A sword-wielding figure crouched in the shadows.
In the dim light Rodin could not determine details. Was it a man or a woman, someone he knew, or a stranger? An image from a book on Russian history filled his brain, a depiction of an ancient, saber-clutching soldier. He visualized the caption. Ready for battle stands the Cossack.
Rodin clutched the wall of the building for support. He tried to scream, but could not get air. He felt the terrible certainty of imminent death, and yet he could not believe what was happening. His mind refused to accept what he now saw—the long blade arcing through the air, the steel glinting, even in the darkness. He tried to lift his arms in defense. They seemed disconnected from his torso, useless appendages that could not follow his brain’s commands. He watched helplessly as the metal plunged forward.
The dark attacker thrust the deadly weapon into Rodin’s chest. Blood spurted in a pulsing fountain, the smell rich and metallic. Rodin sank to his knees, his chest a gaping crater filling rapidly with blood. Burbling sounds came from his lips as he felt the sword being pulled outward. A vision of the Baltic Sea, the feeling of the waves racing in and out, flitted into his mind. He had planned to take Natalia to the coast for their honeymoon.
Again Alec Rodin saw the flash of silver. Who was this fighter? How had he found Alec so quickly? The questions darted and then vanished, as light and inconsequential as clouds.
He took a shuddering breath, sensing it could be his last. He closed his eyes. Even before the swordsman made his final thrust, the one in which the saber would slice open his heart, the Russian surrendered. Not to the mysterious raider in the alley, but to his real enemy, the one who would take the killing blow.
Alec Rodin surrendered to death.
one
“Darby! You can’t imagine how good it is to see you here in New York!” Miles Porter pushed aside the door to his office and wrapped the slim woman in a tight embrace.
“Tough day?” Her words were muffled in the soft fibers of his cashmere vest. She felt the warmth of his skin and inhaled the scent of him: bayberry, mingled with a hint of something studious, like stacks of hardcover books or the shelves of a quiet library. It had been two months since she’d last hugged the handsome Brit, and she’d missed him, but there was something about Miles that felt different. A tightness in his normally fluid movements, the way his square jaw was clenched—all telltale signs of stress.
“A tough week, now that you ask,” he answered. He gave her a quick squeeze and then pulled away with an appraising grin. “Let us have a look at you, Darby Farr. Still five foot five or so, long dark hair, and slender build, I see—nothing’s changed there.”
“I feel like I’m a source in one of your investigative reports!” she said. “Want to know my weight, too? How about noting the new wrinkles around my almond-shaped eyes?”
“Where?” Miles pretended to scrutinize Darby’s oval face. He laughed. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, ruffling her glossy mane in a playful manner. “My head’s been too wrapped up in my teaching. I just finished correcting a pile of essays, including some of the worst drivel you can imagine. Some of them made me laugh out loud. And these are college students!” He shook his head. “The way I should be greeting you is to tell you how lovely you are. And that’s just what I’m going to do once we get out of here. Unless you’re too tired from your flight?”
“No. I took a nap from Chicago to Kennedy and feel fine.”
“Any problems getting here?”
“No—everything went smoothly. My flights were on time, and getting into Manhattan was a breeze. I grabbed the bus right outside of the airport and here I am.”
“I wish you’d have let me pick you up.”
“You know me, Miles. I like to do things myself.” She pulled her small suitcase into the tiny office, so crowded with stacks of books and papers that it felt barely bigger than a closet. Glancing past the tall professor, Darby saw his oak desk piled high with reports and magazines. It was pushed up against a burgundy-colored wall which held several framed diplomas. A scuffed swivel chair with a thin, tired-looking pillow on the worn seat stuck out from the desk, and a leather armchair, wedged between the desk and the wall, held Miles’s tweed jacket.
“This has to be one of the tiniest offices I’ve ever seen.” She glanced at the woodwork, which was richly stained and highly glossed, oddly formal for a room so small. The space had one high, grimy window, impossible to see out of, although it did let in light. Darby sensed more than saw the weak rays of an April afternoon sun struggling to penetrate the little room’s gloom. A jail cell, she thought. No wonder Miles is stressed out. “How did the professor before you ever manage?”
“Charles? He has a large den at his apartment, as you’ll see. My guess is he doesn’t spend any appreciable time here. But I think it’s important to hold office hours when the students can come in for a chat.” He shrugged. “Although not many of them take advantage of it. Rather shoot off an email than make a personal visit, I suppose.”
Darby’s eyes swept the accumulated clutter like the real estate pro she was when back in Southern California. Her eyes were trained to pick out telling details, no matter how disarrayed the environment. “Someone did drop by recently.”
“A most unpleasant bloke,” Miles muttered.
“No, I’m thinking one of your female students?”
Miles furrowed his brow and then nodded. “Ah, yes, you’re right. Natalia was here this morning. Natalia Kazakova. She’s a senior at the college hoping to enter the School of Journalism. She stopped by for a little chin-wag about the program. Nice girl, Russian, and a fairly decent writer. Flair for the dramatic, though, and that can get one into a muddle.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s working on a pretty hard-hitting article, and is finding it difficult to keep emotions out of the picture. That’s one of the toughest things about becoming an investigative journalist—that, and developing a healthy sense of skepticism.”
