5 Deal Killer (11 page)

Meanwhile, perhaps there were other opportunities within the building. The old lady, the one with the poodle and French maid, surely she was on her way out of her condo and into a nursing home? She’d already been old a few years ago, when Devin had babysat the poodle while the maid had some sort of operation. Now she must be positively ancient.

And Charles Burrows … Rona wondered what it meant that he’d let the gangly professor and his Japanese girlfriend housesit in the apartment. Was he ready to part with his slice of the New York pie?

Rona whipped out her smartphone and found her old client’s number. Settling back on her down-filled settee, she crossed her fingers and hoped one of her many plans would work.

_____

“We never asked Natalia whether there’s been any progress on the investigation into Alec’s death,” mused Miles, as he and Darby strolled toward the imposing façade of the Museum of Modern Art.

“That’s true. I think she would have said something if there had been any news, don’t you?”

“Perhaps. On the other hand, she seems pretty preoccupied with this new man in her life. What was he called? Jeremy? I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

“Which—his name, or the fact that she met him?” Darby
laughed. “I think it’s great that she has something to take her mind off the murder, and encouraging that she wants to followup on the investigation.”

“I suppose. I guess I’m just surprised that she meets this fellow just as her fiancé gets killed. Kind of coincidental, wouldn’t you say?’

“I got the impression that she’s known him all semester. If he’s been auditing her art class, they’ve known each other for a few months. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable spending any time with him because of Alec. And now …”

“Yes, I get it,” said Miles. “But what’s a stockbroker doing taking an art class? I don’t think it’s all on the up-and-up.”

Darby laughed. “Maybe he trades in fine art.” She looked up. “Speaking of, I’m really looking forward to seeing this museum, Miles. Coming here has been a dream for a long, long time.”

He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’m glad, love. Let’s see as much art as we can possibly stand, have dinner with your Mr. Kobayashi tonight, and, in between those two noble pursuits, make time in the middle for some snogging at the flat.” He waggled his eyebrows and Darby raised her glance heavenward.

“I’ve created a monster,” she said.

“Right you have,” he whispered, pulling her in for another quick kiss and a low, guttural growl. “A monster of love.”

“Oh boy,” she said, as they headed up the stairs and into the museum.

_____

Gina was waiting for Sherry to write out her paycheck when a call came in from Bethany. Gina apologized and started to silence her ringtone.

“Go ahead, take it,” Sherry urged. “Fine with me.”

Gina answered and let out a squeal. “Really? Where?” She listened a few more minutes, said she’d see Bethany soon, and hung up, her face in a wide grin.

“Well?” Sherry had a hand on her hip. She passed the check to Gina. “Is it about the store?”

“Yes!” Gina continued to beam. “Bethany thinks she has found the perfect storefront, in an up-and-coming part of Brooklyn called Bushwick. The rent is reasonable, the building’s in decent shape, and we can get in there May first.”

“That’s fabulous.” Sherry reached out and hugged Gina. “I know how hard you’ve been working toward this.” Her face crumpled into a frown. “I only hope this doesn’t mean you’ll quit.”

“No.” Gina’s tone was emphatic. “No way, Sherry. I need this job and I love your boys. I won’t be able to fill in on weekends, like today, but I’ll still be here for my morning shifts, no problem.”

“Whew.” Sherry smiled. “That’s a relief. So tell me, when do you think you’ll open?”

“Very beginning of June, maybe even the first,” Gina said. “As long as we keep finding inventory …”

“I told you I’d pass the word at the firm, right?” She took out her smartphone and typed in a note. “First thing on Monday, I’ll send out an email.”

“Thanks.” Gina debated whether it was appropriate to ask Sherry for a favor, and decided what the hell. “I’ve made a great connection with one of the women in the building—Mrs. Graff. She lives on the fifth floor and has lots of items to sell.” She bit her lip. “Would it be possible for me to borrow your car one of these days to take her outfits home with me?”

“Has she got that much stuff? Sure, Gina. You can take it tomorrow if you’d like. For all I know, Penn will still be working, and I think the boys and I will just lay low.”

“Great. I’ll check with Mrs. Graff and let you know.”

“No need. The keys are here—so just use it whenever.” Now it was Gina’s turn to hug Sherry. “It’s nice to see someone so happy,” Sherry said wistfully. “By the way, I may have some good news of my own. Don’t say anything, but it looks like there’s a chance we’ll be getting the Kazakova’s penthouse.”

“No—really?”

Sherry ran a hand through her bobbed blonde hair. “I’ve got Rona
Reichels working on it, and she thinks it’s a possibility. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, right?”

Gina nodded, knowing that there was no way Sherry Cooper was a “meant to be, meant to be,” kind of person. She was the type who
recited the phrase because it was trendy, not because she put any kind of stock in it. Sherry Cooper was more of a “If it’s something I want, then it’s something I’ll get,” kind of gal.

