Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis)

by Carrington, Tori

  ‘Cough it up, Sof.’

  ‘What? Am I cat? No fur balls to be had.’

  I couldn’t very well tell him I was working a custodial kidnapping case and that I’d been instructed not to go to the police.

  He positioned himself so I couldn’t close the door without hitting him and crossed his arms.

  ‘There was an awesome sale and I got caught behind some asshole that was double parked?’ I tried.

  ‘And left your keys in the car?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I smiled brightly. ‘The sale was good, it was the last day and the shop was about to close.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A pair of crotchless underwear,’ I said. ‘Look, Pino, I’d really like to give you a full rundown, but I’m late for a doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘Nice try.’

  ‘Yeah, my annual pap smear. You know, female stuff where that crotchless underwear really comes in handy. You want to tag along?’

  That caught him off guard. As I knew it would.

  Somehow his face got redder than the cold had already made it.

  ‘Can I go now? Or would you like further details?’

  I couldn’t help giving myself an inward smile. It wasn’t that long ago I wouldn’t have dared say what I just had to him. To anybody, for that matter. Now the words and the lies they represented slid right off my tongue smooth as could be.

  And garnered me exactly the results I wanted.

  He stepped back. ‘I still want that explanation.’

  ‘And maybe later I’ll give it to you.’

  I closed the door, started Lucille with a great deal of sputtering and ass shaking, and then pulled from the curb, the move from ice rut to ice rut jarring my bones.

  My cell rang as soon as I put Pino in my rear-view mirror.

  Damn.

  I fumbled to get it out of my purse and nearly hit a parked car when a woman swung open her door without looking.

  ‘Moron!’ I shouted.

  She flipped me the bird.

  ‘Is that anyway to talk to your mother?’ the voice on the phone wanted to know.

  Great.

  Hadn’t I just talked to her?

  No matter, I got the distinct impression the guilt trip she was about to send me on was going to be a good one.

  Six

  A half hour later I sat parked at the curb on a residential street in Corona where the tenements hugged the sidewalks and there barely seemed room enough to breathe, much less live. I was lucky to have gotten a parking spot at all, and might have dinged the old Pontiac behind me as I tried my skill at parallel parking while sliding on six inches of solid ice.

  I sipped my frappé. ‘You sure this is the place?’ I asked Rosie on my cell phone.

  I imagined her rolling her eyes. ‘When have I ever been wrong about anything? Now is that all? ’cause I got stuff to do and you’re keeping me from it.’

  ‘By all means,’ I said. ‘Oh, and thanks.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  She hung up.

  As I pressed disconnect and tossed my cell back into my purse, I came to the conclusion that the word currently inhabiting my most hated list was ‘whatever’.

  Of course, she was rarely off on any of the info she gave me, so I cut her some slack . . . a little, anyway. While I was familiar with many of her sources, she had a few mystery contacts she liked to call ‘job security’. And seeing as she’d been working for my uncle long before I ever signed on, I could only imagine what those might be.

  I took another pull from my frappé, put it down between the seats and then climbed out of the car, trying to ignore the cold and failing.

  Moments later I was knocking on the door to Apartment Three-B in a three-floor apartment building that had seen better days, hoping one certain ex-Mrs Abramopoulos was going to answer the door.

  Nothing.

  I looked up and down the dingy hall. I’d been in plenty of similar places before. Knew chances were good someone was always going to be boiling cabbage no matter the time of year. And that you didn’t want to pull up the carpet for fear of what creepy-crawlies resided under them.

  And I’d thought the Kew Gardens house she had resided in before was bad. This place rated somewhere between there and hell, leaning more heavily toward the latter than the former.

  I knocked again, leaning in closer to try to detect movement inside over the din of cartoons from a nearby apartment, and a loud, profanity-laden argument coming from another.

