5 Deal Killer (13 page)

“Guess you can pretend you’re a big celebrity requiring protection from the paparazzi, right?”

“That game gets old.” Natalia glanced back into the apartment. She dropped her voice. “You’re friends with my father, Miranda. Could you say something to him? I’m twenty-two years old, and I can’t exactly have a normal life with Sergei trotting behind me all the time.” She sighed.

“You know as well as I do that your father doesn’t care what anyone else says regarding your safety. He wants you protected, and there’s no way he’ll give in on that, especially after Alec’s death.”

“Alec’s death had nothing to do with me,” she said darkly.

“What do you mean? Your father seemed to think so.”

She shook her head. “Trust me. Alec was involved with shady things in Russia, things that had nothing to do with me.”

“I see. What kinds of things?”

“Government work.” She shifted her weight from one foot to another. “My dad’s paranoid, thinking someone’s going to kidnap me. No one even knows who I am in New York! Besides, it’s not like I’m the only wealthy college kid here. Look at all the Chinese kids. You don’t see bodyguards with them, and they’re worth more money than me.”

“For some reason he feels you’re in danger.”

“Not me.”

“You may think you’re safe, but if you’re father thinks otherwise—”

“I don’t think it’s me he’s protecting.”

“Then who?” It was Miranda’s turn to sound exasperated. Beside her, Korbut whined softly. She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go. Listen, though—take my advice. Have a talk with your father. Tell him how you feel. Who knows? He might surprise you.”

Natalia shrugged as if talking seemed a pointless exercise when it came to Mikhail Kazakova. She reached out and rubbed Korbut’s ears. “Surprise me? We can’t be talking about the same man.”

“All I’m saying is don’t assume the worst.” Miranda gave the dog’s leash a tug. “Let’s go, Korbut.” She walked with the dog toward the elevator, calling over her shoulder, “Have a good time at the opera.”

“Thanks,” came the listless reply.

eleven

The outfits, still on
their hangers, were wrapped in protective plastic coverings and ready to be transported to Bethany’s parents’ car.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” Vera surveyed the clothes with a quizzical glance.

“That’s okay. I can make a bunch of trips,” Gina said. She picked up one bunch of hangers and contemplated another.

“I don’t mind …”

Gina smiled. “You know, a little help would be great.” She handed her pile to Vera. “Is that too much for you?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

Gina picked up another bunch and the two started toward her apartment door.

“It may do me good to get some fresh air,” the woman said. She waved an impatient hand in the maid’s direction. “I’m fine, Yvette.
Stop scowling at us.” The maid sniffed and retreated to another room
. “Honestly! Her attitude can be such a challenge.”

“Why do you put up with it?” Gina asked, shutting the apartment door behind them. A hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that …”

“No, no.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I’ve asked myself the
same thing.” The elevator doors opened and they entered. “The short answer is that Yvette is my friend. The long answer …” She looked
up, her blue eyes brilliant. “The long answer is more complicated. Another time, perhaps.”

Gina was silent. The elevator doors opened and she led Vera slowly
to the motor court, where the car was waiting. They spread the garments carefully on the seats and closed the doors.

“It feels like springtime,” Vera said, her voice sounding light and carefree.

“We’ve had a beautiful stretch of weather, starting with that day I saw you in the park wearing your Hitchcock Ingénue outfit.”

“That was the last time I ventured out. Before that, I don’t think I had left the apartment for months.”

“Really? Why? I’d go crazy if I didn’t get outside every day.”

“Maybe that’s been my problem.” She gave a wry look. “It may sound strange, Gina, but it’s very easy to fall into bad habits … destructive habits. Things that can destroy your soul.”

“I suppose. What about on a practical level? If you don’t go out, who gets your eggs, milk, bread? Yvette?”

“Mostly we have them delivered.”

Gina pointed at a delicate dogwood tree just beginning to bloom.
“You can’t deliver beauty like that.”

The older woman smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, Gina,
and your name suits you well.” Seeing the young woman’s quizzical look, she continued, “Your family name, Trovata. I believe it means ‘found’ in Italian.”

“I think the nuns who scooped me up from the orphanage steps decided it was fitting,” Gina said.

“Interesting. Well, I don’t believe in coincidences,” Vera said. “You
were given that name for a reason. I can’t help but marvel at the way you’ve helped me to find myself again, after all these years.”

Gina opened the motor court’s door back into the building. She smiled at Vera, waiting as the woman climbed a step. Vera swayed slightly, as if she was considering her next move, and then, while Gina watched, horrified, crumpled like a blossom in a harsh spring rain.

_____

Sergei contorted his big body until he fit into the back of the cab and pulled the door shut. He directed the driver to follow the taxi directly in front of them, the one in which Natalia sat with her date.

