If Looks Could Kill

by Andi Marquette

  Well. That was also interesting. A couple of guys dressed in very sharp suits caught her eye. They were crossing the street behind her, coming toward the Fashion Forward building. And they stuck out because they weren’t talking to each other. Instead, their gazes were locked onto Daddy Hampstead. They looked like a Russian security detail. Or something much worse. The shorter of the two reached inside his suit jacket in a way that indicated he probably had a gun.

  She stopped rummaging in her purse and walked briskly after Marya’s father, which wasn’t a big deal in New York. Everybody who wasn’t a tourist walked fast here. Including the heavies behind her. Jonathan Hampstead stopped as if he was studying something in the window of a clothing store. The heavies stopped, too. Ellie slowed her pace, and pretended to dig in the tote bag with the blender for something. She was like a damn archaeologist, sifting through all her crap all the time. Jonathan moved to the door of the shop, looking like any other casual shopper, like he had all the time in the world.

  He went inside, and the Russians bolted toward the store. Ellie acted, deciding that it wouldn’t do this op any good if Daddy Hampstead was either killed or kidnapped—or both—by Russian gangsters. So she tripped and fell toward one of the men, swinging the tote bag as if she was trying to keep her balance. She ran into the one guy, and the blender-laden bag connected with the knee of the other. Hard. He yelped and staggered back while the other guy tried to disentangle himself from her.

  “Oh, my God. I am so sorry,” she said as she pushed off the man she’d run into, catching a whiff of his cologne. Something sweet, like 1980s Polo. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I am all right,” he muttered in accented English.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said to the taller guy, who was limping a little, trying to walk it off. He said something in Russian, face dark with anger. A few other people slowed, curious at what had happened, then continued on their way when it was clear it was nothing serious or interesting enough for them to film and post on social media.

  “Can I get you an ice pack?” she continued, looking around as if there was an ice pack stand somewhere. “I’m so, so sorry. I can be so clumsy. My friends are always telling me that. Are you sure you don’t need an ice pack? I have some Advil—”

  “No,” the taller man snapped. He said something to his companion in Russian, and they hurried to the store Hampstead had gone into.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Ellie called after them, but they ignored her. She checked the blender. Good thing Gwen had bought a seriously solid one. The thick glass was fine, and the motor part looked okay, too. She’d provided Hampstead a little extra time to go out the back. For a businessman, he seemed pretty savvy about potential street fights. Maybe he watched a lot of thriller movies.

  She flagged down another cab, and this one took its New York time, but once she settled in its interior, she checked the area outside the store Hampstead had gone into. The Russians hadn’t come out of it, yet. They’d probably gone out the back, too. She sucked on another candy, knowing that her weekend work now included slogging through tons of photos of local Russian gangsters. Halfway to Gwen’s office, Ellie texted her: “Let me know if anything’s weird with the blender. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Those things’ll kill you,” Rick said. He set a fresh cup of coffee on her desk as he picked up the pile of candy wrappers with his other hand and threw them in her nearby trash can.

  “Oh, and this won’t?” Ellie gestured at the coffee.

  “At least it’s not full of sugar and red dye number ninety-two or whatever. So, have you figured out who was messing with Daddy Hampstead?” He perched on the edge of her desk, and even though it was Saturday, he wore dark trousers and a button-down shirt open at the collar. She knew he kept a couple of ties neatly folded in one of his desk drawers, in case he needed to “represent,” as he called it. She, however, wore jeans and an NYPD polo shirt.

  “Pretty sure this is the shorter guy.” She adjusted her monitor so he could better see.

  “He looks familiar.”

  “Leo Zaretsky ring any bells?” she asked as she printed his photo and the little bit of information on him.

  Rick didn’t answer for a bit as he sipped his coffee. For such a big, muscular dude, he took his coffee seriously and sipped delicately. “Oh, yeah. Got it,” he finally said. “He runs with the Petrovs.”

  “Priors on this guy?”

  “Never been able to nail him for anything. Dude’s slick, like most of them are.”

