He grunted with satisfaction. This was the way it should be. He had not liked Rodin, had not trusted the man, and was not in the least bit sorry he was dead. Natalia was right: the murder had removed her from an awkward situation.
Mikhail’s manner at the time of Rodin’s murder had been subdued. He’d seemed sorry that the man was dead, that the marriage was off, but now Sergei questioned it all. What if Mikhail had also been relieved? What if he, too, had seen the benefits of the young Russian’s untimely demise?
Sergei stood in line a good dozen people behind Natalia and her date, not even trying to hear the young couple’s conversation. Let them enjoy themselves. Let Natalia have fun …
He pulled his ticket from his pocket. Were these the same sentiments Mikhail Kazakova had felt once Alec was dead? Or—and this was the line of thinking Sergei forced himself to consider—had Mikhail envisioned Natalia’s life without Alec before the fatal sword thrusts? Had he been the one to make the murder a reality?
Sergei accepted his program from a matronly usher and entered the hushed hall. He would think no more about it until the last note of Rigoletto had died away. For now, he would enjoy one of life’s most sublime pleasures: the opera.
_____
“She has a bad heart,” hissed Yvette, wringing her hands as Gina and the motor court’s manager helped a woozy Vera back into the apartment and onto a stiff-backed baroque loveseat. “She should not be working like a common laborer!”
“I didn’t know.” Gina’s voice was morose. The manager gave a sympathetic nod and edged toward the exit. “She didn’t tell me.”
“She didn’t tell me!” Yvette mocked, and there was real malice in her voice. “Why won’t you just leave Madame et moi alone?”
The manager asked quietly if there was anything else, and hearing no response, retreated hastily into the hall.
Vera groaned. In a raspy voice she whispered something in French.
The maid glowered at Gina. “She says I must keep quiet, but I’m telling you this: if you ever—”
A knock on the door saved Gina from what she imagined was further scolding. Yvette sprang to her feet and pulled open the door. Rapid-fire, high-pitched yapping filled the room.
“Mimi!” Yvette bent to scoop up the poodle, murmuring endearments as the creature squirmed.
“Everything okay here?” Miranda Style’s face in the doorway was quizzical. “I saw the motor court guy leaving …”
Yvette reached to close the door but Gina quickly stood.
“Miranda!” she called to the dog walker. “It’s Gina, from the Coopers’ unit. I was with Mrs. Graff and she passed out.”
Creases appeared in Miranda’s caramel-colored forehead. She pushed by Yvette and crossed the carpet to kneel by the couch. “How are you feeling now, Vera?”
“Dizzy.”
Miranda reached for Vera’s wrist, her jacket rising up as she did so. Gina saw a glimpse of her belt, and something else.
A holster, holding a small gun.
“How is her pulse?”
“Weak,” answered Miranda.
“Of course it is,” Vera protested. “I’m an eighty-five-year-old woman, not some Olympian.”
“I think we should call an ambulance,” Miranda said, standing. “They can rule out anything serious.”
“No.” Vera struggled to sit up. “I’ve had these spells before, and going to the hospital doesn’t help. They do all kinds of tests, and in the end the only thing that’s happened is that I’ve been exposed to all manner of germs.” Her voice grew stronger. “I’d like a glass of water.”
Yvette scurried from the room, presumably to fetch it, and Vera’s eyes met Gina’s. “Listen, those clothes … if anything happens to me, take the rest of them to your store. My jewelry, too. Understand?”
“Yes, but you’re going to be fine.” Gina’s eyes flitted to Miranda’s. “She’s going to be fine.”
Miranda lifted her well-shaped eyebrows. “I think she should go to the hospital.”
Vera waved a hand dismissively in Miranda’s direction, the effort seeming to tire her. “Whatever money I make from sales is yours,” she continued. “Deal?”
“Deal, but please let’s not talk about this now.” Gina put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I could drive you to the emergency room. Skip the ambulance?”
“Non.” Yvette hurried to her mistress’s side and gave her a small tumbler of water. “Madame does not like hospitals,” she spat.
“Yes, but …”
“Listen,” Vera interrupted. Her voice faltered. “I’ve been making my own decisions my whole life, and I’m not stopping now, just when it starts to get interesting.” She reached a wobbly hand dominated by a large diamond ring toward the glass, but Yvette ignored the gesture and lifted it to her lips.
“Merci.” She took several sips, swallowing slowly, and then nodded at Yvette to remove the glass. “I’m having a series of little strokes. Hopefully one kills me, because I don’t want to be stuck in a wheelchair or hobbling around with one of those walkers. But I’m not going to the hospital while I have any say in the matter.” She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. “And now I think I shall rest.”
Gina and Miranda exchanged glances.
“You heard Madame,” hissed Yvette. “She wants to rest. Allez!”
Gina clenched her fists, wanting very much to use them against the malevolent maid. Instead, she followed Miranda.
“Take care, Vera,” called the dog walker. “Let me know if you need more help with Mimi.”
