“Didn’t Sam’s people see who took your car?”
“No. They were too busy following me to my contact’s location. It was probably one of Basayev’s people anyway. Somehow they discovered that I’d gone somewhere and they took my car to teach me a lesson.”
“The murderer used it when he killed Sutton.”
“I believe so, yes.”
I took all of what he was saying in, and a shudder traveled up my spine. This cloak and dagger stuff was seriously scary. It took me a moment to work up the courage to ask my next question. “Now that you’ve been given an alibi, will Basayev try to kill you?”
“He might,” Maks said.
I stared at him in shock, and felt tears sting my eyes. “I don’t want you to die,” I whispered.
Maks reached up to cup my chin. “Then I’ll try to avoid it. But another reason I’m here, Catherine, is because this is getting too risky to continue to include you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to have to find another way to get Sam what he needs. I’m not going to put you in the middle anymore. It’s too dangerous.”
My heart began to pound. On the one hand I felt like I was being dumped, but on the other hand, I felt relieved not to have to insert myself into the middle of an undercover sting to catch a ruthless and deadly mafia kingpin. “So, we’re not going to see each other anymore?” I asked, hating the squeak that snuck into my voice.
“No, my sweet. At least, not for a little while.”
I swallowed hard and fought back the tears, which were so stupid anyway. I mean, Maks and I weren’t in love, and we’d only gone out, what? Two and a half times? It was ridiculous to get emotional over this new development, and yet, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.
Maks looked at me with such sympathy, and he gently wiped away the tears with his thumb. “I’m so sorry,” he said, then pulled me to him and held me close. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
I shook my head. “You haven’t. A lot of this is simply that I’m worried for you.”
“I’m a little worried for me too,” he admitted.
And that did nothing to ease my anxiety. Then I thought of Shepherd, and how he wasn’t going to let Maks go so easily. “Maks?” I said.
“Yes?”
“I need to ask you something. It’s really important, and I need an honest answer.”
Maks pulled his chin down to look at me intently. “If I can answer it, I will.”
I nodded. I understood he was bound by some sort of oath or code to keep certain things top secret. “Did Boris order the hit on Lenny Shepherd?”
Maks hesitated a moment before he answered. “You genuinely like Shepherd, don’t you?”
“I honestly do.” Maks wasn’t the only one putting all his cards on the table.
Maks sighed, and there was perhaps a wee note of disappointment in the sound. “I don’t know, Catherine. And that’s the truth. I don’t know if Boris ordered the hit or not. He’s never told me, but I do know that he benefitted from her murder—significantly—if that helps.”
I breathed out the breath I’d been holding. I’d been afraid that Maks was keeping that secret from me. “It does, thank you,” I said, even though it really didn’t.
I wished I could’ve taken something to Shepherd, some token or peace offering to show him that I really did have his best interests at heart, but now, with this confession from Maks, I was still back at square one.
I reached out and took Maks’s hand. “Do we really have to avoid each other from now on?”
He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “Do as you normally would, my sweet. I’ll be the one who will make himself scarce.”
“But how will I know if something happens to you?”
Maks smiled sadly. “I’ve already made it clear to Sam that, should anything happen to me, he’s to let you know, so that you don’t think I’ve simply abandoned you.”
“So, all we get is tonight?”
Maks kissed my knuckles again. “All we have is the next hour,” he said. “I’ll have to go soon.”
My gaze lingered on his face for a long time. I wanted to imprint this night and his physical presence in a way that would make it seem like it was only yesterday, no matter how far from now I tried to recall it. And then, when I felt like I’d sealed the memory and all its details into my mind, I moved over to lay on top of him. “If we only have an hour, let’s at least make the best of it.”
And we did.
* * *
The next morning Gilley popped over for coffee . . . uninvited. “Goooood morning, sugar!” he sang, waltzing into my kitchen like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. And then he took one look at me and said, “Ohmigod! What happened?”
