Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis)

by Carrington, Tori

  I picked up a napkin, wiped my lips and my finger, nearly apologizing.

  So much for cooling things down.

  ‘Um . . . I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Thought maybe something on Wall Street.’

  ‘Close. Fleet Street.’

  ‘As in London?’

  He grinned. ‘As in London.’

  Impressive.

  ‘What brought you back here?’

  ‘Family.’

  I gave a silent shrug. OK, this was the part where he was going to tell me he married the head cheerleader and they had three kids all under the age of five.

  ‘My mother had a stroke.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’

  The information was so different from what I expected, I was knocked off guard. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if something like that had happened to my mother.

  I looked to find my hand was covering his on the table.

  He easily slid his to rest on top of mine instead. So big. So warm.

  I withdrew my hand.

  ‘Thankfully it was a mild one. But it was enough to remind me what’s important.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Besides, by that point even Fleet Street had landed in the crapper.’

  I laughed. A genuine, open one I didn’t recognize. Mostly because I couldn’t recall the last time I used it.

  Wait. Yes, I did. Back the last time I dated. Back when I’d met my no-good almost-groom, Thomas Chalikis.

  The idea was enough to send me into dating shock just as our food arrived.

  I’d ordered a heaping piece of moussaka and now stared at it feeling like I couldn’t take a single bite of the eggplant and ground beef casserole. And it was one of my favorites.

  ‘These do look great,’ David said.

  I blinked to find his chops did, indeed, look good.

  And so did he.

  ‘So,’ I began, forcing myself to pick up my fork. ‘What did you find out on Dino’s case?’

  Peripherally I noticed his movements slow momentarily, as if he, too, had forgotten the reason we were there.

  ‘I’m not entirely clear on why, but it seems Mr Antonopoulos landed high on the suspected terrorist list.’

  If it weren’t bad enough I couldn’t taste the moussaka, now I couldn’t swallow it either.

  I coughed and spat the mouthful into my napkin as delicately as possible. Which was probably indelicately.

  ‘What?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s what I said.’ He took a bite of chop, and his expression reflected he found it good, but I was glad he didn’t say anything. ‘I don’t have access to a lot of the information since most of it came from Homeland Security and is deemed top secret, but there’s no doubting that’s why he was sent back.’

  ‘Dino’s not a terrorist. He’s not even Arab.’

  I realized how dumb the comment was the instant the words were out of my mouth.

  ‘God, I’m sorry. That was so stupid.’

  He smiled. ‘No worries. I probably might have made the same statement myself if our roles were reversed.’

  I sipped water. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t.’

  I toyed with my food, then gave up and put my fork down. ‘So what do I have to do to get him off the list and back here?’

  He went momentarily silent as if processing my question and perhaps even my motivation for asking it.

  Then finally he said, ‘I’m unclear on that. I explained I was new, right? But I have feelers out. I’m waiting for Homeland Security to get back to me this afternoon for more information.’

  I nodded throughout, as if I understood what he was saying, when in reality my brain was stuck on those three words: suspected terrorist list.

  What? Did they think Dino was going to try to blow up the UN with an explosive torte? While I agreed they were good – I highly recommend the triple chocolate – they weren’t that good.

  I rested my face in my hands, giving a good rub.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I said. ‘This is all a little much to take on all at once . . .’

  He put his fork down, too. ‘I understand.’

  We sat in silence for long moments, the mundane sounds of the few remaining diners around us seeming suddenly loud . . . suspect.

  ‘This Constantine . . .’ David said quietly. ‘I know I asked before, but . . . what is he to you?’

  I slowly blinked. ‘Dino?’

  He nodded. ‘I mean, I know you’re a PI. And you’re both of Greek extraction. Him a little more directly than you. But . . .’

  But . . .

  That about covered it.

  ‘He’s a family friend,’ I finally said.

  I inwardly winced. Yes, while Dino was that, he was also much more to me. Much, much more. Although even I wasn’t sure what all that encompassed.

  And now that he wasn’t even around.

  David’s smile was immediate, but didn’t completely reach his eyes. ‘Good.’

  ‘Good?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Because I’d really like to see you again.’

  My stomach pitched to somewhere in the vicinity of my feet and then bounced back up again.

  ‘Outside working hours . . .’

  Nine

  Back at the office an hour later I still couldn’t quite grasp the implications of what had happened during lunch. I’d gotten the moussaka to go, albeit for different reasons than I planned, and then passed it on to Rosie. I now sat in my office, absently watching her try to feed pieces of eggplant to Muffy – slimy! Disgusting! Was Muffy’s take – while she dug into the rest, Adam Sandler’s Hanukkah Song playing on her iPod dock. One of her many gossip mags was open at her elbow and she was talking to who I was guessing was her sister Lupe via her cell phone on speaker.

  Suspected terrorist list . . .

  The mere possibility of someone mistaking Dino for a terrorist was enough to freeze my brain for . . . well, for a good hour. And that was so far.

  The first thing I did upon my return was look up Homeland Security’s website on my uncle’s desktop computer. Now the home screen glowed at me. Probably my merely accessing the site had landed me on some kind of list.

