by Maria DiRico
Mia opened the door halfway and stuck her head inside. “Cimmanin, there you are.” She stepped inside. “I’ve been looking for you. I have a great idea for your party.”
Cimmanin put down the copy of Vogue she’d been thumbing through. “Awesome. I can’t wait to hear it.”
And I can’t wait to have it. Mia saw the wall between the conference room and the office sported a dry erase board. She grabbed a marker. “Picture this,” she vamped. She drew a giant X on the board and leaned into it. All she could hear from the conference room were murmurs.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s . . . your seating plan.” Mia added a flurry of small x’s on the lines of the big X. “The little x’s are the tables. This arrangement creates not one, but four different dance floors.” She tapped each area with her marker.
“Huh,” Cimmanin said.
“I know you’re having trouble visualizing this, so close your eyes,” Mia said, using Cimmanin’s lack of enthusiasm to her advantage. The birthday girl closed her eyes. “Imagine the party venue set up with a big X of tables. Then imagine DJ DJ spinning awesome tunes while four different sections of the room are filled with your friends dancing, having the best time of their lives. Take a minute to really see this in your mind.”
As Cimmanin did so, Mia pressed her ear to the dry erase board. “. . . Deal . . .” Felicity was saying. “. . . Land . . . best price.”
Cimmanin opened her eyes and Mia stepped back from the board. “I totally see it. And I love it.”
“Great. Now, let’s talk about centerpieces.” Mia heard the conference room door open and close. An angry Felicity Stewart Forbes marched down the hallway. Mia dropped the marker, bent over, and clutched her middle. “Oooh, my stomach,” she said, grimacing. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need a bathroom.”
“There’s one two doors down.”
Mia yanked open the office door. “I only go at home,” she called to Cimmanin as she made a run for it.
“But you live in Astoria,” Cimmanin called back.
Mia made it to the elevator and managed to jump inside with Felicity Forbes as the door was about to slam shut. If Forbes was surprised to see her, she hid it well, replacing the stormy look on her face with a big, fake smile. “Hello, there. What a coincidence.”
“Yes. A big one.”
“How is your grandmother feeling?”
“Healthy as a horse. She’s gonna live forever.” Mia couldn’t resist rubbing that in. Then she got down to business. “So, what brings you to the Kollers?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“But I asked it first.”
“I saw them at Belle View and thought I’d use that as entrée for a cold call to see if they have any real estate needs I might be able to help them with.”
“Wrong.” Mia pulled the emergency button. The elevator slammed to a stop, throwing them off-balance. She put a hand on a wall to steady herself. “Alrighty, let’s talk. I know you’re lying. Why are you really here and why did you kill that stripper?”
“What?” The agent seemed legitimately aghast. “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“Then why are you meeting with the Koller brothers? I heard the words deal and land and best price.”
Felicity narrowed her eyes. “Were you spying on me?”
“I was in the office next door and have excellent hearing. It runs in the Carina family. And think of that as ‘family’ with a capital F.”
The older woman sagged against a wall. “Curse my drive to outsell all the other loser agents. I even took up bocce ball so I could schmooze the old Italian papas. I got two sales and a marriage proposal out of it. But I had to keep pushing, pushing, pushing. And now . . .” She sighed a heavy sigh.
“I’m waiting.”
“I was doing some work for the Kollers. Help them target vulnerable sites in Astoria. Underutilized land, businesses that might be in trouble.”
“Places owned by senior citizens.”
“Oh, that has nothing to do with the Kollers; that’s my own business model. But for them, I put in a ton of hours, assembled a terrific list, made some calls. Did all the legwork. And you know what Bradley just did? Fired me. He told me they’re going with someone in Manhattan.”
Manhattan. Always the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the Queens room. “That list you put together. Is Belle View on it?”
Felicity nodded. “Number two. Right after the Triborough Correctional Facility. That site is perfect for mixed use. Belle View, though . . . I can see luxury condos with marina views, underground parking with two spots per unit, double-paned windows to cut the sound of the airport.”
