Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis)

by Carrington, Tori

  Still, it was nice knowing the option was available . . .

  ‘Where’s the suspect?’ Waters and I looked at where Pino had come up behind me.

  ‘Still inside, probably checking her watch and sweating a puddle,’ I said.

  Then again, I wondered if people like her actually sweated. Did they possess some sort of deviant gene that made them think they were above the law? Entitled to do as they pleased without thought to the consequences?

  Pino nodded at Waters who nodded back, then he moved aside to introduce two TSA agents.

  ‘We ready to move?’ he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

  ‘Ain’t gotta ask a nigga twice,’ Waters said, smiling at the black female TSA agent who merely rolled her eyes.

  ‘He gotta come with us?’ I heard her ask Pino.

  Pino looked at me.

  I nodded.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  We were on . . .

  Funny how I forgot how large JFK and its various terminals were until I was forced to walk the length. It took us a good fifteen minutes to get to the right departure gate. And since the area was so large, we decided to split up as we entered the final concourse in case we were spotted instead of being the ones doing the spotting.

  Which turned out not to be a worry.

  Miss Elizabeth Winston, Abramopoulos’ well-coifed and composed executive personal assistant, was sitting calmly in one of the coffee shops, legs crossed, her nose in a glossy fashion magazine.

  I alerted the others and, taking different routes, we approached her.

  ‘Elizabeth Winston, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to kidnap Jolie Abramopoulos,’ Pino said and then read her her Miranda rights while the two TSA agents stood at the ready.

  I had to give Winston credit; she looked as calm as they came, barely batting an artfully lashed eye at the accusation.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She closed her magazine and put it on the table in front of her as easy as you please.

  Waters pulled up his pants in the way Pino once had, causing me to wince and avoid looking directly at his crotch. At least his pants weren’t in danger of revealing his socks; first because they were bell bottoms, second because they were long enough to cover most of his seven-inch platform shoes.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Then whatcha doin’ flying the coup to Brazil then, huh? Tell me that? I don’t care how fine you are – and you are fine, super fine – you are busted.’

  ‘I’m going to Brazil to visit my sister,’ she said with a cool smile. ‘The trip’s been planned for over a month.’

  Pino looked at me and I looked at Waters.

  ‘Sounds like a crock of bull to me,’ he said.

  I agreed. But not because of his reasons. Because I had proof of my own.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Winston,’ I said, turning on a smile of my own I hoped held a fraction of the wry coolness hers did. ‘Will Mr Daniel Butler be joining you there? Or are you meeting up with him somewhere else?’

  While she may have had her trip planned in advance, I was also certain she was the one who’d enticed little Jolie Abramopoulos into that car after school on the day she was taken.

  That was one piece of information gleaned from listening to nanny Geraldine Garcia’s recorded interview time and again. Given her father’s prominence and wealth, it had been drummed into the little girl never to get into a car with a stranger. Beyond that, she’d gone through two self-defense courses where mock kidnapping situations had been staged to make sure she couldn’t be tricked or coerced.

  Mrs Garcia had been adamant. ‘Oh, no, little Jolie would never go with any stranger.’

  So that day after school she had known the person who had come to pick her up, or else the well-trained little girl would never have gotten in.

  And that person had been her daddy’s executive personal assistant, Elizabeth Winston, whom she would have seen often since Winston appeared to accompany him wherever he went.

  Oh, I was sure Winston and her accomplices had likely arranged for a faux ‘kidnapping’ shortly after the pickup, you know, a storming of the car by masked men. Something that would hopefully eclipse the memory of Winston’s picking her up – or at least knock it down in importance – and eliminate her as a suspect.

  In fact, I was fairly certain that unless asked directly about Winston’s involvement, Jolie wouldn’t even mention she had been the one to pick her up after school.

  I’d bet on it.

  Of course, nabbing Winston was one thing. Now the authorities needed to convince her to turn on her accomplices: her not-so-ex live-in boyfriend, Danny Butler, and his one-time cell mate Bubba Canton.

