“A strange reaction indeed,” I murmur. “I assume you already know that after I reported finding Aziza, MI6 asked that we retrieve her body immediately for analysis—in fact, prior to the next guest’s arrival.”
“Thank you for doing so.” The grief in Nigel’s tone undercuts his politeness. “As you already know, Sheik Mohammed Ben Halabi is—was—Aziza’s uncle. But he was not aware that she worked at the club. Purposely, she was rarely scheduled during his stays. Had he found out about it, he would have insisted we fire her and MI6 would have lost a very valuable asset.”
“If that was the case, why was Aziza working yesterday?” Jack asks.
“The sheik’s arrival came with little notice,” Nigel replies.
“Just like Ms. O’Toole’s,” I murmur.
Nigel nods. “In fact, she insisted on showing the sheik up to the suite without me.”
Hearing this, Jack nudges me.
“Has anyone noticed Aziza’s absence today?” I ask.
Nigel thinks for a moment. “Thus far one of our receptionists, Julie, expressed wonder at Aziza’s absence. The ladies were more acquaintances than friends, but they shared a mutual respect. Also, one of the croupiers: Adam Kalb. Apparently, she borrowed something from him and he had wondered if she’d left it in the office.”
Jack nods at this information. “How about Ms. O’Toole? Considering her rush to meet with Aziza yesterday, I would think she’d have been openly speculating about her employee’s whereabouts this morning.”
Nigel frowns at the mention of Lucky. “She mentioned nothing last night. And I didn’t run into Ms. O’Toole this morning, but it is inevitable.” He looks at his watch. “In fact, I’m due back at the club now.”
“What do you know about Ms. O’Toole, and for that matter the Rothstein family in general?” Jack asks.
“They are brash. They are on top of all the club’s revenue sources, seemingly to the farthing.” Nigel shrugs. “May I just say they are Americans, and all that implies?”
“You may,” Jack retorts wryly. “Have you noticed anything that may lead you to believe that they may be laundering money?”
Nigel thinks for a moment. Finally, he shakes his head. “Again, they keep a tight rein on revenue and expenses, but the operations and accounting staffs are tip-top, and well vetted. As such, any peculiarities would seem out of sorts to them, and they would mention it.”
“We’re almost certain Ms. O’Toole saw the body,” I reveal.
Nigel’s back stiffens. “If so, she would have surely mentioned it to me!”
“That’s what we thought, too, especially if it upset her—either personally, or in regard to its effect on the club’s guests,” I reply. “But she hasn’t said a word. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Ahern, when you next speak to Ms. O’Toole, perhaps you could ask her if Aziza came through with the help she needed. Report back to us as to her demeanor and her response.”
Nigel’s eyes grow large. “You believe she is responsible for Aziza’s death?”
“She is the prime suspect. Should she do or say anything out of the ordinary, please let Acme know as soon as possible.” Jack declares. “Based on the intel Aziza risked her life for, time is of the essence.”
Nigel nods imperceptibly. “But of course.” He lowers his gaze to his watch. “I must be heading back to the club now. A pleasure to meet you both formally.” His pleasantry aside, his lower lip trembles. Nigel is shaken by the thought that whatever Aziza stumbled onto, Lucky O’Toole and her family are somehow involved.
Their casinos may provide them cover, but it may also be their downfall.
By the time Jack and I arrive at Berkeley Square, a dense fog has forced the sun to give up all hope of blessing London with its brightness. Sparkling snowflakes, rapidly crystalizing in the frigid air, dance drunkenly around us.
Jack nods toward a bench located between two entries of the oval, gated park. It faces south: the side closest to Babylon London. “I’ll wait here. Why don’t you grab a seat on the opposite side of the square?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Considering the Rothstein family’s aversion to financial losses, Dominic’s interaction with Lucky O’Toole certainly puts him on her radar—but, unfortunately, not in the amorous way we’d hoped. On the off chance that he took an SDR, he’d be coming from another direction.”