I was so alarmed I craned my neck to look over my shoulder. “What?” I said.
“No, Cat,” Gilley said, calling my attention back to him. “What happened to you?”
Self-consciously I put a hand to my hair and realized I must look a mess, what with all the early morning . . . gymnastics. “Why? I’m fine,” I said lamely.
Gilley’s left eyebrow arched. “I’d say you were more than fine.... So, who was it?”
“Who was what?” I asked. I kind of knew exactly what Gilley was getting at; however, I was also trying to stall and come up with a reasonable explanation for why I looked like a rumpled, tired, hot mess with a healthy afterglow.
Gilley propped his elbows onto my kitchen island. “Come on, Cat. Dish!”
“There’s nothing to dish,” I said mildly, then picked up the carafe of French pressed. “Coffee?”
Gilley moved to my cupboard and took down a mug. “I’d love a cup. And the truth.”
I sighed. “Fine. It was Maks.”
Gilley clapped his hands together. “I knew it!”
I rolled my eyes. “It was no big deal.”
Gilley snorted out a dismissive sound. “Yeah, right.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It so was. Even if you don’t want to admit it. So tell me . . . how was your first time back on that horse since . . . what? You and Tom got divorced two years ago, so . . .”
“Three years,” I said.
“Yikes! My God, Cat, I think I’d explode.”
“You’d be fine,” I told him, feeling embarrassed and exposed but trying also to appear like it was no big deal.
“No,” Gil insisted. “I’d explode.”
“Fine. You’d explode. The point is that I didn’t, and everything is fine.”
My eyes misted and my voice cracked. I turned away from Gil and pretended to wipe down the island.
“Oh, my,” Gilley said, setting his mug down and hurrying over to hug me around the waist. “Was he mean to you, or something?”
I shook my head. “No. He was the exact opposite of that. He was courteous, honest, kind, and . . . shall we say, generous where it counted.”
“Sounds amazing. But if it was so great, why are you crying? Don’t you want to see him again?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I do. But things are super complicated between us and Maks has a great deal of work coming up, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other. As often. We won’t be seeing each other as often. . . .”
I stopped because my voice hitched. I turned away from Gilley and wiped the tears away from my eyes. I was simply so worried about him. I didn’t know how he’d get more information to Sam without my help. And without my help, I worried that the next method would be far riskier to Maks.
Gilley wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Sugar,” he said with sympathy, and added a small tisk. “I had no idea your feelings for Maks were so strong.”
“I just don’t want to see him get hurt,” I blurted out before I had a chance to catch myself.
Gilley’s eyes narrowed. “Hurt? You mean, emotionally or physically?”
I shook my head. I was done lying to Gilley, so I settled for something in the middle. “Eith
er.”
Gilley left my side and retreated to a bar stool at the island. I wiped my eyes and turned to look at him, and was surprised to find him looking cross. “What?” I asked.
Gilley shook his head. “I wish you’d be straight with me.”
“How am I not being straight with you?”
“You don’t want Maks physically hurt? That says he’s in over his head. And by that I don’t mean he’s in over his head emotionally with you. But I can’t help you or him without knowing the full scoop. It’s up to you if you want to tell me, or keep it to yourself, but I think that together we can figure something out. Just sayin’.”
I drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it out. Gilley was right. “Maks is an informant,” I whispered. “He’s been providing information about Basayev to the FBI.”
“Duh,” Gil replied.
I came over to the island and sat down next to Gilley. “Maks was also set up to take the fall for Sutton’s murder.”
“Double duh.”
I sighed. “Okay, how about you tell me what you don’t know.”
“I don’t know how we should help him. Or Shepherd. But I do know that, if we could prove that Basayev murdered Lenny, it might speed things along for both men and keep them out of danger, don’t you think?”
My eyes widened. “Ohmigod, Gilley!” I said. “That’s it!”
Gilley took a demure sip of his coffee. “This ain’t my first rodeo, sugar. Or my first murder.”
