Donovan sometimes wondered whether he should not ask for some of the products she offered for sale instead. It would be easier to approach her like that, but he had always rejected the idea. They could both survive a sexual encounter coming out into the public, but if anyone found out he had possessed drugs, his business was likely to collapse. Many of his clients would simply walk away.
When Frankie Saunders showed up again, she was dressed in sheer silk lingerie. Louboutin heels and silk stockings made her outfit complete and despite his intentions, Donovan felt the blood being redirected to his groin.
Frankie sat down on her knees before him and began to stroke up and down his legs. She knew he was not one for messing about for a long time.
Donovan managed to shake his head back into action and stroked her chin and cheeks to make her look up at him with her big, begging, mysterious eyes. “Bit of a change from normal, Frankie. Need to talk first. If I have time after, we'll get to the pleasant part.”
She looked disappointed. She had chosen the line of work she did for a reason. She was a socialite by virtue of her birth, related to Devonian royalty, but she refused to rely only on the family fortunes to fund her lavish lifestyle. Like most of Manhattan’s socialites, she worked in public relations. She often showed up at functions and parties to give them a bit of a boost. But the money she made from that was never enough, so she began supplying her friends with product that was always in demand at the social events and parties she attended.
When a billionaire mogul bought from her and jokingly offered her several thousands of dollars to fulfill a reference he made to the common phrase “hookers and blow,” she seriously accepted the offer. A year later, she had discreetly built up a short list of loyal clients whom she served when the mood suited her. It was obvious to all her clients that she loved what she did, and it was a good way to indulge her promiscuous nature which she otherwise had to hide. It did not do well in elite New York circles to be known as a whore. There were plenty of drug-addicted, drunken sluts with rich daddies in Manhattan and she would not be able to, nor was she willing to, compete with some of the bigger names among them for the title of the Upper East Side Sure-Thing.
Donovan was one of her favorite clients, though. He was in good shape, intelligent, well informed, elegant, well-educated and a good lover. She did not mind when he paid her for information instead of sex, as long as she got her way with him as well. With him, that was the payment she really wanted.
“What is it then, darling?” She kept looking up at him with her famously manipulative eyes.
“The Lang guys. You heard Denny Lang is dead?”
Frankie shook her head and got up. She pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward a bit, her legs crossed. “No...”
“Two days ago.” Donovan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Know what a Blood Eagle is?”
Frankie shook her head. She looked scared, as though anticipating Donovan to hurt her.
“Someone cut his back open, cracked his ribs and folded them inside out. Then this someone pulled out his lungs and laid them out over his opened ribs to make it look like wings. Left him to die of shock and blood loss.” Frankie's face was a mask of disgust, fear and horror. “Someone did the same to my janitor last night.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.
“Because you told me about the Lang brothers being after me. Day after I check up on them, one of them dies. And then the next day, someone manages to infiltrate my security, didn’t set off one alarm, and tortures my janitor to death.” He raised his voice slightly. He used a deeper tone, trying to make his voice sound more dominant, more frightening; more urgent. “I need to know who told you.”
“I can't tell you that...” Frankie whispered. “They'd kill me.”
“If you don't tell me, they'll probably kill me.”
Frankie shook her head.
“You need to tell me, Frankie.”
“I can't...” she whispered again. But after a while she blinked. “I can't tell you. But you might do well to check up on their siblings.”
“Sibling.” Donovan corrected her. “They only had a sister, Mara.”
Frankie slowly shook her head and then dropped from the chair, crawling toward him. She sat on her knees before him again and ran her hands up his legs again. “Now can we please forget this? Or at least, allow me to make you forget.”
Chapter Seven
Donovan arrived at the Sedakis’ mansion that evening still feeling tired. Frankie had let him sleep after they were done, but before she let him leave, she had shown him all sides of the suite. Still, Donovan mused, she gave up a little bit of a lead, and he had enjoyed himself more than he had in a while. It certainly had made the afternoon better than it would have been if he’d stayed at the office.
He had driven home to change and switched cars for the third time in two days. He drove out toward Sedakis’ White Plains mansion. His favorite car was the Jag and he often drove the SUV when he was tired and on long journeys, but this car was one he used to show off. The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport was a distinct car, with an even more distinct sound. And this evening, the engine's baritone bellows seemed to fit the mood he was in and the way he wanted to appear to Sedakis; the impression he wanted to make on the man's new wife.
He drove up the driveway, revving the engine as high as he could. By the time he reached the house, Sedakis himself was already opening the door. The big Greek man ran out to admire the car like a little child checking out a new toy in a store.
“My God!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “When did you buy this?”
“About two years ago,” Donovan said as he got out. “Not long after it came out. One of the most high-tech cars out there. And fastest, of course.”
Sedakis nodded fervently. “Yes! Delightful! Sat in one, wanted to buy one. Wife made me buy a Bentley instead!” He looked at Donovan with pleading eyes. “Could I have a go?”
Donovan narrowed his eyes. He did not like lending his cars to anyone. “After dinner? Your wife will kill us if we let her food go cold.”
