5 Deal Killer (9 page)

She pulled a rubber spatula from a drawer. Such a shame to destroy the cake’s beautifully swirled frosting, but there was no way in heck it looked homemade. Scrunching up her face with distaste, she used the flat part of the utensil to smooth out the lovely peaks, until the cake seemed like something she might herself have frosted.

“Done.” She picked up the plate and moved toward the door, setting it on a small table while she undid the locks. A scraping noise on the other side made her pause. Someone was trying to get in.

She scooted into the closet, her heart pounding with fear. Of all the times to get robbed! Just as she was on her way up to Kazakova’s penthouse.

The door opened and a fair, freckled young woman entered, hold
ing a large shopping bag. “Rona?” she called, immediately moving toward the cake. Before Rona could protest, a slim finger was scooping frosting from the side.

“Devin!” Rona squealed. “Leave it! I’m bringing it up to the neighbors.”

“You are bringing food to someone in the building?” Her daughter’s face was incredulous. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it. They’ve had a tragedy, and I said I would make them a cake.”

The girl erupted in laughter. “What? There is no way in hell you made that cake. No fricking way.”

“Oh, please! I spent more buying it than I would if I made it myself. Surely that’s what counts.” Rona shooed Devin away from the cake and picked up the plate. “Why don’t you come up with me? You might get a look at the penthouse.”

“I’ve seen the penthouse, remember? Back when you thought you were going to be the one to sell it.”

Rona stiffened.

“But I’ll come along, if only to see your face when you tell them you made the cake.” She saw her mother’s narrowed eyes and laughed. “Don’t worry—your secret is safe with me. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s keep secrets.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rona thought about the bills charged up by her daughter. She’d leave it for another time—the two were having one of the more pleasant conversations they’d had in years.

“Oh, nothing,” Devin said lightly. “Hey, I think I’m finally going to be able to pay off some of the money I owe you, not to mention my college loans.” She pushed the elevator buttons and reached out toward the cake.

“No!” snapped Rona, her annoyance turning to pride. “I make a pretty good cake, don’t I?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Devin said, her eyes artificially wide. “Your cakes
are the best.”

The two laughed softly. “So what is it, a new job?” Rona tried not to sound eager.

“A great opportunity,” Devin said, as the doors glided open.

“What kind of opportunity?”

They walked softly down the hall to the door of the penthouse.

“Tell you later,” Devin whispered.

Rona knocked on the door. “Showtime.”

It was opened almost instantly by the hulking man Rona knew to be Natalia’s bodyguard. Explaining the reason for her visit, she said, “I spoke to Mikhail earlier, and he was looking forward to seeing me.”

The large man shifted his massive weight from side to side. “He is not here,” he said. “Did you have an—”

“Who is it, Sergei?” The petite young woman Rona recognized as Natalia pushed open the door. “Is that a chocolate cake?”

“It sure is.” Rona pressed past the bodyguard, balancing the cake as she walked. “I’ve brought it up with our condolences—mine and my daughter’s—on the death of your fiancé. Such a tragedy.”

“Thank you.” Natalia’s voice was more subdued. “It’s been horrible.” She looked beneath her fringe of ragged bangs. “I’m Natalia. Natalia Kazakova.”

“Rona Reichels, and this is my daughter, Devin.” Nods were exchanged.

“This is very nice of you,” Natalia said. “It looks delicious.”

“What looks delicious?” A tall man with a narrow face came up behind Natalia. His eyes met Rona’s briefly, before lingering on Devin.

“These ladies live in the building and they’ve brought over a cake.” She gave a small smile. “So sweet, isn’t it Jeremy?”

The man nodded. “Looks good, too,” he commented, before with
drawing from the doorway.

“Well, yes, we hope you enjoy eating it as much as I loved making it.” Rona thrust the cake toward Natalia. “Will you ask your father to call me?” She presented a business card. “It’s very important. As soon as he can.”

“I will.” Natalia smiled again. “And I will return your plate, as well. Which residence are you?”

“I’m in three-twelve.”

