecting room. Peggy wondered where the apron should go, and how long it would take Detectives Benedetti and Ryan to find it.
There was the dumpster near where Alec Rodin’s body had been found, but that had been searched initially and would probably not be the best choice. There were places inside Pulitzer Hall—Miles Porter’s office, the restrooms—and garbage bins outside the building, but of course those were emptied quite regularly.
No, it had to be somewhere the police had not searched initially and yet somewhere plausible.
Peggy knew, from watching her crime shows, that it was important to think like a murderer in order to work on the details of a case. She pictured herself as Miles Porter, hurrying down the steps of Pulitzer Hall, taking a short cut so that he could beat Alec Rodin to the narrow alley, waiting for him—and then striking. Miles would have grabbed the apron before leaving his office, of course. He would have tossed it on in a hurry in that dark alley. And then, when the deed was done, he would have wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. But where?
The dumpster was the logical spot if Miles had wanted to toss it away right then and there. If he had held on to it, he might have continued down Broadway, and found a spot farther away. There had to be any number of places, and Peggy would find them before work on Monday. Once the apron was in place, she would monitor the situation, notifying the police herself (secretly, of course) if they did not find it.
She smiled and got up to make herself a second cup of tea. Dirty dishes had collected on the counter, but Peggy just pushed them aside. The tea box had a plaid design on the cover, and looking at it reminded Peggy of the wool scarf she’d found in Professor Porter’s office. She froze, about to put the tea bag in her cup. What if the scarf was found with the apron? Miles, in his haste, yanked off both the bloody apron and the scarf …
A slow nod as she moved a stack of pots and put the kettle on to boil. Yes, that would be the perfect touch.
_____
The slight man radiated energy, thought Darby Farr, reaching to shake Todd Stockton’s hand. He had dark hair, graying at the temples, bushy eyebrows, and a firm grip. His attire was casual, yet professional—completely appropriate for a Sunday morning in the city.
“Great to meet you, Darby,” he said. “I kept thinking we’d run into each other in Maine, and now here we are.”
“This is Hideki Kobayashi,” Darby said, introducing the quiet man beside her. “And this is Miles Porter, a friend and professor at Columbia.”
“Miles is an investigative journalist, Mr. Stockton,” noted Hideki. “I have brought him along to find anything unusual with the properties you show us.”
Todd Stockton looked confused, but just for an instant, until Darby and Miles chuckled and he joined in.
“I’m hoping we don’t uncover any deep, dark, secrets today, Mr. Kobayashi,” Stockton said. “Darby has selected some great properties for you to see, and my goal is to help you purchase one at the best price. You’ll find I’m very above board.”
Hideki bowed slightly, but when he looked at Darby he had a slight twinkle in his eye. He likes being a bit of a tease, she realized.
“I thought we’d start here,” Todd said, indicating the high-rise behind him, “since it is one of my listings.” He paused. “First, a little explanation. Manhattan is divided into three primary commercial real estate markets: Midtown, Midtown South, and Downtown. Within these markets are submarkets with specific geographic boundaries. For instance, here in Midtown you’ll find Bryant Park, Columbus Circle, the Garment District, Grand Central, Penn Station, the Plaza District, and Times Square. Midtown South has Chelsea, the Flatiron District and Silicon Alley, Gramercy Park, Greenwich Village, Hudson, Madison and Union Squares, and SoHo. Downtown is the Financial District—along with the World Financial Center and the World Trade Center. Darby has given me her input, but naturally, one of your first decisions will be determining which submarkets you like.
“Let’s head inside so you can take a look at what kinds of space you might need.
I’m imagining you’ll be one of the anchor tenants—meaning you’ll be the largest company in the building. A consumer goods manufacturer was in this space, but has since relocated to New Jersey. I think you’ll find the building would be a good fit for Genkei Pharmaceuticals.”
Darby and Miles followed the broker and Hideki into the gleaming lobby and up several flights to see the several floors of available space. Darby listened to Todd Stockton’s information about the building—the square footage, leasing particulars, and the like—but her thoughts kept roaming to Natalia, her research, and the death of Alec Rodin. Were the two things related? Was Rodin killed for what his fiancée had uncovered?