Normally, an undercover agent rendezvousing with the rest of his team would follow standard procedure and take a predetermined surveillance detection route, which would allow him to duck and dodge anyone trailing him. Unfortunately, Dominic is behaving more like a lovesick schoolboy.
“Sadly, my guess is that you’ll see him before I do.” Bowing my head against a sudden flurry of flakes, I head off across a diagonal park lane.
To my relief, within minutes I spot Dominic. He carries a Harrods shopping bag. It’s the one from my Princess Maja shopping spree, but now it must hold my Hermès purse, thank goodness.
He’s walking down Bruton Street, on the park’s northeast side. But when he’s a block away, he stops short before seeing me. Apparently, something or someone has caught his eye.
Getting up, I wave my hat at him in order to get his attention, but by then he is walking in the opposite direction.
Where the hell does he think he’s going?
I call his name. When he hears it, reluctantly he turns toward me.
I rush in his direction.
Jack must have seen me get up and wave because now he’s a few strides behind me as I cross the street.
When I reach Dominic, I ask, “What’s wrong? Did you get turned around?”
He frowns. “Don’t be silly! I know this city like the back of my hand. It’s just that…Well, I thought I saw…someone.”
Jack, now even with us, rolls his eyes. “Let me guess—Lucky O’Toole.”
But just in case he’s not mistaken, I look beyond him. The street is empty, and no wonder. Snow is falling even harder now. This is a street frequented by posh shoppers. Why stare at a bauble or blouse from a freezing sidewalk when you could be welcomed by shop girls bearing warm smiles and a glass of bubbly?
Jack puts his hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
“But, I’m sure it was…Just…Never mind.” Dominic’s indignation melts into shame.
I point to a pub further up the block: the Coach & Horses. “I need to warm up,” I say. “And from the looks of things, you need a drink.”
He nods.
The pub, back in the direction of his ghost, will give Dominic a second chance to see that she was merely a figment of his imagination.
She’s also become an obsession. We need to have a serious talk.
The pub is quiet. While Dominic and I take a back booth, Jack goes up to the bar and orders a round of our usual libations: a martini for Dominic and a glass of a decent red wine for me. Jack takes a scotch, neat.
I’m dying to divulge the name of Aziza’s handler to Dominic, but because I know Jack will want to see the look on Dominic’s face too, I hold my tongue while he pays the barmaid. She motions that she’ll bring over the drinks as soon as they’re poured.
After Jack slips into the booth next to me, he turns to Dominic. “So, did you straighten things out with Ryan?”
“Our fearless leader and I are of like mind that one way or another, Ms. O’Toole must be coerced into telling us all she knows.” Dominic grimaces. “Our opinions diverge on the methodology.”
“I see,” Jack replies. “You think you can scratch her belly and she’ll purr out the answers we need.”
The bar maid has walked over with our drinks in time to catch this tantalizing tidbit. Intrigued, she studies Dominic.
For the first time since I’ve known him, Dominic misses his chance to dazzle a woman with his patented Yes-I-Want-You gaze coupled with his And-You’ll-Enjoy-Every-Moment-of-It grin. Instead, he stares longingly at the olive in his martini glass.
I
wince at the thought that he envisions Lucky O’Toole’s head as its pimento.
The disappointed barmaid shrugs and walks off.
It’s now my turn to get him to see reason. “Here’s something that may change your mind, Dominic. We met with Aziza’s handler. Want to take a guess as to who it is?”
“Surprise me.” Removing the olive, he puts his glass to his lips.
“Nigel Ahern.”
My timing couldn’t be worse. Dominic is so surprised that he spews his drink all over Jack.
To my husband’s credit, he stays quiet and keeps calm. His only show of exasperation is to wipe his face with Dominic’s cashmere scarf.
“Not to worry. I’ll get it dry-cleaned,” Dominic assures him. “And I insist on buying the next round.”
