Date with the Devil (Crimson Romance)

by Jessica Starre

She could imagine it. She had seen it, boarding the plane to Athens that final time. Seven years ago. The last moment she saw her daughter alive.

  “They needed the alliance too badly,” Rosemary said. “I think Simonis found some peace at the last, you know. When she was a nun. I think she was — thankful. That’s why she commissioned the collection of church goods.”

  Victoria didn’t really hear her. She was trying to remember that this was now and that Jasmine had nothing to do with Simonis and that mothers sometimes made mistakes or did things they thought they had to do without knowing how those things would turn out.

  She took a deep breath. “Thanks, Rosemary.”

  “Does it help?” her sister asked.

  Victoria had no idea what she was talking about. “I hope it will,” she said and hung up. She pressed a hand against her forehead. Century after century and still mothers could not keep their children safe from harm.

  “Anything?” Michael wanted to know.

  She shook her head, pulling her attention back to the present. He sat in the armchair, giving her a look of mild concern. The memories faded, leaving the distraught hum of emotions in her veins. But she knew what to do about that. Action.

  “Rosemary is looking up some information on the treasure of Constantinople,” she said. “So far she hasn’t turned up anything too helpful.”

  Michael nodded, watching her warily. She supposed he was waiting for her to make the next move. He couldn’t very well spring his trap, whatever it was, if they just sat in hotel rooms and discussed things. So he would want action, too. She considered for a moment, then said, “Kevin said something different from the housekeeper about where he was the day of the murder. He said he didn’t learn about it until the next day, but she said she saw him hanging around the church that afternoon.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Michael said.

  • • •

  The cab nosed sharply to the curb halfway down the street from their intended goal. NYPD patrol cars, lights flashing, blocked the way and a couple of beat officers shooed onlookers along. The cabbie turned around, propped an elbow on the seatback and said, “What now?”

  “Shit,” Victoria responded, climbing out. Michael sighed. It would never occur to her that they should downplay their interest in what was happening. She never thought about how things might appear, what someone might be thinking about her, what her actions looked like to an outsider.

  No, she was like a bloodhound on a trail, getting the facts and not caring if her handler thought she looked stupid with her nose to the ground and her ass in the air. He got out of the cab a step behind her and asked the cabbie to hang around for a minute. He peeled off a bill from a wad in his pocket to sweeten the request. He saw Victoria note the wad. He supposed he had better be careful of it. She might decide that lifting his cash was fair game. It was hard to tell sometimes where she drew the line. She had one, though. He’d crossed it once and that had been the end of everything.

  He walked up to the nearest officer. He made no move to show his shield — he didn’t want to appear on any report and certainly not in an official capacity. Everyone who visited a crime scene was logged in as part of the process. Which was why Victoria kept her distance, which he regretted because it would have been sweet to goose the target a little by having her name show up on a report about this incident.

  “We were about to visit the church,” he said, gesturing toward the building a short way up the street. “I’m guessing that’s no B&E there?”

  “No, sir,” the kid said. Beat cop, no more than twenty, short blonde hair. His eyes darted restlessly around the scene. Assigned to keep people out of the investigators’ way, Michael supposed. Still, even though he was young enough not to need to shave every day, obviously he recognized a fed when he saw one or Michael wouldn’t have gotten even that much. The kid’s eyes kept going back to Victoria, who stood unmoving on the sidewalk. Apparently he could recognize trouble when he saw it.

  “Nadine Grossman?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t have that information, sir,” the cop said.

  “See that lady standing there?” Michael asked, indicating Victoria with a tilt of his head.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s going to yell at me if I don’t find out.”

  Startled, the kid smiled and unbent a little. “Really wish I could help you, sir.”

  The damned irritating thing was that Victoria would probably have wheedled the information out of the kid by now. Much as Michael hated to admit it, he was used to using his shield to get answers to routine questions like this, whereas Victoria had never had that luxury.

  “Damned shame,” he said. “Ms. Grossman had two little boys. Wonder what’s going to happen to them. Hey, if the detectives need an i.d., my lady knows her. Could save the family some pain.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll find out.”

  The kid slipped away, came back a few minutes later and said, “They’ve got her parents on the way.” Then the kid nodded, indicating the end of the conversation, and Michael walked down the sidewalk to collect Victoria. He hadn’t done too badly, considering. The kid had made a rookie mistake of not asking him for his name and contact information, and one of the detectives would ream him over that — You mean you got someone asking about the vic, claiming to know her, and you didn’t bother getting a name? Jesus Christ, Reynolds.

  “Is it what I think it is?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes. She’s dead. At least they’re pretty sure it’s her. No positive ID yet. They’ve got her parents coming to do it.”

  She went a little paler, and he put a hand on her arm to steady her, and she said, “I wish — ”

  “I know,” he said.