The next building, shown by New York’s star broker Kiki Lutz, seemed more to Hideki’s liking. “You can’t beat the Flatiron District,” she said, peering at him intently though large oval glasses. “Grand old buildings with a real mixed-use character, several lovely parks, good restaurants and shopping—I know your company would enjoy doing business in this part of the city.”
She proceeded to show Hideki the features of the five available floors. Again, Darby found it hard to be as engaged as she would normally be. This time, her mind was on the Davenports and their mold issue.
Did the fact that Darby hadn’t heard from her attorney mean that the suit had somehow gone away? Magical thinking, she told herself. You haven’t heard anything because it’s the weekend.
Miles came up beside her and put a hand on the small of her back. “You’re far away, love,” he whispered.
“Is it obvious?”
“Only to me.”
She gave him a grateful smile, determined to be more engaged in the business at hand.
_____
“Where’re you off to, all dressed to the nines?” Miranda Styles grasped Korbut’s proffered leash, her eyebrows raised with the question. Natalia Kazakova stood before her wearing a new outfit from the chic boutique the Times was calling “the hottest place to shop in town,” and looking fantastic.
“The opera.” Natalia said it almost bashfully, and Miranda did well to keep from smiling.
“Gorgeous—you and your clothes. You going with your new friend?”
“Jeremy.”
“What about Tiny? He tagging along?”
Natalia rolled her eyes. “Of course. What can I do? I love Sergei, but …”
“Guess you can pretend you’re a big celebrity requiring protection from the paparazzi, right?”
“That game gets old.” Natalia glanced back into the apartment. She dropped her voice. “You’re friends with my father, Miranda. Could you say something to him? I’m twenty-two years old, and I can’t exactly have a normal life with Sergei trotting behind me all the time.” She sighed.
“You know as well as I do that your father doesn’t care what anyone else says regarding your safety. He wants you protected, and there’s no way he’ll give in on that, especially after Alec’s death.”
“Alec’s death had nothing to do with me,” she said darkly.
“What do you mean? Your father seemed to think so.”
She shook her head. “Trust me. Alec was involved with shady things in Russia, things that had nothing to do with me.”
“I see. What kinds of things?”
“Government work.” She shifted her weight from one foot to another. “My dad’s paranoid, thinking someone’s going to kidnap me. No one even knows who I am in New York! Besides, it’s not like I’m the only wealthy college kid here. Look at all the Chinese kids. You don’t see bodyguards with them, and they’re worth more money than me.”
“For some reason he feels you’re in danger.”
“Not me.”
“You may think you’re safe, but if you’re father thinks otherwise—”
“I don’t think it’s me he’s protecting.”
“Then who?” It was Miranda’s turn to sound exasperated. Beside her, Korbut whined softly. She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go. Listen, though—take my advice. Have a talk with your father. Tell him how you feel. Who knows? He might surprise you.”
Natalia shrugged as if talking seemed a pointless exercise when it came to Mikhail Kazakova. She reached out and rubbed Korbut’s ears. “Surprise me? We can’t be talking about the same man.”
“All I’m saying is don’t assume the worst.” Miranda gave the dog’s leash a tug. “Let’s go, Korbut.” She walked with the dog toward the elevator, calling over her shoulder, “Have a good time at the opera.”
“Thanks,” came the listless reply.
eleven
The outfits, still on their hangers, were wrapped in protective plastic coverings and ready to be transported to Bethany’s parents’ car.
“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” Vera surveyed the clothes with a quizzical glance.
“That’s okay. I can make a bunch of trips,” Gina said. She picked up one bunch of hangers and contemplated another.
“I don’t mind …”
Gina smiled. “You know, a little help would be great.” She handed her pile to Vera. “Is that too much for you?”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
Gina picked up another bunch and the two started toward her apartment door.
