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  Sergei wiped his mouth with a napkin, apparently finished with his piece. “Good morning.” He picked up his plate. “Do you wish to be alone, Miss Natalia?”

  “No, Sergei, stay. You know everything I’m going to say, anyway.” She gave the bodyguard a fond glance. “There’s not too much that happens with me that Sergei doesn’t know about. He’s like a big brother to me—a sounding board. A true friend.”

  Darby watched as a slow flush crept up Sergei’s enormous neck. He genuinely cares for Natalia. It’s more than just a job to him.

  The big man grunted. “I will take our dishes,” he said.

  Darby looked at Miles’s plate with surprise. He’d finished the cake, polished if off in mere minutes, leaving barely a crumb. She raised her eyebrows as if to inquire about the bite or two that she’d expected.

  He mouthed something back that looked like “sorry” and handed his plate to Sergei.

  Natalia took a breath. “I know that I said I needed a break from my studies, but I can’t stop thinking about my paper. I feel like I need to get this information out, that I owe it to my source to tell this story.” She glanced at Miles. “Professor Porter—why are you smiling?”

  He chuckled. “For a good reason, Natalia. I’m happy to see you’ve got the bug.”

  “I don’t understand. What bug?”

  “It’s a way of saying that you’ve got what it takes to be an investigative journalist. That feeling that you simply must write a story—that you owe it to your sources and the public to let the story be told—I know exactly what you mean, Nat, and I’m thrilled to hear you voicing your passion. This profession is more of a calling than it is a job. It gets under your skin, so that you can’t imagine doing anything else. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes.” She was nodding her head. “I can see that it is a big responsibility, too.”

  Now it was Miles’s turn to agree. “Yes—and sometimes the truth will weigh heavily on you. I suspect that you already sense that.” He put his fingers together so that they made a tent, leaned in closer. “How can I help?”

  She gave a brief smile. “You are very kind. I hesitate to ask you, because I know you are very busy, but …”

  “Natalia, I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”

  She gave a grateful smile. “If it isn’t too much to ask, I would like you to work with me on this story, Professor, so that we may bring all of our resources to bear. The places where you indicated that my work needs more detail—I’m not sure where to turn.”

  Miles glanced at Darby who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to get in touch with a colleague from the Financial Times who may be able to shed some light on the FSB.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “As for my source …”

  “I believe I indicated that you need to dig a little deeper.”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “She is not as forthcoming as I would have hoped,” she said. “Perhaps there is a way that I could make her feel more comfortable.”

  Miles’s face was quizzical. “What do you mean?’

  “She talks with me, but in a very guarded way. I must prepare the questions ahead of time, and she insists we stay on topic.”

  “She sounds as if she is afraid,” commented Miles.

  “Perhaps that is true,” Natalia said. “But I think if you were to meet her as well …”

  A knock on the door stopped their conversation mid-sentence. Sergei materialized from the kitchen, looked through the security hole, and nodded to Natalia.

  “You may open the door, Sergei.”

  He complied, and a stylish, solid woman with full red lips moved into the room. “Natalia, dear, I thought I’d stop by to see how you are doing.” She ignored Miles and Darby, swept eyes heavy with mascara toward the kitchen. “I see you’re enjoying my cake.”

  “Yes,” said Natalia, rising to her feet. “It’s delicious.” She indicated Miles and Darby with a graceful wave of her hand. “This is Professor Miles Porter, who is staying in Professor Burrows’s apartment.”

  The woman’s eyes seemed to narrow just a fraction.

  “And this is Darby Farr, a friend of Miles’s, who is visiting from California.” Natalia gave a quick smile. “This is Rona, baker of the extraordinary chocolate cake we just enjoyed.”

  The newcomer gave what looked like a grimace, although Darby figured it was supposed to be a smile. “Rona Reichels,” she said. Turning back to Natalia, she cocked her head to the side.

  “I’ve been trying to reach your father all morning. It’s very important that we talk.”