  Chapter 12

  It was late, dark and quiet on the street but the bar was bright and loud. Booths with cracked leather seats along the wall, scarred Formica tables, warped wood floor, pool tables stacked three deep in back. Not exactly Michael’s usual type of haunt. He always took her to the quiet places, with subdued lighting and oak furnishings and brass fittings. The hush of money and ease and privilege. He knew it tortured her working class soul even while it seduced her. He liked to wear the well-cut suit and the polished shoes and put his hand on the small of her back as the maître d’ led them to the table. He would order exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, talking knowledgeably with the waiter and the sommelier. When the dessert menu came, he would lean a little closer to her so she could smell his subtle cologne, his sapphire eyes blazing with untold secrets, his black hair falling across his face. And then he would flash that wicked, wicked smile.

  She shook herself and slid into one of the booths. Michael watched her with laughing eyes — he knew what she was thinking, he knew everything he needed to know — but all he said was, “What’ll you have?”

  She sent a glance around the bar. “A beer,” she said evenly. “In a bottle.”

  This deepened his smile and he went to fetch a Miller Lite for her — also camouflage, she hated commercial beer and he knew it. But she wasn’t about to order a glass of anything in a place like this. He sat down across from her, lounging in his seat devil-may-care, his arm stretched across the back of the booth, free hand bringing his own bottle up to his lips now and then. Just a good ole boy out for a little fun. So relaxed you could poke him and he wouldn’t flinch. Whereas if you prodded her, her muscles would snap like a mousetrap.

  A moment later, he nodded toward the door behind her and said, “There he is now.” She swiveled and saw an attractive, hip-looking blonde man standing in the doorway, assessing the site. His gaze paused when he saw them, then continued scanning the environment. Apparently he decided entering the bar was an acceptable risk, because he started toward them.

  As he crossed the floor, he glared at Michael. Who could blame him. When he rea
ched their table, he turned to look at her, his tight expression relaxing a bit. He said, “You must be Victoria. I’m Gerard Lafoix. Pleased to meet you.” He jerked his chin at Michael, who moved over to give him room to slide in. The ice cold coloring of the newcomer contrasted vividly with Michael’s darkness, like two sides to the same coin, the archangel and his fallen adversary.

  Gerard wore his pale blonde hair at a more respectable length than the devil wore his, but he sported a wispy goatee that J. Edgar would never have approved. His lightweight suit jacket covered his shoulder rig. She recognized the tailoring, same as hers, taking into account that he was a man. His eyes were slate gray, with wrinkles at the corners. She didn’t get the impression that they were laugh lines.

  “Gerard’s a colleague of mine from the Bureau,” Michael said. “He’s in the loop on the Theoctisus case.”

  That meant he was either a junior flunky not afraid of pissing off his superiors or else he was the FBI liaison to the NYPD on the case. She’d guess the latter. If he’d ever been a junior flunky, he gave absolutely no evidence of it.

  “Isn’t anyone going to offer me a beer?” he asked.

  “What’ll it be?” Michael asked. “Coors, Coors Lite, Miller, Miller Lite?”

  “Miller Lite,” he said sourly.

  “Coming up,” Victoria said, sliding out of the booth, happy to escape the obvious tension between the men. Michael was the one who’d summoned his colleague. Why were the both so unhappy about it? She shook her head as she told the bartender what she wanted. Speculating on Michael’s motives was as fruitless as looking for his heart of gold. You might think you’d found it, but how would you know?

  The bartender slapped the bottle down and she handed over her money. She brought the bottle of beer back to the table and resumed her seat. Gerard took an experimental sip.

  “A fine vintage,” she said.

  He smiled at her, but not like he thought the remark was humorous. He took another swallow, then heaved a sigh that said it all.

  “Did he mention he’s on leave?” Gerard asked, indicating Michael with a jerk of his thumb. “Did he mention that his superior disapproves of his involvement in the case? That he’ll be fired if he continues mucking around in it?”

  “I don’t think ‘mucking’ was the word Phillips used,” Michael said.

  “Did he mention that I had to stick my neck out to get this information?” Gerard went on, ignoring Michael. Who could blame him. “That if word of my unauthorized assistance ever reaches the wrong people, I’ll be reprimanded if not fired myself?”

  “I never know what the hell he’s up to,” she said. She felt that covered all of his questions though she wondered why he thought she cared.

  Gerard nodded as if she had just confirmed all of his suppositions. “I felt you should know that no official aid will be given. I may be able to supply small amounts of additional information without substantial personal risk.”

  “Thank you,” she said. What else could you say to a statement like that? “What do you know about the most recent murder?” She figured that was why they were here, for her to ask questions, for him to answer them. “Nadine Grossman, I mean. The housekeeper.”

  “They questioned her boyfriend but didn’t hold him.” That didn’t answer the question she was asking, but of course, cops cared about whodunnit.

  She clarified her question. “Any connection to our project?”

  “Beyond the obvious? Preliminary ballistics don’t match. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t related.”

  “Sure,” she said. When he didn’t add anything else, she asked, “Is anyone making an official connection?”

  “Not exactly official.”