“How magnanimous.” The irony in Jack’s voice is lost on our lovelorn colleague. “Dominic, as you can imagine, Nigel is upset to have lost Aziza, both as a friend and an asset. He also added that Ms. O’Toole arrived virtually unannounced, immediately asked to see Aziza alone, and in fact was in such a hurry to see her that she followed her up to the Royal Suite as opposed to waiting for her to return from it.”
“I see,” Dominic’s voice is barely a whisper.
“Then you must also see the need to get over yourself,” Jack adds. “There are other ways to skin a cat. It’s time to play hardball.”
“But Old Boy, I still don’t feel it’s necessary. She just needs a little…well, massaging.” At the thought, a shadow of a smile rises on his lips.
“I am not ‘old,’ and I’m not your ‘boy,’” Jack growls through gritted teeth. “I’m your mission leader. And in that capacity, I’m commanding you to–”
In the hope of silencing Jack, I take his palm and squeeze it. “Dominic, darling, what Jack is trying to say is that your approach may need some finessing.”
Dominic’s eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”
“Only that the woman is obviously more frigid than you anticipated—and it has nothing to do with you. If she had anything to do with Aziza’s murder, she’s in panic mode.”
Relief floods his face. I’ve swatted away his worst fear. His ego has been assuaged.
I reach across the table and take Dominic’s hand in mine. “And I understand that you want to clear her.”
Hesitantly, he nods.
“If she were acting innocent, this would be so much easier,” I continue. “Unfortunately, she isn’t.”
“So…what should I do?” Dominic asks.
Jack snorts. “Quit thinking with your dick, for starters. If you want to clear her, she needs to come up with answers.”
“Metaphorically speaking, I’ve found that flies are much easier to catch with honey than with vinegar.”
“Use any method you want. However, if you can’t ‘massage’ Ms. O’Toole into giving us her side of the story, you’re to wrap her up and bring her home…metaphorically speaking.”
Jack slides a small clear packet toward Dominic. It contains a white powder: the tranquilizer Rohypnol.
Dominic looks as if he’s been given a death warrant. Slowly, he slips it into his pocket, gets up, and walks out the door.
13
Lucky
Sleep had been fitful. I was awake when my phone vibrated on my nightstand. I squinted at the caller ID as my stomach growled. Still hungry—a metaphor for my life at the moment: no matter what I put in, I remained unsatisfied.
I rolled onto my back. “Hey. Pretty late there.”
“Just eleven or so,” Miss P said. “Things are barely getting rolling.”
Time differences eluded me. As did most of my life at the moment. “I assume you have something for me? Either that or you’ve taken to missing me more than usual.”
“I’m bereft without you.”
I marveled at her deadpan delivery. “And I’m running away from home, both fantasies of mine. Whatcha got?”
“That purse you asked me to research? You were right—it’s one of a kind and it has some interesting recent history.” The comforting shuffle of her papers echoed across the distance. “It came up for auction recently, a private sale at Christeby’s but quite widely publicized.”
“Who was selling her baubles?”
“Normally, I can find out that stuff on the QT, but this time someone had a tight lid on it.”
“Interesting. I should think the purse would bring at least fifty grand.” My interest in our mystery lady increased.
“That’s where it gets interesting. You’re pretty close to the estimated selling price. It actually went for almost three times that.”
I pushed myself up in bed. The blinds were open. The rain had stopped—not that it was sunny by any stretch, merely a lighter gloom. “Any idea why?”
“Somebody wanted that bag badly.”
During our years together, Miss P had picked up my penchant for stating the obvious. “I wonder why?” As I thought, a tiny dart of sun pierced the gloom. It didn’t last long. “Is Sharon Walker still at Christeby’s London office?”
“Yes.”
“Will you arrange an appointment for a civilized hour, say around eleven?” That would give me time to take full advantage of the restorative properties of my spectacular bathtub followed by a leisurely breakfast. Running on fumes, I’d be no good to anybody if I didn’t pull myself together.
