Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (10 page)

Fourteen

Hunh.

OK. I suppose in the scheme of things, this was the least odd thing to have happened today. Still, seeing Muffy curled up with the large black cat – very large! – in the middle of my bed was still unusual.

Both of them looked at me, Muffy excitedly wagging his tail, my one-time visitor Tee the Cat giving himself a lick or two between blinks. I hadn’t seen Tee since October, when he and I had crossed paths seemingly at every turn, until one day he’d popped up in my apartment through Muffy’s open window . . . much as he’d presumably done again tonight.

Then, just as abruptly, he’d disappeared again.

‘Did you two break my lamp?’ I asked.

They stared at me.

‘Just so you know, it’s coming out of your kibble.’

They both lay their heads back down as if to say, ‘Yeah, right,’ and I gave an eye roll, wondering if I was always going to be a pushover.

I took in the wedding gifts still stacked against the wall on the other side of the bed. They’d been sitting there so long, a couple of the towering piles had begun tilting, the boxes starting to collapse under the weight of those on top of them. I absently scratched my head. Most times, I didn’t even notice they were there. But after Jake’s pointing them out – again – well, I supposed it was past time I decided what I was going to do with them.

I considered Mrs Nebitz’s grandson Seth and his engagement announcement. I could give the gifts to him . . .

Then again, no. Seth was Jewish and these particular gift givers were Greek Orthodox, which stood to reason at least a few would hold religious icons of a Christian nature.

I don’t think Mrs Nebitz would appreciate a portrait of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus, even if it was etched in gold.

I went into the other room and closed and locked the window, pausing for a moment to scan the street. No black trucks. No Crown Vics. No dark sedans. Everything was as it should be.

Did I dare hope that meant the day’s strangeness had reached its end? I glanced at the clock to find it nearly midnight.

I dared to hope.

I headed for the bathroom and the shower beyond, propping my cell phone on the sink and setting my earlier conversation with Geraldine Garcia to play, even as I reviewed everything else that had happened that day. Up to and including Jake’s warning: ‘Whatever Abramopoulos is asking you to do? Don’t.’

Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do was be anywhere near that ransom drop. I had a very bad feeling about it.

Then again, what was there to feel good about?

Which was why I intended to figure out who had grabbed little Jolie outside her school before that drop was arranged.

Or work my ass off toward that end, anyway.

I stripped down, climbed into the shower and emptied my mind of everything but the sound of the water and Mrs Garcia’s almost melodic words.

If every now and again Jake Porter and his phenomenal mouth slid through my mind, and my hands took a little longer than necessary to soap certain areas of my anatomy . . . well, that was between me and my shower head.

‘This is a list of everything I need you to do,’ I said the following morning, dropping what was essentially a notepad full of names and information I was looking for on to Rosie’s desk. ‘And I need you to get Pete and Waters in here as soon as possible.’ I shrugged out of my coat. ‘Let me know the instant they get here.’

I was halfway to my uncle’s office when I realized I hadn’t heard a ‘tsk’ or a ‘sigh’ or an ‘eye roll’, (yes, you could hear Rosie’s). I turned in the doorway and looked back at her . . . and wished maybe I hadn’t.

The petite Puerto Rican dynamo looked even smaller still sitting in her office chair staring off into space, snowflake-sized tears sliding down her cheeks unchecked.

Oy.

I didn’t know how she’d found out, but she’d found out.

I put my coat in the office and then pulled my old desk chair closer to hers.

‘Rosie . . .?’

She finally seemed to register my presence and looked vaguely in my direction. ‘Huh?’

‘You OK?’

It seemed to take her an inordinate amount of time to process my question; she appeared confused. ‘What? What kind of stupid thing is that to ask?’

I smiled – inwardly, because I was sure an outward one would earn me a slap or a whack or some other physical rebuke. Her sarcastic response proved she wasn’t too far gone.

‘You’re not OK?’

She glared at me. ‘I’m sitting here with no make-up on, looking like a bargain basement reprobate,
crying
. . . I’m peachy. You?’

This time I did smile.

And she smiled back, albeit only slightly.

‘What happened?’ I asked, hesitant.

She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, telling me I was losing ground.

Then again, I honestly had to gain it in order to lose it.

‘Seth is engaged.’

The words seemed ripped from somewhere deep inside her of her and the tears virtually launched themselves from her big, dark eyes.