“I thought she was just an undergrad?”
“She is, but she got permission from the Dean to take my course on Investigative Techniques.” He frowned. “Oddly enough, Natalia’s appointment was followed a few hours later by an unexpected visit from her fiancé.”
“Is he a student as well?”
Miles shook his head. “No—a Russian businessman. I gather he’s at least fifteen years older than Nat. Probably here to keep tabs on her, make sure she’s not having too much American fun. I didn’t much care for him, and our conversation got a trifle heated. But the whole thing’s none of my business, now is it? I’m just here to teach my classes and then be on my merry way.”
“You say that, but I know that’s not the kind of person you are, Miles. If you didn’t like this guy—whatever he’s called—”
“Alec Rodin.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a good reason. What about Natalia? Is she in love with him?”
“Who knows? I suppose he’s a dashing sort of guy, but the only thing that I can see she’s passionate about is a career in journalism. She’s got a real talent for sniffing out stories. I think she’s got a shot at the graduate program.”
“How does her fiancé feel about her plans?”
“That was part of our argument. Alec intimated that he wasn’t going to allow her to continue further studies. Said her place is home with him in Russia.”
“That’s an archaic attitude. What kind of a relationship do they have?”
“Apparently an extremely complicated one.” Miles leaned over to kiss Darby’s cheek. “Unlike ours, which has been smooth sailing from day one.”
Darby tilted her head, knowing Miles’s comment was tongue-in-cheek. She and the investigative reporter had been navigating the choppy waters of romance for nearly a year, and it wasn’t always a straight course.
They’d met in Maine, on t
he island of Hurricane Harbor, where Darby had been summoned by her dying aunt Jane Farr to wrap up a seemingly simple real estate deal. Miles, a reporter for the Financial Times of London, was on the island to interview Jane about high-end waterfront property, and ended up interviewing Darby instead. That meeting had ignited something between them, a spark which smoldered slowly over the coming months as Miles traveled to Afghanistan for a posting with a combat unit there. Since his return, they had seen each other several times—in California and, most recently, on Hurricane Harbor—but still had not determined what shape a future together might take, or if, indeed, there was to be one.
“Let’s get out of here and talk about something more hopeful,” he continued. “Solving the energy crisis, for instance.”
“A topic on which I happen to have some excellent ideas,” she said, flicking off the light while he scooped up his jacket. She waited until he had shrugged it on before leaning over to pick up a cardboard cup from the floor beside the chair.
“Aha,” he said, pointing, “so that’s how you surmised someone had been here! The old coffee cup clue.” He grinned. “But how did you know my visitor was female?”
“Fibers from her miniskirt. They’re barely visible to the naked eye, but if you look closely …”
“What! You can’t be serious.”
She laughed and rotated the cup to show the purple lipstick stain marking its rim. “An educated guess, my dear Watson.”
Miles opened the door of the cramped office. “Remind me never to cheat on you, Darby Farr. You’re much too clever for me.”
“Exactly.” She reached over and squeezed his arm, enjoying the feeling when he wrapped it around her and pulled her close. Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of a pocket, took a glance, and shoved it back. “So where are we headed?”
“There’s a great little bar around the corner. I thought we’d stop in there for a drink—unless you’d like to go directly to the apartment.”
“A drink first sounds great.”
Miles grabbed Darby’s suitcase and they headed toward the stairs, their feet tapping on the worn wooden floors. Rounding the corner of the curving hallway, their progress was halted as two men stepped forward and blocked their path.
“Miles Porter?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Benedetti and this is Detective Ryan. We need to ask you some questions.”
Miles gave a quick glance at Darby as the speaker, a short, plump man in his late fifties, and his younger, thinner partner flashed New York City police badges.
“What is this about?”
“A Russian businessman named Alec Rodin.” Detective Benedetti held the journalist’s gaze. “Know the guy?”
Miles nodded. “Met him today. He came up here to my office—well, the office that I’m using for the academic year.”
“What time?”
“After lunch—around two p.m., I suppose. He asked me questions about a student’s class work, and then he left.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give him your business card?”
“I don’t think so.” He noticed that the quiet cop—Ryan—was taking notes. “I didn’t give him anything, but he had sorted through my things before I opened the door.”
The two detectives exchanged quick looks.
“You mean he broke into your office, Mr. Porter?”
“Not exactly. I’d gone down for coffee and a sandwich and left the door unlocked, so he didn’t have much of a challenge. Rodin was sitting in my armchair when I entered, and I could tell he’d been rifling through my papers.”
“What was he looking for?”
“Said he needed one of my student’s assignments.” Miles cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t understand why you need to know all this. What’s Rodin done? Has he harmed Natalia?”
Again the men exchanged glances. “Natalia Kazakova?” asked Ryan, his pencil poised in midair.
