Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  The big man’s jaw tightened. “Why else would one have a bodyguard?” He looked down at his fists, two knots of bone and flesh as large as footballs, and then back at the journalist. “She is the daughter of a wealthy man—an extremely wealthy man. That alone would make her a target. And …” He hesitated. “She is living in a dangerous city.”

  Darby wondered if New York were any more dangerous than Moscow, but said nothing.

  “Is there something we can do to help Natalia?” asked Miles.

  Sergei Bokeria nodded. “She would like to speak with you.”

  “Of course. Would she like to meet at my office?”

  “She is too upset.”

  “We can schedule a visit,” offered Miles. “Depending on where she is.”

  “There is no need. Natalia is upstairs.”

  “In this building?”

  The bodyguard nodded. “She lives in one of the penthouses.” He stood, and Darby felt as if he had blocked out the sun with his bulk. “I will go and get her.”

  As the door closed behind him, Darby turned to Miles. “I guess you haven’t met your neighbors?”

  “Apparently not! I suppose it makes sense that the Kazakova family lives here. This is one of the pre-eminent Manhattan addresses, and if her father is as wealthy as everyone keeps hinting …”

  Darby grabbed her electronic notepad and did a quick search. She looked up and whistled. “I’d say so, Miles. Kazakova is one of the richest men in Russia. He’s ranked in the world in fact.”

  “Bloody hell! He didn’t make his money as a reporter, I take it?”

  “Ready for this? Fertilizer.”

  Miles’s face wore an impish grin. “You mean to tell me his fortune is founded on—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Hold that thought,” Darby said as Miles moved to answer it.

  Sergei Bokeria stood at the door absolutely dwarfing a petite young woman with streaked brown hair.

  “Professor Porter!” she exclaimed. “I did not know we were neighbors.”

  “Nor did I. Come in, Nat. This is my friend, Darby Farr.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your fiancé’s death,” Darby said.

  “Thank you.” She sighed, and Darby could see the bags under her eyes and sallow circles marking the unlined face. “This morning it’s really hitting me. Not just that he’s gone, but that he was murdered. I mean, someone met him in that alley because they wanted him dead.”

  “Have the police established that?” Darby’s voice was quiet, yet probing. “There are random acts of violence in every city.”

  “His wallet wasn’t stolen, so it seems to have been planned out.” Natalia looked down at her hands. “And there are other things that are strange.”

  Miles flashed a look in Darby’s direction. “Natalia, why don’t you and Mr. Bokeria have a seat? Can I get you both a cup of coffee or tea?”

  Natalia answered for both of them. “Thank you, but we are fine. Professor Porter, I know you have a class this morning, and I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  “It’s early. Please, take a seat and go on.”

  She took a deep breath. “Thanks. I have an art history seminar at ten, but I need to talk to someone, and I don’t know where else to go. When Sergei called Pulitzer Hall and found out that you were here in this building, I knew I needed to see you as quickly as possible.”

  They sat down and Natalia turned troubled eyes on Miles.

  “The police detectives on the case called me this morning and told me about the murder weapon.”

  “Some sort of a sword … isn’t that their best guess?” Miles and Darby had heard a report on an early news show.

  “They don’t need to guess—they located it late last night near the alley where Alec was killed. It’s an antique saber, long and tapered—the kind you’d see in a museum collection.” She hesitated. “It’s Russian.”

  “That could be a coincidence,” said Darby. “After all, just about every type of artifact is for sale in New York.”

  “That’s true,” added Miles. “I’ve seen European and Asian sabers in a little antique shop a few blocks from here. Certainly the police will be looking into all that.”

  “Yes,” Natalia said. She looked at her bodyguard, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “But there is more.”

  She flicked her streaked bangs out of her eyes and continued.

  “Alec is—he was—a highly successful businessman in Moscow. Most of his recent work was in real estate development, but he had many interests. I think the American expression is, ‘a finger in lots of pies.’” she smiled.

