5 Deal Killer (12 page)

Bag in hand, Peggy started back down the street, imagining the look on smug Detective Ryan’s face when he found this latest evidence.

_____

Darby enjoyed watching the chemistry develop and deepen between Hideki Kobayashi and Miles Porter. Here were two intelligent, international men, both believers in the power of hard work and careful preparation; both determined to succeed with their values and integrity intact. Hideki was older and more conservative than Miles, and yet they shared enough traits that this difference in style didn’t seem to matter. “We’ve got one very important commonality,” Miles would tell Darby later. “We both have an enormous sweet spot for you.”

She smiled as the men chuckled at something. The evening was winding down, and Hideki insisted on paying the bill for the dinner, saying it was not often that he enjoyed such stimulating company.

“I hope that we are successful in finding my building tomorrow,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And now, I am afraid I must return to the hotel for my beauty sleep.”

They bid him goodnight and waved as he climbed into a cab. “Fancy a walk back home?” Miles asked.

“Definitely. I’ve been somewhat of a couch potato since I’ve been here.”

“You’ve done a fair amount of walking, but none of those power runs, right?”

“Exactly. Maybe if I get myself up nice and early tomorrow, I can trot around Central Park for a while.”

“You do that,” Miles grinned. “I’ll be home waiting for you, making coffee and toast.”

She laughed. Just then, they heard a familiar voice saying their names.

“Darby? Miles?”

It was Natalia, her face wearing a radiant smile, arm-in-arm with a sandy-haired young man. “This is my friend, Jeremy Hale.”

They shook hands and chatted briefly about the pleasant spring evening. “We just had a great dinner—Ethiopian food,” Natalia gushed. “We sat on the floor. It was so unique! Tomorrow we’re going to the opera.” If it was possible, she smiled even more at her companion.

“The Met?” Miles asked.

Jeremy nodded. “We’re seeing
Rigoletto
. Supposed to be fantastic.”

“Jeremy’s firm has season tickets,” interjected Natalia. “Isn’t that great?”

Darby marveled that a girl whose family could buy their own theatre was so taken with her boyfriend’s good fortune. “Wonderful. I hope you have a terrific time.”

“We will.” Jeremy smiled down at Natalia. “Hey,” he said, looking up, struck with a sudden thought. “Do you want to join us for a nightcap?”

Darby and Miles exchanged a quick glance. “Thanks for the invitation,” said Miles, “but we’ve got an early day tomorrow. Best be heading home.”

As they left the couple, Miles elbowed Darby. “I would say Natalia isn’t spending too much time grieving over Alec Rodin.”

“No. I can’t say I fault her for wanting to have some fun. She’s only—what—twenty-two or so?—and her engagement to Alec was obviously something Mikhail arranged.”

“I agree. Jeremy seems like a nice chap. Wonder which firm he works for?”

“Between the Financial District and Midtown, there certainly are enough of them in Manhattan.”

“Quite. Seems like every other person in this city is in finance.” He frowned. “Why do you think Mikhail was so keen for Nat to marry Alec? Connections? Security?”

“I don’t know. I wonder if our friend Sergei has an opinion.” As Darby said the words, she already knew Miles’s next question.

“I wonder where the devil Sergei is? I didn’t see him protecting Natalia, did you?”

Darby shook her head. “Do you suppose he gets a night off now and then?”

“He’s not a very good bodyguard if he’s not on the job, is he?”

“True.” She stopped and faced Miles. “Speaking of being on the job, it really bothers me that a man was killed barely a block from your office and there are no leads in the case.”

“Or none that we know of. Darby, this is New York City. I hate to say it, but there is an awful lot of crime that happens in a city of eight million people.”

“I know it’s not little Hurricane Harbor, Miles, but after all, this murder involves one of the city’s wealthiest residents! Wouldn’t you think there would be some pressure on the authorities to make some headway? Alec was killed on Thursday. Two days later, there seems to be no progress.”

“And the first forty-eight hours are the most critical.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s beginning to seem as if neither of the Kazakovas is concerned about the crime, isn’t it?”

“Natalia isn’t shedding any tears, that’s for sure.” She cocked her head to the side, thinking. “Did Rodin have any family, and, if so, are they demanding answers?”

“Let’s hope they’ve been notified,” Miles said grimly. He took Darby’s arm and resumed walking. “We could contact the detectives and ask for an update. Whether they’ll give us any information or not, who knows.”

“I’d like to do that, Miles. I can’t stand this feeling of being powerless.” She sighed. “I supposed it has to do with this mold issue, too. I’m stuck waiting for the shoe to drop on that one, as well.”

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” Miles said. “Women’s, too.” He pulled her closer as they continued down the avenue and toward the park.

_____

In Rona’s dream, Devin was a little girl of six years old or so, and she was wearing roller skates. They were in a small park—Rona couldn’t quite tell where—and had just finished an enormous soft pretzel. It was a sunny day, and Rona felt light and happy to be trotting alongside her pony-tailed daughter. The metal of the skates made a clacking sound when Devin hit them together, and Rona could see from her little freckled face that she was working hard to keep her balance. Suddenly they were at the crest of a big hill, then up and over it, and Devin started picking up speed. Rona tried to run faster, but her legs wouldn’t move. They were heavy things, rooted to the ground, as if she were stuck in a pile of hardened cement. All she could do was stand frozen, immobile, while her daughter careened down the hill.