I rolled my chair backwards, took tissues from one of my drawers, then rolled back, offering the box to her.

She began yanking them out one by one. ‘He called me last night to tell me. Can you believe it? I saw his name in my cell display and my heart . . . well, it nearly flew from my chest. He’s back, I thought. He wants to see me.’

She continued yanking, short, angry jerks while her tears dropped on to the front of her top, soaking it.

‘But no. Instead, he tells me he had something to say . . . something he wanted to make sure I heard from him first, rather than someone else.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

‘She’s Jewish, of course. Someone that old bitch of a grandmother – excuse my French – introduced him to.’

‘Mrs Nebitz?’

She stared at me, her hands finally halting their frenetic movement.

Of course, Mrs Nebitz. Who else could she possibly be talking about? It had been Mrs Nebitz who’d played the starring role in her grandson’s break-up with the unacceptable Puerto Rican girl. I could almost hear her voice in my ear now: ‘Sofie, dear, Seth is the only grandson I have. It’s so very important he choose the right girl to be his wife. Someone who shares his values. Who can make him happy. Who, while he might not love in the beginning, he will grow to love . . . just like my late husband, dear one that he was, and I. Kids throw around the word “love” all the time nowadays. But that’s not real love. That’s not what lasts.’

I’d listened with half an ear, because I’d heard the same thing from my mother . . . again and again and again.

Of course, I’d never really heeded it.

Or maybe I had.

Had my acceptance of Thomas Chalikis’ marriage proposal been a way to appease my Greek parents?

Eight months ago, I would have answered no. That my falling for a Greek had been a coincidence. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Now?

‘You knew!’

Rosie’s loud words nearly catapulted me from the chair, much less my thoughts.

‘What? Or course, I didn’t know. How in world would I know? Seth doesn’t have my number.’

‘No . . . but you live across the hall from that old battleaxe of a grandmother of his. She told you, didn’t she? She told you Seth is going to marry somebody else.’

OK, the way I saw it, there were two kinds of lying: the one you did when your ass was on the line, usually to strangers; and the one you did for personal reasons, to keep from hurting someone more than they already were.

I was coming to see both were equally important.

‘No, Rosie, she didn’t. Don’t you think I would have told you if she had?’

A heartbeat of a pause.

Then she launched herself into my arms and started sobbing in a way that made me want to cry.

An hour later I was in my office working at my combination white board/cork board, flipping from one side to the other as my theories flew fast and furious. I leaned back to look through the doorway into the outer office; Rosie was explaining our fees to a new client. I’d overheard enough to know the woman was interested in knowing if her husband of two years was cheating with an old girlfriend. And that Rosie had grabbed on to the case like a drowning man a floating piece of driftwood.

‘Oh, girl, it don’t look good,’ Rosie was saying. ‘Trust me. If he’s got his dirty paws in the cookie jar, you can rest assured we’ll catch him with his paw prints all over those biscuits.’

After she’d cried on my shoulder (and my sleeve and the front of my shirt) I was afraid I’d have to send her home until she felt well enough to work. The mere prospect had made me want to sob. While I knew much of what she did, I knew nowhere near enough to do what I’d asked her. Research and background checks that would take me days if not weeks.

And I didn’t have either.

I had till the end of the day today, best I could figure it.

Thankfully, the phone had rung and Rosie disengaged herself from her shirt-drenching activities and answered as if she hadn’t shed a single tear, calmly telling the person on the other end that, yes, we worked cheating-spouse cases, and, yes, they were open.

I was guessing the woman in the office now had been the caller.

My eye caught on a stack of the usual agency newspaper subscriptions on the corner of the desk. More specifically, my attention caught on a picture and caption in the upper right-hand corner: one of Santa’s reindeer spotted in Queens, along with a shot of what I guessed was none other than Mrs Claus’ Rudy.

I leafed through the paper until I came to the piece, took note of the publication and the reporter and then closed it again.

I realized I’d lost my place in listening to Mrs Garcia’s recorded interview. I stepped to my desk and slid it back a hair.

There, that’s it.

She was going on about the front deskman and how he always had a piece of candy for Jolie, you know, that expensive chocolate stuff. I’d asked how long he’d worked there and she’d told me seven years.

I returned to my board, continuing my flow chart of people who surrounded Jolie on a daily basis per one very observant nanny, Geraldine Garcia.

