Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  Mikhail Kazakova pursed his lips. “Alec’s death? What are you talking about?”

  “It solves a problem.”

  “You’re spouting nonsense. I should think you’d realize that the murder of your fiancé creates all sorts of problems, starting with cancelling the wedding.”

  “Please Papa, don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I wasn’t happy.” She rose from the mahogany table where she was sitting and went to one of the large windows overlooking Manhattan. Raising her voice, she said clearly, “Alec’s death means I’m released from my obligation.”

  “You say it so distastefully!”

  “That’s because I didn’t want to marry Alec! I never wanted to be his wife. I don’t want to go back to Russia. It was something you arranged.”

  “He would have been a good husband,” he said woodenly.

  “In what way? Because he was wealthy? I don’t need his money, or anyone else’s for that matter—you know that.”

  “He was a handsome, intelligent man, well-connected …”

  “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? You liked him for his connections and what they could bring you.”

  “I can’t believe you are speaking to me like this.”

  “Why, because I’m telling the truth? The only reason you arranged my marriage to Alec Rodin was because of what the situation could do for you. You must have known that I didn’t love him.”

  “You’re too young to know what is good for you.”

  “But not too young to be married off to someone with ties to the FSB!”

  “That’s ludicrous!” On the computer screen, Mikhail’s face was crimson.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes! Alec was a real estate developer, for God’s sake, not some ex-KGB. Honestly, Natalia, your imagination is too vivid.”

  “That’s not what Alec said.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that he knew I was right! He didn’t deny it. He was involved in the FSB, and for all we know, they’re the ones who killed him.”

  “Natalia!” I insist that you stop talking like this. Those studies of yours are warping your mind. You have no idea what you are talking about.”

  The young woman spun around, practically hurling herself at the computer. “That’s just the problem, Papa. I know exactly what I am talking about! At least Alec recognized that. I don’t know the extent of it, but it’s big. Theft of property, money laundering—our new secret service has their fingers in all the pies. People like you refuse to see it, because you don’t want to know. You want your private jets, your dachas and designer suits—”

  “And apartments in Manhattan?” His voice was dry. “You seem to forget who bought you your place, Natalia, all six thousand, three hundred and forty-five square feet of it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She gestured toward the windows that revealed the jewel of Manhattan—Central Park—in all its sprawling beauty. “How can I? It’s exquisite, Papa, and you know how much I love living here. But I don’t need something so opulent or so large. I don’t need ten bedrooms!”

  “We have been over this before, Natalia. The penthouse is an investment. And having the extra room means I can visit you whenever I can leave Moscow.”

  Natalia nodded. “I suppose that since I’m going to stay here …”

  “Stay in New York? Tell me you’re not still thinking about this ridiculous degree?” On the computer screen, his face was pinched and red. “Your fiancé is not even buried and you are making your plans? Honestly, Natalia, your lack of emotion worries me. Your mother would be appalled.”

  She bit her lip but said nothing. On the screen her father shook a finger. “I’m leaving now to finalize arrangements for Alec’s body. He will need to be flown back to Moscow for a funeral. You like to write stories? Start coming up with one that explains why you will not be there.”

  Mikhail Kazakova’s image disappeared. A few moments passed before Natalia turned to the massive man seated on the couch.

  “I did care for Alec,” she said, after a few moments of silence. “You know that, Sergei, don’t you? Whether he was FSB or not, I cared for him. But I didn’t want to marry him.” She wiped her eyes.

  Sergei rose fluidly to his feet, more gracefully than one would expect for such a large man, and offered Natalia a tissue.

  “Why is it my father can never see the truth?” She dabbed her tear-streaked face with the tissue.

  Words were not needed, so Sergei said nothing. Instead he pictured Alec Rodin—dead, his body lying lifeless and cold in the morgue. Whether he’d been a part of the organization Natalia described or not didn’t matter, nor did Mikhail’s schemes or dreams.

  Sergei wanted to feel relief that Natalia’s doomed engagement was over, and yet he felt vague discomfort instead. He glanced at the penthouse door as a saying of his grandmother’s came back to him in a rush: Beda ne prikhodit odna.

  Trouble never comes alone.

  two

  The tea kettle whistled and Peggy Babson poured herself a cup of steaming water. She added a tea bag from a little plaid box and stirred in a packet of artificial sweetener. From a cabinet she pulled a flowered porcelain plate and placed two gingersnaps upon it. Before closing the box, she took one more. When the cabinet doors were closed, she kicked off her pink leather ballet flats, moved two piles of newspapers, and settled down in the converted porch with a new fashion magazine to enjoy the last of the afternoon sun.

  A knock on the door interrupted the quiet and startled her boxer, Pete. His yapping was insistent, high-pitched, and annoying—probably why he had been at the shelter in the first place. “Sshh!” Peggy admonished, shushing Pete’s growling as she went to the entryway and peered out the peephole.

  Two men stood on the stoop, looking slightly bored.