  Natalia’s brow furrowed. “He left early for the airport.” She cast her eyes down. “He’s been working to arrange the transport of my fiancé’s body back to Moscow.”

  Rona barely batted an eyelash. “Really? I should think he would answer his calls regardless …” She seemed to realize how crass her comments sounded and put a well-manicured hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m sorry, dear. It must be terrible for you.”

  Natalia nodded. “It’s very difficult. Fortunately, I have friends.” She gave a grateful glance at Miles and back at Rona. “And cake! You must tell me how you make it.”

  A shadow crossed Rona’s face, or so it seemed to Darby. “It is an old family secret. I’m not sure I can part with the recipe.” She moved toward the door, casting a quick look around the penthouse “The place looks lovely,” she said, her voice quieter. “I like what you’ve done in this living room.”

  “Thank you,” Natalia said. “The decorator was someone that Alec knew.” Her voice trailed off and there was silence.

  Rona broke the quiet by opening the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  eight

  Most Saturdays, Peggy Babson went shopping, usually to one of the big malls on the outskirts of the city. It was a way for her to escape the destruction that still littered the streets of her Rockaway neighborhood, the giant piles of wood, insulation, and twisted metal from dozens of wrecked houses and businesses, hurricane damage that seemed to Peggy as if it would never completely disappear. Sometimes she took her girlfriend Leslie along, or arranged to meet her for lunch, but today she had a very different kind of excursion in mind.

  From her closet, she dug through the piles of clothes until she found a comfortable pair of stretchy pants and a sweatshirt. She searched until she found two matching sneakers, laced them up, and grabbed a light jacket. She then locked the house and made her way to the Long Island Railroad, to take the route she endured Monday through Friday, into Manhattan and Pulitzer Hall.

  Before boarding the train, she thrust some money into the hands of a shopkeeper for a candy bar, yanked off the wrapper, and took several satisfying bites.

  She chose a seat in the back of the car and planned her strategy. First, locate a key for Charles Burrows’s office. The custodian would have one, and it wouldn’t be hard to get him to open the door. Once in, comb through Professor Porter’s papers for evidence—clues as to why he had killed the Russian.

  Peggy thought back to Detective Benedetti’s words concerning motive. She wasn’t exactly sure why Professor Porter stabbed the man, but she was more convinced than ever that he’d done it. Slowly, an idea was formulating in her mind: Perhaps Porter had killed due to jealousy over Natalia Kazakova’s affections. She remembered the girl’s early morning visit—her garish getup and purple lipstick—and shivered. What did a man like Professor Porter see in a silly student? Here she was, out of school, working … She shook her head.

  And then, suddenly, she knew what attracted Miles Porter to the undergrad. Money! Of course! Professor Porter saw dollar signs, yes, a way to supplement his dismal teaching salary and improve his lackluster life. Natalia was an heiress—the newspapers had said that—and Professor Porter was most assuredly impoverished. Weren’t all untenured pro
fessors? Why else would he wear a threadbare tweed jacket and moth-eaten scarf? Why would anyone choose such a nomadic lifestyle, filling in catch-as-catch-can for absent teachers?

  Peggy rubbed her hands together. It was all making sense. As handsome as he was, Miles Porter was a murderer, his motive the most basic of all: greed. She pulled the candy bar out of her pocketbook and enjoyed the last two bites.

  _____

  “So you say your source—this woman—seems to be rather guarded when you talk about her past.” Miles stole a glance in the direction of the chocolate cake and Darby couldn’t help but smile. He’s ready for lunch, she thought.

  “Yes. If it is okay with you, Professor Porter, I will ask her if you can accompany me to our next session. Perhaps you can put her more at ease.”

  “I don’t know if that will be the case, but I’m happy to help, Natalia.” He glanced at Darby, telegraphing a “let’s go” type look. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

  “Natalia, I think it’s time for us to leave you now,” Miles said. “The cake was delicious—thanks very much.”

  “You are welcome.” She seemed downcast, until an idea brightened her features. “Would you like a quick tour of the penthouse? It’s pretty impressive and far larger than I need, but Papa always insists it was a good investment.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Darby said, rising to her feet. “Wouldn’t you, Miles?”

