Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery)

by Vicki Doudera

  Miles muttered a thank you and grabbed the key. He and Darby ran to the elevator. When the doors were safely closed they looked at each other with amazement.

  “What now?” Miles asked.

  “Fifth floor. We need to see if it works.”

  At first, no one answered the buzzer at Vera’s, but then a frightened voice asked what they wanted. Darby explained and the woman told them to go away. A moment later, another voice, more commanding than the first, requested their names.

  A moment later the door opened and Vera Graff stood scowling into the hallway.

  “What is this all about?”

  Miles brandished the key. “We are trying to figure out who stole your saber,” he said.

  “That rusty old thing?” She frowned. “I hardly think it is worth waking my housemaid and I up in the middle of the night …”

  “That sword was used to kill a man,” Darby said quietly. “And this key may help us find the killer. May we see if it works?”

  “Now? Be my guest,” Vera said, shaking her head as if the whole thing was ridiculous.

  Miles inserted the key and turned the lock. “I’d say it works perfectly.”

  Yvette murmured something in French and put a trembling hand to her lips.

  “Why don’t you go and sit down, Yvette,” Vera suggested. “I’ll handle this.”

  The woman scurried away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Vera gave them a fierce look. “Just what kind of game are you playing, coming here like this and terrorizing my maid?” Her voice was a raspy hiss. “Where did you get that key?”

  “Rona Reichels.”

  “The real estate woman? What is she doing with a key to our apartment?”

  “We think she’s had it since she listed the property,” Darby explained. “The point is, someone could have used it to come in and take the sword.”

  The old woman’s scowl faded.

  Darby and Miles exchanged glances.

  “We’ve become friends with Gina Trovata, and I know you and she have spent time together,” Darby said. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of this, with Gina’s help.”

  Vera Graff nodded. “Gina knows about other things that went missing as well. You can ask her.” She seemed to sway on her feet slightly. “I’m too tired to talk about this now. I’m heading back to bed, but I’d ask that you keep us posted on what you find out. In the morning, that is.” She held out her hand. “We’ll change our locks as soon as possible, but in the meantime, I’ll have that key.”

  The door closed and Miles gave a low whistle. “Back to Rona’s for the confrontation?”

  Darby nodded. “Let’s go.”

  _____

  Across town, in one of the city’s most expensive restaurants, Mikhail Kazakova took a bite of his quail. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” He offered his companion a taste. “This is absolutely marvelous. Try a bite.”

  “No, thank you,” Miranda said. She looked around the quiet dining room, searching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. She’d felt unsettled ever since Mikhail’s admission of the violent push he’d witnessed, a push she was sure had been meant for him.

  A man across the room caught her eye. He was thin, and short, with a neatly trimmed goatee and glasses. Several times she’d seen him glance in their direction. Now he was rising to his feet, crossing the room … and stopping at a table in the center of the room. He spoke to the diners who rose and hugged him, obviously friends.

  She turned her attention back to Mikhail.

  “My red snapper is exquisite,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m just a little jumpy, that’s all.”

  “You’re not still concerned about that incident I told you about, are you?”

  “Actually, I am.” Miranda gave him a level look. “I think your life is in danger.”

  “Miranda, really—”

  “Hear me out. Someone killed Alec, and since I know it wasn’t you, I have to surmise that you are now the one whose life is on the line.”

  He gave a mischievous grin. “You are sure I did not slip into that alley and kill Rodin? God knows there were times I thought about it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I will play what you call the devil’s advocate and ask how you know I am not the killer.”

  Her face was deadly serious. “I know you didn’t do it because I’ve been tailing you.”

  “Me? You’ve had me under surveillance? Whatever for?”

  “I was hired to investigate you.” She picked up her wine glass. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Aha!” He said, bringing his hand down on the table. “I knew you were in some sort of covert work.” His eyes twinkled. “Dog walking! What a red herring.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only one question remains: who are you working for?”

  Miranda reached out and traced the shape of a letter on his powerful hand. “Someone who cared about you very much, it turns out.” She paused. “Alec Rodin.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Alec hired me to find out whether you were planting misinformation about him with the Russian authorities. When I gave him proof that you were discrediting him with the FSB, he understood it was to protect Natalia and prevent her from going back to Russia.”

  “Then why did he insist on going through with the marriage? Why not break it off?”

  “He struggled with the decision, I know, but he needed Natalia for his cover.”

  “Cover? I do not understand.”

  “Alec was an informant for the FBI,” she said. “He uncovered evidence of massive fraud in several Russian cities, but he knew that to go to the authorities would be futile. As you know, several have tried to work within the Russian legal system, and have been tortured and killed for their honesty. Alec thought he could go through different channels, but I’m convinced that’s why he was killed, and why your life is now expendable.”

  Mikhail’s face was pale. “This has the ring of truth to it. I always trusted and admired Rodin. This is why I wanted Natalia to be his wife in the first place.” He put his head in his hands. “Poor Alec. Can we find his killer?”

  “I don’t know,” Miranda said, “but I’m trying.”

  “There is one more thing I need to know. Is our relationship part of your cover?”

