“But how do we prove it?” Gilley asked next.
And that’s where my quandary really began.
Chapter 7
After attending to other business for a few hours, we closed up the office, and Gilley and I headed to one of our favorite eateries so that we could sit, talk, and get some nourishment after having worked straight through lunch.
It was well after three by the time we arrived, we were both starved, and I had decided to bring Gilley more fully into what I knew—which was a risk, but I felt I needed to take it. As I had a great deal to tell him that might both scare and put him in danger, I felt it was best to confess all while breaking bread.
After being greeted warmly by the hostess, I asked that she seat us someplace where we could be given some privacy, hoping we’d be directed to a lovely booth at the back of the restaurant, away from prying ears, and I got my wish.
Once we were settled and the hostess had returned to the front of the restaurant, I leaned over and whispered to Gilley, “I have a few confessions to make.”
Gilley took a sip of the water a busboy had set down for us. “Starting with the fact that Maks is wrapped up with the mob?”
“He’s not so much wrapped up with them as he is quietly observing and taking notes, if you get my drift.”
“He’s an informant,” Gilley said simply.
I didn’t say a word. I felt so torn between revealing everything to Gilley, and simply giving him enough clues so that he’d figure it out on his own and I’d still be able to keep my promise to Maks. So, I focused on the menu.
“I knew it!” Gilley said after studying me.
“I can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions, my friend.”
“You promised Maks not to say anything.”
I set the menu down. “I promised myself to keep you out of danger.”
“Danger?” he said, his eyes darting back and forth to look around the restaurant. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “We’re in danger?”
“Hopefully not,” I said.
“Hopefully?”
“Yes,” I said, meeting his gaze. “This is tricky stuff, lumpkin.”
Gil took another sip of water. “Wow, Cat. How did we get mixed up in all this?”
“Well, so far, I’m the only one who’s really mixed up in it.”
“You’re in with them too?”
“No. I’m simply shaking hands with one of the good guys.” Gilley’s brow furrowed. So I dove into my purse and searched for something to write on. Finding an old receipt, I laid it on the table, fished around for a pen, then scribbled something quickly on the receipt.
I then folded the slip of paper, set it into my palm, reached for Gilley’s hand, and when he shook it in confusion I made sure to set it firmly in his palm before taking back my own hand.
Gilley looked at his open palm and the bit of paper before he set it on the table and unfolded it to read it out loud. “This is a secret message.”
When he looked at me again, I simply nodded, and then his brow lifted and he nearly shouted, “Ohmigod!”
“Shhh!” I hissed, looking around to make sure no one was glancing our way.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I just caught on to what you were saying. You’re passing information on to that new client of yours, aren’t you?”
I picked up my menu and began to read it again. “I can neither confirm nor deny your assumptions, Gilley.”
“Whoa,” Gilley said. “Cat, that’s super dangerous, isn’t it?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I mean, I’m assuming everyone is very, very careful to avoid suspicion.”
“Still, I don’t like it,” Gilley said. “I mean, you’re a mother. You have two sons to think about.”
“And I do think about them, Gilley,” I told him. “What I also think about is that there’s a very, very bad man running around in my backyard, ordering the murders of innocent people.”
“Like Lenny,” Gilley said.
“Yes.”
“But are we sure that’s how it went down? I mean, speculating that Lenny was murdered so that the property she was showing would be affordable to two art dealers really is a stretch. And it’s risky.”
“True,” I said. “But Boris Basayev takes risks for a living. This would’ve been just one more risk for him, and don’t forget the part about tying up Shepherd in Lenny’s murder investigation for years. That had to have been a pretty good incentive for hiring Greta to make that hit too.”
“It’s so cruel,” Gilley said with a shudder.
At that moment our server stepped forward. “Are you cold, sir?” the young woman asked him.
Gilley smiled sweetly. “Only a little. Could you bring me some Earl Grey hot tea and the turkey club salad?”
“Of course,” she said. “And for you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have iced tea and the salmon fillet, please, with an extra side of the green beans and sweet potatoes.”
Gilley’s brow rose. “Hungry much?”
I looked up at the server and handed her our menus. “Thank you,” I said, in a barely disguised dismissal. After she walked away I answered Gilley. “Remember my plans for tonight? I’m meeting Maks later for drinks, and I want to make sure I’ve got something substantial in my stomach to soak up the alcohol. I’ll need my wits about me if I’m going to ask him about the Suttons.”
“What’re you going to say?”
“Well, for starters, I’m going to ask him if they’re on the payroll.”
“This is all so crazy,” Gilley said, shaking his head.
“It is. But given Jason Sutton’s reaction to the man who came into the gallery—which, for all we know could have been Basayev himself—I think we’re onto a pretty good hunch.”
“Do you think he’ll tell you if the Suttons are working for Basayev?”
I considered that for a long moment. “I don’t know. I hope he will, but he may want to shield me from knowing too much, and he may refuse to answer.”
“Do you want me to do a little digging?”
