5 Deal Killer

Copyright Information

Deal Killer
© 2014
Vicki Doudera

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3933-5

Book design by Donna Burch-Brown

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration by Dominick Finelle/The July Group

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dedication

To Ed, who makes it all possible.

acknowledgments

I’m thankful for the assistance of many who helped with
Deal Killer
.

First, a big thank you to my faithful manuscript readers Lynda Chilton and Ed Doudera, whose comments and careful edits are so appreciated.

Much appreciation to my fellow real estate agents around the country and in Maine, above all, Scott Horty and the team at Camden Real Estate Company, including the trio always willing to lend a hand: Christopher Brown, Jeanne Fullilove, and Brenda Stearns.

Thanks to the real Debbi Hitchings for supporting Safe Passage and lending her name to Darby’s legal counsel.

Thank you to my literary agent, Tris Coburn, and the folks at Midnight Ink, including editors Terri Bischoff and Connie Hill; publicist Beth Hanson; and book designers Donna Burch-Brown and Lisa Novak. Thanks to illustrator Dominick Finelle for a Big Apple cover.

Finally, a huge thank you to Darby’s fans everywhere. You make writing a real pleasure!

prologue

“What the devil
…
?”

Miles Porter stood at the threshold of his office, a look of confusion contorting his face. Papers were strewn over his desk’s thick surface, a desk chair was broken in two, and a drinking glass had spilled its contents and then been smashed. He ran a hand through a thick shock of hair and noticed the yanked-out drawers.
Someone’s been in here
, he realized, his bewilderment turning to anger.
Some lunatic’s destroyed the place.

He nearly jumped when he spotted the shadowy figure.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

The intruder lifted his hands palms up, a gesture meant either to placate or show he was unarmed.
Or both,
thought Miles.

“Waiting for you, obviously.” His voice was deep, slightly accent
ed. He showed no sign of rising from the leather armchair in the
room’s far corner.

Eastern European
, guessed Miles, He glanced toward the stacks of papers strewn across his desk and knew the real reason his office was in shambles.

“Bloody hell! You’ve been rifling through my things!” Miles pocketed the keys to the door and grabbed his phone from a worn
messenger bag. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m ringing the
police.”

“No need for that, Mr. Porter.”

“Oh really?” He punched in 911.

With a swift gesture the man sprang from the chair and yanked the cell phone from Miles’s grasp.

“Don’t be an idiot.” The clipped words rang out like gunfire in the still afternoon.

Miles spoke through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“And what would that be?”

“One of your students’ assignments.”

“What are you talking about? Which student?”

“Natalia Kazakova. She’s written a paper that I must have.” He waited a beat. “Immediately.”

“This is absolutely ludicrous! You came here to steal someone’s research? Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Alec Rodin.” He tossed the cell phone toward Miles who caught it with one hand. “It’s important that I find what I need.”

Miles noted the man’s wiry build, his tailored suit, and expertly trimmed beard. He looked like a movie star, or a model, and had the confidence bred in someone with good looks.

Alec Rodin
… Had Miles heard the name before?

“Do you even know Natalia?”

“Quite well.”

“She’s never mentioned you.” Natalia was a serious student, bright and focused on her journalism studies.

“Really?” He lifted his eyes. “That’s odd. We are engaged to be
married.”

Miles kept the surprise from registering on his face
This guy’s a good fifteen years older than Natalia
. “You’re her fiancé?”

“Indeed. I am here from Moscow on a short visit.” He leaned back
in the leather chair. “She should never have come to New York.” He shook his head. “Her studies here seemed harmless. Creative writing—what could that hurt?” He said the word creative with such scorn that it sounded shameful. “Now I learn she is studying investigative journalism.”

“She’s a talented writer.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. I found part of her paper this morning
and was not struck by her talent, but by the danger she is in.” He
shot a cold stare in Miles Porter’s direction, his good looks suddenly threatening. “My little Natalia is in peril. The topic she has chosen … it could get her killed.”

Miles thought a moment. Natalia Kazakova had been in to see him that morning as well, clutching a steaming cup of coffee, her eyes bright as she described her subject: stolen royal real estate in modern-day Russia.

“How do the imperial castles of St. Petersburg explain your unwanted presence in my office, Rodin?”

