The heavy oak door yielded to a cavernous foyer, with an antique crystal chandelier shedding precious little light onto a marble floor that was slicker than the path to hell. She walked gingerly behind the guard as he led them down the entrance hall.
He pushed open a door and gestured them into an enormous great room. Area rugs, probably priceless oriental weavings, covered the wide plank wooden floor. A huge empty fireplace yawned on the north wall. A brown leather sofa of the type traditionally associated with a homeowner’s study faced the fireplace, flanked by two armchairs covered in a nubby cloth that looked like it would scratch worse than a wool sweater. Heavy damask draperies had been pulled tightly closed over windows that stood on either side of the fireplace.
The door to the great room thudded shut. The guard was gone. She and Michael were alone.
“Ah, there you are,” she heard a raspy voice say from the doorway. “Victoria. I may call you Victoria? I feel we know each other so well.” A prosperous-looking senior citizen entered the room with an entourage of three burly, armed men. The entourage sort of spoiled the grandfather-on-his-way-to-play-golf look.
Vlad wore a cashmere sweater over a collared linen shirt with neatly pressed flannel trousers. He sported gold rings on his fingers and his carefully trimmed hair hid most of the bald spot. Short and stocky, with hard planes on his face that revealed his Slavic heritage. He looked like a nice old grandpa — big wide smile, bright twinkling eyes — if your grandpa was the kind to send you to St. Tropez for spring break. But it would have been foolish to mistake him for a doting relative.
She sank into one of the armchairs so that no one could see how badly her knees were shaking. Michael, who liked to be ready to run at a moment’s notice just as much as she did, remained standing. He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at Vlad. Michael refused to shake hands with people he planned to take down someday. More than once, she had tried to tell him not to telegraph his moves. But he played by his own rules.
Vlad took a seat in the armchair opposite her. One guard stood behind him, another behind her and the third near Michael.
She wondered if Vlad would torture her before he killed her or if he’d just shoot her and be done with it. Business or pleasure? The estate was heavily wooded. You could bury plenty of bodies out behind the house and no one would ever dare come looking.
As the old man sat patiently, a servant (armed, of course) padded into the room carrying a silver tea tray laden with china cups, a teapot, serving implements and — what seemed to her most incongruous of all — a plate of scones and a bowl of clotted cream. Vlad poured, handing cups around. Her hand shook as she accepted hers and she set it quickly on the arm of the chair so she wouldn’t spill it. Michael gave the faintest grin as he brought his cup to his lips and sipped.
Vlad smiled at her hesitation and mistook the reason for it. “I assure you, the arsenic isn’t there.” When he smiled he revealed two rows of even white teeth, sort of like the big bad wolf. To show him, she took a sip. Her teeth did not chatter against the rim, which she considered a personal victory.
Vlad finished his tea, set the cup on the tray the servant held out to him, then took the cigar the servant offered, reached into his pocket for a lighter and took his time lighting it, turning it this way and that, making sure the tobacco was evenly lit.
“Those things’ll kill you,” Victoria said.
Vlad smiled in a way that made her wish she hadn’t spoken. “We have business, Victoria,” he said, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling, admiring his handiwork.
“Yes,” she said. Maybe the business wouldn’t include burying her body out back.
“I want those artifacts,” he said, watching the smoke ring dissipate.
“I don’t have them on hand.”
He blew another smoke ring at the ceiling, then looked at her with his dead black eyes.
“At the moment,” she added.
“Bring me the collection and I will return your sister. You have one week. Longer than that and I will think you’re not taking me seriously. Which would result in damage to your sister.”
Like there existed anywhere in the known universe a person who might not take him seriously.
“I’d like to see Rosemary and talk to her,” Victoria said, operating on sheer bravado, her heart stalling on every word. “If she’s well and safe, we’ll deal.”
“Of course she’s well and safe,” Vlad said, indignant, like he didn’t know his own reputation.
“Yeah, yeah, you look on her as a daughter,” she said dismissively.
“Oh, no,” Vlad said in that awful sandpapery voice. “I don’t think of her that way at all.”
He took a long moment to try to stare her down but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t dare. Then he nodded at one of the security guards, who left the room. No one spoke. The silence was oppressive but she wasn’t going to be the one to break it. Michael finished his tea and put the cup on the tray. She jumped at the click of the ceramic on wood. He stood on the balls of his feet, hands loose. Waiting.
A few minutes later, the guard came back into the room, bringing Rosemary with him. He wasn’t particularly rough with her, but he wasn’t particularly gentle, either. Rosemary glanced at Vlad with an expression Victoria couldn’t read. When she caught sight of Victoria, she called out her name and ran to her.
“You okay, Rosemary?” Victoria asked, getting to her feet as Rosemary flung her arms around her neck. Rosemary nodded against her shoulder. Victoria stroked Rosemary’s hair and then Vlad said, “Very touching. But that’s quite enough.”
