by K. T. Tomb
“Business, pleasure or social?”
“Bit of all those.”
“I’m staying at The Plaza at the moment. You can drop by, we’ll see about the rest.”
“Sure.” Storm wondered what she was doing there. “What are you doing staying there?”
“Fiancé decided to come over from LA, so I took off.”
“You still don’t want to marry him?”
“Don’t know. He’s boring really. Good PR for us both, but boring. And he’d intrude on the more lucrative parts of my life.”
Storm managed to produce a grin. “Well, I’ll drop by as soon as I can.”
Storm left the moment he knew his associates and his secretary could deal with the day’s affairs. He arrived at the fabulous Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue not long after. He drove even though the hotel was a twenty-minute walk versus the thirty-minute drive through peak hour traffic. He left his SUV to be parked by the valet and asked at the concierge desk which room Frankie Saunders was staying in. They knew him there and had no problem telling him she was staying in one of the suites, but was probably bikini-clad and by the pool.
She was something. Frankie Saunders’ most attractive features were her mysterious gray-green eyes set on Mediterranean skin and a perfectly shaped body. Frankie haunted many a man’s daydreams. She was one of the few women of the upper echelons of Manhattan’s society that had never had any part of her body enhanced or altered by a surgeon. There were lots of clinics these days that could do great work without any scarring, and plenty of PR agents who could hide or explain any mention of it in the media. But Frankie didn’t need either; she was a natural beauty. She wore a tiny bikini, even though the long line was in fashion, and comfortably swam the length of the pool to show off her completely natural tan. She worked out a lot, but she had time for it. Her body showed the effort she put into it, though.
Storm knew from experience how much she worked out some of the non-visible parts as well. He could get anyone he wanted, spend time with anyone he wanted, but Storm chose to pay for Frankie’s time whenever he could and her schedule permitted. She allowed very few men to spend time with her in private and charged them a small fortune for the privilege, and she was worth it. But Storm was a different animal; he didn’t just pay her for her private time, he paid her for the insights she could offer him into aspects of New York’s elite. She gave him access to parts of New York only a beautiful and manipulative woman could.
He sat down on one of the beach chairs that stood around the edge of the pool and waited for her to notice him. After two lengths, she finally looked at him and winked. She looked gorgeous without makeup. She swam to the side and pulled herself out of the pool. She casually wandered over and pulled Storm into a very wet hug. “Storm!” she exclaimed delightedly.
“Frankie!” Storm hugged her back and lifted her off her feet. “How are you?”
“I’m great! Thanks!” she squealed.
They made small talk for a while, sitting themselves down on the beach chairs before eventually, Frankie offered him coffee in her rooms.
The moment they were indoors, Frankie told him to sit down on the chair and wait. Storm knew the way she worked. She would first sweep the room for bugs and then scan the windows for paparazzi, drawing the heavy drapes for prolonged privacy. After that, she would dress for the occasion. She was an expert seductress and tease.
Storm sometimes wondered whether he should not ask for some of the products she offered for sale instead. It would be easier to approach her like that, but he had always rejected the idea. They could both survive a sexual encounter coming out into the public, but if anyone found out he had possessed drugs, his business was likely to collapse. Many of his clients would simply walk away.
When Frankie Saunders showed up again, she was dressed in a sheer silk lingerie. Louboutin heels and silk stockings made her outfit complete and despite his intentions, Storm felt the blood being redirected to his groin.
Frankie sat down on her knees before him and began to stroke up and down his legs. She knew he was not one for messing about for a long time.
Storm managed to shake his head back into action and stroked her chin and cheeks to make her look up at him with her big, begging mysterious eyes. “Bit of a change from normal, Frankie. Need to talk first. If I have time after, we’ll get to the pleasant part.”
She looked disappointed. She had chosen the line of work she did for a reason. She was a socialite by virtue of her birth, related to Devonian royalty, but she refused to rely only on the family fortunes to fund her lavish lifestyle. Like most of Manhattan’s socialites, she worked in public relations. She often showed up at functions and parties to give them a bit of a boost. But the money she made from that was never enough, so she began supplying her friends with product that was always in demand at the social events and parties she attended.
When a billionaire mogul bought from her and jokingly offered her several thousands of dollars to fulfill a reference he made to the common phrase “hookers and blow,” she seriously accepted the offer. A year later, she had discreetly built up a short list of loyal clients whom she served when the mood suited her. It was obvious to all her clients that she loved what she did, and it was a good way to indulge her promiscuous nature which she otherwise had to hide. It did not do well in elite New York circles to be known as a whore. There were plenty of drug-addicted, drunken sluts with rich daddies in Manhattan and she would not be able to, nor was she willing to, compete with some of the bigger names among them for the title of the Upper East Side Sure-Thing.
Storm was one of her favorite clients, though. He was in good shape, intelligent, well informed, elegant, well-educated and a good lover. She did not mind when he paid her for information instead of sex, as long as she could have her way with him as well. With him, that was the payment she really wanted.
“What is it then, darling?” She kept looking up at him with her famously manipulative eyes.
“The Lang guys. You heard Denny Lang is dead?”
