Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis)

by Carrington, Tori

He held up the fingers of the hand holding the pen to wave me off.

  Then he started messing with the sensitive buttons on the end, as if looking to click the pen open.

  I snatched it from his hand, hoping he hadn’t inadvertently deleted anything. ‘Just tell me what you need written down,’ I said.

  He stared at me.

  I raised my brows.

  He said something into the phone, waited, then looked at me, speaking in Spanish.

  ‘English, please?’

  I noticed Pamela was getting up from her stool.

  I hurriedly wrote down a number, shoved the paper toward my neighbor, then messed with the pen until I hoped I got the camera working again.

  ‘Thank you for keeping me company,’ Pamela was saying.

  ‘It’s I who should be thanking you,’ Clark was saying.

  Pamela turned toward me, her gaze briefly meeting mine before she dropped the coat she was putting on.

  ‘Seriously, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today,’ she said as she reached to pick it up.

  ‘Please, allow me.’

  The money shot.

  I clicked away as Clark picked up Pamela’s coat then reached up to drape it over her shoulders. She leaned back, turning her head slightly to say something to him I couldn’t make out.

  And then my unwelcome neighbor filled my vision, along with the pen’s.

  ‘I need your help again.’

  I said something I’m sure wasn’t very polite as I pushed from stool, grabbed my own coat and made for the door, snapping photos as I went.

  A few minutes later, Pamela joined me up the block next to where our cars were parked.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’ she asked.

  I mumbled something under my breath and then said, ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Good. Because I never want to do that again.’ She gave a shudder I was sure had nothing to do with the cold.

  ‘It couldn’t have been that bad.’

  ‘No? Then why do I feel like I need a shower?’ She turned toward her car. ‘That man rates up there as one of the nicest I’ve come across in a good, long while.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t come on to you?’

  ‘Come on to me? He couldn’t have been more of a gentleman if he tried.’

  ‘Maybe that was his come on.’

  She stared at me. ‘No, Sof, what he did was second nature. He couldn’t have been less interested in me as a woman. I didn’t pick up a single untoward vibe from him.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gay.’ I searched my mind for suitable piece of gay bait.

  She gave a rare eye roll. ‘I’m going home. Don’t call if you need anything.’

  She got into her car and began driving away.

  I realized I’d forgotten to thank her.

  I was too busy trying to double check the pen cam, silently cursing myself for not having requested a takeout carton for the burger and fries for Rosie, and noticing my least favorite Crown Vic was once again on my tail.

  A short time later I drove Lucille down Steinway, on my way to Ditmars to pick up something for Rosie for lunch, trying not to think of the perfectly good burger and fries I’d forgotten to take from the restaurant and the Crown Vic on my tail.

  The sky seemed to be hugging the tops of the low apartment buildings, and big, flat flakes started to fall. Great, more snow. The city hadn’t completely dug out from the last storm. I reached out and turned down the police ban radio I’d taken to listening to lately and instead switched on the radio. Of course, there were no weather reports anywhere to be had in the canned broadcasts. Probably I should have read those newspapers this morning outside that reindeer story. Which probably wasn’t a bad idea beyond even the weather reports. For all I knew, there was something related to the Abramopoulos case in there. I was thinking not, though. If there were something in there, I’m sure I would have been the victim of a snatch and grab for the third time.

  Speaking of which . . .

  I took my cell phone out of my purse and checked my messages. No daily bulletin. Which meant they weren’t daily, but rather whenever the mood moved Bruno.

  Of course, he’d instituted them before I’d warned off Sara Canton and been drafted to make the ransom drop.

  I dialed information, giving them the name of the newspaper that had run the reindeer story. Within a minute, I had the reporter who had written the piece on the line.

  ‘Wendy Wyckoff.’

  I began by telling her I knew whom the reindeer belonged to, then told her about Dino’s story.

  I didn’t know what I was hoping to accomplish. Maybe that a little negative coverage might light a fire under the CIS and David Hunter? Get Dino off that list and back home?

  ‘Tell me more about the reindeer,’ Wendy said.

  Someone honked at me from behind. I stared in the rear-view mirror to find I was holding up traffic. I spotted a free spot at the curb and pulled into it to talk. The driver behind me flipped me the bird as he passed.

  ‘Yeah, and Happy Holidays to you, too,’ I mumbled to him, then returned my attention to Wendy. ‘What I’m thinking is a kind of “Bring Him Home for the Holidays” human interest piece.’

  ‘Sorry, but do you have any idea how many stories I get basically the same as yours? My editor wouldn’t run it if it were my own father, and he was born here.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Seriously. Two weeks ago I wrote up this real tear-jerker of a story. Woman was born here, but, because her parents were foreign, she spoke with an accent. They deported her to Mexico. She had three young kids they put in foster care. Harry – that’s my editor – wouldn’t even look at it. Dime a dozen, he said.’

  ‘A lot of stories like that coming from Mexico, I bet.’

  ‘This woman’s parents were from Portugal.’

