Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  “What kind of a person does that?” Darby mused.

  “My guess?” He ticked off items on his finger. “Middle-aged woman, lives alone, not many friends. Some sort of low-level mental illness hovering in the background, probably depression. Ring any bells?”

  Miles sighed. “‘If music be the food of love, play on,’” he quoted. “‘Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.’”

  “Twelfth Night.” The detective said, meeting Miles’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Miles said softly. “I think I’ve got my enemy.”

  _____

  On the walk back to the apartment, Darby asked Miles to once again recite the Shakespearean quotation. When he finished, she cocked her head to the side, her ponytail swinging.

  “Unrequited love,” said Darby, dodging a man who had stopped abruptly to pull out a tourist map. “Is that the gist of it?”

  “Yes. It’s a passage that has always struck me. To love another, without their returning that love, or perhaps even guessing …”

  “And you suspect that’s how someone at Pulitzer Hall feels?”

  Miles rolled his eyes, his face russet. “As embarrassing as it is, I’m afraid so.” He exhaled. “The department secretary, Peggy Babson. When I think back on it, I realize she’s had a little crush on me. Up until the other day, she was—well, flirty, and I thought it was just her way. I guess it may have been something more.”

  “Hmm.” Darby thought a moment. “What made her change from liking you to wanting to incriminate you in a murder investigation?”

  Miles slowed his pace. “I keep asking myself if it was your visit, but I don’t think so.” He pointed at a food truck selling Latin American fare. “Fancy some lunch?”

  Darby nodded. They waited in line to order and Miles continued to think.

  “Hang on, I think I’ve got it—Natalia’s visit. Perhaps Peggy thought I was chasing after one of my students.” He placed their order and paid.

  “Not like it hasn’t been done before,” Darby said wryly.

  “Not by me!” Miles took their tacos, his face abashed. “The whole thing is so bloody stupid, isn’t it, and creates a giant distraction from the real question: who killed Alec Rodin?”

  “I agree.” Darby was nodding, her face pensive. She unwrapped her taco and took a satisfying bite. After she’d chewed for a few minutes, she said, “No matter how disturbed Peggy might be, she isn’t the murderer. She didn’t even know him, never mind have a motive. Plus, you would have heard her leave Pulitzer Hall, right?”

  “Exactly. She’s not a killer.” He pointed at a small cart selling hot pretzels. “Just twisted, that’s all.”

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  “I’ll give her one thing,” Darby said, squeezing the journalist’s hand.

  He paused, about to take another bite of his lunch. “And what’s that?”

  “However twisted she may be, Peggy’s got darn good taste.”

  sixteen

  The girl slung the plastic bag bulging with half-eaten leftovers from Devin’s refrigerator over a slender shoulder. “I’ll toss this in the dumpster at work,” she said, eyeing Rona. “You gonna be okay?”

  She shrugged.

  “Let me give you my number.” Heather put out a hand. “Give me your cell and I’ll put it in your contacts folder.”

  Rona handed her the phone. A moment later it was back in her hand.

  “Thanks.” Rona wasn’t sure what else to say, but Heather was not at a loss for words.

  “Devin had a new guy she was seeing, someone with some money,” Heather said. “She liked him, said he was nice to her.”

  “Do you think he gave her the drugs?”

  “No way. She didn’t do drugs. I mean, she took sleeping stuff once in a while, I know that. And she had an old injury that could be excruciating. She just messed up the dosage, is all.”

  Rona nodded. She was still numb, and yet Heather’s chatter had helped to make her feel less like a zombie.

  “Talking about phones, did you find Devin’s?” Heather shifted the weight of the garbage bag to her other hip. It was obviously getting heavy. “’Cause that would be a good way to let people know about her celebration.”

  Rona shook her head. “Maybe tomorrow.” She wasn’t sure when —if ever—she would be up to planning this celebration Heather kept mentioning. She did not have the energy to contemplate it, much less explain, so she said nothing. “I will be back in the morning, I think.”

  “That’s good.” Heather reached out, awkwardly touched Rona’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “That would be good.” Rona felt hot tears welling in her eyes, a sensation she rarely experienced. She let them fall down her cheeks as Heather bumped down the stairs with the bulging bag.

  _____

  “I will call Mikhail?” The cook’s voice wheedled again, and Sergei turned on her, his face murderous, his fists ready to silence her jubilation. Hours had passed since they’d discovered Natalia’s disappearance, and despite repeated phone calls and texts, Sergei did not know where she was.

  Reluctantly he took up his phone, ready to call Mikhail Kazakova, when the sound of the door opening made him pause, and Natalia, humming, strolled in.

  Sergei Bokeria got to his feet. He stood, legs akimbo, while Natalia said a calm hello.

  In terse words he asked where she had been for five hours.

  “I went to see a friend—that’s all,” she said, hanging a yellow jacket on the coat tree. She turned and seemed to notice the bodyguard’s dark expression for the first time. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

  His fists hung at his side, clenching and unclenching, as he debated how best to handle her. She was not a girl any more, she was a young woman, and it was natural that she should want more privacy. And yet he had a job to do, a job that involved keeping track of her at all times. It was a task that he took very seriously, as did his employer.

