5 Deal Killer Page 6

  “Tootles, then.” Ramon gave a little bow. “I’ll be seeing you again, Darby.”

  “Definitely,” she said, smiling, as they strolled onto the sidewalk. Nudging Miles with her elbow, she teased, “Girlfriend, huh?”

  “Yes,” he said, pulling her close and giving her a hug. “Girlfriend. You know, I happen to like the sound of it.”

  “I see,” she said. To herself she thought: Me too, Mr. Bean.

  _____

  As they finished up their brunch of salmon and lox, Miles asked Darby her plans for her visit in the city.

  “Plans? I’m here to see you,” she said, wiping a dab of cream cheese from her lips. The Camellia had been every bit as good as Ramon had promised, and Darby was stuffed.

  “Now come on, love, I know you better than that. You’re here to spend time with me but you’ve got more than that on your Darby agenda.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that,” she protested, pretending to pout. “I’ve barely landed and you’re questioning my reasons for being here. What kind of a host are you, anyway?”

  “A realistic one. Fess up, Darby, you’re planning to acquire a boutique agency here—or land a new listing. Am I right?”

  “Wrong. I’m here to relax and spend time with you—when you’re not teaching or grilling me about my motives.”

  “That’s all? No properties to preview for any clients? No hot buyers to meet for drinks?”

  She paused. “Not really.”

  “Not really? Aha! So you do have a secret real estate plan.”

  She laughed. “Hardly. But now that you bring it up, I did have an email from Hideki Kobayashi a few weeks ago, asking me to check on possible locations for his company in New York. I suppose that counts, right?”

  Miles’s rugged face wore a triumphant look. “That’s my girl, always ready to make the next deal. So your wealthy Japanese businessman wants a slice of the Big Apple, eh? How will you get up to snuff on what’s available in the city?”

  “I won’t completely—not in a week, anyway, but I can sure give it a shot. Of course, there’s the small matter of licensing, too. I’ve managed to make deals in Maine and Florida, but I’m not accredited here.” She waited as the waitress set their check in the middle of the table and discreetly departed. “I have a few leads on Manhattan brokers, including a guy from Maine who’s a partner in a new start-up. I’ll do my own research on properties, and then make a few calls. If I like what one of them has to say, I’ll invite that broker to work with Hideki and me.”

  “Isn’t Kobayashi the one who bought the island estate down in Florida?”

  Darby nodded. “Yes. He fell in love with a waterfront compound that had belonged to a pro golfer.” She pictured the acres of manicured grounds, guest house, pool house, and killer views of the Gulf of Mexico, and smiled. It had been one of her biggest sales to date, and had launched her friendship with the high-powered pharmaceutical executive.

  “Don’t you run the risk of losing Hideki to this chap if you refer him?”

  “Me, lose a client?” Darby laughed before the memory of the Davenports and their displeasure flitted into her mind. “I’ll refer him for this transaction only. Besides, Hideki is a friend, and very loyal.” She took a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice and savored the sharp, clean taste. Her stay in Florida a year earlier had spoiled her as far as citrus was concerned, but this juice was every bit as good as what she’d enjoyed off the tree while staying on Serenidad Key.

  She glanced at her watch. “Hadn’t you better get to your class, Professor Porter? Your students will be waiting anxiously.”

  “Suppose so. I wish I didn’t have to leave you to your own devices. You sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Right. I’ll be busy until mid-afternoon or so. Where should we meet? At the flat, or somewhere more exotic?”

  “Let’s talk later on and see how your day has gone.”

  “Fair enough.” Miles paid the bill and leaned toward her. “Goodbye, my little real estate detective,” he said, planting a kiss on her cheek. “One night in the city and you have a murder to solve.” He shook his head. “Wish I didn’t have to run but I’ll speak with you soon.”

  Darby watched as he walked past the tables and exited the restaurant, a tall, good-looking man who never failed to turn female heads. She thought of Natalia, wondering if she had a little crush on Miles. Then the image of the crudely constructed death threat popped into her head.

  She shuddered. How would I feel if I received a note like that? Most likely, terrified …

  Rodin’s killer was out there, somewhere, and so was the person who had written that note. As Darby picked up her purse and prepared to leave the restaurant, she wondered if Miles was right and they were one and the same.

  _____

  From the wooden bench that creaked beneath his considerable weight, Sergei Bokeria watched the door to Schermerhorn Hall, waiting for Natalia Kazakova to emerge. The day was shaping up nicely, he thought, feeling the sun warm against his face. It reminded him of his boyhood in the Ural Mountains, playing outside in the first nice days of spring. There had been a small seasonal creek behind his house, brimming with muddy water once the winter snows melted, and the little boys of his village often congregated there. They’d gather stones and try to dam up the creek, and he remembered the feeling of the icy water as it splashed over his hands, the sound of innocent laughter, and the smell of the damp earth beneath his boots.

  The bench sat in a compact little park with a constant parade of students and faculty streaming past. Bokeria watched the groups laughing and gesturing animatedly, wishing Natalia was among them. She was a bright, personable young woman, and yet had failed to make any American friends while in college. Sergei was not sure why, but he suspected Alec Rodin had had something to do with it.