  I winced.

  That was the second time I’d mistaken a person’s country of origin.

  Was I a racist?

  ‘Look, unless you want to tell me about this reindeer, I’m going to have to ring off.’

  I thought for a moment, weighing my options. Depending on how well I worked this, I might very well be able to kill two birds with one stone yet.

  And that’s exactly what I set out to do, telling her just enough about the missing Rudy, without many supporting details, to keep her interest . . . then telling her if she wanted the rest, she’d have to agree to run something on Dino.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Look, it’s not in my hands. But if I can slant this Rudy story the way I’m thinking I can . . .? Well, your friend Dino gets a run.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Well, then, let me tell you the rest of the story.’

  Five minutes later I had a happy reporter, had contacted Mrs Claus to let her know she would be getting a call from Wendy and likely a visit from her and a paper photographer, and was sitting back in my car sipping a frappé I’d picked up when I realized where I was: up the block from Dino’s bakery.

  Were those lights?

  I squinted through the snow that was falling more heavily now, then rolled down my window a hair, catching a familiar scent of . . .

  Was that Christopsomo? Greek Christmas bread?

  It couldn’t be.

  I shut off the engine and got out of the car. Dino hadn’t made it home somehow without my knowing . . . had he?

  I took in the ‘Open’ sign on the door, the bustle of activity inside and especially the full window display of baked goodies.

  My mouth watered.

  My heart beat harder.

  My stomach was too small for the bird that fluttered around inside it.

  I pulled open the door and walked inside, looking for signs of Dino.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to a girl in a white apron and hair net stocking the breadbaskets behind the counter. ‘Who’s in charge?’

  A head popped up next to her.

 
; And I found myself staring at none other than my mother, Thalia Metropolis.

  I sat at the round table set up for customers across from my mother, trying to digest what she was saying while wishing instead I were digesting one of the many delicious concoctions in the display just to my left.

  Fast-forbidden delicacies Thalia wouldn’t let me have.

  I suppose I was lucky I’d been given a frappé. Surely even that was forbidden?

  ‘I didn’t even know you could make all this stuff,’ I said absently, thinking of all the goody-gobbling sessions I’d missed out on growing up.

  ‘Of course, I know how to make them. But with so many great bakeries nearby, I didn’t have to.’ She sat back and wiped the table with the corner of her apron. ‘Anyway, don’t be overdramatic; I make some of this stuff from time to time at home.’

  I looked over at the fresh tortes. ‘Not those.’

  ‘No, maybe not those.’ She smiled. ‘They look good, don’t they? Took me a while to get back into the swing of things, but I’m back in good form.’

  ‘Define “a while”?’

  ‘Three crooked and inedible tortes.’

  ‘Three?’ I could probably make a hundred and not a one of them would come out the way they were meant to.

  I took a hefty sip of my frappé, giving serious consideration to tackling my mother and making a run on the chocolate torte decorated with strawberries, whipped cream and cherries in the top-right corner of the case.

  ‘So let me get this straight: one morning you just decided to open the doors and take over management of the bakery?’

  She nodded, her expression wary. ‘I hadn’t told you, I talk to Dino every day. He was saying if he wasn’t allowed to come back soon, his business would be sunk; he’d lose everything.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Of course, I couldn’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled.

  I wasn’t sure which bothered me more: that she was talking to Dino and I wasn’t, or that it hadn’t even occurred to me he might suffer financially without someone to look after his interests.

  I decided it was a toss up.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘When?’ she asked pointedly. ‘You’re always running here, running there, working, doing God only knows what all. You haven’t had time for me lately.’

  Because I didn’t want any of the bland food she was forcing me to eat.

  Because I was busy.

  OK, mostly because of the bland food.

  How shallow was that?

  I didn’t particularly like myself at the moment.

  One of the girls motioned to my mother. She waved back and told her she’d be there in a minute.

  ‘And the staff?’ I asked.

  ‘All Dino’s. They were happy to have the work.’ She smiled. ‘It is Christmas, after all.’

  That, it was.

  Not that you could tell by my actions.

  Of course, not everyone was working a kidnapping case either.

  ‘Bakeries are always busiest during the holidays,’ she said. ‘And you should see the orders. I’m certainly going to have my hands full over the next week or so.’

  ‘If Dino doesn’t come back.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. How’s that coming, by the way?’

  I said something under my breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s coming. I’ll share something when I have it.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d somehow earned a key position on Homeland Security’s suspected-terrorist list.

  ‘Yes, well, word on the street has it he was set up.’

  I squinted at her. Not only was my mother using contemporary lingo, she was picking up gossip I wasn’t privy to? ‘Oh?’

  Why was I getting the feeling she already knew about the list?

  ‘Yes. And . . .’ her words drifted off and she looked away from me.

  Oh, please don’t stop now. I waited. ‘I’m sorry? Didn’t I say anything? Thought I said something.’ I gestured with my hand, wondering why she was hesitating. ‘And . . .’