  I sighed. While Rosie might be right and one ex-Mrs Abramopoulos might be inside this particular apartment, she wasn’t intent on answering the door. Not that I blamed her. If my daughter were missing, the last thing I’d want was company. Especially if I was suspected of taking her.

  I twisted my lips and knocked again. ‘Ms Abramopoulos? My name’s Sofie Metropolis. I’m a PI. I’m here to talk to you about your daughter if you’ve got a minute.’

  There’ve been times when I’ve employed more creative tactics in enticing someone to open the door, but I was guessing this particular apartment-hider would appreciate a more direct approach.

  After long moments passed with no response, I supposed I could be wrong.

  I was about to turn away when I heard the chain on the door.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter with my daughter?’ a small, female voice asked.

  I squinted through the slight crack, unable to make anything out in the dim light.

  ‘Hi, Ms Abramopoulos—’

  ‘Please, call me Sara.’

  ‘OK.’ I slid one of my cards toward her. ‘I was wondering if I might come in to talk to you for a couple of minutes.’

  While it was entirely possible she didn’t have any idea what had happened to her daughter, I wasn’t going to pass up a primo opportunity to have a look around.

  Only I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

  The door closed, the chain disappeared and then I was motioned inside.

  I went.

  Either the pretty yet too-thin woman with the dark circles under her eyes was a good actress and trusted her skill, or she really was concerned about her daughter.

  I decided since the straightforward route had gotten me this far, I might as well take it farther.

  So I told her what I knew. Well, at least a little.

  Her eyes grew even larger as she listened. ‘Kidnapped? By who?’

  The apartment was sparsely furnished and looked more like a man’s than a woman’s place. Dark furniture made the faded wallpaper and stained carpeting look even drabber. Might help if the heavy curtains were open, but they weren’t. Empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers covered nearly available surface along with overflowing ashtrays.

  And unfortunately for me it smelled like it looked.

  I answered her question, ‘By you is how I’m hearing it.’

  Sara Canton’s large blue eyes looked about to roll out of her head.

  ‘Shut the fuck up out there! I need to get some fucking sleep!’ a man’s voice came from what I guessed was the bedroom.

  Damn. We weren’t alone.

  Not only were we not alone, it appeared the other person in the apartment was in a foul mood and far less friendly than Sara.

  She looked at me apologetically.

  Boy, she really had fallen a long ways since Abramopoulos, hadn’t she?

  I felt a stab of sympathy for her.

  But a bigger one for her little girl.

  ‘I don’t even have visitation rights,’ Sara said so quietly I nearly didn’t hear her.

  More profanity from the other room, then the sound of something hitting the wall and breaking.

  Was Sara right? Could she have not only lost custody of her only child, but any right to her at all? I knew money was capable of doing a lot of things. But I’d lived under the assumption that parental rights were parental rights and nothing short of murder could sever them.

  My gaze slid toward the bedroom door that had j
ust opened, my hand budging closer to my gun.

  Then again, I supposed it depended on who the parent was.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, you stupid bitch?’

  Sara didn’t flinch. Rather she looked exasperated, as if used to the treatment.

  ‘My brother, Bubba.’

  Her brother. OK. Better than her boyfriend, I guessed.

  Although I couldn’t tell you how that side note impacted me at all. Particularly in that moment.

  ‘Don’t go telling strangers who in the hell I am,’ Bubba said. His arm disappeared inside the bedroom doorway then came back with a shotgun.

  Shit.

  One handed, he cocked it, then held it against his hip, the barrel pointing in my general direction.

  Christ.

  I held up my hands instead of drawing my gun. ‘Hey, I’m no one to worry about. Just stopped by to see how Sara’s doing.’

  ‘Someone took Jolie,’ Sara said. ‘My little girl. Kidnapped.’

  Bubba didn’t say anything for a long moment, rheumy eyes slowly moving between his sister and me.

  I tried to detect if the news was news to him. I was pretty sure it was to Sara.