“Thank you.”

As they walked back to the elevator, Devin snorted. “Poor little rich girl.”

Rona nudged her daughter. “Did you know that guy? He gave you a funny look.”

Devin was horrified. “Mother, you have to be joking.” She said it as if it were two words: Joe King. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a loser like that. If he gave me any kind of a look, it’s because I’m a voluptuous woman, not a little Russian Goth girl.”

Rona smiled.
My beautiful, brash Devin
. Why did she worry about this daughter when it was obvious she could tear the world apart and not think twice?

_____

The curtain came down and the house lights went on, while the enthusiastic audience clapped and clapped.

“Miles, what a terrific show. There truly is nothing like a Broadway production.”

“You sound as if you’re about to burst into the lyrics of ‘I Love New York,’” he joked.

She laughed. “Yeah, I just might!” Punching his arm lightly, she said, “I’m happy, that’s all. Happy to be with you and to be doing the normal kinds of things dating couples do.”

“Rather than solving murders?”

“Exactly. What’s next?”

Miles traced his hand lightly down Darby’s neck to her collarbones, over her breasts to her thigh. “I know what I want.”

Darby’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned.

“I’ll give you a hint—it’s what every man wants.” He grinned again.
“A juicy steak.”

“Miles Porter!” She pretended to be aghast.

“Followed by sex, of course. But first, the steak. Our pre-theatre nibbles were hours ago, and have left me absolutely famished. Come on, I’ve got just the place in mind.”

He led her farther into the theatre district to an old-fashioned steakhouse bustling with diners. Dozens of black-and-white photographs of famous actors and musicians lined the walls, waiters with giant trays and crisp white shirts hustled back and forth, and the smell of sizzling red meat wafted from the kitchen like a siren song.

“Porter, table for two,” said Miles. The maître d’hôtel nodded and beckoned them to follow.

“You made a reservation?” Darby whispered.

“One has to, in this town. I figured that if we didn’t want to come, we could cancel and make some lucky couple’s night.”

“Good thinking.”

Once the pair were seated and enjoying a rich bottle of Italian Barolo, Miles asked about their mutual friends on the island of Hurricane Harbor, Maine. “What do you hear from Tina and Donny? Are they enjoying married life?”

“Very much so. They took a three-week trip to the Mayan Riviera back in March. Had wonderful weather, and loved the Mexican people they encountered at their beach house. Donny fell in love with the local cuisine, and Tina tells me he now makes his own tortillas.”

“No kidding! Life takes us to some interesting places, now
doesn’t it?” He changed tones. “How about the Chief’s wife?”

Darby’s eyes clouded. “It’s still very hard for Bitsy. I think she’s doing some nursing work on the island. But on a happier note, I did hear from Helen Near down in Florida. She’s planning to spend some time out west visiting our mutual client Tag Gunnerson.”

“Only Helen could hold her own against a pro golfer. Now what about your other client—Mr. Kobayashi? Are we still planning to meet with him on Sunday?”

“Yes, meet with him, and then find him a building to buy.” Darby took a sip of her wine. “We’ll get to meet the wunderkind Todd Stockton, too.”

Their dinners arrived—a rare T-bone with wild mushroom sauce
for Miles, and a delicate Steak Dianne for Darby. “Smells heavenly,” she commented. “It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian.”

“Eat up,” Miles said wickedly, waving his fork at the cuts of beef. “You’re going to need your energy.”

Darby rolled her eyes and took a bite.

seven

Gina overslept on Saturday
morning, meaning she had to run from the bus stop to the Coopers’ building, catching her breath as
she waved at the weekend doorman. He recognized her from the
few times he’d substituted for Ramon and waved her in. Once in the elevator, she glanced at her cell phone. Five minutes before eight.
Good.

Sherry pulled open the door with the big boys in tow. Kyle was adorable in his tiny Yankees hat, while Ryan wore a small baseball glove into which he continually smashed his fist.

“You guys look like professionals!” Gina said. “Did you take a photo for your Dad?”