“Anyway, keep it under your hat for the time being.” Sherry gave a little wave. “See you later, Gina—I’m off to check on the boys.”

Gina stuffed her check in her jacket pocket and grabbed her backpack. As she left the Coopers’ condo, she wondered if it made sense to call Vera when she could check with her in person in a matter of minutes? Now that she didn’t have to resort to trickery to get by Yvette, she felt more confident about knocking on the door of Vera’s unit. She pushed the button for her floor and waited.

_____

So far, rooting through the antique desk in Charles Burrows’s office—now used by Miles Porter—had yielded nothing interesting. Nail clippers, gum, a few dusty bags of tea—that was about it as far as personal items. She’d tried holding them in her hands to see if they generated any visions, but her psychic abilities weren’t cooperating.

None of the drawers were locked, and there were few other
pieces of furniture to consider. A faded leather armchair, a nondescript desk chair, a coat tree with a ratty plaid scarf hanging from one of the hooks—Peggy Babson rose from her haunches, grunting in dissatisfaction.

Her forehead was sticky with sweat. She blew air up from her lower lip, trying to dislodge her bangs, and sighed.

On the crime shows the detectives were always talking about motive, means, and opportunity. She’d established Miles’s motive: he was after the wealthy Kazakova girl, and needed her future husband out of the picture. Peggy wasn’t exactly sure what “means” referred to. Ability?

There was no doubt Miles Porter was physically capable. He was very fit, probably a bigger man than the Russian, and he wasn’t a stranger to violence. She’d read in the faculty directory that he’d been a reporter in Afghanistan, where he’d no doubt seen all kinds of brutality on a daily basis.

Opportunity was the easiest. After all, Miles Porter was the last person to see the murdered man alive. She pictured the chain of events as if they were on television: Miles, shouting at the Russian, threatening to kill him. Rodin, stalking down the steps of Pulitzer Hall, never knowing he was being followed. Miles, running ahead to a deserted alley and waiting for his quarry. (Obviously, he’d had some sort of knife or sword—the murder weapon—here in the office, and had brought it with him to the fateful rendezvous.) She saw Alec Rodin ducking into the alley, saw Miles Porter strike.

And then he’d ditched the sword somewhere and come back to Pulitzer Hall.

Peggy swayed unsteadily on her feet. She lurched toward the scarf and stuffed it in her pocket. It all made sense.

nine

Saturday night in the
penthouse, and Sergei Bokeria was troubled.

Something Mikhail Kazakova had said to him the day before did not compute. He’d pulled the bodyguard aside, asking him to tell the pilot he would fly back to Russia the next morning. “Tell him I do not want a repeat of what happened Wednesday,” he said. He laughed and put a hand to his mouth. “No vodka,” he’d whispered.

And so Sergei had phoned the jet’s pilot, repeating what he was told, and the pilot assured him it would never happen again. Sergei had then told Mikhail that the plane would be ready first thing Saturday morning, and sure enough, Mikhail had departed that morning.

And yet something was bothering Bokeria—something that did not make sense. He was pondering it when Natalia flounced into the room, followed by her new friend.

“Sergei, you know Jeremy, right?”

The big man nodded.

Jeremy stuck out a hand. “We’ve met, but not really officially. Jeremy Hale. I want to thank you for keeping Natalia safe. She thinks the world of you.”

Sergei nodded again. He’d already checked out the sandy-haired young man, and other than the usual things one would think of with red-blooded males and females of that age, he was glad for Natalia to have company. He stood and went down the hall so that they could have some privacy, even though Natalia said Jeremy was only staying a few minutes.

He flicked on the television in his bedroom and watched a cooking show for a few minutes. The chef, a good-looking Italian girl, was making some sort of bean dish, but Sergei could not stop mulling over Mikhail’s words. “I do not want a repeat of what happened …” Obviously the plane’s bar needed restocking. There was nothing strange about that, other than it was unfortunate that the liquor most enjoyed by Mikhail was the one missing. Such was life.

He thought about Alec Rodin’s murder on Thursday afternoon. His trip to the morgue with Natalia to view the body. Her conversation with her father on the computer, because he was not yet in town.

Sergei snapped off the television.

That was it. Mikhail had skyped with his daughter on Thursday because he could not be with her in person, or so he had said.

Sergei dialed the jet’s number again and asked when the plane had last flown to New York. “Wednesday,” answered the scheduling coordinator.

Frowning, Sergei Bokeria tried to reason it out. If Mikhail had landed in the city on Wednesday, where was he the afternoon Alec was killed? And why had he let his daughter believe he was still in Russia?

He crossed to his bed and stretched his massive bulk across it. Mikhail had lied about his whereabouts. Had he lied about anything else?

