Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (11 page)

‘A lot of stories like that coming from Mexico, I bet.’

‘This woman’s parents were from Portugal.’

I winced.

That was the second time I’d mistaken a person’s country of origin.

Was I a racist?

‘Look, unless you want to tell me about this reindeer, I’m going to have to ring off.’

I thought for a moment, weighing my options. Depending on how well I worked this, I might very well be able to kill two birds with one stone yet.

And that’s exactly what I set out to do, telling her just enough about the missing Rudy, without many supporting details, to keep her interest . . . then telling her if she wanted the rest, she’d have to agree to run something on Dino.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said grudgingly.

‘Not good enough.’

‘Look, it’s not in my hands. But if I can slant this Rudy story the way I’m thinking I can . . .? Well, your friend Dino gets a run.’

I smiled.

‘Well, then, let me tell you the rest of the story.’

Five minutes later I had a happy reporter, had contacted Mrs Claus to let her know she would be getting a call from Wendy and likely a visit from her and a paper photographer, and was sitting back in my car sipping a frappé I’d picked up when I realized where I was: up the block from Dino’s bakery.

Were those lights?

I squinted through the snow that was falling more heavily now, then rolled down my window a hair, catching a familiar scent of . . .

Was that
Christopsomo
? Greek Christmas bread?

It couldn’t be.

I shut off the engine and got out of the car. Dino hadn’t made it home somehow without my knowing . . . had he?

I took in the ‘Open’ sign on the door, the bustle of activity inside and especially the full window display of baked goodies.

My mouth watered.

My heart beat harder.

My stomach was too small for the bird that fluttered around inside it.

I pulled open the door and walked inside, looking for signs of Dino.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to a girl in a white apron and hair net stocking the breadbaskets behind the counter. ‘Who’s in charge?’

A head popped up next to her.

And I found myself staring at none other than my mother, Thalia Metropolis.

I sat at the round table set up for customers across from my mother, trying to digest what she was saying while wishing instead I were digesting one of the many delicious concoctions in the display just to my left.

Fast-forbidden delicacies Thalia wouldn’t let me have.

I suppose I was lucky I’d been given a frappé. Surely even that was forbidden?

‘I didn’t even know you could make all this stuff,’ I said absently, thinking of all the goody-gobbling sessions I’d missed out on growing up.

‘Of course, I know how to make them. But with so many great bakeries nearby, I didn’t have to.’ She sat back and wiped the table with the corner of her apron. ‘Anyway, don’t be overdramatic; I make some of this stuff from time to time at home.’

I looked over at the fresh tortes. ‘Not those.’

‘No, maybe not those.’ She smiled. ‘They look good, don’t they? Took me a while to get back into the swing of things, but I’m back in good form.’

‘Define “a while”?’

‘Three crooked and inedible tortes.’

‘Three?’ I could probably make a hundred and not a one of them would come out the way they were meant to.

I took a hefty sip of my frappé, giving serious consideration to tackling my mother and making a run on the chocolate torte decorated with strawberries, whipped cream and cherries in the top-right corner of the case.

‘So let me get this straight: one morning you just decided to open the doors and take over management of the bakery?’

She nodded, her expression wary. ‘I hadn’t told you, I talk to Dino every day. He was saying if he wasn’t allowed to come back soon, his business would be sunk; he’d lose everything.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Of course, I couldn’t allow that to happen.’

‘Of course,’ I mumbled.

I wasn’t sure which bothered me more: that she was talking to Dino and I wasn’t, or that it hadn’t even occurred to me he might suffer financially without someone to look after his interests.

I decided it was a toss up.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.

‘When?’ she asked pointedly. ‘You’re always running here, running there, working, doing God only knows what all. You haven’t had time for me lately.’

Because I didn’t want any of the bland food she was forcing me to eat.

Because I was busy.

OK, mostly because of the bland food.

How shallow was that?

I didn’t particularly like myself at the moment.

One of the girls motioned to my mother. She waved back and told her she’d be there in a minute.

‘And the staff?’ I asked.

‘All Dino’s. They were happy to have the work.’ She smiled. ‘It is Christmas, after all.’

That, it was.

Not that you could tell by my actions.

Of course, not everyone was working a kidnapping case either.

‘Bakeries are always busiest during the holidays,’ she said. ‘And you should see the orders. I’m certainly going to have my hands full over the next week or so.’

‘If Dino doesn’t come back.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. How’s that coming, by the way?’

I said something under my breath.

‘What?’

‘It’s coming. I’ll share something when I have it.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d somehow earned a key position on Homeland Security’s suspected-terrorist list.

‘Yes, well, word on the street has it he was set up.’

I squinted at her. Not only was my mother using contemporary lingo, she was picking up gossip I wasn’t privy to? ‘Oh?’

Why was I getting the feeling she already knew about the list?

‘Yes. And . . .’ her words drifted off and she looked away from me.

