He chuckled, sitting upright in the chair. ‘I was picking up a pen I dropped. You?’
‘Checking to make sure my heart is still in my chest, thank you. What are you doing here?’
‘You asked me to check in. Remember?’
Now if that wasn’t a turnaround, I don’t know what is. A few months ago Pete’s being in my uncle’s office meant he was looking for money or probably something to steal in order to get money. Now there could be a twenty on the desk and he wouldn’t touch it.
Well, OK, maybe I wouldn’t go that far. At any rate, I didn’t intend to put the theory to the test so the point was moot.
‘A phone call would have done the trick,’ I told him.
‘Yeah, well, I lost my subject.’
Great.
‘Here,’ I said, handing him a file. ‘Now I need you to follow her. She knocks off at around five, I’m guessing.’
He accepted the file that held little more than a brief info sheet and a driver’s license photo. ‘You plan on telling me what this is about?’
‘Maybe. Don’t let her – or others – spot you.’
‘Others?’
‘Yeah.’ He came out from behind the desk and I moved behind it. ‘Trust me, you’ll know them when you see them. And you’ll want to make doubly sure they don’t spot you.’
‘Reassuring.’
I smiled at him half-heartedly.
‘Later.’
‘Yeah, later.’
He opened the door and walked through it.
‘Close it, please.’
His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, but then he did as I requested, the catch giving a satisfying click.
I just needed a few moments to myself.
After my bakery visit, I’d taken the subway downtown, the trip serving two purposes: meet with Abramopoulos’ personal executive assistant; and catch up with the Greek waitress rumored to be his current girlfriend.
The girlfriend had taken me all of ten seconds, but had required twenty minutes of my presence and an expensive meal breathed on but otherwise untouched. Melina Christides was about as Greek as my big toe, stamped with the label due to her dark beauty and the fact that her father – whom she’d never really seen – bestowed her with his Greek name by nature of sperm default. She was an aspiring model/actress/singer (of course) and had been dating Abramopoulos on and off for the past three months. As near as I could figure it, eye candy for whenever he went to public events . . . and perhaps a cooperative bed bunny for private ones when the public ones went well.
I normally didn’t write people off so quickly, but I did her. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine her working anything more complicated than a MetroCard ticket machine, and more times than not, I’d bet she boarded the wrong train.
Now Abramopoulos’ executive personal assistant Elizabeth Winston had been another matter entirely . . .
As I suspected during my first involuntary visit, there was a separate, public entrance to Abramopoulos’ domain, with a separate ‘professional’ executive assistant who took care of it. Fortunately for me, the woman hadn’t known me, and I’d altered my image just enough by way of twisting my hair up into a Mets ball cap and sunglasses I hoped anyone else watching on the umpteen security cameras wouldn’t recognize me either (namely, Bruno, who I hoped would be busy with other matters. The FBI agents sprinkled about the place didn’t concern me much, since I’d suspected they’d been contacted, probably at the outset. And they didn’t seem overly concerned with me, another plus).
I’d asked for Miss Winston . . . and gotten her.
She, of course, had known me, not surprising considering I was the only female PI in the room that night. But my unexpected visit had given me the edge I needed to glide right into her office and begin speaking with her before setting off any loud warning bells.
Most professional females I encountered enjoyed talking about their résumés. To a certain extent I respected and appreciated it. And in Elizabeth’s case, she had an impressive one: Harvard Business grad, summa cum laude. Five years with the Trump organization in acquisitions. Abramopoulos’ junior then executive personal assistant for the past three.
I’d enquired about what happened to the previous personal executive assistant and been given my first freeze out. One of many while I spent the next half hour carefully probing her.
When it came to creepy smiles – which people like Bruno, and even Abramopoulos himself, mastered – hers ranked right up there.
And likely revealed more about her than anything she did or didn’t tell me.
‘Great city, isn’t it, New York?’ I’d asked after one of her frostier freeze outs.
I’d walked to her expansive windows and looked out over the city, straight down the street over the domino of buildings stretched seemingly as far as the eye could see. Nope, this Broadway was nothing like mine in Astoria. And I could relate to the sway it held over some people, say like those from Peoria, Illinois, whose persuasive dream while growing up in a small town was seeking out the big city.
‘I bet your place is nice,’ I said quietly.
I’d watched her reflection in the glass. Was it me, or did her back stiffen just a tad?
OK, maybe her place wasn’t so nice.
Comparing her response to the pride she’d taken in sharing her resume, I’d say Miss Winston wasn’t being paid nearly the salary she thought she should be.
And, unlike the model/actress/singer wannabe arm candy . . . well, she had the wits to pull off something, oh, say like a kidnapping?
The two million dollar ransom, however? Hardly worth the trouble to someone of her caliber and ambition.
‘Does Bruno know you’re here?’ she finally asked, indicating our impromptu meeting was drawing to a close.
I turned from the windows. ‘No. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer he not know.’ She’d looked a little self-satisfied, revealing the first thing she was going to do when I left her office was tell him. So I’d shrugged. ‘But if you feel compelled to tell him, by all means, go ahead.’