Immediately, Rosemary moved away from her, settling on the arm of Vlad’s chair. Her choice of seating position alarmed Victoria. She sat down hard. Apparently her knees hadn’t finished shaking. She glanced over at Michael, who was still standing loose and alert, expecting trouble. But then he always expected trouble. Who could blame him.
“I told you he was going to get me,” Rosemary said to her, not quite keeping the note of triumph out of her voice. Trust Rosemary to consider this disaster a validation of her psychic abilities.
Victoria gave her a searching look. She seemed fine — a little tired perhaps, but not abused or humiliated. As she looked, she noticed that Rosemary was favoring her left arm. Victoria shot a hand out, grabbed Rosemary’s wrist, pulled the sleeve back. A bandage covered part of her forearm. Without thinking, she tore it off. Vlad — more likely one of his guards — had carved a crooked “V” on her arm. It matched Victoria’s.
“It’s okay, Tory,” Rosemary said in alarm, not even criticizing her for ripping the bandage off her arm. “Don’t —”
Victoria surged out of her chair. She took one step and backhanded Vlad across the face as hard as she could, his head snapping back from the force of the blow. Then Michael grabbed the servant next to him in a one-arm chokehold, relieved him of his weapon and shoved the pistol against Vlad’s throat. When her vision cleared, she saw that all the security guards had drawn their weapons.
“Give me some warning next time you try to get us killed,” Michael said through his teeth.
Vlad produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his bleeding lip, acting as if he were not concerned about the firearm pressed against his flesh.
“That will be enough,” he announced. “Rosemary, return to your room. Victoria, you should be more careful.”
She was appalled at herself. Not just for striking without thinking, which no trained martial artist should do. And not just for hitting Vlad when his guards could have shot her dead before she took her next breath, which no competent recovery specialist should do. But because she had naturally assumed Michael would back her up. Which had to be the biggest damned mistake she was likely to make in a life not exactly free of big damned mistakes.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and they backed out of the
room together.
Chapter 15
Back in her hotel room, shoes off, Victoria considered her options. What now? Vlad —
No, don’t think about Vlad. Nothing had changed. She needed to find the treasure first, then worry about what would happen after that. Because if she didn’t find the treasure there wasn’t going to be an “after that.”
Gerard, Michael’s FBI friend, had mentioned that the former church treasurer, Donald Young, was heavily in debt. She thought of the money in the priest’s bank account and how Donald had been accused of embezzling from the church treasury. Maybe it was the priest all along. Or maybe the two of them had worked a scam together and had a falling out. Donald might know something. It was definitely time to talk to him. But how would she get the wedge in?
She flipped open her cell phone and scrolled through the list of incoming calls until she found the number she wanted. She assumed he’d left the number unblocked for just such a situation. Direct line to Vlad. When she had time to think about that, it would probably scare the shit out of her.
“Vlad,” she said.
“Yes?” Calm, unhurried.
“I’m on the track of the collection,” she claimed, which was a serious overstatement, but she was pretty sure saying, “I haven’t found a clue,” would not help her case any. “I want to buy a marker so I can put some pressure on a suspect.”
“How much?”
“Fifty grand.” That was how much Donald was into Mad Max for, according to Michael’s FBI colleague.
“And you wish me to make this outlay in order for you to obtain information about a collection that you may never locate?”
That about summed it up.
“You spend fifty grand on lunch,” she countered.
“Only when I expect to get ten times my money back.”
“Exactly,” she said.
A sigh. “Don’t burn me,” he warned.
“I’m not that stupid.”
“You’ve been that stupid before.”
This was true.
“Live and learn,” she assured him, stressing the live part. “Live and learn.”
• • •
Mad Max lined up his shot. She stood back as he closed his eyes and visualized success. Then he staggered a few steps forward, lowered his arm and sent the bowling ball hurtling toward the pins. He knocked over all but two. He glanced over his shoulder toward the bench, allowing himself a small smile. His three teammates gave him encouraging nods. He spotted her but didn’t acknowledge her presence other than with a flicker of his eyelid. That was enough to get the teammates to their feet, alert. They gave her the hard stare, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t surprised Mad Max’s bowling team consisted of his bodyguards.
Mad Max turned back to the lane, picked up the spare, pumped his arm in excitement. He walked back to the bench, slapping high fives as he went. Everyone ignored her as best they could without actually ignoring her because it was possible, even though she was a girl (she knew that was exactly the word they’d use) that she might cause trouble. Wiping his neck with a towel, Mad Max sat down with a sigh. Hard work out there on the lane.
“Nicely done,” she said as the automatic pin setter did its job. One of Mad Max’s teammates picked up a ball and started focusing on his shot. Mad Max twisted in his seat to look at her.
The current bowler threw a gutter ball and swore in disgust but it was probably in his best interest not to score better than Mad Max did. Then the bowler-bodyguard remembered his menacing attitude and he stepped over and cracked his knuckles, flexing his biceps to make sure she was officially intimidated.
“I like to stay in shape,” Mad Max said.