  Swell. She shot Michael a look. What was the point of this? He shrugged. Fine. She’d do it their way, even though she didn’t really care whodunnit. She just wanted to know what Nadine had known that had gotten her killed. Who actually pulled the trigger didn’t matter, though she conceded the law and order types naturally saw it differently. “Can you get me a line on her boyfriend?” It was always possible Nadine had died because of a domestic violence situation, and a few minutes spent looking at her boyfriend wouldn’t hurt anything.

  “Gregory Zirov, lives in Soho,” Gerard said.

  “What does he do?”

  “Attorney.”

  “And?”

  “Rumor is he lives off his trust fund.”

  “Huh. I wonder how he met Nadine.”

  “Apparently she worked for his law firm before her job at the church.”

  “Which law firm?”

  “Reynolds, van Horn, etc.” Gerard was almost as forthcoming as Michael.

  “What did she do there?”

  “Receptionist.”

  Victoria thought about that for a moment. What would make a woman trade a job as a receptionist for one as a housekeeper? Most women would prefer to go the other direction. But maybe Nadine yearned to pick up dirty socks and dust mini-blinds. Different people had different dreams. Or maybe Nadine and her boyfriend had colluded together. Maybe she’d taken the housekeeping job in order to feed information about the priest to Zirov. But would an attorney with a trust fund care about whatever secrets a priest might have or what treasure he might keep in his safe?

  Unless Zirov happened to be a collector.

  Michael must have seen the glimmer of interest she tried to hide. “Are you planning to visit Mr. Zirov?” he asked.

  “If you want to keep your mind unsullied of prior knowledge, you wouldn’t ask me what I’m going to do.”

  “Having you on a project is prior knowledge,” he pointed out.

  “What else?” she asked Gerard, pointedly ignoring Michael.

  “We had another homicide last night, same precinct. A small-time enforcer. They haven’t run the ballistics yet but it’s the same caliber that was used on the housekeeper.”

  “A small-time enforcer?” she echoed. Was there additional information or evidence that linked the two deaths? It was hard to imagine the cops getting excited over a connection without something more to go on than the caliber of ammunition.

  She kept her gaze from sliding in Michael’s direction. He might have relayed the information about the attack she’d fought off the other night. That’d be enough to make them look for a further connection. But why had he done it? He didn’t usually spill that kind of information without a reason, especially since he’d been warned off the case.

  She cleared her throat and addressed Gerard. “What did this enforcer look like? Tall and rangy with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair? Hazel or maybe brown eyes?”

  “I don’t have the specifics,” Gerard said, his eyes narrowing as he peeled the label off his beer bottle. “But it sounds like you might be familiar with him.”

  “I think he beat the crap out of me with a baseball bat a couple days ago. But he didn’t kill me or scare me off, which I think he was supposed to do, so maybe his failure pissed off his employer.”

  Gerard abandoned the shredded label. Weren’t you supposed to get extra points for taking it off in one sheet? He gave her a measuring look. “Would you give a statement?”

  “Are you out of your mind? What else have you got?”

  “Sure, I’m supposed to help you but you won’t help me.”

  “I’m sure you can use the knowledge unofficially,” she said.

  He sighed and apparently felt it would be all right to let loose of a few more facts. “We’re looking into some of the parishioners. Donald Young is suspected of embezzling from the church treasury. He may have held a grudge against the priest and he might have had a reason for stealing the collection — and the money from the treasury.”

  “What reason?” she asked, remembering the balding middle-aged man she’d met at Connie’s apartment. He
’d seemed like a nice guy. But then didn’t they all.

  “He’s a gambler. He’s into Mad Max for about fifty grand.”

  She blew out a breath. While Mad Max wasn’t a grandiose psychopath on the scale of Vlad the Impaler, he possessed his own peculiar brand of insanity. His involvement would explain the original murders, as well as that of the small-time enforcer and the housekeeper. Dead bodies didn’t bother him any.

  “So Donald could have done the hit in order to get the collection so he could pay off his debt,” she said, figuring that was the angle the law and order types were taking. “I like it.”

  Michael gave her a look.

  “What? I can be open-minded. It’s not always the husband.” She gave him a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and turned back to Gerard, whom she was starting to like because he told her things. “What else?” she asked.

  “Kevin Kirkpatrick has been in and out of mental institutions most of his life.”

  Somehow she was not surprised, but she kinda thought they’d manage better than that. “Mental illness doesn’t necessarily equate to violence,” she pointed out.

  Gerard shrugged. What was with the shrug? It had to be a cop thing. She tried to think if she had shrugged as a means of communication even once during this project and decided she hadn’t.

  “That’s it?” Michael asked Gerard.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Victoria didn’t believe that for one minute. She did believe he had handed her everything he was willing to share, which meant officially they didn’t think Gregory Zirov, Donald Young, or Kevin Fitzpatrick had anything to do with anything. So what had been the point of this meet-and-greet? Was a time when she could always guess what Michael was up to. Apparently that time was in the past.

  Gerard drained his beer, thanked her for the beverage and rose to go. He paused for a moment, looking down at her with weighty intensity, then reached into his jacket pocket. When he withdrew a leather card case, she eased out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t had the slightest clue what he’d been reaching for. Traveling with the devil made her jumpy.