  While there was a flicker of fear in her eyes, I had the feeling that wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped.

  Then again, who knew?

  In the dog-eat-dog world of Manhattan, one’s own tail was always more important than the other guy’s.

  I remember my uncle telling me that most cases weren’t solved as a result of large events or confessions, but as a result of good research. That proved true in this case. When I’d discovered that Elizabeth’s presumably ex-boyfriend had served a stint at an upstate New York prison, it hadn’t really registered. Then I’d read that Bubba had been at the same prison at the same time . . .

  Well, that, combined with Danny’s connection to Elizabeth, connected those pixels that had been floating around in my head.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Wendy Wyckoff said, out of breath, a camera around her neck. ‘Stupid TSA didn’t want to let me through.’ She looked at the two agents with us. ‘No offense.’

  ‘None taken,’ the black woman said, although she was clearly lying.

  Wendy snapped a pic of Pino handcuffing Elizabeth who tried to hide her face by turning it away. She kept clicking as Pino led her away, Waters strutting on one side, the agents on the other. I hung back, having no need to be in the shots.

  As we walked down the concourse, I checked my cell phone. Three messages. One from Rosie (who I’m sure had caught wind of the little girl’s recovery); my mom (who was probably inspired by the Fates to knock me back down a few pegs); and the third was my grandfather.

  I looked up and Wendy snapped my pic. She rested her camera around her neck and smiled, dropping back to walk with me.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t very well run a story without the woman of the hour, can I?’

  I gave her a long look. ‘The woman of the hour deserves more than two sentences on her requested piece.’

  ‘Oh. That.’ She grimaced as she snapped a few photos of the group in front of us. ‘Sorry.’ She leaned in toward me. ‘But when I land that job at a genuine city-wide paper? I promise to give you as much space as you need.’ She raised a finger. ‘Within reason.’

  ‘What’s the matter with The Ledger-Times?’

  ‘The truth? I would have given your story the cover rather than Rudolph. And not just because I like you, either.’

  I laughed. ‘What’s like got to do with it?’

  She smiled. ‘What, indeed . . .’

  Twenty-Six

  The following morning, I decided ‘like’ had a lot to do with a lot of things . . .

  What a difference a week makes. Instead of scowling at Rosie’s Christmas Carols, I was now humming them.

  It was nine o’clock and we’d both come in a little early so we could leave early, Christmas Eve beckoning. I sat behind my uncle’s desk, feet up on the desk, staring at the white board I’d moved against the far wall, The Ledger-Times resting against my legs.

  I heard Rosie gasp and leaned to the side to see her through the doorway. ‘What?’

  She got up from her chair, pointing toward the filing cabinets. ‘Quick, call the cops . . . somebody . . . is that a gunshot?’

  Oops. I’d forgotten about the incident with Boris the night before.

  ‘Um, no need for the police.’

  She came to stand i
n the doorway, still pointing toward the cabinets. ‘Are you crazy? Have you seen this? There’s, like, a canon hole in my files!’

  I took my feet down off the desk. ‘Not only have I seen it . . . I did it.’

  She looked at me. Then looked again. ‘What? You did what?’

  ‘Long story. Suffice it to say it was my only option at the time.’

  She tsked and waggled her finger at me. ‘Nuh uh. You could have shot the sucker who made you get your gun out in the first place.’ She crossed her arms under her breasts. ‘Did you at least get the bullet out?’

  I slowly shook my head.

  She gave me an eye roll. ‘Probably it went through all of my files. Probably it’s lodged in the middle of the most important one.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t expect me to get it out.’

  ‘I’ll remove it after Christmas.’

  She frowned in a way that made her dimples pop. ‘Yeah, well. Just so’s you don’t forget.’

  ‘You seen this?’ I asked, holding up the newspaper.