Frankie shook her head and stood up. She pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward a bit, her legs crossed. “No...”
“Two days ago.” Storm leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Know what a Blood Eagle is?”
Frankie shook her head. She looked scared, as though anticipating Storm to hurt her.
“Someone cut his back open, cracked his ribs and folded them inside out. Then this someone pulled out his lungs and laid them out over his opened ribs to make it look like wings. Left him to die of shock and blood loss.” Frankie’s face was a mask of disgust, fear and horror. “Someone did the same to my janitor last night.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.
“Because you told me about the Lang brothers being after me. Day after I check up on them, one of them dies. And then the next day, someone manages to infiltrate my security, didn’t set off one alarm, and tortures my janitor to death.” He raised his voice slightly. He used a deeper tone, trying to make his voice sound more dominant, more frightening; more urgent. “I need to know who told you.”
“I can’t tell you that...” Frankie whispered. “They’d kill me.”
“If you don’t tell me, they’ll probably kill me.”
Frankie shook her head.
“You need to tell me, Frankie.”
“I can’t...” she whispered again. But after a while, she blinked. “I can’t tell you. But you might do well to check up on their siblings.”
“Sibling.” Storm corrected her. “They only had a sister, Mara.”
Frankie slowly shook her head and then dropped from the chair, crawling toward him. She sat on her knees before him again and ran her hands up his legs again. “Now can we please forget this? Or at least, allow me to make you forget.”
Chapter Seven
Storm arrived at the Sedakis’ mansion that evening still feeling tired. Frankie had let him sleep after they were done, but before sh
e let him leave, she had shown him all sides of the suite. Still, Storm mused, she gave up a little bit of a lead, and he had enjoyed himself more than he had in a while. It certainly had made the afternoon better than it would have been if he’d stayed at the office.
He had driven home to change and switched cars for the third time in two days. He drove out toward Sedakis’ White Plains mansion. His favorite car was the Jag and he often drove the SUV when he was tired and on long journeys, but this car was one he used to show off. The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport was a distinct car, with an even more distinct sound. And this evening, the engine’s baritone bellows seemed to fit the mood he was in and the way he wanted to appear to Sedakis; the impression he wanted to make on the man’s new wife.
He drove up the driveway, revving the engine as high as he could. By the time he reached the house, Sedakis himself was already opening the door. The big Greek man ran out to admire the car like a little child checking out a new toy in a store.
“My God!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “When did you buy this?”
“About two years ago,” Storm said as he got out. “Not long after it came out. One of the most high-tech cars out there. And fastest, of course.”
Sedakis nodded fervently. “Yes! Delightful! Sat in one, wanted to buy one. Wife made me buy a Bentley instead!” He looked at Storm with pleading eyes. “Could I have a go?”
Storm narrowed his eyes. He did not like lending his cars to anyone. “After dinner? Your wife will kill us if we let her food go cold.”
Sedakis looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement all the same. “Quite so.” He pulled Storm into a bear hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Come, meet the wife, meet her!” Sedakis let him go and beckoned him into his immodest mansion.
Sedakis pushed him into the dining room and Storm sat down quickly. There were two other guests. There was Sedakis’ right-hand man, Niklas Papadopolis, the CEO of American Stevedore, Inc. and a medium-sized woman with long curly hair and olive skin. She was looking at some of the artwork that clearly belonged to the house long before the Sedakis family purchased it.
“You know my man, Niklas?” Sedakis gestured toward the man.
“We’ve met before, right Nick?” Storm offered the man his hand. They shook and then Storm looked over at the woman, who had turned toward him upon hearing his voice. Storm smiled broadly as he saw her face. She did the same.
“And this is...” Sedakis began.
Storm interrupted him. “Hello again, Naomh.”
“Hello again, Storm.” Naomh Walsh came forward to give him a small kiss on the cheek.
“You know each other?” Sedakis wondered.
“We have met before,” Naomh Walsh answered.
“Yup,” Storm confirmed.
Sedakis looked from one to the other a few times. “Ms. Walsh helps my wife. Advises her on some matters. Society stuff and the like. Stuff she finds important. I never understood why it’s all such a big deal.” He looked around and promptly marched toward the kitchen. He mumbled to himself as he walked away, “I’ll just see how far she’s gotten with the moussaka.”
Naomh waited a moment until he was out of the room, then she snuck a quick but deep kiss with Storm. “Nice to see you again, she grinned at him. “By the way, don’t say a thing about the wife. And no season remarks.”
Storm frowned, not understanding. But he didn’t have time to ask her anything because Gregoris Sedakis came back moments later with his wife in tow. Storm immediately understood what Naomh had meant.
The new Mrs. Sedakis, proudly introduced to him by Gregoris as Maria Sedakis, was still a teenager. Storm thought she looked like she was sixteen, but understood immediately that she must be at least eighteen. She had a very young face, but was shaped well with a lean, athletic body not as full or as feminine as Naomh Walsh or Frankie Saunders. He reckoned she had probably started to develop later than the average teenage girl and would keep growing a bit into her early twenties.
“How old is she?” He whispered the question to Naomh.