I was too busy following the thread to reply to Gilley’s sharp reasoning. Instead, I laid out the case for making the case. “If we can provide proof to the FBI that Basayev ordered the hit on Lenny to provide Jason and his husband a cheap space to live here in the Hamptons while they laundered money through the gallery, then both the FBI and the E.H.P.D. will have to work together, which gives more security to both Maks and Shepherd.”
“The question is how do we prove it without drawing the attention of a very dangerous mafia boss?” Gilley said.
“Yes. That is the conundrum. But I think I have a way to work the back channels and at least give Shepherd a direct line to follow.”
“You’re talking about Chanel, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And we’ve got to speak to her.”
Gilley whipped out his phone and checked the time. “Nine-seventeen. The realty office where she works should be open.” He placed a call and I waited anxiously while he tapped his finger on the countertop, but then he sat up straighter and said, “Well, hello, Freesia, it is a lovely day! I’m the personal assistant to someone who’s interested in seeing some listings, and I was looking at your company’s Web site for a good agent to match for my employer’s . . . shall we say, aesthetic. . . .” Gilley dropped his voice and added, “She likes pretty people, you know? You know.
“Anytoodlehoo, I happened upon the gorgeous photo of one C.J. Downey and—what’s that? Oh, I did not know she was a former model!” Gilley chuckled like he and Freesia were best chums. “But I can see how she would’ve been. That girl is stunning, and I think she’d be a good fit for my employer, who just can’t be seen with any uggos, you feel me?”
I rolled my eyes and glared at Gilley. He was laying it on pretty thick here, and painting me up to be a shallow snob. He ignored me and continued his conversation with Freesia. “So is it possible for you to set us up with an appointment with C.J.? Or do we need to contact her directly?”
I was now tapping my finger on the countertop, waiting to hear what Freesia said.
“You can set up the appointment? Perfection! What’s that? She goes by Chanel not C.J.? Got it. Okay, so we’re free this afternoon—could Chanel make that work? If she can’t, there is another Realtor from Saunders and Associates—what’s that? You can definitely make that work? Wonderful! Okay, pencil us in for one o’clock. And make a note that we’ll want to see listings in the fifteen- to twenty-million range.”
Gilley gave me the thumbs-up. I nodded enthusiastically. “Hmmm?” Gil said next. “The name? Ha! Oh, yes, I forgot. It’s Gillespie, first name Catherine, and I’m Gilley. Yes. We’ll see you soon. Ta-ta!”
After he hung up I said, “Why’d you combine our names?”
“I don’t want it getting back to either Shepherd or Max that Catherine Cooper is sticking her nose into Lenny’s murder case by interviewing her ex-partner. And, your name is more well-known than mine, so combining it just seemed like the thing to do. Plus, we don’t need Chanel looking up Catherine Cooper on social media and realizing that it’s the same Catherine Cooper who was almost murdered by the Angel of Death.”
I pointed at Gil. “Good thinking.” But then I had another thought. “What if Chanel tries to look me up on social media and can’t find a Catherine Gillespie?”
Gilley reached over the island to where my laptop was resting. Pulling it to him, he lifted the lid, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Leave it to me.”
* * *
At one o’clock Gilley and I strolled into the real estate offices of Bennett and Bennett. We were both dressed to kill. Gilley in a slick black suit with tan shoes and a bow tie, and me—sans shades this time—in a cream knit sweater, with a big (faux) fur-lined cowl neck, and matching suede pants with cocoa leather boots. Oh, and I’d also brought out the big guns—my dusky rose-pink Hermès Birkin was dangling off one elbow, which helped position to eye level the four-carat pink sapphire ring crested in diamonds that Tom had given me on our fourteenth wedding anniversary.
We looked the part.
“Hello,” Gilley said, walking right up to the receptionist. I guessed she was the Freesia he’d been talking to earlier.
“Hello, and welcome to Bennett and Bennett,” she said warmly. “You must be Gilley.”