  He won’t be a problem any longer, thought Sergei. Privately he’d spoken to Mikhail about the condition of Alec’s body, told him how it was punctured in several places by the sword. He, Sergei, had been the one to identify Alec’s lifeless corpse when it had proven too much for Natalia to even contemplate.

  A shout brought the bodyguard up short. Instantly he was on his feet, his hand going toward the concealed weapon at his waist. But it was only a trio of college boys, shrieking when their Frisbee became entangled in the limbs of an old tree. He watched them leap upwards, trying to dislodge it, and then tossing their shoes toward the disc. When one of their sneakers became caught in the tree as well, there was even more shouting.

  Sergei glanced back at the classical classroom building and then at his watch. A feeling of unease began in the pit of his stomach and rose slowly upward. Natalia should have been out of class by now. She was nearly ten minutes late.

  A loud rumbling made him jump. An image of tanks, rolling by during a Victory Day parade from his boyhood, flooded his brain. His family had journeyed to Moscow to be bystanders at the event honoring World War II veterans of the Red Army. He recalled the awesome sight of the waves of tanks—more than one hundred—and the high-stepping soldiers, numbering close to eight thousand. Just when Sergei had thought the extravaganza could not get any more magnificent, his father pointed to the sky. Overhead scores of helicopters, transport jets, and bombers zoomed, seeming to buzz the buildings.

  This rumbling did not come from a Soviet-era tank, but from a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, driven by a man who might be Sergei’s age, his hair, where it peeked from the helmet, starting to gray.

  He let out a snort of exasperation.

  All this talk of the FSB … what if it was true? Someone had sent that threatening message. What if Natalia’s classroom paper was truly dangerous, and ex-KGB officers had somehow infiltrated the classroom and kidnapped her? His heart began to hammer and his palms, normally dry, grew damp.

  He rose fluidly from the
bench and took a step forward.

  Just then the door to the building opened. Sergei paused, waiting and watching, his breathing irregular, until at last Natalia emerged. She was smiling—not her usual dreamy, faraway smile, but a big grin that made her face glow. Beside her was a tall young man wearing a business suit. He was smiling as well, telling her something funny perhaps, and gesticulating with long, gangly arms.

  Sergei’s mouth twisted into his own version of a happy expression. So she had a friend after all, and he was a good-looking guy. Could he have been the one on the phone with her before dinner? Sergei took several steps backward, eased himself back onto the bench and continued to watch.

  _____

  Darby made her way back to Central Park Place, determined to make some inquiries on Hideki Kobayashi’s behalf before sightseeing. Once again the air was soft and warm, with only the gentlest of breezes. She glanced across the street to Central Park, noting the trees that were starting to bloom, and felt the green expanse luring her in. I’ll sit on a park bench and make my calls, she thought. On a day like today, it’s better than being holed up in Charles Burrows’s condo.

  Moments later she was responding to emails on her smartphone, including one from her Japanese client. Telephone me when you can, his message said, so we may discuss my real estate needs. Darby glanced at her watch. Nearly noon. The perfect time to reach Hideki before he headed out for his customary lunch of sushi and seaweed salad.

  The high-powered executive answered his phone on the first ring.

  “Darby! What a pleasure to hear from you. I trust that all is well?”

  “Fine,” she said, smiling at a group of preschoolers preparing to picnic on a patch of scruffy grass. “I’m in New York—sitting in Central Park, actually—and I saw your email message. I thought we might discuss what you’re looking for in the city—that is, if now is a good time for you to talk.” She brushed away a bee and watched it meander toward a clump of flowering azalea bushes.

  “Yes, your timing is fine.” He paused. “May I ask why you are visiting New York?”

  “I’m here to visit Miles Porter.” She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “He’s the journalist who was in Afghanistan when we were negotiating your purchase of Tag Gunnerson’s property.”

  “I remember.” What went unsaid were the events of the past February, when Darby had nearly perished at the hands of one of Hideki Kobayashi’s associates. Fine with me if he doesn’t bring it up, Darby thought to herself. I don’t want to talk about it anyway.

  The Japanese man gave a little cough. “I contacted you about property because Genkei has interest in opening an office in New York. I’d be looking to purchase a building—new, if possible—in a desirable location.”

  “What kind of square feet are you thinking?” Darby was jotting down notes in a small notebook that rarely left her side.

  “Oh, I don’t know, but at least as much space as we have in Tokyo.” He paused. “I do have a small window in my schedule before I head there on Monday. I could fly up tomorrow and see properties on Sunday if you’d like.”

  Yikes! Darby didn’t need to think about it—when a client like Hideki Kobayashi said jump, Darby Farr laced up her shoes to take a leap.

  “Terrific. I’ll make some calls and line up showings for Sunday.”

  “Then it is settled. I will phone you tomorrow when I am in the city.”

  “Do you need me to make you a hotel reservation?”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He gave a discreet little chuckle. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I have a suite on standby at the Ritz.”

  Okay then. “Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Sunday and touching base tomorrow.”

  “And I as well.”