  “Darby is our resident American,” said Miles. “She’s from a little island in Maine. Well, has Nat used the idiom correctly?”

  “Perfectly. Now, Natalia, tell us more about Alec’s profession. Did he have rivals or enemies?”

  “No doubt he made many enemies in the business world, but I’m not sure if one of them was responsible for his death.” She gave Miles a searching glance. “Do you remember, Professor Porter, my references to an organization called the FSB in my research paper?”

  “Yes, it’s the Federal Security Service, a kind of offshoot from the old KGB. You said that some people within Russia called them the ‘new nobility.’”

  “Yes.” She turned to Darby. “The FSB is the main security service in Russia, and they enjoy unprecedented freedom—even more than the old KGB. The FSB can operate abroad, collect information, and carry out special operations without any oversight and no parliamentary control. Their budget is not published, and there is no record of how many officers belong. But some people estimate 200,000 people work within its bounds.” She paused. “Including our prime minister, who has been involved in the FSB for more than ten years.”

  “Incredible,” murmured Darby. “Did you go into great detail about this in your paper?”

  “I only scratched the surface,” she said. “And then I found out something very disturbing.”

  “Concerning your fiancé?” Darby’s voice was kind.

  “Yes.” The young woman’s eyes clouded over. Beside her on the couch, the bulky figure of her bodyguard was very still.

  “What happened?”

  “Alec read my article and became very agitated. He said at first that it was ridiculous. As we argued, he admitted it was true and that many people could get hurt if my work was published.”

  “It sounds as if he was afraid of what the FSB might do.”

  “Perhaps.” She licked her lips. “He knew what they were capable of.” She took a deep breath. “Alec admitted to me that he was a member.”

  Miles cleared his throat. “That explains why he wanted your research destroyed.”

  She nodded. “The police asked me if I knew anyone who would want Alec dead, and I said no. What do I tell them, that Alec was a part of an organization more powerful and more frightening than the KGB?”

  “Yes,” Darby said. “You need to tell them, Natalia. Not only will this information help them to solve Alec’s murder, but it could keep you safe as well.”

  “Darby’s right,” said Miles. He made his voice gentle. “There’s something you should know, Natalia. Alec came to see me yesterday.”

  “After our appointment?”

  “Just before he was killed, apparently.” Miles’s face was grim. “Nat, he was worried that you could become a target.”

  Natalia glanced at Sergei Bokeria. The big man extracted a large envelope from inside his jacket and placed it on the coffee table. Natalia opened it, pulling out a piece of paper upon which crudely made words spelled out a message.

  “Read it,” she whispered, her pretty young face wan. “I think you’ll agree the time for worrying has passed.”

  _____

  The poodle’s ribbon was
red today, tied in a jaunty little bow at the top of its angular head. The animal sported a collar encrusted with sparkly red rhinestones, and Miranda would not have been surprised to see red polish on its pointy little claws. She took the dog’s leash from the maid, a skinny, pale thing who always looked petrified, and headed toward the elevator.

  The Coopers’ lab, Honey, was a gentle, mellow dog that seemed to enjoy the antics of the poodle. Today it was one of the nannies, Gina, who had handed Miranda the leash, while in the background a toddler shrieked.

  Together the lab and the poodle, Mimi, were easy to manage, but throwing her third client into the mix made it a challenge. Korbut, who lived in the rarified air of the top floor penthouse, was a young wolfhound eager to play rough with Honey, and he seemed to think that Mimi would make the perfect toy.

  Miranda headed back into the elevator, herding in the dogs before pushing the button. It was not an unpleasant job, and it did leave her free to use most of the day in other pursuits. And there were fringe benefits as well.

  The elevator glided up to the top floor.

  Miranda stepped out and approached the penthouse door. Beside her, the poodle let out a little bark of excitement and was quickly shushed. Miranda pushed the buzzer. Behind the door, the wolfhound was whining, anxious to join his canine companions in a walk.

