5 Deal Killer (14 page)

The businessman was quick to get right to business.

“I want the Flatiron District building,” he said simply, spreading his hands in a gesture that was oddly elegant. “I think it is a most desirable location, and I like the mix of uses one finds there—residential and business. I believe that means it will be a good investment down the line.”

The Flatiron property was the one represented by Kiki Lutz, who, with her trademark red-rimmed glasses and celebrity looks, had built her own empire as the star of a luxury real estate reality television show.

“I agree,” Darby said, taking a sip of her water. “That was my favorite property as well. The space was in excellent condition, and leases for the other tenants seemed fair. Is this something you want to do now, or would you like to wait and see what else comes on the market? It’s only April, and the next month or so may bring more options.”

He leaned back in his chair. “More options, yes, but I may also lose this one.”

The waitress arrived with Hideki’s grilled cheese and bacon sandwich, and Darby’s chicken salad platter. “Will that be all?”

“For now,” Hideki said, sprinkling salt on a mound of French fries that spilled over onto a dill pickle. He took a bite of a fry and made a satisfied sound.

“I want to buy that building, Darby.” He chewed happily. “Make it happen.”

She picked up her fork and scooped some lettuce. “You got it,” she said.

twelve

You know things are
desperate when you start calling old lovers,
Rona Reichels thought, fingering the small address book. She was in her bedroom, seated on the Egyptian cotton comforter that had cost a small fortune, even on sale. Idly she opened the small book to the letter “F.”

Max. There was his number, written in faded blue ink, and as she read it to herself she realized she’d never quite forgotten it. Max Finnegan, the dashing actor she’d married on a whim more than two decades ago. She pictured his little garret in Greenwich Village, the tiny café where they’d shared bottle after bottle of cheap wine. It had been a glorious three months. She picked up her phone from the nightstand.
Can I really do this?
Can I really call him out of the blue, and
…

And what? Rona wasn’t sure. Ask him for money? Tell him about a daughter he never knew existed? It would all depend on how their conversation went, how convincingly she could still play the coquette. She wasn’t interested in how the rest of his life was going—whether he was married, had children, and the like—all that seemed superfluous.
All I need is for him to still want me.

She pressed the numbers on her phone and waited. A recorded, robot-sounding voice invited her to leave a message, and she did so, hoping the desperation she felt wasn’t obvious.

_____

Going back into the city now was tempting. Peggy Babson had to watch two back-to-back episodes of CSI to keep herself from marching down to the train station and riding into Manhattan.
If you want the plaid scarf, you need to wait until tomorrow,
she told herself. Getting into Miles’s office on a Sunday had the potential to arouse suspicion, and that was the last thing she needed.
Patience
, she told herself.
Patience.

She wondered how she should alert the police to the presence of the bloody apron and scarf. Anonymous phone call? Email? Emails were too easy to trace, unless she sent it from a public place like the library, but even then, you probably needed your card or something stupid like that. A good, old-fashioned phone call from a public phone (if she could find one) was probably the best way.

She still had not decided where to leave the items, but she fig
ured she would know the right spot when she saw it. She had not ruled
out a trash can within the building itself, especially since the upkeep of Pulitzer Hall was notoriously spotty.

Picturing the look on Detectives Benedetti’s and Ryan’s faces was worth all the trouble. The moment they realized that Miles Porter could, in fact, be guilty would be her vindication. It would be proof of her astute listening powers as well as keen intuition.

Peggy rose from her recliner and hustled into the kitchen. Rubbing her hands together, she reached for the ginger snaps and put the tea kettle on to boil. She pulled a plate from the cupboard and positioned three cookies on it. And then, because she was in the mood to celebrate, she added two more.

_____

Darby decided to call Todd Stockton from the café, rather than waiting until she reached Miles’s apartment. She gave the broker Hideki’s terms for buying the Flatiron property, and asked that he forward the offer to her so that she could send it along to Hideki.

“Of course,” Stockton said. “I’ll get it done in the next ten minutes.” He paused. “Did you tell me you’re staying in Central Park Place?”

“Yes.”

“What a fabulous building. I’ve brokered a few sales there and am hoping to get another listing soon. No doubt you’ve met the bulldog broker who thinks she owns the place?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d remember, believe me. Rona Reichels. One of those very territorial agents who can make any transaction miserable.”