  And Sergei did not wish to displease his employer.

  He willed himself to calm down. “Was it an enjoyable outing?” His voice sounded stiff, but she smiled nonetheless.

  “Very. We went out to Coney Island, walked around, and had a hot dog. The weather was so nice and there were lots of families—tourists, I suppose—taking rides at the amusement park. We explored a section of the city called ‘Little Russia,’ and looked at the items for sale. I had a wonderful afternoon.”

  And who were you with? Bokeria longed to ask, and yet he bit his tongue.

  She started toward the other end of the penthouse, then stopped.

  “I’m sorry, Sergei, for deceiving you. It was a silly, childish thing to do.” She turned to face him, bit her lip. “I am going to speak to my father about my wish for more privacy. I promise you I will no long-er play these games.”

  “Your father arrives late tonight. He would like to breakfast with you in the morning.”

  “Then I shall speak to him then.” Natalia ran a hand through her choppy streaked hair. “Forgive me—and thank you, Sergei.”

  The bodyguard watched her walk down the hall.

  _____

  “Our nights together are dwindling down,” Miles said, ruffling Darby’s glossy hair. “Anything special you’d like to do?”

  They were seated in Charles Burrows’s living room, a carafe of sparkling water before them, enjoying the late afternoon sun and the bustling city.

  “I’d like to solve a mystery,” Darby said.

  “That beastly Babson woman, you mean? Figure out why she tried to throw me under the bus?”

  “Not really, although maybe it’s somehow connected. The murder of Alec Rodin. Maybe we can figure something out that the police have missed.”

&nb
sp; “Hang on—I have just the ticket.” Miles stood and jogged to the bedroom, returning with a stack of sticky-backed notes and a marker.

  RODIN, he wrote on one square, and stuck it in the middle of the table. NATALIA, MIKHAIL, and SERGEI, soon followed.

  “There’s Natalia’s unnamed source,” Darby said, pointing at the pads. “John or Jane Doe.”

  Miles wrote down a name on another sticky square and stuck it down.

  “Vera Graff,” Darby read. She thought a moment. “She’s the one with the French poodle and maid?”

  “I think you mean ‘poodle and French maid,’” Miles corrected, smiling.

  “I saw Natalia going in there Saturday night. Did you worm her identity out of Natalia?”

  “No,” he confessed. “I asked the doorman.”

  “Ramon?”

  “George, the chap who works at night. Ramon is a gossip, but George turns out to be the one who really knows what’s going on.” He paused. “George told me last night, and I was hoping to get some confirmation before I said anything.” He smiled. “That’s what we journalists do—we get our facts confirmed.”

  “Okay. So based on what I saw, and what George has said, we have a hunch that Vera Graff is Natalia’s source for the information that rattled Alec Rodin, enough to send him to your office in an attempt to get Natalia’s paper.”

  “Right. Who else?”

  “Rona Reichels.”

  Miles jotted down her name.

  “According to Todd Stockton and others, she’s still angry over losing a big chunk of commission money when Mikhail bought his penthouse.”

  “And her anger was focused on one person—Rodin.”

  “Exactly.” Darby reached for her laptop and connected to the Internet. “Do you think there’s any chance that Rodin could have been killed randomly?”

  “Not with a Russian saber. That seems too coincidental—and too theatrical.”

  “I agree. It’s almost as if the choice of the murder weapon was to make it appear that a Russian killed him.” She frowned down at her computer.

  “What are you looking for, love?”

  “I’m not sure, but if it wasn’t a random killing, I’m wondering if we can find any ties to Rodin.”

  “In general?”

  “I guess I’m wondering who in this building, besides Rona and Vera Graff, has connections to the Kazakovas? Or Rodin? It’s far-fetched, I know. For all we know, Rodin has enemies crawling out of the woodwork, right? But …”

  “You have an inkling …”

  “I wish it was that substantial! It’s more like a realization. I’m starting to see that this was a very personal murder. Someone chose to use that sword, right? They followed Rodin, or somehow lured him, to that alley. This feels different from a random killing.”

  Miles nodded. “Agreed.”

  She picked up her phone and sent a quick text. “I’m asking Todd Stockton if he can tell me which sales Rona has been involved with in the building,” she explained. “We’ve already got a motive for Rona, but who knows? Maybe it will lead somewhere.”

  “Good idea. Didn’t you tell me you met someone who works for a family in the building? A nanny?”

  Darby nodded. “On Friday, when I was in the park.” She stood and crossed the room to her purse. “Here’s her card. Gina Trovata.” She crossed back to the couch. “Should I call her?”

  “Why not? Tell you what. You call her and I’ll track down the dog walker. Later we can email Charles Burrows, too, and see what he knows.”

  “Deal.”

  While Miles went in the bedroom to phone Natalia for the number, Darby dialed Gina. She was not exactly sure what she would say, but excited to be doing a little detective work. I like this, she admitted. I enjoy trying to figure out a puzzle.