“Goodbye, Vera,” Gina said, hating how final it sounded. She narrowed her eyes, prepared to meet Yvette’s scowl, but the maid did not look up.
Snatches of a French folksong, hummed very softly, met Gina’s ears as she closed the apartment door.
_____
Hideki Kobayashi shook Todd Stockton’s hand and thanked him for his time. “I will speak with Darby,” he said, “and ask her to communicate with you.”
“Of course.” Stockton’s eyes met Darby’s before flitting back to the older man’s. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Darby watched the slight figure of Todd Stockton navigate down the crowded street. He appeared to be a straight shooter, and yet there was something—she couldn’t quite pinpoint what—that he kept under wraps. Give it a rest, she chided herself. Not everyone’s got some deep, dark secret.
She glanced at Miles, engaged in small talk with the Japanese businessman. Nothing clandestine behind the Brit’s sunny smile. He chuckled at something Hideki said and then turned Darby’s way, catching her mid-stare. She felt her face flush.
“Gentlemen, let’s go talk some business,” she called out, hoping her cheeks weren’t bright pink. “I saw a little coffee shop around the corner.”
“I may need a little snack as well,” Hideki said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Whenever I’m about to spend money I become famished.”
“Then I’m sure we can find you something delicious to eat.” Darby grinned at her client, aware of Miles’s hand on the small of her back, inching down to tap her lightly on the butt.
“Hey!” she whispered. “Don’t take my mind off my work, Professor Porter.”
“Point taken. I’m going to head back to the apartment and let you and Hideki talk privately. Do you fancy a quiet night in tonight? I’d like to cook for you.”
“That sounds terrific.” Darby reached up and gave him a kiss.
“Hideki?” Miles raised his voice. “I’m heading out to let you and your star real estate agent talk dollars and cents. It was wonderful to meet you.”
Hideki Kobayashi gave a slight bow. “And you as well, Miles. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
With a quick wave, Miles was headed down the street, already difficult to pick out in the sea of Sunday strolle
rs. Hideki paused, put a hand on Darby’s wrist.
“I hope I did not frighten your good friend away,” he murmured.
“Miles?” she laughed. “He doesn’t scare that easily, believe me.” She steered her client toward the coffee shop she’d noticed earlier. “Here we are. I think if we grab a table in the back, we’ll be able to talk.”
The lunch crush was over and the restaurant, a modest place harking back to the 1930s, had several vacant tables. The air was redolent with the scent of grilled beef, pickles, and hot oil. Pennants from New York sports teams hung on the walls, along with framed black-and-white photographs of baseball players. A large glass case at the entrance held shelves of pies, many mounded high with cream. A waitress nodded when Darby pointed at a banquette in the back corner, and soon she and Hideki were seated and ordering a late lunch.
The businessman was quick to get right to business.
“I want the Flatiron District building,” he said simply, spreading his hands in a gesture that was oddly elegant. “I think it is a most desirable location, and I like the mix of uses one finds there—residential and business. I believe that means it will be a good investment down the line.”
The Flatiron property was the one represented by Kiki Lutz, who, with her trademark red-rimmed glasses and celebrity looks, had built her own empire as the star of a luxury real estate reality television show.
“I agree,” Darby said, taking a sip of her water. “That was my favorite property as well. The space was in excellent condition, and leases for the other tenants seemed fair. Is this something you want to do now, or would you like to wait and see what else comes on the market? It’s only April, and the next month or so may bring more options.”
He leaned back in his chair. “More options, yes, but I may also lose this one.”
The waitress arrived with Hideki’s grilled cheese and bacon sandwich, and Darby’s chicken salad platter. “Will that be all?”
“For now,” Hideki said, sprinkling salt on a mound of French fries that spilled over onto a dill pickle. He took a bite of a fry and made a satisfied sound.
“I want to buy that building, Darby.” He chewed happily. “Make it happen.”
She picked up her fork and scooped some lettuce. “You got it,” she said.
twelve
You know things are desperate when you start calling old lovers, Rona Reichels thought, fingering the small address book. She was in her bedroom, seated on the Egyptian cotton comforter that had cost a small fortune, even on sale. Idly she opened the small book to the letter “F.”
Max. There was his number, written in faded blue ink, and as she read it to herself she realized she’d never quite forgotten it. Max Finnegan, the dashing actor she’d married on a whim more than two decades ago. She pictured his little garret in Greenwich Village, the tiny café where they’d shared bottle after bottle of cheap wine. It had been a glorious three months. She picked up her phone from the nightstand. Can I really do this? Can I really call him out of the blue, and …
And what? Rona wasn’t sure. Ask him for money? Tell him about a daughter he never knew existed? It would all depend on how their conversation went, how convincingly she could still play the coquette. She wasn’t interested in how the rest of his life was going—whether he was married, had children, and the like—all that seemed superfluous. All I need is for him to still want me.
She pressed the numbers on her phone and waited. A recorded, robot-sounding voice invited her to leave a message, and she did so, hoping the desperation she felt wasn’t obvious.