  Miranda couldn’t help but smile as she watched Mimi dance on her little feet, cocking her head to the side and causing the ribbon to flip-flop. She knocked again, trying to ignore a rising feeling of irritation. What was it about rich people and their sense of time? No matter how clear you made it that you were on a schedule, that you actually worked for your living, they never seemed to get it. Whatever they were doing—even if it was a big fat nothing—was more important than somebody else trying to make a buck. She thought back to all of the excuses she’d heard over the years, including a few from Natalia Kazakova herself. Every lame thing from “I just ran to the Starbucks,” to “I forgot what time it was.” Ugh!

  This was why she’d insisted on having keys for all of her clients.

  “Guess I’ve got to root around in the backpack,” she said to the two leashed dogs. Stuck in the penthouse, the wolfhound gave a muffled snort of frustration. “Hang on, Korbut—we’re working on it.”

  Miranda took off her backpack and began searching through it when the elevator arrived and its doors slid open. A powerfully built man clutching a briefcase emerged. He wore a black vicuna coat, open over a polo shirt, and jeans. On his feet were tasseled leather loafers, no socks.

  “Miranda,” he said, striding toward her. She saw that his heavy-lidded eyes were bloodshot.

  Miranda stepped back, keeping the dogs between them.

  “Don’t come near me.”

  “That’s not the greeting I was hoping for.” He reached out over Honey’s broad back and tried to stroke Miranda’s dark skin. She flinched.

  “Milaya, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sweet-talking me. You blow me off without a word …” Her brown eyes flashed.

  “It was urgent business, but still, I should have let you know.”

  “Damn right.” Her tone softened. “You look like hell, Mikhail. Where have you been?”

  “I only just arrived. Something happened yesterday …” He paused. “Natalia’s fiancé was killed.”

  “Alec? How?”

  “Murdered. Up by 114th Street.”

  “God … how terrible. I liked him, at least I thought I did. I know you didn’t feel the same way.”

  “That’s not true! I arranged the marriage, for Chrissakes!”

  “You said your feelings had changed. Or don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I remember, Miranda. It’s just that … Well, Natalia is very upset. If she knew about our conversation …”

  As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and Natalia emerged, trailed by Sergei who wore his usual dark expression.

  The girl’s eyes locked on them. “Miranda?” Her gaze glided from the dog walker to Mikhail. “I didn’t realize you knew my father.”

  Miranda swooped toward the girl, wrapping her in a hug. “Honey, I have just heard about Alec. I am so, so sorry.”

  Natalia nodded numbly. “It’s awful.” She swayed a little on her feet as Miranda released her hold “Papa …”

  Mikhail moved swiftly to his daughter’s side. He pulled her tightly toward him and closed his eyes. She was crying, big, gulping sobs, while he stroked her streaked hair.

  Miranda flicked the leashes and the dogs trotted obediently to the elevator. Korbut would have to miss his walk today. She pushed the button, got in, and descended without a word.

  four

  “YOU ARE NEXT,” mused Miles, remembering the words spelled out on the threatening letter to Natalia Kazakova. He pulled on a tweed jacket and pocketed the apartment’s keys. “I can’t say that I like the idea that Alec Rodin’s killer is after Nat.”

  “Perhaps,” said Darby. “I agree that whoever wrote the note knows about Alec’s death, and the relationship between Alec and Natalia. Whether the author of that letter is the actual murderer—I’m not sure.” She slung a small purse over her shoulder.

  “I think she’s in danger, but she didn’t seem keen to follow our advice and go to the police, did she?”

  “No, Miles, she didn’t. Truthfully, I’ll be surprised if she tells them.”

  “Sergei and Natalia’s handling of that paper means they’ve destroyed any evidence—fingerprints, you name it.”

  “If there were any to begin with. According to what Natalia said, we could be dealing with a very sophisticated operation here.”

  “The FSB?”

  “Exactly. Miles, I think we need more information on that organization.”