_____

Darby slipped away from Miles Porter’s embrace, ignoring his groans of protest. “I’m headed to the shower, sleepyhead,” she called.

“What time do we meet Mr. Kobayashi?”

“You can call him Hideki, you know,” laughed Darby. “We meet him at seven.” She entered the bathroom and turned on the shower.

“Can’t wait,” muttered Miles.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, my love. I’m anxious to meet your pharmaceutical friend.”

Darby came back into the room, wrapped in a towel. “We’ll have a good time with him, I promise. Hideki’s an interesting guy. He’s also a very valued client, and I appreciate your willingness to pitch in and help me entertain him.”

Miles sat up and reached toward her, grabbing the edge of the towel. “Care to show me some of that appreciation?” He tugged on the towel.

“Miles,” she chuckled, tugging back.

“But I looked at all those paintings with you …”

“True.”

Darby shrugged off the towel and slipped back into his arms.

_____

Rona Reichels narrowed her eyes at the CNBC program. It featured Manhattan’s hottest broker, Kiki Lutz, discussing a multiple offer on one of her listings. Three Chinese businessmen had bid on the place—three!—and she was negotiating the deal with one of them. “The top bidder has a son coming to school in New York,” Kiki Lutz informed her viewers, “so he’s purchasing the fifty million dollar apartment. A ‘dorm in the sky’ if you will.”

Rona grabbed the remote and snapped off the television. Who was Kiki Lutz to talk about dorms in the sky, when Mikhail Kazakova had been the first foreigner to do such a thing? He’d started the trend, right here on Central Park West, and Rona had been the one to …

She closed her eyes. To what? To blow the deal? To get screwed out of her commission by fast-talking Alec Rodin?

It’s been taken care of,
she told herself.
He’s dead.

She remembered meeting Kiki Lutz at some benefit for the library. She was the type everyone tried to suck up to, not that it would do you any good in a negotiation. Did Kiki Lutz ever lose out on lucrative deals? She was one of the new breed of real estate professionals who slept with their damn smartphones (it was rumored Kiki had eight of them, and answered more than one hundred emails a day), who claimed that real estate was a passion and that they were always available—always!—in
“real time.”
Well, forgive me for ever wanting to take a crap without taking a call from China at the same time,
Rona fumed.
Pardon me for wanting to go to Boca for a month, for thinking I was someone who could actually take a real vacation
.

Before the advent of phones that could do everything but cook you dinner, real estate agents had enjoyed some down time. They’d used good old land lines, and fax machines. Before that, they’d mailed documents back and forth. They hadn’t been tethered to devices that they had to compulsively check every two minutes.

Kiki Lutz had sold sixteen units in Rona’s building, and would doubtless sell more. Someone Rona had met at the pool had said Kiki was trying to find a rental so that she could experience living in the building, something she tried to do all over the city.

Rona felt her heart start racing.
When did I go from rising star to sinking ship? Devin
… Devin and her pricey private high schools, followed by a narcissistic “gap” year, and then a stint at a private college upstate, and her spectacular expulsion due to drugs. Factor in the rehab center, the one that was supposed to leave Devin clean and sober, only it ended up leaving Rona broke and bitter. Okay, not quite broke. That had happened once Devin had been caught shoplifting, and, instead of letting her beautiful daughter go to prison, Rona had hired the best litigation attorney she knew.

And lost.

She got up from the couch and lurched toward the kitchen. Her father was right, she was a nothing, trying to live in an über-wealthy world that was way beyond her means. New York was not a place where you could be middle class, and Rona was starting to realize that’s what she was.

Saturday night. Surely it was time for a cocktail.

_____

Darby climbed up the steps like a pro, a new pair of pantyhose clutched
in her hand. She’d discovered a run in the pair she’d brought from California and headed out to buy a new pair, refusing Miles’s very kind offer to get them for her. “There are too many choices involved when buying nylons,” Darby assured him. “Sizes, colors, control top—”

“Stop right there,” he laughed. “You’d better go. Shall I come with you?”

“Nope. You take your shower. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Taking a few stairs seemed a harmless way to get a little exercise, but by the fifth floor, Darby realized she’d need another shower if she kept on climbing. She exited the stairwell and headed down the hallway to the elevator, only to see a familiar person entering one of the apartments.

Natalia Kazakova.

Once the door was closed, Darby tiptoed to the apartment door to see the number.
Five-fifteen.
She remembered the doorman, Ramon, explaining that the reclusive Vera Graff lived there. Was she Natalia’s source for the theft of the Russian palaces?

Darby rode the elevator to Charles Burrows’s apartment deep in thought. Back inside, she heard the water running for Miles’s shower, as well as his deep baritone singing a song by the Beatles, “Norwegian Wood.”
He’s not half bad,
Darby thought.

She turned on her tablet and did a search for Vera Graff. On the list of New York City property holders, she found Vera’s maiden name: Ikanov. Quickly she typed it in as a search.