  Ellie sipped her own coffee and stared at the screen. “So chances are the other guy hangs with the Petrovs, too.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “Mr. Unknown is the guy with a sore knee today after he ran into the blender in my bag.” She unwrapped another cinnamon candy, and Rick frowned. She popped it into her mouth. “What?” she said at Rick’s expression. “You should try one. Gives a whole new dimension to coffee.”

  Rick pushed off her desk. “Guess it was a good thing you had that blender with you. Speaking of which, why did you? Trying new techniques for undercover weaponry?”

  She snorted. “If only. It’s Gwen’s. I took it back to her yesterday.”

  His expression remained impassive. “And how’s that going?”

  “You mean how are things with my former almost-fiancée, who I still can’t be around for more than a few minutes after ten months?”

  He sipped his coffee and watched her.

  “We’re civil. She’s much nicer than I am. But then, that’s not hard to do. I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

  “Who is?” He gave her a shrug. “So, anybody interesting on the dating horizon?”

  “Why no, Dr. Phil. And would you also like to know what toilet paper I use?”

  He grinned. “Already do. So how about we grab a beer later?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  He glanced at his watch. She liked that about him, that he wore one. Not something you saw much anymore. “It’s almost three-thirty now. Six?”

  “Sounds good. See you there.” She didn’t have to ask where. They always went to the same out-of-the-way neighborhood bar that catered to cops and jocks, the two not always mutually exclusive.

  “Later.” He picked up his blazer from his desk chair and left. She turned back to the screen and continued her quest to ID Mr. Unknown, aka Mr. Sore Knee. Ninety minutes later, she still hadn’t found anything on him in US law enforcement databases so she tried Interpol. Ten minutes later, she found him. Mr. Sore Knee had a name and a record.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Yuri Laskin,” Ellie muttered as she printed out his photo and the summary of his bad deeds, which included fraud, arms dealing, and several assaults. He was also wanted for questioning in a couple of high-profile murders in Berlin. Last known sighting was in Warsaw three months ago. Until yesterday. International criminal sidelined by blender injury. Ellie sat back. The Petrovs seemed to be targeting Jonathan Hampstead. Why?

  She’d try to find out. But not until tomorrow. Ellie shut down her computer, gathered her things, and left, knowing that there were two things she could count on at the moment. Rick would beat her to the bar, and he’d have her beer waiting.

  * * *

  Second day at the new job, and Ellie arrived at Fashion Forward early. For all the things the guys teased her about, tardiness was not one of them. She yawned. She’d settled into the new apartment Sunday night, and she’d had a hard time sleeping as she adjusted to the sounds of the new location.

  The elevator dinged, and she stepped in with a few other people. She ended up next to the buttons and was about to press hers when four other people crowded on, in a cloud of varying degrees of cologne. This was clearly Ellie’s lucky day, because one of them was Marya Hampstead.

  “Floor?” Ellie asked her as if she didn’t know. Three impeccably dressed young men served as Hampstead’s entourage, and they glanced nervously at each other and at Hamp
stead, who was on her cell phone, ignoring them in that way that people who wielded power had.

  “Thirty-one. Thank you,” she said to Ellie before returning to her phone convo. She hadn’t taken her gajillion-dollar sunglasses off.

  Ellie didn’t have to press the number because she already had done it for herself. She leaned back against the elevator’s wall, pretending to check her phone. Okay, Marya Hampstead was seriously attractive in person, even without all the fashion spread airbrushing. Today, she had kind of a classy glamour thing going on, with a slim black skirt suit with white accents and tasteful—oh, my God, did she just use that word in her inventory about another person?—black heels. Hampstead’s dark hair was piled onto her head in a way that made it look carefree, but Ellie was sure she probably had someone work on it for an hour. Lucky stylist, getting to run their fingers through Hampstead’s hair.