“It may do me good to get some fresh air,” the woman said. She waved an impatient hand in the maid’s direction. “I’m fine, Yvette. Stop scowling at us.” The maid sniffed and retreated to another room. “Honestly! Her attitude can be such a challenge.”
“Why do you put up with it?” Gina asked, shutting the apartment door behind them. A hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that …”
“No, no.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I’ve asked myself the same thing.” The elevator doors opened and they entered. “The short answer is that Yvette is my friend. The long answer …” She looked up, her blue eyes brilliant. “The long answer is more complicated. Another time, perhaps.”
Gina was silent. The elevator doors opened and she led Vera slowly to the motor court, where the car was waiting. They spread the garments carefully on the seats and closed the doors.
“It feels like springtime,” Vera said, her voice sounding light and carefree.
“We’ve had a beautiful stretch of weather, starting with that day I saw you in the park wearing your Hitchcock Ingénue outfit.”
“That was the last time I ventured out. Before that, I don’t think I had left the apartment for months.”
“Really? Why? I’d go crazy if I didn’t get outside every day.”
“Maybe that’s been my problem.” She gave a wry look. “It may sound strange, Gina, but it’s very easy to fall into bad habits … destructive habits. Things that can destroy your soul.”
“I suppose. What about on a practical level? If you don’t go out, who gets your eggs, milk, bread? Yvette?”
“Mostly we have them delivered.”
Gina pointed at a delicate dogwood tree just beginning to bloom. “You can’t deliver beauty like that.”
The older woman smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, Gina, and your name suits you well.” Seeing the young woman’s quizzical look, she continued, “Your family name, Trovata. I believe it means ‘found’ in Italian.”
“I think the nuns who scooped me up from the orphanage steps decided it was fitting,” Gina said.
“Interesting. Well, I don’t believe in coincidences,” Vera said. “You were given that name for a reason. I can’t help but marvel at the way you’ve helped me to find myself again, after all these years.”
Gina opened the motor court’s door back into the building. She smiled at Vera, waiting as the woman climbed a step. Vera swayed slightly, as if she was considering her next move, and then, while Gina watched, horrified, crumpled like a blossom in a harsh spring rain.
_____
Serge
i contorted his big body until he fit into the back of the cab and pulled the door shut. He directed the driver to follow the taxi directly in front of them, the one in which Natalia sat with her date.
Sergei looked out the window and fingered the ticket inside the pocket of his sport jacket. He loved opera, although Rigoletto wasn’t one of his favorites, and he was looking forward to hearing at least some of the production. The issue was not his attention span. Ever since adolescence and his meteoric growth spurt, Sergei had found it difficult to stay seated in an average chair for very long. He was just too damn big.
He remembered his first opera, a production of La Boheme in Paris. Mikhail had brought Natalia there for her thirteenth birthday and insisted Sergei attend as well. He’d sat a few rows behind them, expecting to be bored to tears, and instead had found himself transfixed.
The costumes, the set design, the opulent surroundings, and best of all—the music, filling a void in his soul he had not even known he’d possessed.
Only severe cramps in his legs had forced Sergei out of his seat. Retreating to the back of the building, he’d stood by the fire exit until the final curtain dropped, as mesmerized as anyone in the place.
When the show was over, Mikhail had asked him for his opinion and Sergei had shrugged. “Something to pass the time.”
His employer had narrowed his eyes and then laughed. “I do not believe you, Sergei! I see from your face your true feelings. The opera—it has climbed into your soul. Now it will be forever a part of you.”
From that moment on, tickets to shows had appeared in Sergei’s hands more often than he had dreamed possible. Nearly a decade since seeing his first production, the humble bodyguard was a knowledgeable aficionado.
He thought again of Mikhail’s recent dishonesty and his face clouded. The man had not been in Russia when Alec Rodin was killed. He had been in New York. But where? And why?
The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the Metropolitan Opera Company. Sergei paid for the ride and lumbered out, keeping his eyes on the couple emerging from the other cab. Natalia’s face was happy, and she was listening to something the young man, Jeremy, was saying. Sergei noticed that she did not once glance about for his whereabouts.
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 14