  She came to the desk and looked over the Rudolph story. ‘Yeah. I saw it. Did you see the other one?’

  ‘What other one?’

  She went to her desk and brought in a copy of the Daily News bearing a primo shot of Elizabeth Winston being taking away in handcuffs by Pino. Story was by Wendy Wyckoff.

  I smiled. Go, Wendy. She’d taken her photos and her story and had leveraged herself a better job with a bigger paper.

  ‘Got a picture of you inside there, too,’ Rosie said, popping her gum. ‘Good publicity. Probably you’ll be getting more kidnapping cases.’

  I tilted the paper bearing the Rudy story. ‘Yeah, kidnapped pets, maybe.’

  She gave another eye roll. ‘Whatever.’

  She walked back out to her desk.

  ‘If you hear anything on the other two, let me know,’ I told her.

  She didn’t answer but I imagined she was showing me the palm of her hand.

  I smiled and put my feet back up on the desk. That’s OK. She’d get a whole lot happier when I gave her her bonus.

  I’d already worked out what the agency could afford to give everyone. And while it wasn’t exactly a paltry amount, it wasn’t what I’d wanted to give, either. Then I’d come in this morning to find an envelope sitting in the middle of the desk. I’d opened it to discover a considerable amount of cash along with a note that read: Merry Christmas, Sofie. Make sure it’s jolly for everyone. Love, Uncle Spyros.

  Oh, yeah. It was going to be much jollier now. Especially since I decided not to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

  I didn’t plan on taking any for myself. I didn’t need it. Since going in on percentage with my uncle and his silent partner, Lenny Nash (who I was guessing was behind the Spyros letter), I was doing pretty well.

  Receiving a phone call late last night from George Abramopoulos himself, thanking me for finding his daughter and telling me I’d be well compensated for my efforts to bring her kidnappers to justice? Bonus enough.

  Maybe I’d get Lucille the makeover she’d been wanting.

  Maybe I’d get myself one, too. Chuck all the suede I bought and exchange it for weatherproof leather.

  Still, there were some elements of this case that made me itch. While little Jolie might be safe, I had yet to get word on the two main suspects. And forget the scores I had yet to settle . . .

  My gaze snagged on something on the white board as I vaguely heard the cowbell above the outer door clang.

  A brief rap on the jamb. I looked up to see Rosie standing there.

  ‘Mrs Kent is here.’

  I blinked at her. ‘Did we have a meeting?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t you check the messages I gave you?’

  When? I’d been there for all of five seconds. ‘I take it the pictures came out?’

  ‘You think I’d have scheduled the appointment if they hadn’t?’

  ‘Couldn’t it have waited until after Christmas?’

  She aimed a glance over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘What with her calling every five minutes?’

  Fine. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you’ll be right there.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Honestly, I didn’t know why I was reluctant to take the meeting. Producing photos other PIs had failed to should have been the cherry on top of a successful twenty-four hours.

  Why, then, did I wish I could sneak out back?

  I pushed from my desk, pasted a smile on my face, and went out to meet her, Rosie holding out an envelope as I neared.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Kent,’ I said.

  ‘Lois, please,’ she said, her gaze stuck to the envelope while she licked her lips. You’d have thought I was about to offer a roasted turkey the way she practically salivated. ‘And I hope that’s my present.’

  I held out the shots, almost half hoping they hadn’t come out or had been deleted by my Latino pen-borrower. Problem was? I knew Rosie would never have ordered hard prints and set the meeting if they hadn’t.

  I looked at her. Or would she have?

  Lois Kent quickly opened the envelope. I didn’t even look at the photos as she sorted through them. Rather, I watched her face.

  Normally, I guessed she was a pretty woman. Depending on what normal meant, I suppose. But just then, she looked so . . . calculating somehow.

  Her satisfied smile should have made me happy. Instead it made me sick to my stomach.

  ‘Bingo.’