“What do you think I am, bad mother of the year or something?” Sherry grinned. “I took some, but here.” She thrust a camera into Gina’s hands. “Take another one, just in case mine didn’t come out well.” Gina complied, and then pulled out her cell.

“I’ll snap a couple on my phone and send them right off to Penn.” The boys posed reluctantly, antsy to be on their way.

“Great.” Sherry turned and waved to her youngest two sons. “Have a good time with Gina, Trevvie—you too, Sam! I’ll see you soon.”

When the door shut behind them, Gina gave a quick glance into the kitchen. “Not bad,” she said to the little boys. “Your Mommy actually picked up today.” Gina was always careful what she said at the Coopers’ house, because she suspected they probably had a nanny cam hidden somewhere, recording everything that happened. Not that they didn’t trust her—she knew they did. But they were almost obliged, socially, to have something like that, just the way they had to purchase a two-thousand dollar stroller, summer in the Hamptons, and get their boys into top-notch preschools. When you were a New Yorker of a certain standing, you didn’t really have a choice.

She recalled one conversation she’d overheard between Sherry and another Manhattan mom. Sherry had told the woman that a family from Kyle’s preschool was moving to Westport, Connecticut. “Westport?” the woman asked, raising her eyebrows as much as the Botox would allow. “What a strange choice. I suppose they couldn’t afford Greenwich?”

Gina put a few animal crackers in a bowl and offered them to Trevor. “Just one, Trevvie,” she said as he filled his fist. “Can you take just one?”

He looked confused, and then released the cookies, grabbing only one in a pudgy fist.

“That’s right!” Gina beamed. “Good boy!”

He chortled and shoved the cookie in his mouth, while Sam sang a tuneless baby melody of his own creation. Gina picked up a copy of
Architectural Digest
, thinking about her plan to see Mrs. Vera Graff.

Very shortly, Miranda would come for Honey … She dropped the magazine. Where was the dog?

“Honey?” she called. The little boys looked startled.

Trevor took the gummy cookie from his mouth. “Bow, bow.”

“That’s right, sweetie. Where did Honey go?”

She stood and looked for the dog’s leash.
Gone.
Miranda must have come early.

Gina picked up the baby and sniffed his diaper. Not bad. She pulled
a jacket on Sam and slid him into the stroller. Next, she scooped up Trevor and sniffed his diaper.
Good to go.
“Come on, Trevvie—let’s take a walk.” she said, placing him in the stroller and strapping him in.

She grabbed her pocketbook and cell phone, locked the door, and headed down the elevator to Vera Graff’s apartment on the fifth floor. With the stylish suit in mind, she prayed her idea would work.

She pushed the doorbell and waited. A moment later, the voice with the French accent asked who was there. “I just saw Miranda, your dog walker,” she lied. “It’s about Mimi.”

“Mimi?” The door flew open and a thin woman with a pinched face stood before her. “
Mon Dieu,
what has happened?”

“I found this collar after Miranda walked by, and I thought that perhaps it belonged to your poodle.” Gina held up a rhinestone-studded pink collar that she had purchased the day before on her way home.

The woman, whose name Gina assumed was Yvette, scrutinized the collar. “No, no, is not Mimi’s.” She prepared to close the door. “That will be all—”

“Who’s there, Yvette?” The composed older woman Gina had seen in the park appeared around the corner. “Hello,” she said smoothly.

“Mrs. Graff, hello, I’m Gina Trovata,” she said, pushing the door open and moving past Yvette. “I work for the Coopers in Residence eighteen-twenty-two. I’m their nanny.” Gina indicated the boys, both of whom were staring at the strange women.

“The lawyers, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Nice to meet you. They look like darling children.”

The maid indicated the hall. “Very well, Mademoiselle, you may leave now.”

“That’s alright, Yvette. Let Ms. Trovata and the boys stay a bit. It’s so infrequent that we have any visitors.”

The thin woman shot a nasty glance at Gina but said nothing.