The man gave a harsh chuckle. “I hardly expect you to understand the ramifications of Natalia’s story, Mr. Porter. In fact, I doubt if you understand the situation at all. I don’t have time to explain, and truthfully, it is better for you if you remain ignorant.” He swung his eyes toward the door. “Now, I need any hard copies of Natalia’s paper and the electronic file.”

“Oh, please!” Miles shook his head. “This is turning into the plot of some melodramatic soap opera—something my granny would watch on the BBC! Even if I gave you that assignment, don’t you think I’d keep a copy or two?” He made his voice hard. “Get out of my office right now, and I won’t report you to the authorities.”

“You’re refusing to show me my future wife’s work?”

“You can read Nat’s story on Sunday. Page five of the
Times.
”

Alec Rodin’s head jerked so quickly that Miles Porter nearly chuckled. “Surely her writing is not of that caliber …”

“No, not yet, but give her a few years. She wants to pursue a graduate degree, or hasn’t she mentioned that yet?”

The Russian’s face darkened. “Unfortunately that will not be possible. Natalia will be returning to Moscow as soon as the semester ends.”

“What if that is not what she wants?”

Miles saw an imperceptible clenching of the seated man’s jaw. “Mr. Porter, Natalia is an heiress to a large fortune. Her place is back in our country.”

“I see. You’re marrying Natalia for her money.”

“The details of our arrangement are none of your business, but let me assure you, I have plenty of resources without the Kazakova billions.” He rose to his feet and faced Miles. “Trust me—this marriage is a very advantageous match for Natalia. Her doting father would have it no other way.”

Miles, silent, detected a touch of contempt.

Rodin’s face hardened. “I really don’t have time for conversation, Mr. Porter. I need you to give me that paper.”

“Pity, but it isn’t here.”

“What are you saying?”

“Natalia came by this morning and took it back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d read it and given my suggestions. Now she’s making changes. It’s what we journalists call editing.”

Alec Rodin’s lips curled at the sarcasm. “I see.” He turned toward the door. “I hope you realize that you have put your little student in grave danger.”

Miles had a sudden image of Natalia’s eager face, bruised and bloodied. He had no doubt that the Russian businessman, despite the elegant suit and careful manners, was capable of extreme violence.

“Rodin? If you so much as harm a hair on Natalia …”

The man faced him and gave a rough laugh. “Yes?”

“I will kill you.”

Again Alec Rodin laughed. “You will kill me?”

“Damn right.”

“Ah, the British sense of humor. So refreshingly odd.” Once more his look grew stony. “Goodbye, Mr. Porter. Let us hope for the best for poor Natalia.”

Miles watched as Alec Rodin left the office. What the devil was the guy talking about? Was there really something newsworthy in the undergrad’s paper? Had she uncovered some sort of scandal, perhaps? Miles took a steadying breath, relocked the door, and then pulled Natalia’s essay from his messenger bag. He sank into the cracked leather armchair, and with total concentration began to read.

_____

Peggy Babson paused outside the ladies’ room, shaking drops of water from her hands. Once again, the paper towel dispenser was empty, and she was flinging her fingers like some dog after a swim.
You’d think that a hoity-toity school like Columbia could remember to refill things once in a while,
she thought, but no, half the time the
dispensers were empty. She sighed. Thank goodness she carried her
own supply of tissues in her handbag! You never knew from one day to the next if the custodians would remember to restock the bathrooms.

Her hands still damp, Peggy peeked over the railing, watching the ramrod straight back of the stranger head down to the first floor. Well, he had quite a nerve, getting Professor Porter all riled up like that! Peggy hadn’t heard the whole conversation, but her intuition told her the unknown man was to blame. Miles Porter was a gentleman, and an English one at that, and he would never stoop to unbecoming behavior
. Although he had sounded pretty angry
…

She felt her plump cheeks pink up at the thought of Miles. What with his square jaw line and muscular build, he was handsome as all get out, what her Queens-born mother would have called “a real dish.” And then there was that British accent, like that actor Hugh Grant, or the really hunky one … Colin Firth. She sighed. Hopefully
he’d stay for more than just the semester. Miles Porter made her dreary
days in the stuffy building more appealing, made it much easier to get up each day and come to work.