Sedakis looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement all the same. “Quite so.” He pulled Donovan into a bear hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Come, meet the wife, meet her!” Sedakis let him go and beckoned him into his immodest mansion.
Sedakis pushed him into the dining room and Donovan sat down quickly. There were two other guests. There was Sedakis' right-hand man, Niklas Papadopolis, the CEO of American Stevedore, Inc. and a medium-sized woman with long curly hair and olive skin. She was looking at some of the artwork that clearly belonged to the house long before the Sedakis family purchased it.
“You know my man, Niklas?” Sedakis gestured toward the man.
“We've met before, right Nick?” Donovan offered the man his hand. They shook and then Donovan looked over at the woman, who had turned toward him upon hearing his voice. Donovan smiled broadly as he saw her face. She did the same.
“And this is...” Sedakis began.
Donovan interrupted him. “Hello again, Naomh.”
“Hello again, Donovan.” Naomh Walsh came forward to give him a small kiss on the cheek.
“You know each other?” Sedakis wondered.
“We have met before,” Naomh Walsh answered.
“Yup,” Donovan confirmed.
Sedakis looked from one to the other a few times. “Ms. Walsh helps my wife. Advises her on some matters. Society stuff and the like. Stuff she finds important. I never understood why it's all such a big deal.” He looked around and promptly marched toward the kitchen. He mumbled to himself as he walked away, “I'll just see how far she's gotten with the moussaka.”
Naomh waited a moment until he was out of the room, then she snuck a quick but deep kiss with Donovan. “Nice to see you again, she grinned at him. “By the way, don't say a thing about the wife. And no season remarks.”
Donovan frowned, not understanding. But
he didn’t have time to ask her anything because Gregoris Sedakis came back moments later with his wife in tow. Donovan immediately understood what Naomh had meant.
The new Mrs. Sedakis, proudly introduced to him by Gregoris as Maria Sedakis, was still a teenager. Donovan thought she looked like she was sixteen, but understood immediately that she must be at least eighteen. She had a very young face, but was shaped well with a lean, athletic body not as full or as feminine as Naomh Walsh or Frankie Saunders. He reckoned she had probably started to develop later than the average teenage girl and would keep growing a bit into her early twenties.
“How old is she?” He whispered the question to Naomh.
“Nineteen next month.”
“What the fuck?”
“She snuck into a party at his country club two months ago and when he caught her and told her he'd tell on her, she... um...” Naomh tried to find a suitable euphemism.
It was Donovan who provided the words. “Entertained him?”
“Yeah, that's it. Divorced his wife a month later and married her a week after that.”
Donovan shook his head. “Jeesh.” It was more than slightly unscrupulous. He liked Sedakis, but he did not know what to make of this. “So what do you do for her?”
Naomh shrugged. “She was not born into the elite circles of New York’s blue bloods and I have to teach her how to behave so she won't embarrass Gregoris. And get her into the right places. Get her doing PR gigs, parties and stuff that Sedakis himself won't do, or would hesitate to do.”
Sedakis kissed his young wife full on the lips and she kissed him back. Then he slapped her bottom, sending her back to the kitchen. “Marvelous creature, isn't she?” he remarked proudly. He sounded almost like a breeder talking about his prize filly.
“Yeah, she's amazing.” Donovan joined in to sing Maria Sedakis' praises. And if he did not quite mean it at that moment, he did mean it later, after a generous portion of moussaka. The girl did know how to cook, which went a long way to explaining why Gregoris Sedakis had married her.
There was baklava after, which again, was great. The girl, Maria, said little throughout the meal, but Donovan noticed she was keenly observing everything. She seemed eager to learn about everything they discussed at the table, from business to the local gossip. She seemed to know instinctively what she had to learn in order to be a good wife to Sedakis. Whether that would be enough remained to be seen.
After a while, Sedakis brought out the ouzo and they sat down with a few glasses. Papadopolis retired after that, heading home before the evening got out of hand. Donovan himself was determined not to drink too much, as he had to drive home. But as they sat down and got to talking, he concluded that would probably be a vain hope so he prepared himself for a long night.
“So I heard someone killed your janitor?” Sedakis stated at some point. It was a question and a statement rolled in one; not one nor the other. “Same thing as that man in my warehouse.”
Donovan nodded. “Yeah, it wasn't pretty.”
“Know anything yet?”
Donovan wondered for a moment whether he should tell Sedakis and Naomh Walsh about what Frankie Saunders had advised him on. His common sense told him he should be prudent, but as Sedakis poured him another shot his ability to listen to common sense soon passed. “Seems there's something about the siblings of these Lang brothers. But I only ever knew them to have a sister, Mara. She's dead, though. Car accident outside the court building the day her brother was convicted.”
Naomh intuitively felt the question come up. It felt like one of those questions that had to be asked and answered. “Who was driving?”
Donovan looked down. “I was.” He kept looking at his feet, even as Naomh's hand touched his knee. “She was only 17 or so, still in school I think. Her brothers turned to crime, sacrificed, to get her through some expensive boarding school.” He sighed. “Poor Mara Lang. I couldn't do anything about it, I know that. But it still feels like I might have been able to save her.”