  She looked at me. ‘It’s one of the orders . . .’

  What did any of this have to do with tortes? ‘Yes?’

  I got me cell out to check for messages.

  ‘It’s for Thomas.’

  I froze.

  Thomas? As in my Thomas?

  I cringed at my description of my ex-fiancé. Thankfully Thomas wasn’t mine and never would be.

  Still, the fact the tortes were meant for him could mean one thing and one thing only.

  Thalia’s speech quickened as if now that the words were out, she was required to follow them with more. ‘The order’s for the day after Christmas. You know . . . It’s for his wedding.’

  My cell slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. I stared at it as if unable to work out that it was actually mine and I had dropped it.

  She picked it up and handed it to me. I took an inordinate amount of time dusting it off, checking to make sure it still worked, which of course it did.

  ‘Kati?’ I said. Or thought I did.

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’

  ‘Not so far as I can tell.’

  My ex-groom Thomas was marrying my ex-best friend Kati almost nine months to the day when I caught them messing around on the day of my wedding? And she wasn’t pregnant?

  My mind filled with the image of Rosie nearly blowing her nose into my sweater that morning.

  Only I didn’t want to cry.

  Did I?

  ‘Small church wedding, I guess. They only ordered ten tortes.’

  I nodded at my mother’s words, but truth be told I barely heard her.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work. Just thought you should know, is all. Hear it from me before someone else.’

  My mother got up and I followed suit, automatically picking up my frappé glass to take to the counter and wiping up any residual condensation with the napkin that had been under it.

  Thalia went behind the counter and I gestured toward one of the girls.

  ‘I’ll take that torte over here,’ I said, pointing to the one in question.

  ‘No, she won’t.’

  I stared at my mother. ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For my co-worker, Rosie. She needs some cheering up.’

  ‘Uh huh. Go cheat on the fast somewhere else. Your business isn’t welcome here until Christmas Eve.’

  ‘You’re helping others break fast.’

  ‘Others are not my daughter.’

  I made a face at her. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Sto Kalo.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Have a nice day.’

  My scowl deepened as I stalked outside and into the cold. The snow had picked up further, blanketing the street and sidewalk in more white stuff. I looked over my shoulder at the bustling bakery. The restaurant on Ditmars was only a couple blocks down from another popular Greek bakery. I was thinking I should stop and do exactly as my mother suggested and pick up a torte from there.

  A knock on the window. I looked to find my mother shaking her head and wagging her index finger.

  I stuck out my tongue at her and stalked to Lucille.

  What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Problem was, I’d know.

  And considering my recent self-awareness of my own shortcomings as a friend and a daughter . . . well, I didn’t want to hurt her.

  Sixteen

  ‘Where have you been?’ Rosie asked with an exasperated eye roll when I finally returned to the office. ‘And where’s my lunch?’

  I blinked at her as if she’d sprouted a third eyeball in the middle of her forehead. Eye rolls from two were enough; the idea of an additional one was nightmare material.

  ‘I forgot.’

  She tsked. ‘Thought as much.
Got Phoebe to deliver me a soup and a sandwich. On the agency. On account of I worked through my lunch hour to get you all the stuff you needed.’

  ‘You got it?’

  She appeared insulted.

  Of course she had.

  At least she wasn’t crying.

  I accepted the stack of paper she’d compiled, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. It would take forever to get through all of this. Much longer than the few hours I had.

  ‘Where’d you go?’ she asked.

  To hell and back . . . can’t you tell by the burn? I wanted to say. Instead, I offered, ‘On that bait thing.’

  ‘You finished that an hour ago.’

  How did she know that?

  Oh.

  Probably she had talked to Pamela.

  She held out her hand. I fished the camera pen out and laid it in her palm.

  I could only hope the photos came out and that my rude bar neighbor hadn’t accidentally deleted the best shots.

  ‘Where’d you go after that?’

  I left out the bakery part in case she’d nail me for not bringing her something and said, ‘Manhattan.’

  ‘You didn’t drive, did you? ’cause it ain’t looking too good out there.’

  ‘No, I didn’t drive.’

  I stared through the front window at where the snow came down in thick waves and was accumulating quickly, even though I’d just come in from it, and shook the large flakes that hadn’t melted from my jacket and hair.

  Still, it was one thing to plow through it, another to look at it from the inside. She was right; it wasn’t looking good out there.

  In more ways than one.

  ‘Here,’ I said, handing her a fresh list of names. ‘When you get a chance.’

  I went inside my uncle’s office and closed the door, shrugging out of my coat around the documents I held as I went.

  Dare I hope the ransom drop would be cancelled due to bad weather?

  Ha!

  I cleared my throat, put the pile in my hands down on the desk then stood staring at everything . . . nothing.

  What would my uncle do?

  Probably he would quote me some sort of silly rule . . . that would turn out to be not so silly after all.

  ‘Hey.’

  Pete popped up from behind the desk and my head nearly hit the ceiling I jumped so high.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.