5 Deal Killer (6 page)

_____

Darby made her way back to Central Park Place, determined to make some inquiries on Hideki Kobayashi’s behalf before sight
seeing. Once again the air was soft and warm, with only the
gentlest of breezes. She glanced across the street to Central Park, noting the trees that were starting to bloom, and felt the green expanse luring her in.
I’ll sit on a park bench and make my calls,
she thought.
On a day like today, it’s better than being holed up in Charles Burrows’s condo.

Moments later she was responding to emails on her smartphone, including one from her Japanese client.
Telephone me when you can
, his message said,
so we may discuss my real estate needs.
Darby glanced at her watch. Nearly noon. The perfect time to reach Hideki before he headed out for his customary lunch of sushi and seaweed salad.

The high-powered executive answered his phone on the first ring.

“Darby! What a pleasure to hear from you. I trust that all is well?”

“Fine,” she said, smiling at a group of preschoolers preparing to picnic on a patch of scruffy grass. “I’m in New York—sitting in Central Park, actually—and I saw your email message. I thought we might discuss what you’re looking for in the city—that is, if now is a good time for you to talk.” She brushed away a bee and watched it meander toward a clump of flowering azalea bushes.

“Yes, your timing is fine.” He paused. “May I ask why you are visiting New York?”

“I’m here to visit Miles Porter.” She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “He’s the journalist who was in Afghanistan when we were negotiating your purchase of Tag Gunnerson’s property.”

“I remember.” What went unsaid were the events of the past February, when Darby had nearly perished at the hands of one of Hideki Kobayashi’s associates.
Fine with me if he doesn’t bring it up,
Darby thought to herself.
I don’t want to talk about it anyway.

The Japanese man gave a little cough. “I contacted you about property because Genkei has interest in opening an office in New York. I’d be looking to purchase a building—new, if possible—in a desirable location.”

“What kind of square feet are you thinking?” Darby was jotting down notes in a small notebook that rarely left her side.

“Oh, I don’t know, but at least as much space as we have in Tokyo.” He paused. “I do have a small window in my schedule before I head there on Monday. I could fly up tomorrow and see properties on Sunday if you’d like.”

Yikes!
Darby didn’t need to think about it—when a client like Hideki Kobayashi said jump, Darby Farr laced up her shoes to take a leap.

“Terrific. I’ll make some calls and line up showings for Sunday.”

“Then it is settled. I will phone you tomorrow when I am in the city.”

“Do you need me to make you a hotel reservation?”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He gave a discreet little chuckle. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I have a suite on standby at the Ritz.”

Okay then.
“Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Sunday and touching base tomorrow.”

“And I as well.”

Darby clicked off her phone and leaned back on the bench. She felt the familiar surge of adrenalin that came whenever she was about
to assist a client in spending a large amount of money. Granted, Hideki Kobayashi was in the early stages of looking at New York property—heck, he hadn’t even begun to look!—but Darby knew the man well enough to know that he did not waste time in idle contemplation or planning. If he wanted an office building in a prime Manhattan location, he would get one, and he wouldn’t spin anyone’s wheels in the process. All Darby needed to do was find some good prospects for Hideki to see.

Quickly she thought of Miles. What would his reaction be to her needing to show property on Sunday? It wasn’t exactly the way they’d planned to spend his free weekend together. And yet Miles understood the nature of Darby’s profession, the way she made it a priority to respond to her clients in a timely fashion.
Maybe he’ll want to come along.
She pictured the tall Brit and the compact Asian executive and smiled.
It was very likely they’d enjoy each other’s company,
she thought.

Darby searched her contacts for the name of the New York broker she’d met while last in Maine. Todd something …
Todd Stockton
. Raised in Minnesota, he’d dropped out of college in the ’70s and hitchhiked east to Maine. Somehow he’d scraped together enough money to purchase an old Cape, which he’d restored and then sold for a profit. Before long, Stockton had his real estate license and had bought, fixed up, and then sold a number of coastal properties. By the mid-eighties, he’d started his own real estate firm, and within a decade, grown it to be one of Maine’s most profitable brokerages.