She did not let her eyes drift down to the paunch that spilled over his belt. If she squinted, he looked a little like his namesake, Mel Gibson. On a very bad day. Of course not even Mel Gibson looked like Mel Gibson anymore.
“Always important to keep fit,” she agreed. “I have a little business to discuss.”
“Do I know you?”
“God, I hope not,” she said.
“Huh,” he said, like he wasn’t sure if she were trying to be funny or not. “I don’t do business during my recreation hours.”
“I apologize for interrupting you. But I wouldn’t visit your place of business with an escort of Navy SEALS.”
He seemed pleased by her remark. His office on the pier made it convenient to dispose of the bodies. In his business, you were only as tough as you made people think you were.
“I take on new clients by referral only.”
“I’ve got all the money I need,” she said, which was a lie but she knew better than to admit a weakness to a man who made a living by exploiting them. “You’ve got a client owes you fifty large.”
He shrugged. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.
“I need some information from him,” she said. “Nothing you can use, just something I want to know.”
“And it’s worth fifty to you?”
“Yeah.”
He considered her for a moment. Shoot her now or entertain himself first, then shoot her later?
“Before you get any ideas,” she said, “I’m doing this for Vlad Mezarites. You know Vlad.”
“Everyone knows Vlad,” Mad Max said. He considered for a moment. He’d check it out and if she’d lied, he’d track her down even if all he knew about her were what she looked like. Mad Max, like many psychopaths, was very persistent. He grunted. “Be happy to do this favor for Vlad. He knows how to get me the money.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said and then he turned back to the bodyguards. One of them picked up his bowling ball and they continued the game as if she’d never been there.
• • •
There were approximately 175 Donald Youngs listed in the Manhattan phone book. But eventually she found the right one. Perseverance, one of the tenets of Tae Kwon Do. Psychopaths like Mad Max had nothing on a martial artist with a mission.
Donald Young lived a few blocks from the church, sharing a small space with his elderly mother, his wife, and their two teenage sons. She felt an unexpected wave of compassion for him as he sidled into the hall, escaping the clamor in the tiny apartment. He seemed relieved to leave the place to take a walk with her.
He wore a tattered cardigan, looking something like Mr. Rogers, and he had combed the few strands of gray hair he had left over the pink bald spot in the middle of his head. He walked with his hands folded behind him, looking just like a grandpa taking a leisurely stroll down a country road.
“I had a talk with Mad Max earlier today,” she said.
Donald stopped in his tracks. He turned to her. He lowered his shoulder, and, putting his body behind it, shoved her into the street, then tore off down the sidewalk, running with significantly more agility than she would have given him credit for having. She landed on her butt, jamming her elbow hard against the asphalt. The unexpected pain snapped through her and she swore loudly and at length. Fortunately, the light was red so no traffic was coming.
She pushed herself up and staggered to her feet. A few passersby shook their heads at the conduct of their fellow citizens, but no one offered her a hand. She limped back to the sidewalk, leaned against the side of a building to get her breath back. Donald was long gone. That was what you got when you underestimated your adversary. He’d taken her completely by surprise and she hadn’t been able to react at all.
Dusting herself off and examining her bleeding elbow, she reviewed the scenario. Self evaluation was a essential to correcting incorrect technique. Why hadn’t she braced herself the minute she mentioned Mad Max? She should have realized how frightening the name would be to someone who owed the man a significant chunk of change.
She turned and headed back to the hotel.
Now she had a problem. Where would Donald go — what kind of bolt hole did he have? Once she figured that out, how would she pry him loose? And it got worse. She was going to have to tell this story to Michael and listen to him laugh at her.
Chapter 16
That afternoon, Victoria took a seat at a cafe just across from Grand Central, where she’d agreed to meet Connie for lunch. She sank into her chair, still a little breathless from the disorienting encounter with Vlad and his only somewhat less scary comrade, Mad Max.
The day was mild enough that the waiters had opened the long windows to admit the breeze but she wasn’t paying much attention to her surroundings. She would have chosen a quieter, more intimate place — here they’d be crammed elbow to elbow with tourists — but Connie had suggested it and she wasn’t inclined to challenge his choice.
When he came in, she gave him the half-embrace he seemed to expect of Elene’s old friend, wincing as her bruises reminded her of their existence. It had been a hard week.
She hoped Connie was still buying her cover. That day in his apartment seemed a long time ago. She wasn’t too concerned; keeping people off-balance was one way of shaking a fact loose, so if Connie had his suspicions about her cover story, it might still work out okay.
Or not.
When he grasped her shoulder and said, “Thank you for meeting her here,” it looked like her secret was safe for now.
“No problem,” she said.
“You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” he said, shaking his head and ordering a Dewar’s from the hovering waiter. “You’re one of the few people who knew Elene from her past.”
Victoria made a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything and patted his hand.
“How are you doing?”
“Okay,” he said, and then his face crumpled. “I just can’t believe they’re gone. They were my world. I can’t believe I’ll never play ball with David again, you know? Or make him do his homework, or take him to see the Yankees.”
Date with the Devil (Crimson Romance) Page 11