Sergei looked out the window and fingered the ticket inside the pocket of his sport jacket. He loved opera, although
Rigoletto
wasn’t one of his favorites, and he was looking forward to hearing at least some of the production. The issue was not his attention span. Ever since adolescence and his meteoric growth spurt, Sergei had found it difficult to stay seated in an average chair for very long. He was just too damn big.

He remembered his first opera, a production of
La Boheme
in Paris. Mikhail had brought Natalia there for her thirteenth birthday and insisted Sergei attend as well. He’d sat a few rows behind them, expecting to be bored to tears, and instead had found himself transfixed.

The costumes, the set design, the opulent surroundings, and best of all—the music, filling a void in his soul he had not even known he’d possessed.

Only severe cramps in his legs had forced Sergei out of his seat. Retreating to the back of the building, he’d stood by the fire exit until the final curtain dropped, as mesmerized as anyone in the place.

When the show was over, Mikhail had asked him for his opinion and Sergei had shrugged. “Something to pass the time.”

His employer had narrowed his eyes and then laughed. “I do not believe you, Sergei! I see from your face your true feelings. The opera—it has climbed into your soul. Now it will be forever a part of you.”

From that moment on, tickets to shows had appeared in Sergei’s
hands more often than he had dreamed possible. Nearly a decade since seeing his first production, the humble bodyguard was a knowledgeable
aficionado.

He thought again of Mikhail’s recent dishonesty and his face
clouded. The man had not been in Russia when Alec Rodin was killed.
He had been in New York. But where? And why?

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the Metropolitan Opera Company. Sergei paid for the ride and lumbered out, keeping his eyes on the couple emerging from the other cab. Natalia’s face was happy, and she was listening to something the young man, Jeremy, was saying. Sergei noticed that she did not once glance about for his whereabouts.

He grunted with satisfaction. This was the way it should be. He had not liked Rodin, had not trusted the man, and was not in the least bit sorry he was dead. Natalia was right: the murder had removed her from an awkward situation.

Mikhail’s manner at the time of Rodin’s murder had been subdued. He’d seemed sorry that the man was dead, that the marriage was off, but now Sergei questioned it all. What if Mikhail had also been relieved? What if he, too, had seen the benefits of the young Russian’s untimely demise?

Sergei stood in line a good dozen people behind Natalia and her date, not even trying to hear the young couple’s conversation. Let them enjoy themselves. Let Natalia have fun …

He pulled his ticket from his pocket. Were these the same sentiments Mikhail Kazakova had felt once Alec was dead? Or—and this was the line of thinking Sergei forced himself to consider—had Mikhail envisioned Natalia’s life without Alec before the fatal sword thrusts? Had he been the one to make the murder a reality?

Sergei accepted his program from a matronly usher and entered the hushed hall. He would think no more about it until the last note of
Rigoletto
had died away. For now, he would enjoy one of life’s most sublime pleasures: the opera.

_____

“She has a bad heart,” hissed Yvette, wringing her hands as Gina and the motor court’s manager helped a woozy Vera back into the apartment and onto a stiff-backed baroque loveseat. “She should not be working like a common laborer!”

“I didn’t know.” Gina’s voice was morose. The manager gave a sympathetic nod and edged toward the exit. “She didn’t tell me.”

“
She didn’t tell me!”
Yvette mocked, and there was real malice in her voice. “Why won’t you just leave
Madame et moi
alone?”

The manager asked quietly if there was anything else, and hearing no response, retreated hastily into the hall.

Vera groaned. In a raspy voice she whispered something in French.

The maid glowered at Gina. “She says I must keep quiet, but I’m telling you this: if you ever—”

A knock on the door saved Gina from what she imagined was further scolding. Yvette sprang to her feet and pulled open the door. Rapid-fire, high-pitched yapping filled the room.

“Mimi!” Yvette bent to scoop up the poodle, murmuring endearments as the creature squirmed.

“Everything okay here?” Miranda Style’s face in the doorway was quizzical. “I saw the motor court guy leaving …”

Yvette reached to close the door but Gina quickly stood.

“Miranda!” she called to the dog walker. “It’s Gina, from the Coopers’ unit. I was with Mrs. Graff and she passed out.”

Creases appeared in Miranda’s caramel-colored forehead. She pushed by Yvette and crossed the carpet to kneel by the couch. “How are you feeling now, Vera?”

“Dizzy.”

Miranda reached for Vera’s wrist, her jacket rising up as she did so. Gina saw a glimpse of her belt, and something else.

A holster, holding a small gun.

“How is her pulse?”

“Weak,” answered Miranda.

“Of course it is,” Vera protested. “I’m an eighty-five-year-old woman, not some Olympian.”

“I think we should call an ambulance,” Miranda said, standing. “They can rule out anything serious.”