Now, an hour later, I sat back in my uncle’s Astoria office, a place not so far removed from Miss Winston’s ivory tower physically, but planets apart otherwise.
All things being equal, I’d take this over that never-enough fantasy land any day.
Of course, when I’d indirectly inquired about Elizabeth Winston’s living quarters, I’d already known the answer: she had a small, one-bedroom walk-up in TriBeca that she’d paid half a million for a year ago.
Not exactly a place where you’d entertain New York movers and shakers.
And, judging from the information Rosie dug up, she’d also shared the place for a few months with a live-in boyfriend, one Daniel/Danny Butler, who appeared to have changed residences a month back, whereabouts unknown, and had been a guest at an upstate correctional institution for a two-year stint up until a year ago. I’d noted the detail, but not what crime he’d been incarcerated for.
I hadn’t asked about him. Had I, I’m sure she immediately would have put an emergency call in to Bruno, who likely would have pulled an on-premises snatch and grab and kept me until the ransom drop.
Speaking of which . . .
I stared at the clock on my cell phone. The twenty-four-hour grace period was coming up fast.
Damn.
I got up and approached the board . . . then my mind went blank.
OK, maybe it hadn’t gone blank. Rather, it filled with items I’d been fighting not to think about.
Say, like my mother’s not only working Dino’s sweets shop, but doing a bang-up job of it as well, and leaving me foodless, even if it was bland food.
The fact there was a message on my desk from David Hunter saying he wanted to meet to discuss further information he’d discovered: dinner tonight at seven?
My grandfather’s medal case, which I knew was very important to him, and as such important to me, but not more so than figuring out how to save my own hide.
My new
and old housemates who had taken over my bed so that I woke to each of them on either side of my head, jockeying for position in the renewed game of ‘Claim That Human’.
And last, but certainly not least, the fact that my ex-groom would be marrying my ex-best friend in less than a week.
Double damn.
I flipped the board over to the cork side and the various notes I had fastened there, then back to the dry-erase side, reading but not registering what I’d written.
Then I went to the door and opened it.
Instantly the sounds from the outer office invaded mine: Rosie’s familiar voice talking on the phone (to a client from whom she was attempting to collect a debt, apparently, the occasional ‘tsk’ punctuating her speech), the canned ting of Christmas carols coming from her iPod dock, the long, angry honk of a horn outside on Steinway, the jingle of the door bells as a delivery man came inside.
I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments and smiled.
Ah, yes: peace on Earth.
Maybe now I could concentrate . . .
Seventeen
‘Does your friend Konstantine have any enemies?’
I’d talked CIS agent David Hunter into coffee rather than dinner and now sat across the table from him at one of my favorite Greek cafes on Broadway enjoying a tall, frothy frappé and a plate of diples, which is a cross between a doughnut and a funnel cake, drenched in honey syrup and sprinkled with walnuts.
‘Want one?’ I asked, hoping he’d say no.
He said no.
‘I don’t think “enemy” is a word in Dino’s vocabulary,’ I said in answer to his question, sucking the honey syrup from my thumb. ‘Everyone loves him.’
David was watching my movements, especially my mouth . . . a little too closely.
Ooops.
Note to self: do not lick honey-covered digits in the company of males . . . unless you’re interesting in licking them, of course.
I’d never thought of myself as the sensual type. But I suppose that was one of those traits determined by someone other than you. Take the finger-sucking bit: I’d always done it. Not sure why. And Lord knows my mother had tried breaking me of the habit. Yet, here I was, still doing it.
‘Why do you ask?’ I tried to redirect his attention to someplace other than my mouth. Partly because I was beginning to feel awkward. Mostly because it made me notice his mouth, which looked like it might be very nice to lick, indeed.
It would be good to keep in mind licking had landed me more than my fair share of trouble. And this meeting and the motivation behind it stood as a stark reminder of that.
‘What? Oh.’ David shifted in his chair and sipped his coffee – regular with just a dab of cream. ‘Just that my investigation shows he was turned in by a reliable source.’
‘Turned in?’
‘Yes. For suspicious activity.’
‘Such as?’
He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t able to obtain that information. But I’m guessing enough to not only put him on the list, but to have him placed on the first flight out.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Additional information I wasn’t able to obtain.’
I was beginning to think I might have better luck going straight to Homeland Security, no matter my fear of finding myself sitting in a Greek airport eight hours later looking for a way to call Dino to come pick me up.
This is what was so important for me to meet him about? I had things to do. People to see.
Ransom drops to wriggle out of . . .
‘I don’t have time to date,’ I said.
David nearly choked on his coffee. Which made him all the more attractive in an odd kind of way.
And, sitting across from him again, it was hard to ignore how very attractive he was.
And difficult to remember why I shouldn’t welcome his interest beyond the obvious reasons.
‘This isn’t a date,’ he finally said.
OK, I wasn’t up to arguing the point. Probably it wasn’t a good idea, either. While I was reasonably sure he didn’t have the authority to deport me anywhere farther than Canada, I didn’t want to try him.