‘Then there’s Sara . . . you know, Mrs Abramopoulos. So very sad what happened there. She was such a nice lady.’

I paused, then went back to my cell and replayed that portion again.

I wondered how nice Mrs Garcia thought she was. Nice enough that she might have taken Jolie to visit her mother every now and again, despite what the custody decree held?

‘What’s shakin’, bacon?’

I looked up to find Eugene standing in my office doorway looking even gaudier in the light of day.

He sucked his teeth. ‘Whatcha think?’

He opened his black leather coat and did a twirl of sorts, stopping every ten degrees to shift his weight from one platform-heeled foot to the other.

‘I think you should have saved the money for that fur coat you’re planning on buying your wife.’

He tsked. ‘Oh, she gonna get that coat, all right. ’cause I’m guessing you got something for me, don’t ya? Something juicy.’

‘You mean like those bats last month?’

His bug eyes bugged out farther. I capped my marker.

‘Don’t worry. That’s history.’ I leafed through the items on my desk. ‘While it’s not as juicy as you might like, there is a bit of meat to this one.’

A brief knock and my cousin Pete peeked his head around. ‘You rang?’

I smiled. ‘I definitely rang.’

With Rosie working one angle, and me and these two guys the other, I might just stand a hope of discovering something that would save my ass before Bruno and his guys took another bite out of it.

Fifteen

A phone call had netted me what I was looking for regarding Geraldine Garcia’s taking Jolie to visit her mother on the sly.

‘Oh, no, Miss Metropolis. I would never do that. Mr Abramopoulos, he would be very mad if I did that.’

Which meant she had.

What bearing that had beyond satisfying the small voice in the back of my head, I didn’t know.

I leaned back from the board to glance at Rosie. Pete and Waters had left a while earlier, if not happy with their assignments, accepting of them. Thankfully Rosie seemed better. The Christmas carols were playing at a lower volume than usual, but at least they were playing. And she seemed busy at work with something on her laptop.

‘That Kent woman called again,’ she said.

I raised my brows. How’d she do that? Know I was looking at her without looking at me?

‘Says she’s going to fire us.’

I made a face. While I hated to admit defeat, I was beginning to think in this particular case, throwing in the towel was my only option.

The front door opened, letting in the agency’s long-standing star process server. Or, rather, one-time, since Eugene seemed to be out-serving her lately.

Pamela Coe was likely there to collect her pay for the morning’s work.

I eyed the pretty blonde, a revisiting idea tap dancing around the edges of my thoughts.

Rosie looked at me and the idea tapped right into the spotlight.

‘Bait,’ she said at the same time I thought it.

If the thought of not delivering on a case bothered me, I suspected it actually kept Rosie up nights. Well, OK, probably she wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, although probably she did file her nails a little too vigorously.

‘What?’ Pamela asked.

Rosie swiveled on her chair and smiled at her. ‘Oh, nothing. But I’m guessing Sofie might like to talk to you once we’ve concluded our business.’

Pamela looked at me and I smiled, as well.

She appeared dubious. Understandable. Probably I would have run for the door had I encountered what she was right now.

I happily switched off the monotonous drone of Mrs Garcia’s voice and focused on something other than the kidnapping case.

‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.’

I’d instructed Pamela to go home and change into something sexy; she’d met me outside the Queens restaurant – where Lois Kent’s husband regularly took his lunch – looking ready for an upscale cocktail party. The simple black dress and pearls made her more Abramopoulos-ready than cheating-husband bait.

Probably I should have called Debbie Matenopoulos, another sometimes process server. I could have told her to dress for a cocktail party and she’d have showed up looking like a two-dollar whore.

I felt slightly guilty for thinking that about a girl who’d gone to school with my younger brother Kosmos, but facts were facts and the bleached blonde that even Jake Porter used on occasion to work cases that were a mystery to me filled a certain criterion I thought would come in handy now.

Pamela, the gun-toting natural blonde, looked a little too conservative for the role of bait.

Who knew she cleaned up so well?

I reached out and tried to push up the dress a bit.

‘What are you doing?’ she protested, stepping away from me.

‘Trying to shorten your hem. What are you, an uptight librarian?’