“Perhaps you will get us some tea?” Mrs. Graff raised her eyebrows and Yvette, scowling, scooted away.

“Have a seat, dear,” the old woman said kindly, “and then tell me the real reason you’ve come.”

Gina turned to see her expression. It was firm, but curious. “Mimi’s collar …”

“You know very well that didn’t belong to our poodle. After all, collars don’t just fall off dogs, do they? How would Mimi stay on her leash without it? No, that sparkly collar is a ruse to get you in here, and I’d like to know why. Are you casing the joint? If so, you’ll see we have very little of real value. A few antiques, but that’s about it.”

“No,” Gina said quickly. “I saw you walking in the park yesterday, and you were wearing one of the most gorgeous suits I have ever seen.” She took a breath. “Navy blue, big Lucite buttons …”

Vera Graff looked puzzled. “My suit?”

“Kick pleat in the back …”

“Ah, my ‘Hitchcock Ingénue’ outfit,” she said softly. “It is an exquisite garment. I bought it back in the 1950s, and I’ve always felt like Kim Novak wearing it.” She gave a little smile. “I don’t understand why you’ve taken the trouble to run the Yvette blockade for my suit.”

Gina took a breath. “I’m about to open a vintage clothing store with my business partner, Bethany,” Gina explained. Usually she described Bethany as her friend, but “business partner” sounded more official. Of course, you had to make sure and say “business” partner, or another meaning could be construed.

“Go on.” Vera’s steel blue eyes reminded Gina of the stained glass windows in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Brilliant and brittle.

“I’m looking for inventory for the store. Beautiful things, such as that suit. I suppose you don’t really need the money, but …” she saw something flit across the older woman’s face. “I mean, your clothes are probably priceless to you …”

“How much would I make?” Vera Graff’s voice was abrupt.

“We’re a consignment shop, so you’d make money whenever an outfit sold. We’ll split it with you. If you have more pieces like what I’ve seen, I’d say you’d have quite a few sales.”

Vera Graff’s look was shrewd. “That suit, as well as my other garments, were very expensive items when I purchased them,” she said. “What kind of money are we talking about?”

“For that suit I’d ask three hundred dollars,” said Gina. “At least.”

The old woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “That much?”

“Your things are collector’s pieces. They’re like artwork for people who appreciate them.”

“I understand.” She glanced down and fingered the hem of her olive green skirt. It was wool, probably a Pendleton, and Gina nearly salivated.

Vera continued. “I never bought anything unless I could buy the best. My Hitchcock outfit, for instance, came from a little boutique on Madison Avenue. I can still remember the day I saw it displayed on a padded hanger. Unfortunately, the store is no longer there.” A moment later she met Gina’s eyes. “It sounds silly, but my clothes have seen me through some very difficult times. My husband’s illness, his death …” Her gaze wandered around the room. “Happy times, too, I suppose. I remember wearing the navy suit to luncheon on the Upper East Side at the Carlyle.” Her face grew wistful. “My clothes are like old friends.”

“If it’s too much to ask—”

“I hate to part with my things, but perhaps it’s time.” Vera Graff pressed her lips together. “I like the idea of young people giving them another chance to shine.” She placed her hands on her lap and gave a little smile. “It’s settled, then. Wheel that contraption this way and come and see my closet.”

_____

Miles looked up from his laptop as Darby came into the living room.

“Good morning, love,” he said, patting a space next to him on
the couch.

She yawned. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”

“Woke up around four a.m., and, despite your deliciously warm body next to me, I couldn’t get back to sleep.” He reached up and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you had a bit of a lie-in. Ready for coffee? Got some brewing in the kitchen.”

“Sure. I’ll go get us both some.” She peered at the computer
screen. “What’s up?”

“An interesting email from Natalia. Seems she’s had second thoughts about her investigative report.”

“In what way, Miles?”

“She wants to beef it up and try to get it published.”

“Is that possible?”

“I shouldn’t think she could do it on her own. But if she co-wrote it with an established reporter …” he paused. “She’s invited me up to the penthouse to talk about it. Care to tag along?”