  “Agreed. I’ve got a colleague back in London who covers Moscow. I’ll see what he knows about the FSB, without revealing anything to him about Nat or her article.”

  “Good idea.” She cupped her chin in her hands, thinking. “So the murder victim worked for a top Russian agency shrouded in mystery, the sword that killed him was a Russian saber, and now Natalia, a lovely young Russian heiress and the deceased’s fiancée, appears to be in grave danger.”

  “Appears? I’d say she’s in it up to her Russian shoulder blades. I’m surprised you’d think otherwise.”

  “You know me, Miles. I tend to be on the skeptical side. I mean, what’s the connection? Natalia doesn’t seem to be a genuine threat to anyone.”

  He pushed the button for the elevator and waited for Darby to enter. “Nevertheless, she’s got to contact Benedetti and Ryan and tell them about that threatening note. Maybe they can find the connection.”

  “Yes. In the meantime, it’s lucky she has a bodyguard.”

  “Indeed,” Miles said drolly. “Our friend Sergei looks as if he could stop a speeding freight train.”

  “Do you think that her father has any idea of what’s going on? She never once mentioned him.”

  Miles shrugged. “He’s the fertilizer magnate, correct? Maybe she doesn’t want to deal with his …”

  “Sshh!” Darby giggled as the elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The doors opened and an elderly lady entered. She was wearing a smart navy suit of soft wool, and her gray hair was well-coiffed and tucked under a little cap. On her stocking-clad feet were what Miles and his countrymen called “sensible shoes.”

  Darby nodded in her direction, but in true New Yorker fashion, the woman stared straight ahead and kept silent. When the elevator reached the lobby, she marched off first, barely acknowledging the doorman when he called out a hello.

  “Ramon,” said Miles, pulling the doorman’s attention away from the tight-lipped matron. “This is Darby, my friend who is visiting from California. Darby, meet Ramon.”

  “No kidding! You’re this sorry guy’s girlfriend, huh
?” His broad face broke into a grin. Inclining his head as if to whisper, he said, “I like to kid old Miles ’cause he’s so prim and proper, being an Englishman and all that.” He cocked his head, giving the young woman an appraising glance. “What about you? You’re from Southern California, right?”

  “Actually, I was born and raised in Maine.”

  “Really? You sure don’t look like you’re from Maine. Not exactly white bread, are you? I can say that because I’m a mutt myself—Cuban and Polish. What about you?”

  “My mother was Japanese and my father was a New Englander.”

  He whistled. “Well, there you go. No wonder you’re so pretty and exotic. I’m always saying that we’re all Americans, when it comes right down to it. Good old melting pot.” He jerked a thumb toward Miles. “Except for Mr. Bean over here.”

  “Mr. Bean!” Miles was incredulous. “Can’t say I’m too keen on that comparison. I was thinking Daniel Craig, myself.”

  “Ha! In your dreams, Porter, in your dreams.”

  “Brilliant, Ramon, now that you’ve thoroughly insulted me in front of my girlfriend, tell me, who was that handsome older lady who walked out just before us?”

  “The one who can’t give anybody the time of day? That’s Mrs. Graff. She lives on the fifth floor with her maid, although I guess today you’d call her a ‘personal assistant’ or something. Usually Yvette —that’s the maid—is the one doing the errands, walking the dog—you know. They’ve got a cute little poodle named Mimi. You hardly ever see Mrs. Graff leave the building. She’s one of those rich, eccentric types—likes to keep to herself.”

  Not an easy feat with Ramon around, thought Darby.

  Miles clapped a hand on the doorman’s shoulder. “Thank you, Ramon. It’s nice to know who my neighbors are, even if I’m only here for a few more months.”

  “Anytime, Miles. I know everyone in the building by sight, and nearly everyone by name. After all, there’re only two hundred residences.” He pushed open the door for them. “Where you headed?”

  “I’m off to take Darby for a fabulous brunch.”

  “Can’t do better than The Camellia.” He glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock. Want me to call for reservations?”