Nothing.
Darby sat back, discouraged.
You can’t expect everything to be easy,
she thought, vowing to look again with Miles’s help. She was about to turn off her laptop when she decided to open her email.

Along with the usual requests for property information, updates from clients, and notifications of new listings, Attorney Debbi Hitchings had sent Darby a terse note.

The Davenports are indeed filing suit for damages on the mold issue. Looks flimsy to me. I don’t see that they have much to go on, but will be in touch on Monday.

Darby groaned. “Much to go on” wasn’t as comforting as “nothing to go on.” She typed her thanks to Debbi and shut off the machine.

Back in the room, Miles had stopped singing and was already dressed. He noticed that Darby was still in her jeans and raised his eyebrows. “Six-thirty, love. We should head out the door in a minute or two.”

“Afraid I got a little distracted.” She explained seeing Natalia on the fifth floor, going into Vera Graff’s apartment.

“Fascinating. So our reclusive Mrs. Graff is the source for Nat’s story.”

“So it appears. I searched for Vera’s maiden name and looked to see if there is any news about her having been of Russian nobility. I didn’t find anything, so we’ll need to keep digging.”

“Hmm … I suppose we should be searching under Graff, too? Perhaps it was her husband’s family who was of royal Russian stock.”

“Excellent point, Miles.” She pulled on the pantyhose and reached for her dress. “If it is Vera, I suppose I can understand her extreme need for privacy. It must have been dangerous for her family back in the day.”

“If everything Natalia’s said about the FSB is true, it could still be dangerous for Vera, especially if she starts making waves about stolen real estate.”

“If Alec Rodin were a member of the FSB, it would make sense that he wouldn’t want his fiancée digging up a whole lot of dirt on this whole thing, right? But why would someone kill him over it?”

“Maybe someone killed him wanting to protect Natalia.”

“Her father? Sergei?” Darby turned her back to Miles so that he could zip her up. “Let me run a brush through this hair and I’m ready,” she announced.

He watched her walk into the bathroom. “We’ll take all this up another time,” he said. “And I’ll try Jagdish again. This whole thing is right up his alley. Meanwhile—you look lovely, messy hair or not.”

“Why, thank you, Professor Porter,” she said, coming back into the room. “Let’s go meet the perfectly punctual Hideki Kobayashi, shall we?”

_____

How did a person not get covered in blood when they stabbed someone? This was the question Peggy Babson was trying to answer as she traveled back to her home in the Rockaways. Obviously Miles had been wearing gloves—that was why there were no fingerprints on the murder weapon. He must have had some sort of lab coat as well, because wouldn’t the splatter from a stab wound have been significant? She thought back through the vast array of crime scene reconstructions she’d seen on the cable networks and shook her head. If he had been wearing something, where would he have put it?

There was a dumpster in that alley, Peggy remembered, but surely the police would have checked it. She thought about the route back to Pulitzer Hall, wishing she had walked it following her search of Miles’s office. It was odd the police hadn’t found anything yet—or if they had, they weren’t making it public.

The train pulled into the station and Peggy climbed down the steps and onto the platform. She walked around to the front, past boarded-up stores and mounds of rubble. This was one of the days she feared nothing would ever return to normal, that the “superstorm” that had destroyed her town had triumphed.

She said hello to the butcher on the corner whose meats her mother had purchased for years. He’d tried opening up after the disaster, only to find that his heart just wasn’t in it anymore. In that way, he was like a lot of people living in these working class towns by the sea—downtrodden and discouraged. Last week, he’d announced his shop would close.
Another casualty of Hurricane Sandy,
Peggy thought, watching him head back into the building.

She passed his piles of trash, bundled neatly into black plastic garbage bags. Tossed on the top, obviously as an afterthought, was the butcher’s soiled white apron.

Peggy paused. This was the kind of thing she was expecting the detectives to find in Manhattan. A bloodied apron, or scrubs, or lab coat—something Miles had slipped over his clothes before he killed Alec Rodin. She stood rooted to the sidewalk, contemplating the stained apron. Slowly she edged closer.

No one was watching and no one was nearby, but touching the cloth would mean transferring her fingerprints.
It doesn’t matter,
she told herself.
It’s not like this is the real apron Miles Porter wore.

But what if it was? Or what if it could be? In the absence of anything else, wouldn’t the police rather have
something
with which to incriminate Miles?
Besides, I can always decide to throw it away myself,
she thought.
Just because I take it now doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.

Peggy looked right and left, but she and the garbage bags were quite alone. Upon closer inspection she saw that there was an empty, discarded one on the muddy ground by the building. She scooted over to pick it up. Using it like a glove, she picked up the apron and managed to slide it inside without touching it. Quick glimpses to her right and left revealed that still no one was near.