She woke, took a moment to get her bearings.
Only a dream,
she told herself, feeling her racing heart slow a little.
Thank God.
The park … it did not exist, not with a huge hill like that. And Devin had never really liked roller skating.

Rona rolled over and looked at her watch. Two-thirty in the morning. The point of the dream—if indeed there was a point, and Rona wasn’t sure she believed in dream analysis—was that Devin was headed toward something and Rona felt powerless.
I couldn’t help her in the dream, and I can’t help her in real life.

She rose, pulled on a silk robe, and headed to the kitchen. She took an individual portion of coffee and put it in her brewer. The familiar routine was soothing to her jangled nerves, and she took a deep breath while she waited.

You help her plenty!
The voice sticking up for her was strident. All those bills you’ve paid, all her fancy trips to take ropes courses and gain self-esteem, all her clothes …
You have no reason to feel guilty.

She pulled open the refrigerator and took out her fat-free half-and-half. Devin was on her own path now, nineteen years old and figuring things out for herself.
I never could tell that girl anything, anyway,
she thought. The only thing they communicated about was how much money Devin needed. Hopefully those days were over and Devin really had found a good job …

Rona took the mug of coffee and splashed in some half-and-half.
She returned the cream to the refrigerator and entered the living room. Outside, the sky was dark, the beams of the passing cars streaking
through the night in an unending light parade.
Can I afford to keep living here?
She took a sip of the coffee.
Can I afford to leave, to lose the only contacts I’ve amassed?

She hunted for her cell phone, texted a message to Devin:
You were in my dream. Roller skating.

She waited. Devin was probably asleep in her apartment. The phone buzzed.

I hate roller skating. What are you doing up?

Couldn’t sleep. What about you?

Coming home from a club with a friend. XOXO

Be safe,
Rona texted.

Always,
was the reply.

Rona smiled and sipped her coffee. The girl was her change-of-life surprise, a living, breathing, reminder of a brief love affair and even briefer marriage long gone, a stubborn, selfish child who had caused her mother an inordinate amount of anguish, and yet …

And yet I love her,
Rona thought.
I do.

ten

Gina maneuvered the Volvo
station wagon down Central Park West through light Sunday morning traffic, pulling into the motor court reserved for residents of the building. “Mrs. Vera Graff,” she said, telling the uniformed man why she was entitled to park the borrowed New Jersey car in such a privileged spot.

He gave a brief nod. “Very good.”

Once parked, Gina scooted into the building, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. Bethany had wanted to accompany her, but her shift at the restaurant came first. “I shouldn’t take your parents’ car,” Gina had protested. “You ought to be the one driving it.”

“Why is that? You’re a much better driver than me. My parents don’t care—they love you—and besides, I can’t get out of work.”

“The Coopers said I can borrow their car …”

“Yeah, but that’s back in the city. This is easier.
Go
ahead
.”

Reluctantly Gina had pocketed the keys, found the car, and negotiated the trip into Manhattan. Driving was nervewracking in the city—it always was—but at least Sundays were somewhat saner than the rest of the week.

Yvette answered the door with her customary glower, but to Gina’s relief, said nothing. She stepped to the side, allowing Gina to enter, and moved soundlessly away.

Gina watched her sloping shoulders sneak off and shuddered. Yvette gave her the creeps, pure and simple. She reminded her of some aging movie star from the forties harboring a grudge against the whole world—

“Good morning, Gina,” said Vera, breaking her reverie. “You were deep in thought.”

Gina flushed. “I was just thinking—”

“You were thinking about Yvette, weren’t you?” Vera gave a soft laugh at Gina’s startled look. “It’s alright, she can’t hear us. She’s gone into her bedroom, her little fortress of solitude.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Graff, I didn’t mean anything unkind …”

Vera bit her lip. “I know Yvette’s behavior is very strange, but if she’s cold and unfriendly, I’m afraid she has her reasons. That woman has had a very hard life, a struggle that left her wounded at a very young age. I’m not excusing her rudeness, but I am trying to explain it.”

“Where did you and Yvette meet?”

“In Paris, just before the second war. My husband was a diplomat and we lived in several European cities. Paris was the last. Yvette worked for us and we became friends.”

“Was she—was she as skittish as she is now?”

Vera nodded. “Worse, if you can believe it! She darted in and out of our apartment as if she were a terrified mouse. One day I found her sobbing on the stairs, and she told me some of her story.” Vera sighed. “Her family history is traumatic, put it that way. She asked me not to repeat what I’d heard, not even to my husband, and I’ve kept that promise. But I, in turn, made her pledge to accompany us wherever we were posted, even back to the United States. She became our live-in housekeeper.”

“That was very kind of you, Mrs. Graff.”

“Oh, please—call me Vera.” Her blue eyes were softer today, reminding Gina of the Hudson River rather than glass. “I don’t know if it was kind or not. One does these things for certain reasons, and sometimes it appears to others to be something other than what it really was.” She laughed. “Goodness, I’m sounding very philosophical in my old age. Suffice to say that Yvette, for all her crustiness, has proved to be a loyal friend, keeping a lonely woman company for many years now.” She smiled. “And she’s a decent housekeeper as well.”

Gina shoved the car keys into her pocket. “I feel as if she doesn’t trust me.”

“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 Hide
ki
. “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 …”