  “Sure.” He stood and stretched. “I’m ready.”

  Natalia led the way down a hall, pointing out the various bedrooms, dens, and office spaces. “This suite is my father’s,” she said, indicating a masculine-looking bedroom with large oak furniture and an enormous master bathroom. “He has his own office for conducting business while in Manhattan, as well as an exercise room, bar, and small kitchen. I tease him that it is like a private house within the apartment!”

  Miles raised his eyebrows. “It’s amazing,” he commented. “How often is your father here?’

  “At least once a month, more if he can get away. He seems to adore Manhattan.”

  “And you? Do you enjoy Manhattan as well?” Darby’s voice was kind.

  Natalia grew thoughtful. “I’ve loved my studies, but up until now, I was not enamored with the city. Truthfully, I have been very lonely here.” She brightened. “But that seems to be changing, so I imagine I may enjoy much more of what New York has to offer.”

  “What’s changed?” prompted Miles.

  “I have a new friend.” She looked away, obviously embarrassed, but Miles didn’t seem to notice.

  “Your friend—is he or she a student as well?”

  “He is in finance,” she said, her cheeks pinking up. “And very good at it, too. We met at Columbia a few months ago. He’s auditing an art class.”

  Darby glanced in Sergei’s direction. Did the bodyguard approve of this new friend, she wondered?

  “I know what you’re probably thinking,” Natalia said, as her flush grew even deeper. “Jeremy sought me out because of my money. That’s what I thought at first, too. Truthfully, it’s what crosses my mind every time someone is nice to me.” She opened the door to yet another room in her father’s suite and continued. “But the funny thing is that Jeremy didn’t even know who I was when we met. He thought I was from Finland.” She giggled. “He’s just a regular guy—a smart guy—and a good friend.”

  “That’s brilliant, Nat,” Miles said. “We’re glad for you.”

  “Yes,” Darby added, thinking of the friendships she’d made over the past few months, relationships that had sustained her during very difficult times. People such as Tina Ames and her husband Donny, Helen Near, and, of course, the stalwart ET. “It sounds like he came at just the right time.”

  Natalia nodded. “He’s been sweet since Alec’s death.” She sighed. “I don’t know what I would have done without him and Sergei.”

  Miles gave a cursory glance at Mikhail Kazakov’as giant walk-in closet. It was clear he could care less about the seventy-plus-inch flat screen television, teak bar, or floor-to-ceiling mirrored work-out room.

  “Has your father met Jeremy?”

  “Not yet,” she smiled, “but I know they will like each other.”

  Darby smiled as well, feeling a stab of pity for the girl. Would Mikhail Kazakova appreciate the idea that Natalia was spending time with a virtual stranger who was fast becoming more than just a friend? How did billionaire parents deal with their children’s love lives? As she followed Miles back down the penthouse’s long hallway, Darby had a thought. For all of her money, Natalia Kazakova was hopelessly naïve.

  _____

  Gina Trovata wheeled the stroller through the park, humming a tune and feeling as if life was a huge Christmas present, ready to be unwrapped. She couldn’t wait until Bethany heard about the wonderful items in Vera Graff’s closet, vintage garments that would soon be on display in their store! She smiled at the memory of the clothes, each one more exquisite than the last: a cobalt blue sweater-dress from the ’50s, the kind that turned the wearer into an instant sex kitten; a green, leaf-print chiffon party dress, with a full skirt and sweetheart neckline; a cherry-red wool coat from the ’40s, trimmed in Persian Lamb. She smiled when she thought of Vera’s confession regarding the coat. “That was my sister’s,” she’d explained. “She donated it to the Salvation Army, but I marched right in there after her and took it back. Imagine!”

  Gina could imagine, and had barely resisted the impulse to slip her arms into the coat’s sleeves and let it swing around her body. “What will you ask for it?” Vera had whispered. “Four hundred,” said Gina. “No—five hundred.” She’d grinned at the older woman. “And I’ll bet you that someone will pay.”