“I’ll make the request and have her confirm with you directly.”
“Perfect. That should give me time to find my smile.”
“And perhaps some manners. Jean-Charles called here to confirm you arrived safely.” Concern rather than accusation filled her voice.
“He gave me an ultimatum. You know how much I like threats, even thinly veiled and delivered in a French accent. We are at loggerheads over whose career comes first.”
“It doesn’t have to be an I-win-you-lose sort of thing. Each circumstance is unique. Compromise and communication are the keys to making any relationship work, especially one as complicated as yours.”
“Yes, well, ultimatums usually don’t indicate a willingness to meet in the middle.”
Miss P didn’t have an answer for that.
“Besides, the whole thing may be moot as I doubt I’ll meet it any way.”
“You still can make the party. Let someone else handle things there.”
“So, I have to give in.” It wasn’t a question.
“It all depends on what you want.”
“And how much I’m willing to sacrifice of myself to get it.” Which we both knew was pretty much zero. I wanted the magic, the joy of being with someone who let me be me and loved me for it. If I got that, they’d get everything I had in return. “I’ll let you know what I find out from Sharon. Thanks.”
“Call him, Lucky.”
I ended the call.
Today the breakfast buffet lined the back wall of the library, a small room wallpapered in shelves of floor-to-ceiling books. A tiered tray held various exotic fruits to begin. Then came platters of pastries to tempt me, followed by steam tables, which I opened one at a time. I returned to the beginning of the line choosing two croissants—this close to France they had to be crisp with flakes holding as much butter as possible—followed by one toad-in-the-hole and a scoop of beans, a curious English tradition that for some reason I liked. I found a small table by the front window. As soon as I took my seat, a white-coated waiter materialized. “Tea, miss?”
An English tradition I hadn’t learned to appreciate—tea still reminded me of dirty dishwater. “American coffee, please.”
“Yes, miss.” Somehow, he managed to convey his disappointment in my lack of refinement and make me feel good about it.
Bree caught me polishing off my second croissant. I dabbed at the flakes I could feel on my chin as I motioned her to the chair opposite.
“Can’t stay, thanks.” Bree looked bright in her blue pea coat and wild blonde curls. The cold had slapped her cheeks pink. “Saw you on my way to my office an
d thought I’d tell you in person what I planned to phone you about. I checked the loading dock tapes personally. Only thing amiss was a white van. Three men, faces always away from the cameras.”
“Let me guess, they loaded one rolled up Persian carpet that probably was heavier than it looked into the back of their truck.”
Her eyes widened. “Precisely.”
“Anything unique about the van that might help in tracking it down?”
“No. Clean, unblemished, no stickers, no plates. I’m sorry.”
“No worries. Glad to have a theory confirmed.” I warmed my cup with fresh coffee from a silver pot snug in its quilted warmer. “Oh, there is one more thing.” I told her about Dominic and the woman he came in with.
“And you need a photo?”
Bree read me almost as well as Miss P. “Yes, please. And I’d like to know what purse she carried.”
Bree’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline, but she nodded and didn’t give word to the unspoken question I saw in her eyes. “Anything I need to know or can help with?”
I felt bad about freezing her out, but truth was I still couldn’t prove a crime had been committed. “When I know a bit more, I’ll need your help.”
A smile, then a crisp nod and I was alone.
While working on my second pot of coffee and the last section of the Financial Times which I’d savored in the forgotten luxury of time, my phone chirped. I’d changed the notification tone to something more civilized, so I didn’t jump out of my skin. A text from Sharon confirming an eleven o’clock meeting. I had forty-five minutes. Christeby’s was also in Mayfair, a few blocks away on New Bond Street. Given the lighter gloom outside with only a hint of flurries riding on a biting breeze, I decided to walk.
Bree caught me as I headed toward the front entrance. “Here,” she held out a photo.
The woman in red.
The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 12