But that hadn’t satisfied Stockton. By now a very big fish in a small pond, the entrepreneur now turned his sights on New York. He’d launched a start-up brokerage just before Hurricane Sandy hit the east coast, and positioned the company to help rebuild in its wake. His uncanny ability to find talented professionals to join him was working, and the Stockton Group was already a major player in many of New York’s most lucrative deals.

Darby called his number and heard a deep voice answer.

“Stockton here.”

She explained how they had met a few months earlier and Todd Stockton gave a chuckle.

“Of course I remember you, Ms. Farr. I don’t think anyone who meets you would ever forget.”

So he’s a flatterer.
Darby rolled her eyes. “I don’t know about that, but I did want to speak to you about a real estate client and his needs.”

She could feel Stockton’s focus sharpen over the airwaves. “Go on, please.”

She described what Hideki Kobayashi wanted, without mentioning his name, and waited to see what Stockton would say.

“I’m going to send you several options right now, Ms. Farr, any one of which we can see on Sunday.” He asked a few more questions and Darby answered. “And our arrangement?”

“A fifty percent referral,” she answered. It was more than the standard—she knew that—but what the heck.

“Fine. I’ll send along an agreement as well. Shall we plan to meet at eleven o’clock on Sunday, or earlier?”

“That will be fine. Let me know where and my client and I will be there.”

She looked around the park and smiled.
This was going to be fun.

A dark-haired young woman with a stroller stopped at Darby’s bench.

“Excuse me, but are you a friend of the man in nine-thirty?”

“Yes,” said Darby, recognizing the number of Charles Burrows’s apartment.

“I’m Gina Trovata,” she said, kneeling to check on the two children in the stroller. Deciding that they were fine, at least for the moment, she continued. “I work in the building, so I’m in and out of there a lot. I take care of Sherry and Penn Cooper’s kids.” As if on cue, the littlest Cooper let out a long sound that might have been a sigh.

“You’re their nanny?” Darby asked.

“Yes—weekday mornings, although today I’m working until five.”
She checked her watch. “Anyway, I wondered if you’d mention to your
friend—the man—”

“His name is Miles. Miles Porter.”

“Okay then, Miles. Please tell him I’m opening a vintage clothing store, sometime soon, and if he has any sweaters or jackets he’d like us to sell, I’d love to know.” She rummaged in a pocket and handed Darby a business card.

Darby looked up at Gina and chuckled. “You mean to tell me that Miles is a trendy dresser?” She thought back to his tweedy jacket and Irish knit sweater. “I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t know his whole wardrobe, but yes, he seems to like the classics.” She bent down to pick up a toy that one of the boys had tossed from the stroller. “The natives are getting restless—I’d better keep walking.”

Darby stood and introduced herself. “I’m here for a visit. It’s nice to meet you, Gina, and good luck with your new shop.”

“Thanks.” She pushed the stroller and grinned. “I can’t wait.”

Darby looked at the card again.
High Voltage Vintage,
it said. No address, just Gina’s name and her phone number. Darby smiled and put the card into the pocket of her jacket.

_____

Peggy Babson watched the hallway outside her office at Pulitzer
Hall. She was watching for Professor Porter, hoping she would have a chance to ask him about Thursday’s strange events. The dark-
haired guy and his violent death
…
She shuddered. Thoughts of the stabbing were never far from her mind, whether she was flipping through a magazine, watching reality television, or trying to fall asleep. She knew it was because she was more sensitive than other people, more attuned to the spirit world. Perhaps if she had more information, she could both block out the bloody images and help the police with their investigation.

She glanced at the watch encircling her freckled wrist. Professor Porter had been in a rush that morning, nearly late for his eleven
o’clock seminar. Catching his eye had been impossible. Now it seemed
he was keeping the students later than usual, and the waiting was tiresome.