  Was I, too, at risk of being deported?

  It made no sense. Absolutely none at all.

  Neither did my agreeing to see David again.

  My cell phone beeped. I picked it up and saw I had a text from an unknown number. I accessed it:

  SECURITY BULLETIN #1: No progress. The first with a line on Sara Canton earns a bonus. Status reports should be sent via text to this number.

  Hunh.

  I scratched my head and read it again. Well, I suppose I should count myself lucky he hadn’t signed it Love, Bruno.

  My guess was the number couldn’t be traced back to him, anyway.

  Another beep. Another text. This one from a Charles Chaney.

  I have the address of the ex-wife.

  Idiot. Sent it to everyone rather than just Bruno.

  And very obviously after that bonus offer.

  I, on the other hand, thought maybe I should be concerned I wasn’t interested in the bonus offer at all.

  My guess was Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy was the Lucky Winner of Security Bulletin Bonus #1.

  I picked up the agency phone and dialed the number that had come with the address Rosie had given me earlier.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  I wasn’t surprised I’d gotten Sara’s gun-happy brother on the second ring.

  ‘Your fucking sister. Put her on the fucking phone.’

  I wasn’t sure my ruse would work – truthfully, I’d never spoken like that to anyone in my life – but it was my knee jerk reaction. Just as reaching for my Glock had been my reaction to his shotgun earlier.

  Not that I’d drawn it. I could just imagine what might have happened had I acted on that instinct.

  ‘Sara! Get the fucking phone!’

  Go figure. It had worked.


  I stared back at where Rosie had leaned back in her chair to stare at me.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sara. Sofie Metropolis. You’ve been made. I’d advise you get out of that apartment as soon as possible.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sure. Stay safe. And call to let me know where you land.’

  ‘I will.’

  I hung up and sat back in my uncle’s leather office chair, wondering why I had done what I had. And what it might yield down the line.

  Of course, it all depended on her getting out of there within the next two minutes. Because I was pretty sure that was all the time she had before her ex-husband’s heavies showed up at her door.

  Maybe five minutes. Depended on how long it took Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy to barter his bonus amount.

  At any rate, I’d done what I could. If she got nabbed, it was no skin off my nose.

  My cell chirped again, this time a phone call. I picked it up on the first ring.

  ‘Hi, Pappou,’ I greeted my grandfather.

  ‘You didn’t call me.’

  Yeah, he had me there. ‘I didn’t call you.’

  ‘I wanted you to call me.’

  ‘We’re talking now.’

  In a series of odd events, this one more barely rated a blip on the radar. Although it did rate one. I’d noticed earlier Grandpa Kosmos seemed a little off his game, somehow. He might be known for occasional outrageous behavior (socking my ex-groom in the nose and breaking it, being one example), but out of nearly everyone in my family and my life, he’d always been the one who made the most sense.

  I sincerely hoped that wasn’t about to change.

  ‘Are you OK, Pappou?’

  ‘Come to the café. Ten tonight.’

  I hesitated at the strange request. ‘OK . . .’

  Hadn’t I just been at the café earlier? And hadn’t he insisted I leave and call him instead.

  OK, I was really beginning to worry.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ he told me.

  I opened my mouth to respond, only to find he’d already hung up.

  Double hunh.

  Was it just me, or had he whispered his end of the conversation?

  I think he whispered it.

  I decided I needed to get out of the office before something else strange happened.

  Not that my leaving would prevent that, but being out and about always made me feel better. Despite how cold it was.

  ‘Where you going now?’ Rosie wanted to know, forking the last of the moussaka into her mouth.

  Suddenly I felt hungry.

  Of course.

  ‘Out. Why? Having trouble holding down the fort?’

  She stared at me.

  I placed a short list of names on her desk that included Bruno and his brother and asked her to run a background check, just out of curiosity, then glanced down at the gossip rag she had opened, my attention drawn to a shot of Abramopoulos and his latest gal pal. She’d been among the earlier batch of background checks I’d had Rosie make. I leaned in closer, noticing another familiar female. Abramopoulos’ personal executive assistant – I think that’s what she’d called herself – Elizabeth Winston, was a step behind the couple carrying a briefcase.

  To a charity ball?

  ‘I’m on break,’ Rosie said, closing the mag.

  ‘Did I say anything?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  She returned to chatting with her sister about horror gifts of Christmases past and I let her.

  It was only natural that while department stores enjoyed a spike in business around the holidays, others suffered. Private investigating was one. Oh, we weren’t suffering. But cold, off-the-street inquiries took a bit of a nosedive, Mrs Claus’ request notwithstanding. For a couple of weeks, priorities shifted, whatever detecting plans put off until next year, which now wasn’t as far off as it sounded . . . yet somehow felt forever away in light of all I had on my plate.

  ‘I know you’re not leaving without him,’ Rosie said.

  I looked at her, and then at Muffy, who appeared perfectly content sitting where he was begging for yummy scraps.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ I said half-heartedly. ‘Let’s go.’

  He wagged his tail at me, but didn’t move, looking back at Rosie and licking his chops instead.