  Cops, thought Peggy, her pulse beating a little faster. She watched quite a lot of crime shows, especially the ones featuring psychics, and knew what police detectives looked like. This section of the Rockaways wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where she had to demand to see identification, but she opened the door just a crack all the same.

  “Ms. Peggy Babson? I’m Detective Benedetti, and this is Detective Ryan. May we come in?”

  She glanced at their badges, proud at having divined their professions correctly. I really am quite gifted, she thought.

  “Of course.” She led the two men—a short, stocky one and his taller, more youthful companion—through the living room, explaining away the piles as best she could. “I’m doing some organizing,” she said, moving a stack of newspapers from the porch’s worn couch. “What is all this about?”

  “We’ll get to that in a moment.” The heavier one was clearly in charge. “We have a few questions to ask you, Ms. Babson. Will that be okay?”

  “Sure. Ask away.”

  “Fine. Now, you work in the city, correct?”

  “Yes. Columbia School of Journalism. My office is in Pulitzer Hall.”

  “I see. Were you at work today?”

  “Of course. In fact, I just got home.”

  The men glanced at each other.

  “I did some shopping on the way,” Peggy said quickly. “There’s a small supermarket right by the train station. Buy one get one free on Thursdays, and it’s not one of those giant ones where you spend all your time hunting for things.”

  “I see.” Detective Benedetti nodded and looked at his watch. “Ms. Babson, what time did you leave work today?”

  She gave a guilty glance downward. “I usually leave at four-thirty, but it was such a nice afternoon that I skipped out a little early.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Umm … close to three I think? But that isn’t something I do very often …”

  “We understand. Now,
Ms. Babson, did you see or hear anything unusual while you were in your office or leaving the building?”

  She shook her head. “It was very quiet. That’s why I figured it was okay to go home.”

  “Did you see anyone coming into or leaving the building?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see anyone at all the whole afternoon?”

  “Well—yes, there was a man with a heavy accent. He was in talking to Professor Porter, and I saw him going down the stairs.”

  “What kind of an accent?”

  “I’m no expert on languages or anything, but it sounded Eastern European.”

  “I see. So you saw him from your office?”

  “No, I was coming out of the ladies’ room and I heard his feet on the stairs. I looked over the railing and saw the back of his head as he left the building.”

  “What was he doing in Pulitzer Hall?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Professor Porter.”

  “Miles Porter?”

  “That’s right.” She felt her cheeks flush just thinking of him. “It’s warm in here! Let me open a window …”

  Peggy Babson shoved aside a few cardboard boxes that were in front of the window, pushed up on the sash, and glanced toward the detectives. Was the younger guy smirking a little? She pretended not to notice. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling us that you heard Miles Porter speaking with this man,” prompted Detective Benedetti.

  “Yes. It sounded as if they were arguing, although I’m not sure what it was about.”

  “Did you hear anything at all? It’s very important.”

  She thought back. “I heard Professor Porter tell him to stay away from someone, and then I heard the man laugh.”

  “Anything else?”

  She bit her lip. “Miles Porter said something else to the man and he laughed again. A minute or so later I came out of the restroom and saw him leaving.”

  Detective Benedetti tilted his head. “Would you say Miles Porter was threatening the man? What exactly did he say?”

  Peggy Babson looked out the window. A fat robin was on a little patch of soggy grass, searching for a worm. Her parents, when they’d lived in this house, had kept birdfeeders full to the brim in the backyard, but Peggy didn’t have time to keep all of them up. She swallowed and looked into the cloudy eyes of Detective Benedetti. “I don’t know.”

  She saw them glance at each other as they rose from their chairs, heard them explain that the strange man she’d seen descending the stairs was now dead, stabbed in an alley off Broadway.

  “Dead?” She shook her head, feeling her heart rate pick up a few beats. “Seems impossible.”

  “Call us if you think of anything else?” Benedetti said, handing her his card.

  She promised she would.

  But as Peggy Babson watched the detectives open the doors of a compact car and drive slowly down the street, she could scarcely concentrate on the words they’d uttered. She locked her front door with a distracted motion and smoothed the folds of her skirt. There was one image in her mind as she headed toward the kitchen where she’d pour herself a small Chardonnay and fix a plate of cheese and crackers.

  Professor Miles Porter and his killer good looks.

  _____

  The bar was called Pomegranate, and although it was rapidly filling up with the after-work crowd, Miles managed to find a quiet table where he and Darby could sit down and talk.

  “We won’t stay long, love,” he said, ordering them each a drink. “We have dinner reservations at a little place that I think you’ll love. Hope you’re hungry.”

  Darby thought back to the last time she’d eaten. “I’m looking forward to dinner, put it that way. But I’m dying to hear about Natalia’s story. It must have had something to do with Alec Rodin’s death.”

  “He seemed genuinely concerned for her safety, I’ll admit. Maybe I should have given him the bloody thing.”

  “Given the timing, it doesn’t seem as if it would have helped.”

  Their drinks arrived and Miles paid the tab. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his drink to Darby’s.