“Yes,” I said, laying a hand over his. “But be extra, extra careful, Gilley. It can’t get back to either of the Suttons that we’re looking into them.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said. And then he played with his fork for a moment before asking, “Are we going to tell Shepherd any of this?”
“No,” I said immediately. “We’re not. We’re not going to say anything to anyone until we’ve got some evidence, because, like you’ve already pointed out, this could be dangerous for everyone involved. Plus, Shepherd would definitely order us to stop investigating on our own.”
“But eventually we’ll tell him, right?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“Do you think we should also talk to the other real estate agent?”
“Other agent?” I asked, blanking on the mention of another person.
“Sara Beth Sullivan. Isn’t that a great name?” Gil said.
I shook my head. “Who the heck is Sara Beth Sullivan?”
“She was the agent of record on the sale of the house that the Suttons bought.”
“Not Chanel?” I asked.
Gilley shook his head. “No. Chanel might’ve left town by the time the house sold. It went to a woman from the Realty Group.”
“Huh,” I said. “So, Sara Beth was either a legit referral, or she swooped in and scooped up the listing.”
“Yep. And lucky for the old woman who owned the house, because what other agent would’ve wanted the listing where a fellow colleague was murdered?”
“Who indeed?” I said. “I definitely think we should talk to Sara Beth.”
“What’s our cover story, though?” Gilley asked. When I squinted at him he added, “How do we justify asking her about the sale of that house?”
“Um . . . let me think,” I said, tapping my lip. Gilley was faster on his feet than I was at the moment.
“You could pose as a potential buyer,” Gil
ley suggested. “You could say that you saw the house when we were cruising the neighborhoods, and you fell in love with it and wanted to know if it might come up for sale again in the future.”
“I like that idea,” I said. “But what if it gets back to Jason or Paul Sutton that someone is interested in their property? Or, what if they actually want to sell it?”
Gilley shrugged easily. “You changed your mind and found something else. No biggie. Happens all the time.”
“All right. It’s a plausible scenario, but I say we use it only if I don’t get anywhere with Maks tonight.”
Gilley smirked. “I for one am really hoping you get somewhere with Maks tonight.” For emphasis, he bounced his brows.
I rolled my eyes, but I could also feel my cheeks heat. “Stop,” I said, embarrassed.
“It is your third date, you know.”
“Technically, it’s the second-and-a-half date.”
Gilley laughed. “Technicalities are for courtrooms, not for bedrooms.”
“Still,” I insisted, “don’t you think it’s a bit quick to move things to the next level?”
Gilley waved his hand dismissively. “I can only tell you what I’d do if a gorgeous biscuit of a man showed a keen interest in me, and that is to throw caution to the wind and take a romp in that bouncy house!”
I giggled. “Of course you’d sleep with him—”
“Duh.”
“Because you’re a whore.”
Gilley held up his hand. “Guilty as charged.”
“Seriously, though, there’s no way I’m going to bounce in his house while all this mafia stuff is going on.”
“Uh huh,” Gilley said, in that incredibly annoying way that suggested he wasn’t buying it. “You know what I think?”
I sighed. “The real question is: do I want to know what you think?”
“I think you’re not going to get too physical with Maks because you still have feelings for Shepherd and you’re worried that it’ll feel like you’re cheating.”
My face filled with heat, even while I pretended to scoff and took a sip of water. “That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Of course it is,” Gilley replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I played with my utensils while I searched for a new topic to distract Gilley away from Maks and Shepherd. “You know what I actually want to know?”
“What’s the secret to juggling two men at once? Ask them both to the dance, if you get my drift.” Gilley bounced his eyebrows again.
I laughed in spite of myself and then got back to my question. “Focus, Gilley. What I want to know is, how did you know all that stuff about Sasha Shkola? I had no idea you were into the modern art scene.”
Gilley winked at me. “She was our neighbor when Michel and I lived in Manhattan.”
“Really? I had no idea you lived next to an artist.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gilley said, waving his hand like it was nothing. “Sasha is a lovely girl, although she’s très recluse, fully living that whole mad genius stereotype. We’d see her slinking about the hallways, paintbrush lodged in that tangle of hair and elbows and forearms covered in paint. We actually did have her over for dinner a few times because Michel felt sorry for her. The girl was so obsessed with her work that she almost never thought about eating.”
“I wonder if she’d know anything about Jason and Paul Sutton?”
“I’ll definitely ask her when I give her a call later on. She’s going to be one of the resources I use to dig up info on the boys and their gallery.”
“Good,” I said. “But be discreet.”
“I hardly need to with Sasha, Cat. Even if she did tell someone that I was picking her brain about the Suttons—which is unlikely given Sasha’s introverted personality—it’s easily explainable given the fact that Jason offered me his card and showed interest in having Sasha exhibit at his gallery.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Sorry. I guess I’m being a little paranoid lately.”
“Understandable,” Gilley said, adding a soft smile.
Our food arrived and we ate in companionable silence. Afterward, I dropped Gilley at the office so that he could do some more digging while I headed home to change and get ready to meet Maks.