  ‘See, he doesn’t want to come.’

  Rosie held out the empty container to him. He gave it a lick and then whined. She threw the box away.

  Muffy got up and walked over to me, his entire rear end now wagging in what I imagined was the ‘Where we going? Where we going?’ song of his own making.

  ‘Have fun,’ Rosie said, waggling her red fingernails at me.

  ‘See if I bring you moussaka again.’

  ‘See if I care.’ She opened her magazine again. ‘Oh, and that Chaney guy you have listed here? Stay away from him.’

  ‘What?’ I hadn’t even seen her look at my list, which included his name.

  ‘Bad blood between him and Spyros. Goes back a ways.’

  ‘PI?’

  ‘Yeah. At least in his version of his so-called life. Just saying.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  She held up her hand to indicate the conversation was over.

  ‘Whatever,’ I muttered under my breath, deciding to wait for the report or when she was in a better mood, whichever came first.

  I slid into my coat, pulled on my gloves and opened the door, Muffy preceding me outside. I looked for the telltale dark truck, but didn’t see it. If I experienced a stab of disappointment that Jake Porter wasn’t out there, I wasn’t saying.

  OK, maybe I was.

  Odd . . .

  Very definitely odd.

  I led the way to where I was parked at the curb and unlocked the passenger’s door, letting Muffy in first. He jumped inside . . . and then ran over to the driver’s side to bark at a passing car.

  I gave an eye roll. I’d let him in so he wouldn’t get wet footprints on my seat.

  I should have known better.

  I rounded the car and got in, not caring if I had dirty paw transfer prints on my backside. I was too cold to complain about anything about but the frigid temperatures. I started Lucille, then watched as that all-too-familiar navy-blue Crown Vic rolled slowly by in the opposite direction.

  I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, but I was pretty sure it was Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy.

  And that Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy was, indeed, my uncle Spyros’ friend, Charles Chaney.

  Muffy ran over my lap and barked at the car.

  Yeah, think he was sure, too.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, putting the car in gear. ‘Let’s go get some souvlaki.’

  Muffy barked in approval and licked my chin.

  ‘Ewww. Keep that up and you don’t get any.’

  He moved to his seat and plopped his furry butt down as if to say, ‘OK, I’ll behave.’

  I wiped my chin and pulled away from the curb, not daring to wonder if my day could get any stranger. I learned that whenever I did that, The Fates had a way of answering in a peculiarly affirmative way.

  Ten

  ‘What happened to you?’

  While I was out and about, Eugene Waters called my cell and I met up with the five-foot-nothing African-American who probably weighed as much as Muffy on a good day outside a motel on Queens Boulevard, his newly adopted hairstyle of retro-Afro making him look like a burnt matchstick, his single gold tooth flashing in the light of the neon ‘Vacancy’ sign. It felt late, but I knew it was only around five thirty. Early by anyone’s standards. Except when it came to my stomach, which was reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything but a couple of gritty bites of the moussaka I had during my non-date with David Hunter.

  ‘Aw, this?’ He motioned absently to his face, which even the dim light revealed his right eye was nearly swollen shut. ‘One of my ho’s decided to get uppity with a niggah. Ain’t
that some shit?’

  I had a hard time hiding my answering laugh, amused that his ‘fro wasn’t the only retro item he’d recently adopted; his language also emerged like something out of a seventies movie.

  ‘One of your ho’s, huh?’

  ‘Uh huh. Bitch had the gull to ask me for money. Too new to understand she’s the one who’s supposed to be supplying me with some green, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Mmm . . . indeed. More like your old lady got upset and hit you upside the head for being late for supper.’

  He gave a quiet, ‘Heh heh,’ and shuffled his eight-inch platform shoes on top of the cleaned and salted sidewalk, his Caddy puffing exhaust fumes our way where he’d left it running at the curb. ‘You comin’ to know me too well. And it wasn’t for being late, it was for forgetting her mama’s birthday.’

  The exchange reminded me of the first time I’d crossed paths with the wiry man. I’d been serving eviction notice papers; he’d been wearing a too-short pink women’s robe edged with feathers and matching mules . . . while a woman at least three times his height and five times his weight yelled profanity at him from a back room, and whose shout had blown my hair back when I’d come face to face with her.

  Who’d have thought after that fateful first meeting we’d now be working together?

  He jumped up and down. ‘Damn, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. So what do we got here?’

  While I’d hired him on for process serving, he’d been so effective he’d quickly worked his way to cheating-spouse cases, which is what I was guessing this was about.

  ‘I followed the Menendez wife here. I hate this motel ’cause it got both a front and a back entrance and you can’t see the room doors from here.’

  I merely stared at him.

  ‘OK, night manager don’t like me,’ he said.

  ‘What did you do?’

  I’d found out quickly that low-paid motel and hotel clerks were a valuable resource and prided myself in cultivating relationships with them.

  Eugene had been particularly good at it, too. Or at least I’d thought so.

  He said something so low I could barely make it out.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘How was I supposed to know the maid was his girlfriend?’

  How, indeed.