  “No,” she smiled. “I’m off the job. For good.” She touched his hand again. “Now I’m involved because I care.”

  The Russian oligarch grinned. “Then I am one very lucky man.”

  _____

  “I’ve had those keys tucked in a drawer,” Rona said to Darby and Miles. “I only just found them the other day. If someone got into Vera’s apartment and took things, they didn’t do it with my key.” She rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe this. I ought to call the police. My daughter died two days ago and you’re pulling this crap on me? You ought to be ashamed.”

  The door slammed.

  “Well,” said Miles. “That didn’t go very well.”

  “No.” Darby grimaced. “I do feel badly. She did just lose her daughter.”

  “Yes, but she’s lying, Darby. Did you see the way her eyes were darting back and forth? Plus she said ‘keys.’ Plural. Trust me, they did not just turn up in her drawer. She copied and kept them for a reason.”

  “You’re right. There’s more behind it.” She stifled a yawn. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s call it a day.”

  twenty-three

  “I’ve always felt it was a random crime,” Detective Benedetti said. It was early Wednesday morning, and Miles and Darby had decided they needed to see him as soon as the station opened.

  Miles shifted in his seat. “Why is that?”

  “The murder weapon may have belonged to the old lady, but whoever stole it could have turned around and sold it to any number of retail est
ablishments. There are hundreds of shops selling antique swords in the city, not to mention the hundreds available on-line. That’s how the murderer got the weapon.”

  “And now?” Darby leaned forward in the hard metal chair. “Do you still feel it was a random act of violence?”

  “I do. I think someone with a sick mind thought it would be fun to stab someone.”

  “No copycats,” Miles said. “No other crimes like this one have occurred.”

  “Exactly. A random crime, committed by a woman or a small man. That’s what I told the private eye, too.”

  “What private eye?” Darby asked.

  “A woman—tall, athletic build.” He fished in his desk. “Eagle Eye Investigations.”

  “Interesting. Can you tell us her name?”

  “Sure.” He squinted at the card. “Miranda Styles.”

  _____

  “Okay, I’m confused,” Miles said. “Miranda the dog walker is a private investigator?”

  “Apparently so,” Darby said. “I’ll admit it—I never saw that coming, although Gina did tell us she saw Miranda wearing a gun.”

  “That’s right. Speaking of Gina, shall we fill her in?”

  “Definitely. Let me give her a call.” She pulled out her phone, dialed, and left a message. Gina called back almost instantly.

  “I’m at the Coopers’,” she said, “What’s up?”

  “Miranda is not only Mikhail’s snuggle buddy, but she’s a PI, too,” Darby said.

  “No way.” Gina was silent a moment. “Actually, when I think about it, that makes a lot of sense. There’s no way you could afford to live at Central Park Place on a dog walker’s salary, right?” She sighed. “What now? She hasn’t come for Honey yet, so I guess she’s running behind. Do we try to pool our information?”

  “Yes. When Miranda comes, see if you can stall her. We’ll join you to speak with her.”

  “Great. By the way, I called Natalia this morning. She’s been hanging out with her new boyfriend and is meeting Vera today. Hasn’t seen much of her father, but says that’s par for the course when he’s in New York. He’s very busy with business.”

  “Business of a romantic nature,” Darby said dryly. “See you soon.”

  _____

  Gina hung up and continued connecting the wooden train track for Trevor. Beside them, Sam clapped his hands in his little jump-seat, while Honey lay sprawled on the floor at the baby’s feet. Gina frowned. Miranda was much later than usual. She hoped nothing was wrong.

  Her phone buzzed and Gina saw that Sherry Cooper had sent a text. Something was on Facebook about Devin Finnegan, and Sherry had forwarded Gina the link. Idly she clicked on it and took a look.

  The Facebook page was a memorial site for Devin Finnegan, with photos of the young woman and her favorite quote: “All I ask is the chance to prove that money can’t make me happy.” An event was posted: a gathering that would take place at a bar Friday night to celebrate the young woman’s life. The person posting the information was named Heather Cox, and Gina promptly requested to be her friend.

  Heather had tagged a list of people so that they, too, would get the event announcement, and Gina read through them, her mind wondering about Miranda. It was strange she hadn’t called …

  “Come on boys,” she said to Trevor and Sam. “Let’s go for a ride in the elevator.”

  They clapped their hands, ready for anything that sounded like adventure. Gina strapped them both in the stroller and gave Sam a bottle. Honey stood up and stretched, wagging her tail hopefully. “You’d better stay, girl, just in case Miranda and I miss each other.” She had a sinking feeling that wouldn’t happen.

  It was only two floors up to Miranda’s apartment, but the boys loved going in the elevator, no matter how long the trip. Gina pushed them down the hallway a few doors and paused before 2005.

  She rang the buzzer.

  There was no answer, and Gina leaned in closer to the door and rang it again. A horrible smell accosted her nostrils. Sulfur? She recoiled, wondering why there was such a stench …

  And then she knew. She grabbed the front of the stroller and raced down the hall, pushing the boys as if she were in a race. She hit the button to call for an elevator, and waited. Usually one was right there! Why was it taking so long?