For our date, I chose a simple ensemble—a black pencil skirt, a beaded pearl shell, and a burgundy half coat with black velvet trim. For a little flair, I chose a tartan clutch and a pair of Jimmy Choo ankle boots with a shiny gold zipper.
Scooting back to the office, I caught Gilley on the way out. “You off?” I asked him as we practically bumped into each other at the door.
“Yes, I’m actually meeting Sasha for dinner!”
“She’s coming all the way out here?”
“She is. Her girlfriend has a place in Noyack, so we’re meeting in Sag Harbor for a little nosh.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Fill me in tomorrow?”
“I will if you will,” Gilley said, dipping his chin.
I smiled and patted him on the back before singing, “Have a lovely evening!”
I headed into the office and returned e-mails until ten to six, which is when I sent a text to Maks that I was ready.
He didn’t reply.
After ten minutes of glancing periodically at my phone, and receiving no reply, I started to get worried. Had something happened?
At six-oh-five I got up from my desk and walked over to the interior door, leading to the stairs and the upper suites. Should I go up? I wondered.
I looked at my phone again, waiting for the telltale bubbles to appear, showing that he’d at least read my message, but the screen below my text was noticeably blank.
I stepped away from the door and paced the room for another ten minutes, until, finally, at six-fifteen I moved through the door and up the stairs to the third floor. Approaching Maks’s door, I could feel my heart pounding. Given the company he kept, I worried that something terrible had happened, and if it had, I couldn’t help but wonder if I might now also be in danger.
As I was lifting my hand to knock, the door swung open and Maks started at the sight of me. “Catherine!” he said.
My breath had also caught at the sight of him, both in surprise and something else. Maks appeared to be . . . rumpled—as if he’d been wrestling with someone. I can’t quite explain it other than his shirt and his blazer seemed to have been pulled violently in a way that left the fabric wrinkled and stretched in certain spots. There was also a thin cut and a bruise above his left eye.
“Maks,” I said, my hand going reflexively to the spot on his forehead. “Are you all right?”
Maks laid his hand over mine and pulled it down to kiss it softly. “I knocked my head on the cabinet,” he said easily. “And I’m sorry I’m late. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t break free.”
My heart was still racing and I was trembling ever so slightly. Maks squeezed my hand and squinted at me. “Are you all right, dear?”
I shook my head. “I thought . . . that something terrible might’ve happened to you.”
Maks looked pained, and then I saw him glance back over his shoulder toward his open door. He turned back to me and very subtly shook his head, but then he said in an upbeat voice, “What could happen to me?”
I swallowed hard and tried to compose myself. I understood that Maks thought his office might have ears and I needed to be careful. “Um . . . well, you could’ve been hit by a bus or something.”
Maks laughed lightly. “Ah, sweet Catherine. I always look both ways before crossing the street. Now come, let’s get out of here and find a nice bar for our drink.”
I waited while he locked up his office, and took the arm he offered me before we made our way downstairs.
Pausing at the back door to the parking lot, Maks said, “Why don’t we both take our cars and drive separately? It’s more convenient not to have to come back this way, don’t you think?”
“Uh . . . okay,” I said. I thought it was an odd request;
after all, Maks did say that he’d meet me at the office and drive me over to the bar. If he’d wanted me to drive myself, he could’ve easily suggested we meet there. Still, I rolled with it and we parted in the parking lot to head to our separate cars, then I followed him to the end of Main Street to a bar called Trendy.
We got inside and I could tell the place lived up to its name. There was lots of leather and chrome, soft lighting, and the crowd was about fifteen years younger than either of us, but Maks still strolled in like he owned the place, and turned a few heads in the process.
I had to admit I quite enjoyed being on the arm of a man who was so handsome. My ex-husband was a fairly plain-looking man, but I hadn’t fallen in love with his looks; I’d fallen in love with how kind and caring he’d been to me. At least in the beginning he was. But as the years progressed, he’d focused much less on me and much more on his golf game and the pro shop he ran at the country club (and, of course, on that bartender he’d taken up with).
To be fair, however, during much of our marriage, I’d probably focused a lot less on him, and mostly on my business too, which was why it’d been particularly hurtful to learn that, just at the point when I’d made an effort to divorce myself from my business to focus more on my family, my husband had chosen to divorce his family to focus more on his business.
“Catherine?” Maks asked. And I realized I’d been lost in thoughts about my ex.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if this was to your liking?” Maks said, and I then realized that he’d led me across the bar area to a cozy booth, set in the corner with a window to look out of.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Sorry, I was a little distracted there for a minute.”
Maks and I scooted into the booth, and he said, “Long day?”
“Of sorts. But it was a pleasant surprise running into you at the gallery.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling and tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. “That was a nice chance encounter. I didn’t know you were looking for art.”
“Chez Cat could use a few pieces.” (It didn’t, but it was a good cover story.)
Maks nodded. “If you’re looking for an honest deal, might I suggest a gallery that could be a better fit for you?”
To Coach a Killer Page 12