Darby remembered the cake-making visitor to Natalia’s apartment and chuckled.

“I may have met Rona after all,” she said. “But she didn’t seem that bad to me.”

“Try doing a deal with her and you’ll see. The story is that she got cheated out of an enormous commission in that building, and she’s still bitter over it.”

“Interesting. What sale?”

“The premier penthouse.”

Darby’s interest piqued. “You’re kidding. The one Mikhail Kazakova owns?”

“If he’s the Russian billionaire, yeah.”

“What happened with the commission?”

“I think the sale was arranged privately. Something like that.” He paused. “Let me get that offer written up for you right now. Call or text if you have any questions.”

Darby put down her phone and thought about Todd Stockton’s comments. Was Rona still smarting, four years after a botched deal? Was her grudge strong enough that it had driven her to murder?

_____

The call from Max Finnegan came in while she was dialing Charles Burrows’s cell phone. Quickly Rona answered the incoming call, her heart beating a little faster at the prospect of speaking with her old lover. She gave a seductive hello and held her breath.

A woman’s voice asked a simple question.

“How did you get this number?”

Rona explained that she was an old friend of Max’s, and that she was hoping to speak to him as soon as possible. There was a long pause.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” the woman said, “but Max is dead.”

Rona felt the pit of her stomach sag.

“No,” she managed.

The woman continued. “I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but I don’t know of any other way. Max died years ago. I’m his niece, and I moved in to take care of him when things got really bad. I stayed on in his apartment.”

“I see.”

“I don’t remember him mentioning you at all,” she continued, her voice matter-of-fact. “If he had, I would have gotten in touch.”

“Of course.” Rona licked her lips, suddenly bone dry. “How did he die?”

Max’s niece was silent for a few moments. “He had AIDS,” she said. “He lived with it for a few years, but it got him in the end.”

Rona fought the urge to run to the bathroom and vomit. Instead she turned off her phone, closed her eyes, and began to laugh.

It explained a lot. Why Max had been uncomfortable being in public with her. Why he took furtive phone calls for meetings. Why their relationship had never progressed beyond a few nights of drunken sex.

She didn’t feel any emotion over his death, only amazement that she had never questioned his sexuality. When her laughter had finally subsided, she found a red pen and drew a line through his name in the old address book.

Once again Rona picked up her phone.

A masculine voice answered on the second ring, and this time she knew it was the right one. “Charlie, I’ve missed you,” she purred. “Tell me all about where you are, and when you’ll be coming back to see me in New York.”

“Why Rona,” chuckled Charles Burrows. “I thought you’d never
call.”

_____

Darby entered the apartment and inhaled the aromatic scent of rosemary and sage. “I’m home,” she called out. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the little galley kitchen. “It smells heavenly!”

“Pork scaloppini,” Miles said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and then tossing it onto a counter. “To celebrate a deal, I hope …?”

“We won’t know for a bit, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Darby said. She pointed at a steamer full of vegetables. “Artichokes?”

“Yes, I’m trying a new Roman-style recipe. Glass of wine?”

Darby took one, smiling at the sight of Miles bustling about
Charles Burrows’s kitchen. “You look very at home here,” she com
mented. “Have you thought any more about teaching another
semester?”

“Funny you should say that. Five minutes ago, Charles Burrows called. He says someone’s interested in buying the apartment, and he wanted to know my plans.”

“Huh.” Darby dipped a spoon in the scaloppini sauce and took a taste. She gave Miles the thumbs-up sign and sighed. “Delicious.”

“Thank you, my dear. We’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

Darby leaned against the counter and took a sip of her wine. “So what did you tell Charles?”

“I said that if he was serious about staying abroad, I’d check with Columbia about teaching in the fall. I think I’d enjoy teaching one more semester, and it’s a good opportunity. That way I can spend some time in England this summer.” He looked into her eyes. “Hopefully with you.”

Darby gave a very small shrug. “It’s certainly tempting. I’ve never been to England.”

“What better way to travel than with me as your guide?” He put his hands on her shoulders, and drew her close. “I want you to meet my family, crazy as they are. I want you to see where I’m from.”

Darby took a breath. The image of the little house on the cove—the place where she’d been raised—flashed in her mind.

“So is he listing the apartment?”

“Who, Charles? Apparently not quite yet. I don’t believe he thinks this so-called buyer is on the up-and-up, and he’s not in any rush. He says that if Columbia wants to keep me on for the fall semester, he’d be happy to continue renting to me.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes. It will make things a lot easier if I can just stay put.”