  It seemed as if the odor of sulfur had followed her down the hall. She put a hand in front of her mouth and realized her fingers were shaking. Where was the elevator? She did something she hadn’t done in a long time: she prayed, a litany of pleas from her heart to God, Mary, Jesus, and whomever else might be listening. And finally, the elevator was there.

  Gina rushed in and closed the doors.

  And waited.

  “Oh, my God,” she wailed, realizing she’d forgotten to indicate a floor. She punched L for lobby and felt the reassuring descent.

  “Down,” Trevor said, pounding on the frame of the stroller. “Go down.”

  “That’s right, sweetie,” Gina panted. She could hardly speak. Her heart was racing and her mouth very dry. She felt a buzzing feeling and realized it was her phone, vibrating against her thigh.

  She yanked it out. Heather Cox had accepted her friend request. Big deal! Gina was about to shove the phone back in her pocket when she had another thought. As the elevator continued its descent downward, she called 911.

  The elevator stopped at the seventh floor and an elderly couple came on, using canes and moving slowly. Gina bit her lip, trying to keep from screaming. They looked up and nodded and she managed a tight smile. A very tight smile.

  Finally the doors opened on the opulent lobby and the elderly couple began shuffling out. Gina dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from pushing them. Instead, she waited until there was enough room to brush by them. She glanced around for Ramon and saw him at the door, greeting Miles and Darby.

  “Call the building superintendent,” she cried, breathing hard.

  “Gina, what is it?” Darby put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “I went up to Miranda’s apartment and there’s a terrible smell of sulfur … I’ve called 911 …” She gulped for air. “I’m pretty sure it’s a gas leak.”

  _____

  The evacuation of Central Park Place stopped traffic on the street and brought throngs of paparazzi, hoping to see some of the building’s more famous occupants. Darby and Miles stood with Gina and the boys, hoping the news from Miranda’s apartment would be good.

  “I feel terrible for Honey, too,” Gina said. “If something happens …”

  “The gas has been turned off, Gina,” Miles said. “Thanks to your quick thinking the rest of the building will be fine.”

  No one said anything. They knew the danger lurked in Miranda’s unit on the twentieth floor.

  “I wonder why we haven’t seen Natalia?” Gina asked. “Or Sergei?”

  “You’ve called, right?” Darby asked.

  “Yes. No answer.” Gina looked down at her charges, who sat in the stroller, fascinated by the ambulance and fire trucks. A moment later there was a strangled sob and a blur of blonde hair.

  “Damn, I’m glad to see you!” Sherry Cooper hugged Gina before swooping down to kiss her sons. “I came as soon as I could. I’ve been so worried! Does it look like everyone inside is okay?”

  “We don’t know about Miranda yet,” Gina said. “We’re waiting.”

  “Oh my God,” she seemed to notice Darby and Miles and introduced herself. “I hope she’s okay. Carbon monoxide poisoning …”

  She swallowed, left it hanging.

  A cheer went up as a stretcher, flanked by medical personnel, emerged from the building.

  “Looks like they are working on her,” Sherry said hopefully. “That’s a good sign.”

  And then another stretcher, also surrounded by emergency medical technicians, was rolled out
the entrance. Darby and Miles exchanged a glance. Mikhail.

  “I thought Miranda lived alone,” Sherry said, craning her neck. “Whoever that is seems to be in worse shape, judging by the number of EMTs.”

  Gina looked at Miles and Darby. Her very countenance seemed to ask, Freak accident? Or had Alec Rodin’s killer struck again?

  _____

  Once the building had been declared safe to re-enter, Sherry and the boys headed inside, while Darby, Miles and Gina walked to a little café around the corner. All three were quiet, each trying to make sense of what had just happened at Central Park Place.

  The authorities confirmed what Gina had surmised: gas had been seeping into Miranda’s apartment for most of the night, and foul play was almost certainly to blame. It was known that the two victims were alive, one of them, just barely. Natalia and Sergei had been located, and were now at the hospital. Miles requested and received an update on Mikhail’s and Miranda’s conditions: Miranda was recovering rapidly, while Mikhail was in the intensive care unit.

  “Is Sergei at the hospital?” Darby asked.

  “Yes, he and Natalia. Her friend Jeremy left his office as soon as he heard, and, according to Sergei, he’s the one keeping Natalia from hysterics.”

  “That’s good at least,” Gina huffed. She stirred her coffee. “I just can’t figure out how someone could get into Miranda’s apartment, number one, and then sabotage the gas, number two?”

  “I know,” Darby said. She sighed. “We need some sort of insight … something to help us see the way.”

  “Not sure if this helps, but it looks like Miranda’s getting discharged,” Miles said, looking at his phone.

  “Already?” Darby and Gina exchanged glances.

  He nodded. “Natalia’s sent me a text. Miranda insists that she’s fine, and I suppose they think she’s well enough to leave.”

  “Guess a private investigator doesn’t stay down for too long,” Gina quipped. “Maybe we should have some sort of welcome home thing for her.” She frowned. “Speaking of parties, I hate to be morbid but there’s a gathering for Devin Finnegan on Friday night.”