“Nineteen next month.”
“What the fuck?”
“She snuck into a party at his country club two months ago and when he caught her and told her he’d tell on her, she... um...” Naomh tried to find a suitable euphemism.
It was Storm who provided the words. “Entertained him?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Divorced his wife a month later and married her a week after that.”
Storm shook his head. “Jeesh.” It was more than slightly unscrupulous. He liked Sedakis, but he did not know what to make of this. “So what do you do for her?”
Naomh shrugged. “She was not born into the elite circles of New York’s blue bloods and I have to teach her how to behave so she won’t embarrass Gregoris. And get her into the right places. Get her doing PR gigs, parties and stuff that Sedakis himself won’t do, or would hesitate to do.”
Sedakis kissed his young wife full on the lips and she kissed him back. Then he slapped her bottom, sending her back to the kitchen. “Marvelous creature, isn’t she?” he remarked proudly. He sounded almost like a breeder talking about his prize filly.
“Yeah, she’s amazing.” Storm joined in to sing Maria Sedakis’ praises. And if he did not quite mean it at that moment, he did mean it later, after a generous portion of moussaka. The girl did know how to cook, which went a long way to explaining why Gregoris Sedakis had married her.
There was baklava after, which again, was great. The girl, Maria, said little throughout the meal, but Storm noticed she was keenly observing everything. She seemed eager to learn about everything they discussed at the table, from business to the local gossip. She seemed to know instinctively what she had to learn in order to be a good wife to Sedakis. Whether that would be enough remained to be seen.
After a while, Sedakis brought out the ouzo and they sat down with a few glasses. Papadopolis retired after that, heading home before the evening got out of hand. Storm himself was determined not to drink too much, as he had to drive home. But as they sat down and got to talking, he concluded that would probably be a vain hope so he prepared himself for a long night.
“So I heard someone killed your janitor?” Sedakis stated at some point. It was a question and a statement rolled in one; not one nor the other. “Same thing as that man in my warehouse.”
Storm nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.”
“Know anything yet?”
Storm wondered for a moment whether he should tell Sedakis and Naomh Walsh about what Frankie Saunders had advised him on. His common sense told him he should be prudent, but as Sedakis poured him another shot his ability to listen to common sense soon passed. “Seems there’s something about the siblings of these Lang brothers. But I only ever knew them to have a sister, Mara. She’s dead, though. Car accident outside the court building the day her brother was convicted.”
Naomh intuitively felt the question come up. It felt like one of those questions that had to be asked and answered. “Who was driving?”
Storm looked down. “I was.” He kept looking at his feet, even as Naomh’s hand touched his knee. “She was only 17 or so, still in school I think. Her brothers turned to crime, sacrificed, to get her through some expensive boarding school.” He sighed. “Poor Mara Lang. I couldn’t do anything about it, I know that. But it still feels like I might have been able to save her.”
“I knew a Mara Lang.” It was the first time Maria Sedakis felt confident involving herself in the evening’s conversation. “She was a few years ahead of me in the boarding school I attended in Québec,” she remarked. “She died in a car accident. But she can’t be the same person. She had a sister in my class; I don’t remember anyone mentioning brothers.”
Storm looked at her questioningly. “What was her name?” he asked curiously.
“I think Eva. But she disappeared from the school before her sister was killed. Nobody knew where she went.”
Storm shook his head and drew his
silver case of cigars from his inside pocket. He offered one to Sedakis. “Want one?”
Sedakis shook his head. “She’s making me quit.”
Storm shrugged as he saw Maria nod happily. “Suit yourself.”
As he stood on the terrace at the back of the house, smoking, he heard the door opening. It was Naomh. “You mind if I have a few puffs?” Storm shook his head and offered her his cigar. She breathed in a large amount of smoke and then suddenly kissed him, breathing the smoke back to him. “Share and share alike, eh,” she said as she broke away from him, running her hands over his cheeks. He looked distracted. “What are you thinking?” she demanded seriously.
“Eva Lang,” he said, staring into the New York woodlands; it was a beautiful part of the state and so close to the city. “She’s got to be somewhere, and she’s got to be connected to this. But how? And where is she?”
Naomh shrugged. “Well, she’s not an A-lister here, or I would have known about it.”
“Suppose you’re right,” Storm said.
When the cigar was finished, they went back in, only to find that Gregoris Sedakis had already taken his wife to bed.
“I do feel a bit sorry for her,” Storm remarked. “Laboring under that big fat belly.”
Naomh laughed. “Yeah, can’t be easy.”
Storm shrugged. “Ah well, I suppose it’s time to head home anyway. “ He began to walk toward the door, but found himself staggering. He swore. The ouzo was obviously having more of an effect than he originally thought it would. But he was not going to let anyone notice that. He turned around and looked at Naomh. “You want a ride?”
Naomh shook her head and walked over to him, grabbing him by the arm. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said as she pulled him toward the stairs. “You’ve had far too much ouzo to drive your flashy Bugatti.”
“Damn you,” Storm grumbled at her.
Chapter Eight
Storm woke up the next morning in a lavish bedroom in Sedakis’ 18th century colonial home.