Then again, being in Canada just then might not be a bad idea . . .
‘You know, my mom says she’s hearing rumors Dino was set up,’ I said.
‘Your mom would be the one running the bakery?’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘I was going to suggest we go there.’
This time I was the one who nearly choked on her coffee.
Me? David? Seen out together? By my mother?
‘Yes, that would be her.’ Imagine how I might have responded had I not happened by the bakery and discovered for myself what everyone else seemed to already know. ‘At any rate, I’m thinking maybe we should stick to meeting at your office from here on out.’
‘I see.’ His gaze drowned in his coffee cup. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just, since I moved here six months ago I haven’t really been out much. Oh, sure, I’ve been downtown. But not here. After you came into my office, I thought you might be the perfect person to show me around, since you know Astoria so well.’
OK.
Now I felt bad.
Which seemed to be happening a lot lately.
‘I’m not offended,’ I said. ‘I’m flattered. But . . .’
He looked at me hopefully.
‘Well . . . but.’
I smiled.
My cell phone chirped and I glanced to find a text from Waters.
‘I should really get going,’ I said.
‘Oh. Sure. Let me walk out with you.’
I smiled and let him help with my jacket then I led the way out, allowing him to open doors as we went.
‘I’m hoping to hear on my reconsider request by tomorrow,’ he said when we both stood on the cold sidewalk. ‘I’ll leave message at your office on the decision.’
It had briefly stopped snowing and the evening was one of those where your breath turned into an ice sculpture before it could evaporate.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He really did have nice eyes. The kind that seemed open to laughing. And I was flattered he was interested in me. For reasons I wasn’t entirely clear on, I found myself leaning slightly in toward him. To kiss his cheek, I told myself. Something quick and not too friendly.
Problem was? I missed his cheek and hit his mouth.
And there was nothing quick or unfriendly about it.
Mmm . . .
Yes . . .
There was something gratifying in knowing I was right: David was a good kisser. A considerate one. He allowed me to decide how far I wanted to go.
Well, until he leaned into me and deepened the kiss but good, making off with my breath entirely.
Whoa . . .
Suddenly I was no longer aware of the cold. To the contrary, I felt very warm.
We both stopped at the same time, pausing for a moment, noses nearly touching.
I felt him smile rather than saw him. ‘Glad you had time for . . . that,’ he said.
I smiled back. ‘Me, too.’
There was something hotly intimate about our standing in the middle of the sidewalk enjoying our first kiss.
I waited for fear or exasperation or another objectionable emotion to hit, to remind me why I really wasn’t interested in dating anyone.
There was nothing.
Hunh.
My cell chirped again.
David chuckled as he drew away. ‘You’d better see to that bird in your pocket.’
‘Yeah. Ravenous beast.’
‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘I mean, tomorrow. When I hear on that reconsideration.’
I nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
I did experience something I wasn’t prepared for: shyness.
And it didn’t dissipate until after he turned the corner and moved out of sight . . . and only then minimally.
I sighed an
d turned to walk in the opposite direction.
That’s when I spotted the dark truck cruising by . . .
Jake.
My heart dunked into my stomach.
Then it rebounded.
How long since the last time I’d found myself in nearly this exact same position?
Right before Dino was deported.
My brain seized.
No . . .
There wasn’t a chance that . . .
Never in a million years would Jake . . .
Would he?
My cell chirped again.
I fished it out, saw Waters’ name in the display and answered.
‘I quit!’ he said, then hung up.
‘I swear, woman, I ain’t seen anybody get them-damn-selves in as much trouble as you do,’ Eugene said after I finally managed to get him to take my call. It had taken no fewer than ten tries and five voicemail messages promising a bonus in addition to hazard pay.
‘What’s going on?’
I’d arranged to meet him outside a bar in Jamaica, Queens. Was it just me or did his dark skin look a little lighter? Then again, it could be the cold.
‘Ain’t you gonna offer to buy a brother a beer?’
I looked at the low, squat building pulsing with hip-hop music and then looked back at him. ‘Here? No.’
‘Fine, then.’
He reached inside his new leather coat and took out what, to all intents and purposes, looked like a cigarette. But when he lit it up, it smelled like anything but.
I noticed his hand trembled as he filled his lungs, held it, then exhaled. His shoulders dropped at least three inches before my eyes.
‘You want some?’ He held out the joint.
‘Nah. Pass.’
Mostly I limited myself to contact highs. And just being near Eugene right now, his blowing the smoke in my direction, guaranteed I’d get a good one.
Oh, screw it.
‘Yeah, hand it to me,’ I said.
He did.
I took a tentative puff, tried to hold the acrid smoke in my lungs, then coughed it out.
I handed it back.
He chuckled softly. ‘Good you don’t smoke. Can’t imagine what kind of trouble you get into if you did. Probably get a nigga killed.’
‘So are you going to tell me what happened or not?’
‘I’m thinking we should talk about that bonus you mentioned first.’
Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) Page 13