“I knew a Mara Lang.” It was the first time Maria Sedakis felt confident involving herself in the evening’s conversation. “She was a few years ahead of me in the boarding school I attended in Québec,” she remarked. “She died in a car accident. But she can’t be the same person. She had a sister in my class; I don’t remember anyone mentioning brothers.”
Donovan looked at her questioningly. “What was her name?” he asked curiously.
“I think Eva. But she disappeared from the school before her sister was killed. Nobody knew where she went.”
Donovan shook his head and drew his silver case of cigars from his inside pocket. He offered one to Sedakis. “Want one?”
Sedakis shook his head. “She's making me quit.”
Donovan shrugged as he saw Maria nod happily. “Suit yourself.”
As he stood on the terrace at the back of the house, smoking, he heard the door opening. It was Naomh. “You mind if I have a few puffs?” Donovan shook his head and offered her his cigar. She breathed in a large amount of smoke and then suddenly kissed him, breathing the smoke back to him. “Share and share alike, eh,” she said as she broke away from him, running her hands over his cheeks. He looked distracted. “What are you thinking?” she demanded seriously.
“Eva Lang,” he said, staring into the New York woodlands; it was a beautiful part of the state and so close to the city. “She's got to be somewhere, and she's got to be connected to this. But how? And where is she?”
Naomh shrugged. “Well, she's not an A-lister here, or I would have known about it.”
“Suppose you're right,” Donovan said.
When the cigar was finished, they went back in, only to find that Gregoris Sedakis had already taken his wife to bed.
“I do feel a bit sorry for her,” Donovan remarked. “Laboring under that big fat belly.”
Naomh laughed. “Yeah, can't be easy.”
Donovan shrugged. “Ah well, I suppose it's time to head home anyway. “ He began to walk toward the door, but found himself staggering. He swore. The ouzo was obviously having more of an effect than he originally thought it would. But he was not going to let anyone notice that. He turned around and looked at Naomh. “You want a ride?”
Naomh shook her head and walked over to him, grabbing him by the arm. “You're not going anywhere,” she said as she pulled him toward the stairs. “You've had far too much ouzo to drive your flashy Bugatti.”
“Damn you,” Donovan grumbled at her.
Chapter Eight
Donovan woke up the next morning in a lavish bedroom in Sedakis' 18th century colonial home. He was thankful that he was not hungover. He looked around and noticed his clothes were folded on top of a chair in the corner. His boxers were the topmost and as soon as he saw them, he realized he was naked. He looked to the other side of the bed and saw Naomh Walsh there. He lifted the sheets and saw she was naked too, her smooth skin beckoned him to touch her. He surmised something must have happened, but he could not remember anything past cursing her as she forbade him from driving himself home.
Slowly he got out of bed and began to get dressed. Naomh stirred. Softly he walked out of the room, holding his shoes in his hands, not wishing to make any unneeded noise that might wake her up.
Five minutes later, he stepped into his Bugatti and was rushing back toward the center of Manhattan and his office. He charged down Bronx River Parkway toward the skyscrapers of the city that he loved to hate. But as he drove down FDR Drive and took the 63rd street exit that led him to his Midtown offices, he changed his mind. He took a right and turned into a side street that would lead him back onto the highway and continued straight in the direction of Chinatown. He took the City Hall exit and headed toward the financial district.
When the traffic cleared enough, he floored the Bugatti and accelerated as fast as he could. It did not take him long to reach City Hall. But he did not turn into Park Row; instead he drove past it, to a charcoal brown office building between Chinatown
and City Hall. The building with the unassuming architecture on the corner of Chambers and Broadway where his old offices were; the Federal Plaza, the New York State headquarters for the office of the FBI.
He parked the Bugatti in the front of the building and ran in. He checked his watch and knew Albert would only just be heading in. He knew his old partner's habits by heart and he was not wrong. Within a minute, Albert came in with a cup of coffee.
“Albert!” he greeted his old partner, who looked a bit stunned.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Helping you out.” Donovan said as happily as he could, knowing how much it would annoy Albert.
“Thought you had to be in court or something? Stupid Lavoie kid? Yesterday, in fact.”
Donovan shook his head. “It was postponed to today. Got another two hours before that.”
Albert nodded, looking bored and annoyed. “So what are you doing here? Not sure you're supposed to be here. You couldn't just call, could you?”
“You've probably got some link with the NSA anyway, so you can tap my phone. Not sure I want one of your spies or database analysts overhearing what I need to tell you. Bit sensitive.”
It took Albert a moment to realize what he meant. “You spoke to her then?”
Donovan nodded. “She said I should look at the Lang's siblings.”
“Yeah, I did that already. That sister, Mary?”
“Mara.” Donovan corrected him.
“Right, her. Well, she died under your wheels right?” Albert shrugged. “Maybe they blame you for that too, but Quinn has gone to ground, Denny is dead and Mara is dead. Unless we can find Quinn, that's a dead end.”
“I was with Sedakis last night.”
“Ugh, that horrible man.” Albert interrupted.
Stormy Weather (Storm Donovan Book 1) Page 5