“Yes. She’s my student. He claims they’re engaged.”
“Ms. Kazakova is unharmed.”
Darby spoke quietly. “And Rodin?”
Detective Benedetti turned his milky eyes toward her before sliding them back to Miles.
“Rodin isn’t doing so well. He’s dead.”
“Dead? That’s not possible. I saw him only a short while ago—”
“Yes, so you said—2 p.m.” Ryan’s voice was dry. “Where did you go after Rodin left your office?”
“Nowhere—I mean, I stayed here in the building.” Miles nodded at Darby. “I was waiting for my friend’s arrival.”
“Your name?” Ryan’s pencil hovered over his pad.
“I’m Darby Farr.” She spelled her last name. “I’m visiting from Southern California.”
Miles ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe Rodin is dead. How? He was too fit for a heart attack, and you wouldn’t be here unless it was suspicious …”
“That’s correct, Mr. Porter.” Benedetti shifted his weight and thrust his hands into a rumpled jacket. “Alec Rodin was fatally stabbed about a block from here.”
“Christ.” Miles shook his head.
“Were there any witnesses?” asked Darby.
“None so far.” Benedetti frowned. “We found your business card in the deceased’s pocket, Mr. Porter.”
“He must have taken it from my desk.”
“Evidently. Can anyone confirm that you’ve been here in the building since Rodin left?”
Miles shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone else. There aren’t too many people here late in the afternoon, especially when the weather is like this.”
“I see.” The detectives shared a glance. “Thank you, Mr. Porter. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.” Detective Benedetti extended his hand and Miles shook it. “Goodbye, Miss Farr.”
“Goodbye.” The two men turned and headed down the stairs.
Miles put his hand to his head. “I can’t believe it, Darby. That man—Alec Rodin—was here only a few hours ago, and now …”
“Did he say anything out of the ordinary, Miles?”
“What do you mean? I thought it was strange that he wanted Nat’s paper.”
“Did he seem afraid? As if he was in danger?”
Miles shook his head. “No. He intimated that Natalia could be in trouble if the subject of her paper were known. His exact words were ‘she was in over her head.’ Poor girl. What a shocker.”
“Have you read her paper?”
“Yes. As soon as Alec left I read it. It’s an interview with an unnamed source about the theft of Russian palaces in St. Petersburg.”
“A historical piece?”
“No, modern day. Natalia’s source claims that the current Russian government is illegally taking possession of Imperialist buildings—vacation homes, palaces, residences—and handing them over to powerful politicians.”
“Interesting. But didn’t this kind of thing happen years ago, right after the Revolution? Why is it newsworthy now?”
“I’m not sure. Natalia’s source is an exiled royal, who claims to have all kinds of evidence against a Russian government agency.” He searched her face. “Do you still want to head on over to the pub and talk? Or would you rather go straight to the apartment now?”
“No, the pub is fine. You can tell me all about this over a drink.”
Miles held open the door. “Exactly. And you can tell me whether you think Nat’s news story is what killed her fiancé.”
_____
Three and a half miles south of Pulitzer Hall, Sergei Bokeria sat on a gray upholstered couch and observed the unfolding drama between his employer and his charge.
The bodyguard’s massive bulk dwarfed the sofa. It was as if he were sitting on a piece of furniture made for
a child, the way his torso squeezed on to the cushions. To the casual observer, he appeared relaxed. The jowls of his face draped down from prominent cheek bones as if in repose, and his watchful eyes seemed nearly closed. But the restful image was deceiving. The big man had chosen his position only meters from the penthouse door deliberately, and he was not at ease. His hands, spread on the sofa’s armrests, were tensed, and the large muscles of his powerful body were coiled and ready for action.
His gaze took in both the girl and the image of her father on the computer screen as they grappled with the news of death.
Mikhail Kazakova spoke first, his Russian resonant, deliberate.
“Natalia, I am deeply sorry. You know that Alec was like a son to me.” The businessman’s fleshy face was puckered, his brow a series of furrows. He reached up with a manicured hand as if to comfort the young woman through the screen. As if she could feel the touch, she flinched.
“Papa.” It was a quiet reproach, said as she turned away from him, closing eyes that were accented with full, dark brows. A hand went to her lips. From his perch on the couch, Sergei could see her fingers trembling.
“How did it happen?”
“He was surprised in an alley, and …” Mikhail sighed. “He was stabbed several times.”
“My God.” She looked back at her father through a long fringe of choppy bangs, streaked blonde like the rest of her hair. “Poor Alec. I can’t imagine such a frightening death.” Her voice trailed off.
“I am flying to New York as soon as possible. I will make all the arrangements.”
“Thank you.” She was quiet a moment. “Why did the police contact you and not me?”
“They couldn’t reach you, I suppose. You can ask them that when they question you, which they inevitably will.”
“But I had nothing to do with it,” she protested.
“Of course not. But it is a murder investigation, and they will talk to everyone they can think of.”
She nodded. “I guess you’re right.” She bit her bottom lip. “In a way this makes things easier.”
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 2