  “That’s your problem, isn’t it? If you can’t provide a quality product by the expected deadline, I’ll find someone who can,” Hampstead said in her smooth British accent to the unfortunate party on the other end of the phone. Everything sounded good with that accent, including a tongue-lashing. Which conjured other, far more vivid and inappropriate images for Ellie as she surreptitiously admired the way Hampstead filled her clothes. Not a good idea, to have the hots for the target. She studied her phone again to keep herself from checking her out more.

  The elevator stopped at fifteen, leaving Ellie with Hampstead and her entourage and one other man.

  “No product, no payment, no further business,” Hampstead said, and though she hadn’t raised her voice, the temperature in the elevator seemed to drop. The three men looked at each other again, still nervous.

  “I expect so,” Hampstead said with finality and hung up.

  Ouch to whoever that was. Ellie moved a little so the non-Hampstead guy could exit at the twentieth floor, and that put Hampstead within inches of her. Ellie inhaled a little, curious about Hampstead’s cologne. Whatever it was, it was understated with just a trace of something citrusy. She approved. Some people drenched themselves in cologne, like Leo Zaretsky last week.

  “I want to see the latest layouts before lunch,” Hampstead said to the three pretty boys. Her tone left no room for argument. Or even chatting. They all nodded in unison at her, but remained silent. Probably for the best. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Marya Hampstead got off first and her entourage followed. Everybody stopped what they were doing and greeted her as she passed. She tossed them all dismissive waves, and the three guys with her peeled off and went to do whatever it was they were supposed to do with the layouts.

  Ellie could see how Hampstead got her rep, but on the other hand, she appreciated a woman who wouldn’t be pushed around. Nobody paid attention to Ellie as she walked through the lobby, but that was fine. The less noticeable she was, the more information she could gather and, hopefully, the sooner she’d be done with this assignment.

  “Hi,” Ellie said to her officemate when she entered.

  Liz, a perky brunette who looked like she should probably be posing for photos in a Midwestern cornfield, glanced up from what looked like some printouts of a magazine spread. “Oh, hi. I put a page on your desk to check. Just proofreading on some ad copy. Nothing too scary, since it’s only your second day.”

  “Okay.” Ellie set her bag on the floor under her desk and took her blazer off, which she hung on the sleek coat rack near the door. “Want some coffee?”

  “Love some. Italian roast.”

  “Okay. Be right back.” Ellie smoothed the front of her skirt and went back to the main reception area. Beautiful Receptionist smiled at her as she passed the circular counter and went through the doorway into a kitchenette where the coffee machine was, with a variety of high-end flavors and strengths. She loaded up a pod for Liz and waited for the cup to fill. A guy came in, and Ellie recognized him from the elevator ride up as one of Marya’s morning posse. Dark hair, perfectly styled, medium height, slender, bowtie. Dapper.

  She smiled at him in greeting, and he gave her a blank stare before he checked the display rack of available coffee pods and removed one from the French roast slot. He tapped it nervously on the counter as he checked his phone. Ellie stepped aside so he could load his pod up. If he was still in Marya’s crosshairs, he probably was in a bigger hurry than she was.

  Once the machine had filled his cup, he took it and headed for the doorway just as somebody else entered. Ellie saw what was coming, and she winced as the newcomer bumped into Mr. Dapper. The coffee splashed onto his shirt, and he jumped back, swearing, trying to hold what was left in the cup out from his body.

  “Shit,” said the new arrival, a man Ellie didn’t recognize. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Dapper set the half-empty cup on the counter and pulled several paper towels out of the dispenser. “Fuck,” he said woefully as he dabbed at the big brown splotch on his chest. Too bad his shirt was light blue.

  “Are you okay? Did you get burned?” the new arrival asked.

  “No,” he said. “At least not yet. The coffee was for Ms. H.”

  Ellie imagined him putting his hand to his head in an “oh, no” motion.

  “Oh, shit,” the other guy said.

  Ellie watched the exchange with interest. Ms. H was probably Hampstead, she guessed. “Do you have another shirt?”

  He looked at her. “Yes, but Ms. H needs her coffee in—” he looked at his phone. “Seven minutes. I can’t go into her office looking like this.”