  Bubba, however . . . Bubba looked like he’d cut and sell the liver out of his own dog for a drink.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I moved to get one of my business cards and the barrel of the shotgun moved, too.

  ‘Whoa. Just giving your sister my number, is all.’

  He tilted his head, apparently catching sight of my shoulder holster. ‘What you got there?’

  I took out one of my business cards and a pen, writing my cell number on the back of it. ‘Glock.’

  His smile was smug. ‘Yeah, got me a couple of those. Got a few others in addition to this one, too.’ He nodded the shotgun. ‘Wanna see?’

  ‘Pass.’

  I held out the card to Sara.

  ‘Call me. Anytime.’

  She said something that sounded like, ‘Thanks,’ but I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Always nice to meet a fellow gun lover, Bubba,’ I said to her brother, hoping to disarm him. Well, figuratively speaking, since I was pretty sure he had a gun attached to him at all times. My goal was to pacify him just enough to get me through the door and down those steps before he decided he wanted a closer look at my Glock . . . and I was forced to put a bullet between his bloodshot eyes.

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I emerged out on to the sidewalk, not so bothered about the cold because I was suddenly thankful for the lungful of air, frigid or otherwise.

  Damn.

  For all I knew, Bubba had the kid stashed in the bedroom. Either that, or he had her stashed somewhere else.

  But I was pretty sure Sara had no idea where her daughter was.

  Of course, ‘pretty sure’ held about as much weight as a plastic colander.

  A car crept by. A familiar one.

  I watched it closely, trying but failing to see inside the Crown Vic.

  I was kind of surprised none of the other PIs had made it this far. I made a mental note to myself to up Rosie’s Christmas bonus at least by half.

  Not that the information or my conversation with Sara had done me any good, but at least I had accomplished a hell of a lot more than anyone else.

  I walked to my car and climbed in, reaching for my frappé.

  Frozen.

  Shit.

  It was the second time this week that had happened. And an undrinkable frappé did not a happy camper make.

  How was a girl supposed to function properly without a good, regular dose of caffeine?

  My cell phone rang. I reached for my purse even as I leaned forward to look up at the window of Apartment Three-B. Sure enough, I saw the curtains move. And was pretty certain a momentary sunbeam piercing the gray sky had reflected off a gun barrel.

  Yikes.

  I started Lucille and bounced up and down as if the move would help her warm up as much as me.

  Then I spotted the Crown Vic again, parking a half a block up.

  Coincidence?

  Problem was, I was coming to believe there was no such thing.

  A glance at my cell phone told me my grandfather had finally decided to forgo Ma Thalia and contact me directly. I decided he could wait.

  I put the car in gear and sped up to park next to the old, boxy car. Sure enough, Mr Comb-Over stared back at me through his thick glasses.

  Great. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one doing the following? What was he doing following me?

  Then again, I’d been in the apartment for the past fifteen minutes. Surely if he had been following me, then he’d have already been parked.

  No, he’d gotten there after me.

  Which meant he probably had a Rosie of his own stashed away somewhere.

  I thought about getting out and introducing myself, then decided against it.

  Probably it was coincidence.

  And probably he would get shot by Sara’s brother.

  I smiled and gave him a friendly wave as I put the car back in gear and sped down the street, well away from the scene of the impending crime.

  Seven

  Rather than call my grandfather back, I decided to drive over to his café, figuring I could kill two birds with one stone: not only would I find out what he wanted, I could get a good frappé.

  I liked my coffee iced, but not solid ice.

  Anyway, I needed to regroup. Rethink this case. And give a bit of attention to other agency business. It wasn’t like I was sitting on my hands when that Russian heavy had dragged me from my car. I had four compensation cases to investigate, three business-viability reports to complete, two background checks to follow up on, and a partridge in a pear tree . . . or, rather, a cheating-spouse case in which the spouse refused to cheat.