“No—you go on ahead.” Darby said it emphatically, even though seeing the penthouse held definite appeal.

“I told her you’d be coming, and she sounded glad. Perhaps your real estate expertise could prove helpful—after all, her subject concerns stolen palaces and such.”

Twist my arm
, thought Darby. “I’d love to come. What time did you discuss?”

“Nine.” He glanced back at the computer and frowned. “I’m surprised Jagdish hasn’t emailed me back yet.”

“Who’s Jagdish?”

“Sorry—he’s my buddy in London who covers all things Russian. I wrote him hoping to get more information on the organization Natalia discusses in her paper—the FSB.”

“Gotcha.” She rose to her feet and stretched. “Coffee run. Can I get you a refill?”

“Please.” He handed her a mug with a photo of the Empire State Building. “One cream …”

“And two sugars,” she finished. “I remember.”

He grinned as she padded into Charles Burrows’s kitchen and poured the coffee. Domesticity was kind of fun, she thought. Relaxing, and comfortable. She opened the refrigerator and hunted for the cream.

A low whistle came from the living room. “Our friend Charles Burrows is extending his sabbatical,” Miles said, raising his voice so that Darby could hear him in the kitchen. “He’s wondering if I want to stay on for the fall semester.”

Darby grasped the handles of the coffee cups. “That’s a nice offer,” she called. She walked into the room and placed the cups on a coffee table. “Are you interested?”

Miles pushed his laptop to the side of the couch and picked up his coffee. “I don’t know. For the most part, I’ve enjoyed teaching, and the city is a fascinating place to be. Brings me back to my old college days when I was a student here.”

“I nearly forgot that you are a graduate of prestigious Columbia,” Darby teased. “Have you been haunting some of your old watering holes?”

He grinned. “Here and there.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The thing is, I wouldn’t want to be here for the summer, really. Too hot and sticky. I’d need to figure that out.”

“We could spend a month together in Maine,” Darby suggested. “I’m renting my house a bit, but we could stay for several weeks in July. Go sailing in the cove, eat lobster every night, pick blueberries on Juniper Ridge …”

“Sounds heavenly.” His smile was brief. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking that a trip to England might be in order.”

“Has anything happened?” Darby realized as she said it that she knew very little about Miles’s family.

“Such as …?”

“I have no clue, and I’m embarrassed to say that I know next to nothing about your life back in England. Have I really been so self-centered that we’ve never spoken about your friends and family?”

He reached out and ruffled her hair. “Yes. You’re a wicked, wicked girl who doesn’t give a fig for anyone else.” He saw her dismayed face and laughed. “I’m joshing, love! I’m afraid that you know precious little about my family because I’ve wanted it that way.”

“Why? Are they so very strange?”

He laughed again. “Terribly so! Eccentric with a capital ‘E.’” He rolled his eyes. “My mother is on her third or fourth husband, and supposedly has her eye on an African chieftain as husband-in-waiting. My father is an actor and a ladies’ man, with the wonderful knack of spending large fortunes in the blink of an eye. And my grandmother … Well, let’s leave her for another time, shall we?”

“They sound very colorful. What about brothers or sisters?”

“I have one—a younger sister named Scarlett. She’s normal—so far, at least.” He grinned. “I think you’d like her. She’s very level-headed. Guess you’d have to be, to survive growing up in a family like ours.” He picked up his coffee cup and seemed to study it. “Would you come along, if I promised to keep you safe from the really batty ones?”

Darby smiled. “Sure. They don’t scare me.” She chopped the air with her hands. “I’ve got my Aikido training, remember?”

“Thank goodness for that—you may need it.” Neither one of them spoke of the many times Darby’s martial arts moves had saved her life.

“And I can be a pretty colorful character myself, you know.” She stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I can impersonate the Queen, for instance.”

“You can not!”

“Can so.” Darby lifted her nose into the air. “
We are not amused
…”

Miles guffawed. “That is the absolute worst impersonation I have ever seen!” He grinned. “Do it again.”