  She held up a shot of her husband draping Pamela Coe’s coat over her shoulders. Pamela had leaned back as if to whisper something into his ear, her eyes half closed. The innocent move emerged somehow intimate.

  ‘We didn’t catch him in the act,’ Rosie said.

  We both looked at her: me, in question, Lois in triumph.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. This is all I need.’ She put the shots back into the envelope. ‘He was never messing around to begin with. In fact, I have no idea how you got these shots, but I can’t thank you enough. I was afraid I’d have to stay married to the idiot forever.’

  Rosie and I shared a glance.

  ‘What do you mean you knew he wasn’t messing around?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Just that. Clark is as true blue as they come. He wouldn’t have sniffed a pussy if you put in front of him. Hell, one of the PIs did exactly that. Nothing.’

  ‘I’m not following you,’ I said.

  Then it dawned on me: she’d never intended for us to get proof; she’d wanted us to manufacture it.

  And we’d done exactly that.

  ‘But that don’t prove nothing,’ Rosie said the words I was thinking.

  ‘It proves enough. And, I’m guessing, he didn’t know the woman in the shots, right? Which means he’ll deny knowing her because, well, he doesn’t. Which will in turn make him look all the guiltier.’ She gave a happy laugh that might have made her look attractive if only I hadn’t known the cause.

  She put her coat on. An expensive white fur.

  ‘Look, I’ve been married to the guy for nine years. Bore him two kids. And all the while I was bored. Bored, bored, bored.’

  ‘So why not just divorce him?’ Rosie crossed her arms under her considerable chest.

  ‘And what? Walk away with nothing?’ She shook her head. ‘No way.’ She lifted the envelope. ‘This right here nets me half. Which is substantial. And might even get me half his pension. Which means I’m set for life. I’ll never half to marry another halfwit like him again. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure to add a little something extra when I pay my bill.’

  She wished us both happy holidays and then turned on her expensive heels, leaving a trail of perfume behind her.

  I stood staring after her long after the cowbell went silent.

  ‘I feel like we just got a visit from the Wicked Witch of the South,’ Rosie said next to me, her gum popping.

  ‘West.�
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  ‘Whatever.’ She uncrossed her arms and gave a visible shiver. ‘Poor schmuck. He’s never gonna know what hit him.’

  No, he wasn’t.

  And I felt dirty somehow knowing I’d essentially supplied the two-by-four that was going to hit him upside the head.

  Happy holidays, indeed.

  Then whatever stop action lifted and the world began turning again.

  I registered the Christmas carols playing.

  The phone rang and Rosie answered.

  I made out the sound of my cell chirping.

  I walked to the office and answered it.

  ‘Kalimera, Pappou,’ I greeted my grandfather in Greek as I sat down. ‘So can you make it?’

  Where once I’d have been annoyed, now I was happy for the distraction.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea . . . It is Christmas Eve . . . Surely she has family . . .’

  I squinted at the white board again, an idea ducking in and out that kept slipping through my fingers that had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

  I’d called the widow, Mrs Liotta, to arrange a good time for Grandpa Kosmos to pick up the medal and she had suggested this morning. I’d left a message on his answering machine passing on her invitation. ‘She’s the one who invited us, so I’m sure it’s fine. But if you don’t want to . . .’

  ‘No, no. That’s not what I meant at all . . .’

  The cowbell again. I looked to see Pino standing with his hat in his hands greeting Rosie. I took my feet back off the desk so I could lean farther to see her. Yep, she was showing him the bullet hole in the filing cabinet. Great.

  ‘Well, what do you mean then, Pappou?’

  Pino looked in my direction with a raised brow. I shrugged and waved him in.

  ‘I’m thinking maybe I should go by myself.’

  I squinted again.

  ‘I mean, if you think it’ll will be OK with Iris?’

  The intimate way he said her name made me wonder again just how well these two knew each other.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to drive you. You’re obviously . . . distracted. I wouldn’t want you to get into an accident.’

  ‘I could take a taxi.’