Mia glared at the avaricious agent. “Stop drooling.”
“My bad.” The agent straightened up. “I don’t know anything about the murder. You have to believe me. When I heard the Kollers were coming to Belle View, I got myself invited to the fiftieth anniversary party, which wasn’t hard because that husband is a major flirt. I don’t know how that couple made it this long. My plan was to show the brothers around Belle View and really get them excited about the property.”
“And sell it right out from under us.”
“I’d be doing you a favor. You know Belle View’s a money pit.”
“But it’s our money pit. And it’s gonna stay that way. Capisce?”
Felicity looked nervous. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”
Mia knew an exit moment when she saw one and pushed an elevator button. Nothing happened.
“You pressed the emergency button before,” Felicity pointed out.
“I know. But I figured if I pressed a floor button, it would go again,” Mia said, pressing button after button.
“They don’t work that way. Press the red button, the one that’s blinking, to get help.”
Mia, embarrassed, did so. A voice came over a loudspeaker. “There you are. We’ve been trying to reach you. Do you have an emergency?”
“We did, but we’re okay now,” Mia said into the intercom. “We just need to get out of here.”
“We’ll get right on that.”
* * *
An hour later, Mia and Forbes were freed. The real estate agent was so eager to escape Mia’s company that she gave her four-inch spike heels a workout running in the opposite direction. Mia took in big gulps of air, a relief after the torture of managing her claustrophobia for the last hour. She pulled out the napkin with Sofeea’s address, turned it over, and drew a diagram of Cimmanin’s table setup. It was a good idea, whether she came up with it accidentally or not, and Mia didn’t want to forget it. Then she walked to the Number 1 train on the West Side.
As she rode uptown on the Broadway local, she ran through the events of her time spent in and around Koller Properties. She didn’t hate Cimmanin; in fact, she liked her, and working on her party might prove to be fun. But there was something hinky about the Koller world. Or maybe that was the New York real estate development world in general. The construction industry was known to be mobbed up. On any given project in the city—all five boroughs—you couldn’t swing a dead stool pigeon without hitting someone who was an “associate” of one Family or another. But so far, when it came to recent events on her own home front, she saw no evidence of a deal so treacherous it might lead to murder.
The subway rattled into the 86th Street station and Mia disembarked. She scampered up the steps and onto Broadway. Despite the nip in the air, the trees in the median boasted tiny, hopeful leaves. A few elderly citizens and their caregivers were seated on benches, bundled up, but welcoming the hint of a season change. Mia headed up the wide boulevard and made a left onto 87th Street. She checked the street numbers as she walked. Like all odd numbers in Manhattan, 641 West 87th Street was on the north side of the street, at the end of the block. It was a respectable dowager of a pre-war building, typical of the area but lacking the doorman that came with its fancier neighbors. Mia entered the vestibule and scanned the directory until she fo
und Sofeea’s intercom number. She entered the code and it rang. “Tomas?” a woman’s voice said. “You’re early.”
“This isn’t Tomas. It’s Mia Carina of Belle View Banquet Manor. Where your roommate, Angie . . . expired. My father, Ravello Carina, asked me to stop by and express my condolences in person.” Mia considered the irony of how she’d avoided trading in on any connection to her connected family for years, yet now she tossed out her father’s name like a practiced nepotist.
“I have a break in my schedule. I’ll buzz you in.”
A loud buzz startled Mia. She pulled the interior door open and stepped into the building’s lobby, a study in the kind of New York faded elegance that belied four-to-five-digit rents. She got on the elevator, relieved it only went up ten stories. After her Koller elevator adventure, the less time she spent in one, the better. When she got off, she found herself right in front of Sofeea’s apartment. She buzzed, and after a minute the door was opened by a drop-dead gorgeous redhead with perfect height, perfect features, and a perfect figure. She introduced herself with a perfectly dimpled smile. “Hi, I’m Sofeea. Come in.”