Oh, please don’t stop now. I waited. ‘I’m sorry? Didn’t I say anything? Thought I said something.’ I gestured with my hand, wondering why she was hesitating. ‘And . . .’

She looked at me. ‘It’s one of the orders . . .’

What did any of this have to do with tortes? ‘Yes?’

I got me cell out to check for messages.

‘It’s for Thomas.’

I froze.

Thomas? As in my Thomas?

I cringed at my description of my ex-fiancé. Thankfully Thomas wasn’t mine and never would be.

Still, the fact the tortes were meant for him could mean one thing and one thing only.

Thalia’s speech quickened as if now that the words were out, she was required to follow them with more. ‘The order’s for the day after Christmas. You know . . . It’s for his wedding.’

My cell slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. I stared at it as if unable to work out that it was actually mine and I had dropped it.

She picked it up and handed it to me. I took an inordinate amount of time dusting it off, checking to make sure it still worked, which of course it did.

‘Kati?’ I said. Or thought I did.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Is she pregnant?’

‘Not so far as I can tell.’

My ex-groom Thomas was marrying my ex-best friend Kati almost nine months to the day when I caught them messing around on the day of my wedding? And she wasn’t pregnant?

My mind filled with the image of Rosie nearly blowing her nose into my sweater that morning.

Only I didn’t want to cry.

Did I?

‘Small church wedding, I guess. They only ordered ten tortes.’

I nodded at my mother’s words, but truth be told I barely heard her.

‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work. Just thought you should know, is all. Hear it from me before someone else.’

My mother got up and I followed suit, automatically picking up my frappé glass to take to the counter and wiping up any residual condensation with the napkin that had been under it.

Thalia went behind the counter and I gestured toward one of the girls.

‘I’ll take that torte over here,’ I said, pointing to the one in question.

‘No, she won’t.’

I stared at my mother. ‘It’s a gift.’

‘For whom?’

‘For my co-worker, Rosie. She needs some cheering up.’

‘Uh huh. Go cheat on the fast somewhere else. Your business isn’t welcome here until Christmas Eve.’

‘You’re helping others break fast.’

‘Others are not my daughter.’

I made a face at her. ‘Fine.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘
Sto Kalo
.’

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Have a nice day.’

My scowl deepened as I stalked outside and into the cold. The snow had picked up further, blanketing the street and sidewalk in more white stuff. I looked over my shoulder at the bustling bakery. The restaurant on Ditmars was only a couple blocks down from another popular Greek bakery. I was thinking I should stop and do exactly as my mother suggested and pick up a torte from there.

A knock on the window. I looked to find my mother shaking her head and wagging her index finger.

I stuck out my tongue at her and stalked to Lucille.

What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Problem was, I’d know.

And considering my recent self-awareness of my own shortcomings as a friend and a daughter . . . well, I didn’t want to hurt her.

Sixteen

‘Where have you been?’ Rosie asked with an exasperated eye roll when I finally returned to the office. ‘And where’s my lunch?’

I blinked at her as if she’d sprouted a third eyeball in the middle of her forehead. Eye rolls from two were enough; the idea of an additional one was nightmare material.

‘I forgot.’

She tsked. ‘Thought as much. Got Phoebe to deliver me a soup and a sandwich. On the agency. On account of I worked through my lunch hour to get you all the stuff you needed.’

‘You got it?’

She appeared insulted.

Of course she had.

At least she wasn’t crying.

I accepted the stack of paper she’d compiled, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. It would take forever to get through all of this. Much longer than the few hours I had.

‘Where’d you go?’ she asked.

To hell and back . . . can’t you tell by the burn?
I wanted to say. Instead, I offered, ‘On that bait thing.’

‘You finished that an hour ago.’

How did she know that?

Oh.

Probably she had talked to Pamela.

She held out her hand. I fished the camera pen out and laid it in her palm.

I could only hope the photos came out and that my rude bar neighbor hadn’t accidentally deleted the best shots.

‘Where’d you go after that?’

I left out the bakery part in case she’d nail me for not bringing her something and said, ‘Manhattan.’

‘You didn’t drive, did you? ’cause it ain’t looking too good out there.’

‘No, I didn’t drive.’

I stared through the front window at where the snow came down in thick waves and was accumulating quickly, even though I’d just come in from it, and shook the large flakes that hadn’t melted from my jacket and hair.

Still, it was one thing to plow through it, another to look at it from the inside. She was right; it wasn’t looking good out there.

In more ways than one.

‘Here,’ I said, handing her a fresh list of names. ‘When you get a chance.’

I went inside my uncle’s office and closed the door, shrugging out of my coat around the documents I held as I went.

Dare I hope the ransom drop would be cancelled due to bad weather?

Ha!

I cleared my throat, put the pile in my hands down on the desk then stood staring at everything . . . nothing.

What would my uncle do?

Probably he would quote me some sort of silly rule . . . that would turn out to be not so silly after all.

‘Hey.’

Pete popped up from behind the desk and my head nearly hit the ceiling I jumped so high.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.

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 . . .