_____
Going back into the city now was tempting. Peggy Babson had to watch two back-to-back episodes of CSI to keep herself from marching down to the train station and riding into Manhattan. If you want the plaid scarf, you need to wait until tomorrow, she told herself. Getting into Miles’s office on a Sunday had the potential to arouse suspicion, and that was the last thing she needed. Patience, she told herself. Patience.
She wondered how she should alert the police to the presence of the bloody apron and scarf. Anonymous phone call? Email? Emails were too easy to trace, unless she sent it from a public place like the library, but even then, you probably needed your card or something stupid like that. A good, old-fashioned phone call from a public phone (if she could find one) was probably the best way.
She still had not decided where to leave the items, but she figured she would know the right spot when she saw it. She had not ruled out a trash can within the building itself, especially since the upkeep of Pulitzer Hall was notoriously spotty.
Picturing the look on Detectives Benedetti’s and Ryan’s faces was worth all the trouble. The moment they realized that Miles Porter could, in fact, be guilty would be her vindication. It would be proof of her astute listening powers as well as keen intuition.
Peggy rose from her recliner and hustled into the kitchen. Rubbing her hands together, she reached for the ginger snaps and put the tea kettle on to boil. She pulled a plate from the cupboard and positioned three cookies on it. And then, because she was in the mood to celebrate, she added two more.
_____
Darby decided to call Todd Stockton from the café, rather than waiting until she reached Miles’s apartment. She gave the broker Hideki’s terms for buying the Flatiron property, and asked that he forward the offer to her so that she could send it along to Hideki.
“Of course,” Stockton said. “I’ll get it done in the next ten minutes.” He paused. “Did you tell me you’re staying in Central Park Place?”
“Yes.”
“What a fabulous building. I’ve brokered a few sales there and am hoping to get another listing soon. No doubt you’ve met the bulldog broker who thinks she owns the place?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’d remember, believe me. Rona Reichels. One of those very territorial agents who can make any transaction miserable.”
Darby remembered the cake-making visitor to Natalia’s apartment and chuckled.
“I may have met Rona after all,” she said. “But she didn’t seem that bad to me.”
“Try doing a deal with her and you’ll see. The story is that she got cheated out of an enormous commission in that building, and she’s still bitter over it.”
“Interesting. What sale?”
“The premier penthouse.”
Darby’s interest piqued. “You’re kidding. The one Mikhail Kazakova owns?”
“If he’s the Russian billionaire, yeah.”
“What happened with the commission?”
“I think the sale was arranged privately. Something like that.” He paused. “Let me get that offer written up for you right now. Call or text if you have any questions.”
Darby put down her phone and thought about Todd Stockton’s comments. Was Rona still smarting, four years after a botched deal? Was her grudge strong enough that it had driven her to murder?
_____
The call from Max Finnegan came in while she was dialing Charles Burrows’s cell phone. Quickly Rona answered the incoming call, her heart beating a little faster at the prospect of speaking with her old lover. She gave a seductive hello and held her breath.
A woman’s voice asked a simple question.
“How did you get this number?”
Rona explained that she was an old friend of Max’s, and that she was hoping to speak to him as soon as possible. There was a long pause.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” the woman said, “but Max is dead.”
Rona felt the pit of her stomach sag.
“No,” she managed.
The woman continued. “I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but I don’t know of any other way. Max died years ago. I’m his niece, and I moved in to take care of him when things got really bad. I stayed on in his apartment.”
“I see.”
“Of course.” Rona licked her lips, suddenly bone dry. “How did he die?”
Max’s niece was silent for a few moments. “He had AIDS,” she said. “He lived with it for a few years, but it got him in the end.”
Rona fought the urge to run to the bathroom and vomit. Instead she turned off her phone, closed her eyes, and began to laugh.
It explained a lot. Why Max had been uncomfortable being in public with her. Why he took furtive phone calls for meetings. Why their relationship had never progressed beyond a few nights of drunken sex.
She didn’t feel any emotion over his death, only amazement that she had never questioned his sexuality. When her laughter had finally subsided, she found a red pen and drew a line through his name in the old address book.
Once again Rona picked up her phone.
A masculine voice answered on the second ring, and this time she knew it was the right one. “Charlie, I’ve missed you,” she purred. “Tell me all about where you are, and when you’ll be coming back to see me in New York.”
“Why Rona,” chuckled Charles Burrows. “I thought you’d never call.”
_____
Darby entered the apartment and inhaled the aromatic scent of rosemary and sage. “I’m home,” she called out. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the little galley kitchen. “It smells heavenly!”
“Pork scaloppini,” Miles said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and then tossing it onto a counter. “To celebrate a deal, I hope …?”
“We won’t know for a bit, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Darby said. She pointed at a steamer full of vegetables. “Artichokes?”
“Yes, I’m trying a new Roman-style recipe. Glass of wine?”
Darby took one, smiling at the sight of Miles bustling about Charles Burrows’s kitchen. “You look very at home here,” she commented. “Have you thought any more about teaching another semester?”
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 15