Mia stepped into the apartment living room. Sofeea, the renter—or owner, if the building was a condo or co-op—might be a perfect beauty, but she had nothing on the view, which was breathtaking. Below lay Riverside Park, in all its newborn green glory. Beyond the park was the majestic Hudson River. As if on cue, a sloop floated by, then a darling tugboat. New Jersey hugged the other side of the river’s shore. “What a view,” Mia said. “You must get some amazing sunsets.”
“I do. It’s almost worth the rent.”
Mia gave a polite laugh. She took in the room’s odd arrangement. The entryway had been transformed into an ersatz office. A door that didn’t look original to the apartment could be closed to separate the office from the large living room which, in addition to a couch and coffee table, featured a large bed and a swinging cocoon chair suspended from the ceiling. “Is this a studio apartment?”
“Oh no. It’s a three-bedroom.”
Mia choked. “A three-bedroom in Manhattan? On the Upper West Side? I don’t want to think about what that costs.”
“It’s not easy but I manage. Here, let’s sit down.”
They entered the living room. Mia took a seat on the couch. Sofeea folded herself into the cocoon chair, gently swinging back and forth. The cell phone in her hand lit up, indicating a call or a text. Sofeea ignored it.
“My dad and I wanted to say how sorry we are for your loss,” Mia began.
“That’s very nice, but not really necessary. Angie and I weren’t very close, and she only lived here about a month. We were acquaintances in high school—we’re from Ohio—and she needed a place to live when she moved to New York. She wanted to be a tattoo artist, the kind who celebrities go to, but she wasn’t that good. Instead, she drifted around and was having trouble coming up with the rent. I was pretty much over her. But,” she hastened to add, “please tell your father how grateful I am for his concern.”
“I will. It was so awful how she died. Being murdered and all. I’m sure the police have talked to you.”
“Yes. Two officers from Queens. One seemed like a moron, the other kept dozing off.”
Pete and Ryan. “I bet they poked around all over the place.” Mia affected an annoyed attitude.
“They wanted to,” Sofeea said with a sly smile, “but I made sure my lawyer was here to restrict their search to what was approved in the warrant, which was Angie’s bedroom. Well, the one where she was crashing.”
“Do you know if they found anything?” Mia asked, replacing annoyance with a gossipy tone.
“If they did, they didn’t tell me. I’m guessing there wasn’t much to find. Angie basically showed up with a carry-on suitcase. And it’s not like she had the money to accumulate stuff once she was here. Except for what she could mooch off me.” For a brief second, Sofeea’s sophisticated demeanor cracked and she sounded peeved.
“Uh-huh,” Mia said. She was distracted by the redhead’s phone, which kept blinking on and off. Who was that insistent on connecting with her? “I’m sorry, but I’m really thirsty. Would you mind getting me some water?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Sofeea gracefully unfolded herself from the swinging cocoon chair. She put her phone down on the coffee table and left for the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, Mia grabbed the phone. She pressed a button. The screen lit up with messages from half a dozen men. That screen disappeared, replaced by one requesting a passcode. Mia put the phone down, careful to position it the way Sofeea had left it. A door opened, and the beautiful woman glided back into the room. Mia wondered if she’d been a dancer in a former life.
Sofeea handed her a glass with a minute amount of water. She checked her smart watch. “I hate to rush you, but I have a client due any minute.”
“Of course.” Mia downed the water. “You’re in public relations, right? I’d like to talk to you about that when you have time. I was thinking we could use a campaign for Belle View. Put the fact it’s under new ownership to use for some publicity.”
Sofeea seemed uncomfortable. “The thing is, I don’t handle businesses. I’m a personal publicist. I work one-on-one with individual clients.”
“Ah, got it.” Mia handed back her empty glass. “Thanks for the water. And again, you have our sympathies.”