From the corner of the living room, a cell phone rang.

“That’s yours, isn’t it love?”

“Yes, excuse me.” Darby hurried to the phone and checked the number.
Todd Stockton.

“Bad news,” he said, his voice clipped. “Kiki Lutz has another offer, and she says its better. Does your client want to step it up a few notches?”

“How much?”

“A mil and a half.”

“That’s a nice chunk of change. Can we trust her?” Darby meant that she questioned whether there really was another offer on the table, or if perhaps Kiki was merely trolling for more money.

“I wouldn’t.” He exhaled. “We can ask to see it in writing, if you want. You know how it is—it all comes down to how badly Hideki wants the building.”

“I’ll call him right now.” Darby pushed her friend’s cell phone
number and heard the elegant gentleman answer. Quickly she
explained the situation.

“Do it,” Hideki said at once. “You know me, Darby—when I make up my mind, I don’t want to move backward. Spend what it takes to get that building, and then let’s get going on making it ready for my company.”

Darby called Todd Stockton and conveyed the conversation. “I was thinking about playing hardball with Ms. Lutz, but my client really wants this building, and even with the higher price tag, I don’t think he’s overpaying.”

“Agreed.”

“So go for it then.”

“Fine. Let me call her and get this wrapped up with a bow.”

Darby hung up, drumming her fingers. Real estate agents had a duty to be honest, but that did not mean that all of them were. When it came right down to it, you had to take a lot of what you heard on good faith.

She reached for her wine and took a sip. It was a rich, red Barolo, chosen to complement the pork, and one of Miles’s favorite wines.

Her phone vibrated and she picked it up.
Todd Stockton.

“Done,” he announced. “You can let Hideki know he’s in primary position.”

“Great. I’ll call him right now. Thanks, Todd.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Nice doing business with a fellow Mainer. Oh—I’ve got the scoop on what happened in your building.”

Darby’s interest sharpened. “When the Kazakovas purchased the penthouse?”

“Exactly. I figured if anyone would know, it would be Kiki Lutz, right?” He chuckled. “So, it was the boyfriend, the one they found stabbed in the alley. Rodin, I think was his name. Apparently he wormed his way into the deal and convinced Kazakova not to use a broker.”

“Rona must have been livid. Obviously she didn’t have an agreement in place with Mikhail Kazakova.”

“Guess not.” He paused. “We’ve all had crap like that happen to us, right? The people who ask you to find them a rental while they house hunt, and then after you arrange it all and show them endless properties, they make a deal with the owner and cut you right out.”

“It’s frustrating, for sure.” Darby thought about the Davenports and the possible lawsuit hanging over her head. People thought selling real estate was easy, but the job was not for the faint of heart.

“I wouldn’t put it past Rona to have knocked the guy off, even all these years later,” Stockton continued. “According to Kiki, she’s one vengeful bitch.” He chuckled. “And Kiki Lutz would know.”

_____

Whack! The cast iron skillet came down on the block of ice, skittering it onto the floor.

Rona swore and let the pan clatter onto the counter. Nothing
was going her way—nothing. Max was dead, Charles content to keep his apartment, and Mikhail nowhere to be found. Now she couldn’t
even get a piece of ice for her drink.

A key in the lock of her door made her stiffen. “Hello?” she called. “Who is it?”

No answer. She reached for the skillet and edged toward the door. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Rona.” Devin’s voice called through the door. She pushed it open and regarded her mother with the skillet. “Jesus. What’s gotten into you? I heard a loud noise …”

Rona lowered the pan and gave a dramatic sigh. “Trying to get some damn ice.”

“What’s wrong with your icemaker?”

“Jammed. Again.” She regarded her daughter. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s some kind of welcome, especially when I’m going to give you this …” she jiggled a paper cup and the rattle of small ice cubes was music to her mother’s ears.

“Excellent.” Rona grabbed the cup and rinsed diet soda off the ice. She scooped the small cubes into her drink and took a large gulp. “Finally. Can I fix you one?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Scotch.”

Devin wrinkled her nose. “No.” Her eyes roamed around the kitchen. She wandered into the living room and plopped onto the couch.

“What’s up?” she asked, picking up a magazine. “Any plans for your Sunday night?”