Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (6 page)

Hmm. So it stood to reason that’s why I had been let inside.

‘Have you spoken to anyone else, Mrs Garcia?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Mr Abramopoulos, he tell me not to. I mean, I talk to his people . . .’

‘Then why did you let me in?’

‘Because I had to talk to somebody about it. Little Miss Jolie . . . I love her like she’s my own little
m’ija
. If anything bad happened to her . . .’

Her big dark eyes boiled over with tears. Genuine? Yeah. I found myself digging in my purse for a Kleenex. She took it and mopped at her cheeks.

‘I need you to tell me what happened that day. Everything, no matter how insignificant you think it is. If there was a run in your stocking, I want to hear it.’ Mrs Garcia nodded, listening intensely. ‘And I want you to tell me everyone Jolie comes into contact with on a day-to-day basis. And who she might have seen over the past month. Doctors, teachers, the neighbor with the Great Dane, security personnel . . . doesn’t matter. I want to hear about them. And I want to hear what you think about them.’

She continued nodding for a full minute. Then her face contorted, a mixture of hope and worry. ‘You find her, yes?’

‘I hope to find her, yes.’

And I did. If only because this one woman seemed to love her more than anyone else I’d encountered so far.

And everyone should be where they were loved.

The thought inspired an inward squint of a whole different color . . .

Eight

‘Sorry I’m late.’

I breezed into The Original Stamatis ten minutes after the time I had rescheduled; Mrs Garcia had taken me at my word and told me about everybody, but everybody, with whom Jolie had ever crossed paths. I’d been afraid it might take the entire afternoon, but thankfully she hadn’t so much slowed down as she had come to a complete stop.

Just like that. No, ‘Oh, one more.’ She had outlined each individual with perceptive detail during a consistent, fast-talking roll, then closed her mouth and smiled. That was it.

I’d managed to hold up my hand and halt her for half a minute while I called David Hunter and asked to push back our lunch an hour. Then she continued on as if she’d never been interrupted.

All I could say was I was glad I’d set up my cell voice recorder. I can’t imagine trying to take more than the occasional note while she was talking. Probably I’d have cramped up. Probably I’d need carpel tunnel surgery.

Now I smiled at David Hunter.

I’d half expected him to be upset. Most men would be. And he was a CIS agent, after all. Didn’t that require that he have a sour disposition to begin with in order to heartlessly deport innocent people?

‘That’s OK. I just got here myself,’ he said.

I noticed the newspaper open in front of him and the half-drained glass of water and raised a brow.

Although I did get the impression he hadn’t ordered yet, you know, just in case I didn’t show. Which had loomed a very real possibility. I still wasn’t sure I liked the idea of this being misinterpreted as a date. Especially by me.

As it was, I had to stop myself from kissing his cheek when he got up to greet me and invited me to sit.

It was a Greek thing.

But he wasn’t Greek and I didn’t know him much less date him, so it wasn’t appropriate.

Of course, I would have preferred he not seem to register the fact that I had almost kissed him and respond to it with a sexy smile.

‘Have you ordered?’ I asked, scooting my chair up to the table.

‘No. I thought I’d wait for you.’

‘Better than ordering for me.’

‘I’d never do that.’

‘Good. I find it irritating as hell.’

‘Me, too.’

I smiled at him. He smiled back.

How come I’d never noticed how hot he was before? OK, maybe I had. But it struck me all over again as I sat across from him. It was hard not to notice he was handsome in an All-American kind of way. Bet he played varsity football in high school. Probably the team captain. Dated the head cheerleader. Had sex with her on a blanket at the fifty-yard line at midnight under a full moon. Maybe even dated her for years after . . .

I cleared my throat and reached for a menu.

‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. It’s required to come here at least once a week when you’re Greek. You?’

‘First time. You recommend anything?’

I put the menu back; I already knew everything on it anyway. ‘Depends on what you want. Herbivore or carnivore?’

‘Oh, very definitely a carnivore.’

I nearly choked on the water the waitress had brought me and suddenly felt hot all over at the way he looked at me as if to demonstrate dead animal flesh wasn’t the only thing he wanted to tear into.

‘Lamb?’

‘Love it.’

‘They, um, do great chops.’

‘Sold.’

I had the sneaking suspicion that I could have told him they served dog and he would have been all over it.

Which flattered me more than any direct compliment would have.

We ordered and I decided it would probably be a good idea if I got a takeout carton after the food arrived. It was one thing for me to entertain the idea that this was a date. Another for it to actually appear to evolve into one.

I only wished I had instructed Rosie to call at a certain time so my departure would be easier and less obvious.

Why? Well, number one because I wasn’t there to play ‘getting to know you’ with a CIS agent. Two? I was attracted to him – mightily so – and I didn’t want to be . . . also mightily so.

‘So you’re a PI,’ he said, turning his cup over so the waitress could pour him coffee. I ordered a frappé.

‘So I’m a PI.’ I smiled. ‘Did I tell you that? I can’t remember.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Weren’t looking into my residency status, were you?’

‘No. Just looking into you.’

I was glad for his honesty. ‘Yes, well, considering the resources available to the agency where I work, I can only imagine what you can get at the stroke of key.’

He chuckled. ‘A lot.’

‘I bet. And not sure I want to know what you dug up on me.’ I crossed my legs under the table and found myself rubbing them together.

I immediately stopped.

OK, so I liked his laugh. And his smile. And the way he leaned forward as if wanting to get closer to me, hear every word I said.

Then I realized why this meeting seemed so odd, out of the ordinary. It had been a good, long time since I’d been out on a date. Well, a
date
date, anyway. With someone I didn’t previously know. Yes, in that way.

With Jake . . . well, our paths just seemed to keep crossing (it wasn’t until later I discovered it was by design), and one thing led to another (read: I determined to back him into my bedroom as soon as humanly possible), and we’d skipped straight to the sexy stuff without all the other boring date stuff.

Then there was Dino . . .

I stopped for a moment, slowly sipping my frappé.

When I’d first encountered the yummy Greek baker on my parents’ sofa, I’d been told he was there to meet my younger sister, Efi, a victim of one of my mother’s many doomed-to-fail matchmaking attempts. Turned out he’d been there for me. Something else I hadn’t figured out until much later.

What he and I had went well beyond his loving to bake and my loving the things he baked . . . and never mind the way he ate them off of me.

I quietly cleared my throat, wondering if my cheeks burned as red as they felt.

Of course, there hadn’t been any baking or eating recently since Dino was now back in Greece; abrupt travel plans made possible by the agency the guy across from me worked for.

I looked across at Agent David Hunter, hoping I had managed to turn down the flame of attraction at least a hair.

‘And you’re a CIS agent,’ I said.

He was watching me curiously. I couldn’t help wondering what he’d seen on my face during my mental journey to lovers past.

He said, ‘Yep. Didn’t have to do any digging for that.’

‘How long?’

‘Five months.’

I smiled. ‘I knew it.’

‘Knew what?’

‘That this job wasn’t your first choice.’

‘Oh? If you thought that, then you must have tagged me for something else. What might that be?’

I ran my fingertip along the rim of my frappé then dipped it inside, scooping out a bit of the froth, and sucking on it. It didn’t occur to me how sensual the move might be interpreted until I watched David’s eyes darken as they focused on my mouth.

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.