Sofeea let Mia out and watched her get on the elevator. As Mia waved good-bye, the other woman closed her apartment door. Mia pressed the button for the ninth floor. When the elevator stopped, she darted out. She ran down the hall to the building’s emergency stairway and bounded up the steps back to the tenth floor. Mia positioned herself at a bend in the hallway that allowed her to observe the entrance to Sofeea’s apartment while remaining hidden from its occupant. The elevator opened, and a middle-aged man emerged, accompanied by a flashy-looking blonde. They rang Sofeea’s bell, then disappeared into the apartment.
Mia watched the same scenario repeatedly play out for the next two hours. Hard-looking young women and a range of men coming and going on the hour and half hour—sometimes on the quarter hour, confirming the suspicion Mia had from the moment she met Sofeea. She thought about the package descriptions on her public relations website: “Newbie,” “Middle of the Road,” “Flying High.” All worked as innuendos for sexual activities.
Sofeea Sloan wasn’t just Angie’s roommate. She was her madam.
Chapter Fourteen
At five P.M., the flow of visitors to Sofeea’s apartment abruptly stopped. Banker’s hours, Mia thought wryly. She shook out some of the body cramps she’d gotten from being on alert for a couple of hours, then strode to the phony publicist’s door and rapped on it.
“We’re closed,” the woman called from within.
“I think you’re gonna want to talk to me, Sofeea,” Mia called back. The ominous note in her voice worked. The door opened. Mia didn’t wait for an invitation to enter the apartment. “I know what’s going on here.”
“I have no idea what you think is ‘going on here,’ but whatever it is, you’re wrong.” Sofeea was defiant. “I happen to be an extremely hardworking, independent businesswoman.”
“No argument there. But all that hard work isn’t going into public relations. Relations, yes. But the private kind, not the public. No wonder there’s a bed in the living room.” Mia pointed to the cocoon chair with distaste. “And God knows what goes on in that thing. I’m just relieved I didn’t sit in it.”
“I-you-I—” Sofeea sputtered.
“Let’s call this place what it is. A bordello. And let’s call you what you are. A madam.”
Mia planted her fists on her hips and stared down Sofeea, who did the same. There was a standoff, then Sofeea caved. “Okay, fine. I’m a madam. What do you care? Oh, I get it. You want a piece of my business for your father.”
“What? Absolutely not!” Now Mia was angry. “My father may have done some not great things, but he’s no frig
ging pimp. I care because your business may have led to Angie’s murder.”
Sofeea’s expression changed from combative to scared. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Let’s sit down.”
The madam gestured to the couch. Mia held up her hands. “I’m not sitting anywhere in this apartment unless you put down paper first.”
“Fine. Luckily, I still get the print edition of the Times. A lot of my clients are old school that way.”
Sofeea grabbed a copy of the New York Times and spread the front section on the couch. Mia sat down on the paper while Sofeea pulled over a side chair. “You know that dark website called Meet Your Match?” Mia asked. “Spelled with an extra e?”
“Maybe.”
“Which is a yes. And I assume your ‘business’ links to it.”
“Maybe.”
“Another yes. You need to hustle a lot of clients to pay the rent on this place. Back to what I think happened. A typo led my dad to the site, Angie responded, but when he realized who she was, he ended the call. But she knew who he was and worked it. If we had her computer, I bet we’d find a search for him.”
“She didn’t have a computer. She paid me by the hour to use mine.”
This was an unexpected break. “Which you never told the police because they would have confiscated it as evidence.”
“Yes.”
Now Mia was excited. “Fire up that baby. Let’s see if I’m right.”
The women got up and went to Sofeea’s office area. She sat down at the computer. Mia stood behind her. “It takes a while to log on, I have a lot of security.”
“I bet.”
While Sofeea typed, Mia entertained herself by taking a subtle scan of the madam’s work area. A couple of personal photos were placed on the highest shelf above the built-in desk. Some featured kids, most likely nieces and nephews, or the children of friends. Only one photo included Sofeea. She and a man had their arms around each other’s waists. The man looked familiar. Could it be? Mia wondered. She positioned herself to get a better look at the photo and confirmed the man’s identity. He was none other than Bradley Koller.