  Hampstead had clearly earned her dragon lady rep. “Go change your shirt,” Ellie said. “I’ll take her coffee in.” She loaded up another French roast pod, slid a cup under the spout, and hit start.

  “She takes it—”

  “Black. I noticed.” Ellie smiled at him. “I’m Ellie, for future reference.”

  “Khalil.”

  She looked at the other guy, also dapper, but blond and a lot taller. “Marco,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you.” She removed the cup from the machine. “I take it she doesn’t do lids.”

  “Hates them,” Khalil said.

  Of course she did. “Okay, then. If you would drop this cup—” she handed Liz’s covered coffee to Marco—“To Liz over in the office a few doors down from Tyler Jackson, I’d be much obliged. That gives Khalil here a chance to go to his office and change.”

  Marco handed him the purple folder he was holding. “Cover up,” he said, and Khalil took it and held it over the stain on his shirt.

  “Thank you,” he said to them both. “Three minutes.” He ducked out.

  “Seriously?” Ellie muttered. Marco apparently heard her, because he stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “Have you not met her?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “This’ll be the first time.” She picked up the coffee cup.

  “Oh, my God. You’re new.”

  “Brand spankin’. Wish me luck. And get that coffee to Liz.”

  He nodded and followed her back into the reception area. Ellie walked purposefully toward the dragon lady’s office, which was, of course, in a corner location, so it probably had amazing views all around. And whatever else rich and powerful people kept in corner offices. Maybe hot tubs and full bars. Dance floors? Nice furniture, at the very least.

  She held the coffee carefully as she approached the double doors, preparing for either a body to come flying out after tangling with Hampstead or Hampstead herself yanking the doors open imperiously to gaze upon her minions.

  Neither happened. In fact, one of the doors was partially open. They swung inward, so Ellie stepped forward and knocked twice on the open door. Hampstead probably didn’t like people entering her office without permission, even if the door was open.

  “Yes,” came the response. It was kind of hot, that one word in Hampstead’s accent. She’d like to hear Marya say it again, under very different circumstances.

  “Your coffee,” Ellie said as she entered, fighting an urge to add
“m’lady.”

  Hampstead was standing at a nearby conference table, sleek and urban chic, like the rest of her tasteful and Euro-minimalist office. The table was covered with layouts for one of Fashion Forward’s publications.

  Hampstead surprised Ellie by taking the coffee from her directly rather than ordering her to put it somewhere. And Ellie had been right. She was surrounded by views of the city out the two walls of windows. But the view of Hampstead was much better.

  “Thank you,” Hampstead said, adding another layer of surprise with the politeness. “And you are?”

  “Ellie Daniels. Intern. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hampstead.” She didn’t offer her hand because Hampstead’s body language didn’t suggest a handshake.

  “You were on the elevator this morning.” She seemed to be studying Ellie, sizing her up. And clearly, the sunglasses Hampstead had worn that morning were designed to keep people from getting caught in her eyes, because that’s exactly what happened to Ellie.

  “I was,” Ellie said, pleased she didn’t sound like she was admiring the shifting shades of gray in the eyes of the dragon lady.

  Hampstead sipped the coffee. “Tyler did mention that he’d hired someone. And where is Khalil?” Her tone wasn’t demanding. Rather, the question was just something she tacked onto the end of the sentence, like, “did you remember your umbrella?”

  “A phone call in the coffee room.” Ellie met Hampstead’s abrupt change of topic just as smoothly as Hampstead had injected it. “Something about the layouts. He said he absolutely had to attend to it in order to ensure you got the correct draft or something to that effect. He threw himself on my mercy to bring you coffee. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “I see.” If Hampstead was skeptical, it didn’t show on her face. Fortunately, a knock at her door interrupted whatever Hampstead was going to say next. Marco poked his head in, tentative, as if he was dreading having to clean up a scorch mark in the carpet that had been Ellie Daniels, intrepid intern. He seemed shocked to see her standing a few feet from Hampstead, unscathed.