Gilley smiled and dipped his chin, clearly pleased that she was savvy enough to greet him so personally. “In the flesh,” he said. “And you must be Freesia?”
“Yes I am,” she said, offering her hand over the countertop. She then came around to the lobby and pointed to a door. “Mr. Gilley, Ms. Gillespie, won’t you please follow me to Chanel’s office?”
We followed Freesia down a wide, carpet-lined corridor, passing various artworks lining the walls. I took note that all of the art featured the same subject, a house, but the styles of the different artists were quite varied. The effect was subtle, but nice; home was interpreted as something different by everyone, yet made of the same, somewhat basic, structure. This agency clearly had its act together, and paid attention to the details.
I’d think about using them in the future if I was ever inclined to purchase another piece of property here in the Hamptons.
Around a corner at the end of the corridor was a small office, its door open. Sitting behind a desk was a lovely-looking woman with red hair, full lips, and the lithe figure of a ballerina or a model. She stood as we approached and I liked her style. She was dressed simply, in a blue dress with white crisscross, pencil-thin lines. The dress was very retro, but the rest of her, from her hair to her subtle makeup, was chic and modern. She was a gorgeous creature, and there was a moment where I was glad that I’d dressed up a bit.
“Chanel,” Freesia said when she reached the doorway. “This is Mr. Gilley and Ms. Gillespie. Your one o’clock.”
Chanel smiled, but there was something about it that didn’t quite touch her eyes. And that’s when I noticed that her hands were plastered to her sides.
I’d once had an assistant who was terrified of me. Okay, so most of my assistants had lived in some kind of fear of me, but the one that Chanel reminded me of was a young girl in her early twenties who was terrified of most things.
I’d learned late in her employment with me that a few years earlier, she’d been asleep in her apartment when she woke up to find a man on top of her, attempting to rape her. She’d managed to fight him off, flee the apartment and seek help, but she’d confessed to my office manager that it’d left her with a pretty good case of PTSD.
She used to plant her h
ands at her sides whenever she was on the verge of a panic attack, and it was because I’d had that experience with her that I understood that Chanel was inwardly fighting a terrible battle.
Of course it didn’t help that Freesia was standing in the doorway with narrowed eyes and the flat-lipped frown of the judgmental. I had no doubt Freesia was the little spy in this agency and would report any misstep by Chanel to one or both of the Bennetts. It made me rethink my earlier approval of the agency.
So, I lowered the Birkin and walked into Chanel’s office to look around at the simple but elegant work space that Chanel had created for herself. “This is lovely,” I said gently. And then I made eye contact with Freesia, whose own eyes had widened slightly, and I nodded to her in a way that told her I approved of Chanel.
Freesia bowed ever so slightly and turned away. I waited until she was a few feet down the hallway before turning back to Chanel. “Hello, Chanel, I’m Catherine. Most of my friends call me Cat, but you may address me any way that feels comfortable to you.”
Chanel blinked, as if she hadn’t been expecting anything but major attitude from me. It took her a moment to even acknowledge that I’d spoken.
I filled the awkward silence by waving toward the two guest chairs in front of her desk. “Would it be all right if we sat down?”
“Y-y-yes,” she stammered. “Of course. Please sit.”
Gilley had taken the cue from me and he moved to the chair, sitting down in a relaxed manner while he also looked about and nodded.
As I sat down I saw Chanel’s hands come away from her dress, and there was a slight easing of her shoulders. She sat down too. “May I . . . may I offer you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine,” I told her. “But thank you.” Gilley nodded, indicating he was also fine.
Chanel’s fingers fluttered on the desktop. She didn’t seem to quite know what to do with them. “Freesia said you were looking for a new home,” she began.
“I am,” I said.
“And are you also looking to list?”
“No.”
Chanel pulled the keyboard to her computer close. “Can you describe to me your ideal home, Ms. . . . Cat . . . therine?”
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