  The two had laughed like schoolgirls, clapping their hands over each exquisite piece of clothing. And yet Gina had sensed the malevolent presence of Yvette, lurking outside the bedroom, hating Gina for having vaulted over Vera Graff’s impenetrable walls. Why did the woman put up with such a negative employee? Why not fire her skinny French butt and find a more pleasant housekeeper?

  Gina shrugged off all thoughts of Yvette and turned her attention to the boys. They had been good as gold in Vera’s dressing room, enjoying the parade of beautifully colored fabrics almost as much as the women.

  Now, on an impulse, Gina stopped the stroller at an ice cream vender, buying the boys orange popsicles, and herself a blue raspberry Italian ice. She grabbed extra napkins and headed for the nearest park bench.

  The boys would create a grand old mess in their pricey buggy, but Gina knew she’d have ample time to scour it clean before Sherry and the older boys returned. She’d let Honey lick it first—run it through the prewash cycle—and then get out the chemicals. Surprisingly enough, between the dog’s thorough licks and the stain repellent fabric, the stroller always managed to look as if it were brand new.

  Gina lifted her face to the sun, enjoying the cold sweetness of the frozen treat. She knew that Italian ice had nothing to do with Italy, and yet she couldn’t help but pick it when she had a choice. The words of her adopted mother, Pauline Higgins, came back to her. She remembered the halting story the kind-hearted woman had related when Gina had asked the most difficult question of her life: am I adopted?

  At first, the woman she knew as her mother said no. “But I don’t look like you, or Dad, or Paula,” Gina had persisted as only ten-year-olds can do. “I have dark hair and none of you do. I get good tans and none of you can. I like spicy food, and none of you—”

  “Okay,” Pauline had said, giving a sad smile. “I see what you mean. I am going to tell you a secret, Gina, but before I do, I want you to promise me something that’s very, very, important.”

  Gina remembered nodding emphatically, her heart racing, her emotions a jumble of anticipation and fear. “I promise.”

  “You must never forget how much Daddy and I love you.
Can you promise me that?”

  And Pauline had proceeded to tell Gina a story, one not unlike the fairy tales she read to her and Paula at night, once they brushed their teeth and washed their faces, and lay waiting in their pajamas on Paula’s canopy bed. It even started with “Once upon a time,” and ended with “and they lived happily ever after.” A story of a castle (only it was called an orphanage) and some kindly witches (although they were actually nuns) and a magical baby, who the nuns found singing (or maybe it was crying) on the steps of the orphanage. “This baby was so beautiful that the nice ladies took her inside, and gave her lots of love, until a Mom and Dad who had always wanted a magical baby girl came from America to bring her to New York.”

  Gina had seen through the fairy-tale lingo, but she appreciated her mother’s imaginative telling and didn’t comment. “Where was I born?” she asked. “Which state?”

  “Italy,” Pauline said. “It’s not a state, but a country in Europe. Let me show you where it is on the globe.”

  A gust of wind ruffled a discarded newspaper left on the bench beside Gina, and she glanced at it, her mind still focused on the memory of Pauline showing her the dusty globe and Italy. An image caught her eye: Natalia Kazakova.

  Gina skimmed the story, which focused on the details of Alec Rodin’s death, noting that there was never any mention of Natalia’s mother. Plenty of references to Mikhail and his vast fortune, but nothing about the woman who had brought Natalia into the world.

  Perhaps she and the heiress had something in common.

  With the last spoonful of blue raspberry Italian ice melting on her tongue, Gina peered into the stroller where the popsicle-eaters slurped away in contentment. Both of them had intense orange staining around their lips, orange dribbles inching down their chins, and orange blotches on their hands and shirts, but other than that, they looked perfectly clean. She dabbed what she could with a few napkins, removed their empty popsicle sticks before they gouged out an eyeball, and began wheeling them home. She forgot about Natalia Kazakova, thinking instead that life was good, good, good—as sweet as a popsicle on a sunny spring day.