Her stomach growled. Not wanting to miss the British journalist, she’d foregone her customary one hour-plus lunch at the pizza shop around the corner in favor of a tasteless granola bar at her desk. She yanked open a drawer to see if a stray Hershey Kiss was tucked behind the stapler. No luck. Maybe she’d find something sweet further back, behind the tape dispenser?

Footsteps on the wooden floors outside her door made her pull back a pudgy arm as if she’d seen a snake.

“Professor Porter?” She stumbled to her feet, nearly tipping a mug full of cold coffee onto her keypad. “May I have a word?”

Hustling to the hallway, she nearly collided with a young woman clutching a laptop and a dead potted plant. Enormous black boots—the kind construction workers wore—made her bare legs look like matchsticks.

“Is the registrar’s office in this building?” she asked.

Peggy shook her head and directed the young woman to the correct office. She looked like a child, with her knobby knees and air of uncertainty. Peggy sniffed.
I may not have gone to Columbia, but I have responsibilities—a job, a dog, and my own house
. She plodded back to her desk and plumped the seat cushion on her office chair. The rumblings of hunger had turned to gnawing pains.

“Ms. Babson?”

She looked up. Miles Porter paused in the doorway, a shock of brown hair falling over his forehead.

“Hallo,” he said, smiling.

Hallo.
She loved that, the way he sounded like he’d stepped off the set of
Downton Abbey
.

“Professor Porter! I didn’t hear you in the hall.” No doubt the clomping of the girl’s heavy boots had drowned out his footfall. “How was your seminar?”

“Oh, they’re all very antsy—thinking about finals and such.”

“Yes, of course.” She felt her face flush. “What about the poor girl who lost her fiancé? Natalia? Did anyone mention that?”

“Not to me, but I’m sure her classmates are aware and properly sympathetic.” Miles raised a hand and she realized he was preparing to leave.

“I hoped we could chat a bit about what happened yesterday.” She sounded shriller than she wanted and looked down at her nails. The polish was due for a change and they needed a good filing. “That man who was stabbed.”

“Ah, yes. Horrible thing.” He glanced at his mobile. “I’m off to meet a friend, but I have a few minutes.”

A few minutes.
She felt irritation mixing with her mounting hunger. “Have you heard anything about who may have killed him?”

“No, nothing.” He frowned. “Did you meet the fellow? Alec Ro
din?”

“Yes, well, that is to say, not exactly. I heard you speaking in your office, and then I saw him going down the stairs.” She bit her lip. “Your voices were quite loud.”

Miles Porter nodded. “Indeed. I became pretty angry, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. I heard you quite clearly.” She sniffed and felt the British man’s interest pique.

“I threatened him—you may have heard that, although I certainly didn’t mean it.”

“You sounded serious to me.” She blinked her eyes a few times. “Of course, I didn’t tell the police exactly what you said …”

“Why, Ms. Babson?”

“Because you said you’d kill him!”

“My dear woman, I took an instant dislike to Rodin, but I never would have murdered the man. Tell the police whatever you’d like.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I must get back to work, Professor Porter. Good afternoon.” She turned toward her desk as his footsteps receded down the hall, unable to resist a tiny smile.

_____

“You’ll never believe what the secretary at Pulitzer Hall implied,” fumed Miles as he closed the door to Charles Burrows’s apartment.

“Whatever it was, I can tell it wasn’t good.” Darby reached up to give the lanky journalist a hug.

Miles hugged her back, tightly. “Just looking at you makes me feel better, you know that?”

“I’m glad. Now what did the old witch say?”

He gave a slow grin. “She isn’t exactly an old witch, although she acts like one, but she said she’d overheard my rather heated discussion with Alec Rodin, but that she hadn’t told the police
everything
. Emphasis on the ‘everything.’ Darby, she hinted that she’d withheld information. This may sound silly, but I felt as if she’d like to blackmail me!”

“Because of your argument?”

“Exactly. I told her she could tell the police whatever she wanted, and that seemed to shut her down.”