  She tasted the cocktail and shook her head appreciatively. “A perfect Manhattan—whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.”

  “That’s right.” He sat back and watched, waiting for her to say more.

  “What?”

  “You know.” Miles gave a teasing smile.

  “Know what?”

  “Come on, do your amazing thing and tell me what kind of whiskey is in the drink. Or the age of the vermouth.”

  Darby couldn’t help but laugh. On several occasions when she and Miles had been together, she’d demonstrated her exceptional palate memory, a unique gift that enabled the young woman to identify many tastes and scents with uncanny accuracy.

  “It’s not a parlor trick, Miles.” She took another sip of the cocktail.

  “I know.” He sounded contrite. “You can only recognize what you’ve actually tasted in the past, right? And I take it rye isn’t one of them?”

  Darby held back a grin. The disappointment in his voice made her think of a small child denied a favorite candy. She looked into his earnest face.

  “True, I’ve never tasted rye whiskey. But this drink is made with Kentucky bourbon, and that I actually have sampled.”

  “Aha!” He gave a triumphant smile and then frowned. “But I thought a Manhattan was made with rye?”

  “If I tell you the history of this cocktail, will you tell me about Natalia’s paper?” Her brown eyes twinkled in the bar’s low light.

  He nodded. “It’s a deal.”

  “Okay, then, here’s the story. Originally, the Manhattan was made with American rye whiskey, that’s true. During prohibition, it was difficult to get rye, but corn was cheap and abundant, so bourbon flowed freely. Hence the whiskey in a Manhattan began being replaced with bourbon.”

  “Wasn’t it Winston Churchill’s mother Jennie who first requested the drink?”

  “That’s the legend. Lady Randolph Churchill requested a drink made of whiskey, vermouth, and bitters in 1874 at the Manhattan Club, and this cocktail was born.” She tilted her head, enjoying the way Miles hung on her every word. “Would you like to know what’s in our drinks tonight?”

  “Do tell,” Miles said, reaching for her hand, “and then we’ll get more serious, I promise.”

  “Okay.” She took another small sip. “I believe the bourbon in this drink is Maker’s Mark, which comes from a distillery in Loretto, Kentucky. I sampled some at the San Francisco World Spirits Competition last year, and I’m pretty sure this is it. There’s one little difference from what I tasted, which makes me wonder if this could be a special variety called ‘46’ which is aged a little differently.”

  “You got me. Chances are our waitress won’t even know.”

  “The bartender will. I’m not up on my vermouths, nor do I know much about bitters, but I can tell you that what we’re drinking is properly called a ‘Sweet Manhattan’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a tiny hint of cherry juice, and that wouldn’t be in a straight Manhattan.” She saw his face and quickly added, “I’m not complaining—in fact, I like it better this way.”

  He gave an appreciative whistle. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Porter.” She grinned. “Am I done performing now?”

  “Yes. That means it’s time for me to tell you about Natalia’s research.” He thought a moment. “Let me start at the beginning. The assignment was for my students to do a straight investigative story, using at least one source. I told the class that I would help flesh out their ideas if anyone needed a sounding board, but Natalia didn’t seem to need assistance. I asked her at one point about her topic, and she said she’d met someone wh
o had an amazing story.”

  “Obviously that person wasn’t Alec Rodin,” commented Darby. “Go on.”

  “Before this morning, I’d skimmed through her paper, but I hadn’t really had a chance to read it. I knew she was writing about properties that were stolen from the Russian nobility at the time of the Revolution, and I questioned the relevance to today—much as you did yesterday.” He paused and took a sip of his Manhattan. “However, what I discovered when I read it through is Natalia’s claim that these properties are now being given to officials in the Russian government, all of whom are part of an elite organization called the FSB.”

  “I think I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure.”

  “The FSB is the Federal Security Service—arguably the most powerful of the successors to the KGB. In the years since the fall of the Soviet Union, it has slowly taken on the responsibilities of a number of agencies, including, most recently, the Russian equivalent of the United States’ National Security Agency.” He paused. “The FSB is considered by many to be the foremost symbol of a resurgent and ever more powerful Russian central government.”

  “It’s all sounding very Cold War-ish.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  She shivered. “So the FSB is reallocating properties that were seized during the Russian Revolution. So far it doesn’t seem as if Natalia’s paper contains enough evidence to have aroused Alec Rodin’s concern, never mind caused his death.”

  “I agree. It’s a worthy story, but it isn’t a smoking gun, so to speak.”

  “And this source … Natalia gave you no clues as to his or her identity?”

  “No. It’s tempting to think the person is here in New York. After all, Natalia told me that she’d ‘met’ her source. But in today’s world, we can ‘meet’ people online easier than in person. Natalia’s mysterious source could be anywhere.”

  “Good point, Miles.” She took another sip of her Manhattan. It was nearly gone, as was Miles’s, and she suspected he was ready for dinner, as was she.

  He met her gaze. “Let me take care of this,” he said, scooping up the receipt for the drinks.