Peggy glanced at her watch. Only two, but she felt like leaving for the day.
It’s the first nice day of spring
, she thought,
and I’m entitled to enjoy a little fresh air.
Pulitzer Hall was virtually empty, and she couldn’t imagine any of the staff needing anything so desperately that they couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Would anyone complain if she skipped out early? Not Miles Porter, that’s for sure. She gave a guilty grin. Thank goodness Charlie Burrows was away on sabbatical!
Too bad he’s coming back at all
, she thought.
Too bad Miles Porter can’t stay here forever.

With a soft sigh, Peggy Babson blew out the vanilla candle burning on her desk and locked the door of her tiny office. She tiptoed down the wooden stairs to the lobby, pulled open the door, and stepped out into the sunshine of the April afternoon.

_____

Alec Rodin leaned against the brick building and lit a cigarette. He inhaled a few times and then pulled out the card he’d taken from the drawer of the cluttered oak desk.

Miles M. Porter
, he read
. Investigative Journalist
. He fingered the high-quality paper stock, noted the phone number, and placed the card back in his breast pocket.

The man had been totally uncooperative, and yet Rodin had not felt the need for physical violence.
He has no idea of the stakes involved,
Rodin mused.
No clue as to what Natalia has stumbled upon.
He shook his head. The man called himself an investigative reporter, and yet he had not done his homework. He was ignorant, unaware of the price people were willing to pay for silence.

Rodin looked over his shoulder with a quick glance. Was it his imagination, or was someone following him? From experience, he knew that danger lurked where one least expected it. He inhaled from the cigarette and steadied his nerves. There was no need to feel jumpy.

He had sensed nothing strange in Moscow, before boarding the
private jet for America. His business associates were typically brusque,
but that was their way. Many of them were already multimillionaires, joining the burgeoning Russian upper class. It would have been unimaginable decades ago, this sea change in his country. Everyday life had been so bleak and hard that few dared to dream of a prosperous life.

And yet it had happened. The reforms ushering in capitalism and the accompanying corruption had given men like him the opportunity to gain wealth, one way or another, and now the country was fast becoming the home of more billionaires than anyone could have imagined.

The mid-afternoon sunshine was warm on his angular face, but Alec Rodin barely noticed. He took another drag on the cigarette and pondered his next move. Pressure on Natalia was going to be the only way to squash the whole thing. Fortunately, he knew her many weaknesses.

He tossed down the cigarette and ground it beneath his heel.
There was no time to waste. He needed to find and destroy Natalia’s paper, obliterate her research, and get her home, hopefully with her mind on something besides journalism. Rodin wasn’t entirely sure what that something could be. Natalia had little interest in outdoor activities. She did not ride horses nor show expensive dogs. Her hobbies were few, her only interests intellectual. He frowned.

A pair of young women passed him by, chattering gaily. One of them wore a brightly patterned sarong-type carrier that held a red-cheeked baby wearing a pink jacket. Rodin glanced at the baby and she smiled, a thin line of drool hanging from the corner of her lips. Of course! The answer was literally staring him in the face. He pictured Natalia’s womanly figure rounded with the flush of new life. She was not too young, and he was ready for a son, or a daughter if fate so decreed. Yes, motherhood was the answer to the whole situation. It would certainly keep Natalia busy and out of harm’s way.

Anxious now to be back at his fiancé’s penthouse, he glanced around for a cab. Getting a taxi on this corner was unlikely, given that a high percentage of the passersby were students, and most of them were on tight budgets.
Unlike Natalia,
he thought with a smirk. Thanks to her father’s fortune, she was probably the richest woman enrolled at the university.

He rounded the corner of the building and headed toward Broadway. A shadow passed over the sun, and once more he had the unsettling feeling of being followed. Quickly he ducked into a dark passageway and surveyed the street.

The space between the buildings was narrow, too constricted to be called an alley. Peering out from the gloom, Alec scanned the sidewalks, seeing nothing to arouse his suspicions. Only throngs of animated students, wearing sweatshirts emblazoned with the university’s logo, enjoying the warm breezes of spring.

He was about to step back onto the sidewalk when he heard a skittering sound. He tensed, his hand going instinctively to the inside pocket of his jacket. He was ready to confront whatever had made the noise when a lean rat scrabbled from the shadows, dodged Rodin’s feet, and darted behind a nearby dumpster.