What went without saying is that I couldn’t have done any better. In fact, once I’d outlined what I had in mind back at the agency, Pamela asked why I didn’t go ahead and act as bait if I was so convinced the ruse would work. The question had stumped me for a good minute. Then I explained that I was the boss, and bosses didn’t do items of that nature.

No, we just got ourselves drafted into making dangerous ransom drops.

I grimaced inwardly, wondering how in the hell I was going to get out of that one.

Besides, I’d added, I’d garnered more than my fair share of media attention as of late, and I couldn’t risk Clark Kent’s recognizing me.

Still my arguments hadn’t held much sway; it had taken me a good ten minutes, promise of a hefty bonus, and a Rosie pep talk to convince Pamela to do this.

Now she looked a snowflake away from changing her mind.

‘Alright then,’ I said, throwing a wary glance at the cloudy sky. ‘Here’s his picture.’ I held out a casual shot of a nice-looking guy in a button-down shirt throwing a football. ‘He usually sits at the end of the main bar, which should make your job easier.’

‘And my job is, exactly?’

‘To get him to come on to you like gangbusters.’

She looked back at the street where she’d parked her car then back at me. ‘And that’ll prove what, again?’

‘That he’s a rat, cheating bastard.’

‘Because he comes on to me?’

I nodded.

At this point, I’d settle for a good come on.

Have I mentioned I didn’t like not delivering on cases?

I wasn’t sure if it was the cold and the fact that she wore very little or if I’d finally convinced her to do the job, but finally Pamela walked toward the door of the simple, American-style restaurant a half a block up. I waited until she disappeared inside, then reached inside Lucille to collect my purse and other gear. Then I followed her.

I entered the establishment some five minutes after Pamela. I spotted Clark immediately, seated on a stool at the end of the bar just as he had been the other dozen times I’d had Pete or Waters follow him. Pamela had taken the seat a couple up from him. Why hadn’t she sat right next to him?

Damn. This wasn’t going to work. I could tell already.

I chose a stool a couple up from her, close enough to hear any conversation, but far enough away not to be too obvious.

I hoped.

I placed an order for a chocolate shake after verifying they didn’t serve frappés and asked for a menu.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ Pamela said.

I watched in the mirror behind the bar as she reached for something she had apparently dropped between her and Clark.

‘I’ve got it,’ he said.

He bent at the same time and they bumped heads.

Quiet laughter and apologies then Clark was handing her what looked like a small, black appointment book.

‘Thank you. If I’d lost this . . .’ Pamela shook her head.

‘No problem.’

They both looked straight ahead again.

Damn.

Probably that was as good as it was going to get. Probably I should have snapped a picture of the head bump. Probably Pamela didn’t know how to get a guy to come on to her like gangbusters and this was going to be a complete bust, period.

As long as I was at it, probably I’d have been better off staying at the agency trying to figure a way out of the mess I was in.

I ordered a burger and fries I didn’t plan to eat but thought Rosie might appreciate.

My cell vibrated in my jacket pocket. I took it out, half expecting my mother. Instead, it was a text from Waters telling me I was crazy. I was about to call him to ask what he was talking about now, since no bats were involved in the assignment I’d given him, when I noticed Pamela and Clark were not just talking, but she had moved to take the stool next to him, to his smiling consent.

Wow.

OK, maybe I’d underestimated Pamela’s abilities.

I took out a small camera that looked like a pen from my purse along with a notepad, silently thanking Waters for his ‘five-finger discount’ supply access.

I snapped off a few shots, trying not to be too obvious as I squinted into the small display on the back of the silver pen.

‘I’m here for a business meeting but she must be running late,’ I heard Pamela say.

The legs of the stool to my left screeched against the floor and a heavyset Latino man sat down, talking loudly in Spanish on his cell phone.

Great.

I only caught snippets of Pamela’s conversation with Clark after that, nothing I could follow with any certainty.

‘Excuse me, may I borrow that for minute?’

I blinked to find my new neighbor motioning toward the camera pen.

‘Sorry,’ I said, continuing to pretend I was writing on my notepad while I snapped another shot.

‘I’ll just be a moment.’

Damn.

I discreetly switched off the camera and handed him the pen.

‘And a piece of paper?’

I wanted to ask if he wanted me to write it for him, too, as I tore off a piece of notepad and held it out.

He spoke into the phone in Spanish again, holding the pen at the ready.

Problem was, he didn’t appear in any hurry to use it for what he intended.

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

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.’