  The vintage clothing collector answered the phone with a quizzical hello. Darby quickly identified herself, and then told Gina why she was calling.

  “Natalia Kazakova is a student of my friend Miles,” she began. “And we’re trying to piece together details about her fiancé’s murder. We thought if we could explore some connections within the building …”

  “You think someone living in the building killed him, huh? Guess it makes sense with the theft of the sword …”

  Darby’s heart pounded. “What sword?”

  Gina’s voice lowered. “The detective told me not to say anything, but I don’t see how it can hurt.” She paused. “I’m friends with Mrs. Graff, and she told me that an antique sword was stolen from her apartment a few months ago. This morning she looked at pictures of the weapon that killed Alec Rodin, and she said it’s hers.”

  “What did the detective say?”

  “Not much, except that we needed to keep it quiet.”

  “Who else knows about the sword?”

  “Besides Detective Benedetti, Vera, her maid, me, and Natalia.”

  “Natalia was there?”

  “Yes. She and Vera are working on some sort of project.”

  Darby smiled. This call was more productive than she’d dreamed.

  “Thanks so much, Gina. Out of curiosity, who did you say you worked for?”

  “The Coopers, in eighteen-twenty-two. Sherry and Penn. They’re both attorneys, with four kids, so they need a few helping hands.”

  “How are plans for your shop coming?”

  “Great, thanks for asking. We’ve got a location in Brooklyn and are negotiating the lease.” She paused. “Did you ask your boyfriend about the sweaters?”

  “Not yet. But I promise I will.”

  Darby said goodbye, and got up to find Miles. He was closing his laptop as she entered the room.

  “You’ll never guess what Gina told me,” Darby began, before seeing the look of anguish on Miles’s face.

  “What is it?”

  His eyes looked up at hers. “Something’s happened,” he said, his voice shaken.

  She waited, went to the bed and sat near him.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I can talk about it.” He looked off to the side. “Not just yet.”

  “Is it your family? Your friend Jagdish?”

  “No, no. It’s—something else. Darby, I want to tell you—I will tell you—when the time is right, but not now.”

  “I see.” Darby tried to keep her voice level. “If this is about trust—”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it. I trust you completely.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’ve just received some very shocking news, and I need a little time to process it. That’s all.”

  “So I’m supposed to wonder what has happened? Wonder if it has to do with your health, or your family, or your profession?”

  “I know I’m being unfair, but I need to sort this out.” He was contrite even as her temper flared.

  “How much time do you need, Miles? Should I just go back to California now?”

  “No, God no—I don’t want that.” He shook his head. “Please, bear with me. I need just a little time to wrap my head around this, and then we’ll talk. I promise.”

  Darby thought back to her own challenges and how Miles had helped her. He’d been patient as she’d confronted her demons on Hurricane Harbor; understanding when she’d balked at commitment. She swallowed and rose to her feet.

  “I’m sorry that something has happened to upset you so much.” She clasped her hands in front of her torso, surprised to see they were shaking. “I’m going for a walk so that you can have some time alone. I’ll be back in an hour or so, and if you want to talk, I’ll be here to listen.” She kissed the top of his forehead, the scent of him nearly making her swoon.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  She turned, grabbed her purse and a jacket, and headed out.

 
_____

  Rona wondered when—if ever—the numbness would wear off.

  It was as if she was in a thick layer of fog, so dense and impenetrable that she could feel nothing. She was stretched across her bed, and snatches of her conversation—if you could call it that—with Heather kept ricocheting through her brain, as if her skull was a pinball machine and the thoughts the silver balls. Devin had a new love interest. Devin was making some money. Devin was on the right track …

  And yet she was dead. Accidentally. How did that happen? How did a beautiful girl like her daughter take a pile of pills and die?

  What if it was not an accident, a voice inside her head intoned. What if she did it on purpose?

  “No, no,” she said aloud. “No, she would not have done that.”

  Meaning suicide. Every single cell in Rona’s body rebelled against the idea. Is it because you can’t admit she was unhappy?

  But she wasn’t unhappy! She’d been confident, upbeat, in control of her destiny. You don’t act like that if you’re going to take your own life! No, Rona thought, Devin did not kill herself deliberately. She took those pills by accident.

  She gave a heavy sigh. It was tempting to stay in her room, sprawled on the bed, but that was not how she was going to act. Devin, at the very least, deserved a mother who could mourn in style.

  She found a black knit dress in her closet and pulled it out. There were calls to make, sympathy to garner, and who knows … perhaps business, too.

  _____

  Miranda Styles listened to her voice mail and frowned. She tried to place the caller, a Miles Porter, and remembered Korbut lunging at his sneaker. Oh, yeah. The British guy staying in Burrows’s apartment.

  His message was puzzling. I’m trying to gather information about the murder of Alec Rodin. She rolled her dark eyes. Oh yeah? Well get in line, buddy.

  Miranda placed a call to one of the building’s classically trained chefs who prepared meals for residents lucky enough to afford them, and checked on the dinner she’d ordered that morning. “We’ll bring it up at eight, Ms. Styles,” he assured her. “And it will be delicious.”