  Right now, though, I was thankful for Grandpa Kosmos’ perfectionist tendencies as I crossed his clean sidewalk. A glance kitty-corner showed the area around my father’s restaurant had yet to be cleared, and it was almost eleven, nearly time for the lunchtime rush.

  I opened the café door and gave a shivery sigh as heat hit me. Lucille seemed to have a hard time warming up in this frigid cold. Probably I should take her in to have her gauges checked. Or whatever it was they did to make sure cars ran properly.

  Jake Porter instantly sprang to mind.

  Was it really only a few months ago that he’d been tinkering with my Sheila? That I’d come out of my apartment to find his fine ass sticking out from under the hood of my car?

  That I’d taken him for a long ride when he’d told me she’d needed to be run but good . . .?

  That I had run him but good . . .?

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I blinked at my grandfather. Not only because I hadn’t seen him come up, but because that’s what I thought he wanted: me being there.

  ‘Mom told me you needed to see me.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘If you had listened to my message to you, left on that stupid mail voice or whatever it is, you would know I wanted you to call me.’

  I blinked . . . slowly.

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  The ever-present coffee klatch in the back shouted hellos and I greeted them back, all of them like uncles to me since I’d known them as long as my real ones, and most of them better since I’d spent half of my teen years as a waitress there, and the other half as a waitress at my father’s.

  Grandpa Kosmos moved closer and lowered his voice although no one was near enough to hear. ‘The matter I have to discuss with you is better done . . . in private.’

  Oh.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d said the word aloud or not.

  ‘OK. So I’ll call you,’ I told him.

  ‘Good. Good.’

  He walked away.

  Hunh.

  OK, as far as crazy family members went, Grandpa Kosmos rated among the sanest. In fact, I counted on him to be less zany than the rest of them. B
ut this . . .

  I shook my head and moved to the end of the counter, taking a stool and placing an order for a frappé. When it came, I sucked half of it down in one slurp.

  Ah, yes. Much better.

  Even Grandpa Kosmos’ odd request no longer seemed so odd. So he didn’t want anyone in here to know whatever business he had to discuss with me; nothing wrong with that.

  I glanced at where he had rejoined his friends in the back, laughing as if nothing had just happened.

  And nothing had.

  Had it?

  I dialed Rosie.

  ‘So was she there?’ she asked without saying hello.

  ‘Yeah.’

  No response.

  ‘Pete come in this morning?’ Pete was my cousin, Uncle Spyros’ biological son from a previous marriage. Things hadn’t always been good between the two of us and there was a time not long ago that, when I saw Pete, it usually meant something was going to come up missing around the agency. Most often cash. And once out of my own purse. Which is when I finally put my foot down, no matter what absentee-father guilt Uncle Spyros felt.

  My cousin could steal from my uncle all he wanted; take from me, and we had a problem.

  That’s when I gave him a job.

  I know, it’s probably never a good idea to hire someone who already had a reputation for stealing – especially from you – but I figured it might be a good way to nudge him in a direction other than the one he seemed intent on taking. So I put him to work painting and fixing up the offices. He’d grumbled and moaned. But he’d done a good job. And I paid him.

  Then he went to work at he agency.

  Speaking of the agency, still no response from Rosie on the other end of the line.

  ‘You still there?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. I’m waiting for a thank you.’

  ‘For a what?’ I sucked on the straw, draining the rest of the frappé. ‘Oh. Yeah. Thanks.’

  She tsked. ‘You gotta work on those people skills.’

  What people skills? I’d labored for years as a waitress. The extent of my people skills were ‘Ready to order?’, ‘Want fries with that?’, ‘Anything else?’, ‘Thank you’, and ‘Come again.’

  Oh, and on occasion, ‘I’ll tell management’, when a customer complained, and, ‘I’m sorry’, when I spilled something, usually on the customer and usually very hot or very cold. Thankfully neither was a regular occurrence and mostly happened on purpose in the case of the latter.