“No.” Vera struggled to sit up. “I’ve had these spells before, and going to the hospital doesn’t help. They do all kinds of tests, and in the end the only thing that’s happened is that I’ve been exposed to all manner of germs.” Her voice grew stronger. “I’d like a glass of water.”

Yvette scurried from the room, presumably to fetch it, and Vera’s eyes met Gina’s. “Listen, those clothes … if anything happens to me, take the rest of them to your store. My jewelry, too. Understand?”

“Yes, but you’re going to be fine.” Gina’s eyes flitted to Miranda’s. “She’s going to be fine.”

Miranda lifted her well-shaped eyebrows. “I think she should go to the hospital.”

Vera waved a hand dismissively in Miranda’s direction, the effort seeming to tire her. “Whatever money I make from sales is yours,” she continued. “Deal?”

“Deal, but please let’s not talk about this now.” Gina put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I could drive you to the emergency room.
Skip the ambulance?”

“Non.”
Yvette hurried to her mistress’s side and gave her a small tumbler of water. “Madame does not like hospitals,” she spat.

“Yes, but …”

“Listen,” Vera interrupted. Her voice faltered. “I’ve been making my own decisions my whole life, and I’m not stopping now, just when it starts to get interesting.” She reached a wobbly hand dominated by a large diamond ring toward the glass, but Yvette ignored the gesture and lifted it to her lips.

“
Merci
.” She took several sips, swallowing slowly, and then nod
ded at Yvette to remove the glass. “I’m having a series of little strokes.
Hopefully one kills me, because I don’t want to be stuck in a wheelchair or hobbling around with one of those walkers. But I’m not going to the hospital while I have any say in the matter.” She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. “And now I think I shall rest.”

Gina and Miranda exchanged glances.

“You heard Madame,” hissed Yvette. “She wants to rest.
Allez!”

Gina clenched her fists, wanting very much to use them against the malevolent maid. Instead, she followed Miranda.

“Take care, Vera,” called the dog walker. “Let me know if you need
more help with Mimi.”

“Goodbye, Vera,” Gina said, hating how final it sounded. She narrowed her eyes, prepared to meet Yvette’s scowl, but the maid did not look up.

Snatches of a French folksong, hummed very softly, met Gina’s ears as she closed the apartment door.

_____

Hideki Kobayashi shook Todd Stockton’s hand and thanked him for his time. “I will speak with Darby,” he said, “and ask her to communicate with you.”

“Of course.” Stockton’s eyes met Darby’s before flitting back to the older man’s. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Darby watched the slight figure of Todd Stockton navigate down the crowded street. He appeared to be a straight shooter, and yet there was something—she couldn’t quite pinpoint what—that he kept under wraps.
Give it a rest,
she chided herself.
Not everyone’s got some deep, dark secret.

She glanced at Miles, engaged in small talk with the Japanese businessman. Nothing clandestine behind the Brit’s sunny smile. He chuckled at something Hideki said and then turned Darby’s way, catching her mid-stare. She felt her face flush.

“Gentlemen, let’s go talk some business,” she called out, hoping her cheeks weren’t bright pink. “I saw a little coffee shop around the corner.”

“I may need a little snack as well,” Hideki said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Whenever I’m about to spend money I become famished.”

“Then I’m sure we can find you something delicious to eat.” Darby
grinned at her client, aware of Miles’s hand on the small of her back, inching down to tap her lightly on the butt.

“Hey!” she whispered. “Don’t take my mind off my work, Professor Porter.”

“Point taken. I’m going to head back to the apartment and let you and Hideki talk privately. Do you fancy a quiet night in tonight? I’d like to cook for you.”

“That sounds terrific.” Darby reached up and gave him a kiss.

“Hideki?” Miles raised his voice. “I’m heading out to let you and your star real estate agent talk dollars and cents. It was wonderful to meet you.”

Hideki Kobayashi gave a slight bow. “And you as well, Miles. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

With a quick wave, Miles was headed down the street, already difficult to pick out in the sea of Sunday strollers. Hideki paused, put a hand on Darby’s wrist.

“I hope I did not frighten your good friend away,” he murmured.

“Miles?” she laughed. “He doesn’t scare that easily, believe me.” She steered her client toward the coffee shop she’d noticed earlier. “Here we are. I think if we grab a table in the back, we’ll be able to talk.”

The lunch crush was over and the restaurant, a modest place harking back to the 1930s, had several vacant tables. The air was redolent with the scent of grilled beef, pickles, and hot oil. Pennants from New York sports teams hung on the walls, along with framed black-and-white photographs of baseball players. A large glass case at the entrance held shelves of pies, many mounded high with cream. A waitress nodded when Darby pointed at a banquette in the back corner, and soon she and Hideki were seated and ordering a late lunch.