  Darby clicked off her phone and leaned back on the bench. She felt the familiar surge of adrenalin that came whenever she was about to assist a client in spending a large amount of money. Granted, Hideki Kobayashi was in the early stages of looking at New York property—heck, he hadn’t even begun to look!—but Darby knew the man well enough to know that he did not waste time in idle contemplation or planning. If he wanted an office building in a prime Manhattan location, he would get one, and he wouldn’t spin anyone’s wheels in the process. All Darby needed to do was find some good prospects for Hideki to see.

  Quickly she thought of Miles. What would his reaction be to her needing to show property on Sunday? It wasn’t exactly the way they’d planned to spend his free weekend together. And yet Miles understood the nature of Darby’s profession, the way she made it a priority to respond to her clients in a timely fashion. Maybe he’ll want to come along. She pictured the tall Brit and the compact Asian executive and smiled. It was very likely they’d enjoy each other’s company, she thought.

  Darby searched her contacts for the name of the New York broker she’d met while last in Maine. Todd something … Todd Stockton. Raised in Minnesota, he’d dropped out of college in the ’70s and hitchhiked east to Maine. Somehow he’d scraped together enough money to purchase an old Cape, which he’d restored and then sold for a profit. Before long, Stockton had his real estate license and had bought, fixed up, and then sold a number of coastal properties. By the mid-eighties, he’d started his own real estate firm, and within a decade, grown it to be one of Maine’s most profitable brokerages.

  But that hadn’t satisfied Stockton. By now a very big fish in a small pond, the entrepreneur now turned his sights on New York. He’d launched a start-up brokerage just before Hurricane Sandy hit the east coast, and positioned the company to help rebuild in its wake. His uncanny ability to find talented professionals to join him was working, and the Stockton Group was already a major player in many of New York’s most lucrative deals.

  Darby called his number and heard a deep voice answer.

  “Stockton here.”

  She explained how they had met a few months earlier and Todd Stockton gave a chuckle.

  “Of course I remember you, Ms. Farr. I don’t think anyone who meets you would ever forget.”

  So he’s a flatterer. Darby rolled her eyes. “I don’t know about that, but I did want to speak to you about a real estate client and his needs.”

  She could feel Stockton’s focus sharpen over the airwaves. “Go on, please.”

  She described what Hideki Kobayashi wanted, without mentioning his name, and waited to see what Stockton would say.

  “I’m going to send you several options right now, Ms. Farr, any one of which we can see on Sunday.” He asked a few more questions and Darby answered. “And our arrangement?”

  “A fifty percent referral,” she answered. It was more than the standard—she knew that—but what the heck.

  “Fine. I’ll send along an agreement as well. Shall we plan to meet at eleven o’clock on Sunday, or earlier?”

  “That will be fine. Let me know where and my client and I will be there.”

  She looked around the park and smiled. This was going to be fun.

  A dark-haired young woman with a stroller stopped at Darby’s bench.

  “Excuse me, but are you a friend of the man in nine-thirty?”

  “Yes,” said Darby, recognizing the number of Charles Burrows’s apartment.

  “I’m Gina Trovata,” she said, kneeling to check on the two children in the stroller. Deciding that they were fine, at least for the moment, she continued. “I work in the building, so I’m in and out of there a lot. I take care of Sherry and Penn Cooper’s kids.” As if on cue, the littlest Cooper let out a long sound that might have been a sigh.

  “You’re their nanny?” Darby asked.

  “Yes—weekday mornings, although today I’m working until five.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, I wondered if you’d mention to your friend—the man—”

  “His name is Miles. Miles Porter.”

  “Okay then,
Miles. Please tell him I’m opening a vintage clothing store, sometime soon, and if he has any sweaters or jackets he’d like us to sell, I’d love to know.” She rummaged in a pocket and handed Darby a business card.

  Darby looked up at Gina and chuckled. “You mean to tell me that Miles is a trendy dresser?” She thought back to his tweedy jacket and Irish knit sweater. “I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I don’t know his whole wardrobe, but yes, he seems to like the classics.” She bent down to pick up a toy that one of the boys had tossed from the stroller. “The natives are getting restless—I’d better keep walking.”

  Darby stood and introduced herself. “I’m here for a visit. It’s nice to meet you, Gina, and good luck with your new shop.”

  “Thanks.” She pushed the stroller and grinned. “I can’t wait.”

  Darby looked at the card again. High Voltage Vintage, it said. No address, just Gina’s name and her phone number. Darby smiled and put the card into the pocket of her jacket.

  _____

  Peggy Babson watched the hallway outside her office at Pulitzer Hall. She was watching for Professor Porter, hoping she would have a chance to ask him about Thursday’s strange events. The dark-haired guy and his violent death … She shuddered. Thoughts of the stabbing were never far from her mind, whether she was flipping through a magazine, watching reality television, or trying to fall asleep. She knew it was because she was more sensitive than other people, more attuned to the spirit world. Perhaps if she had more information, she could both block out the bloody images and help the police with their investigation.

  She glanced at the watch encircling her freckled wrist. Professor Porter had been in a rush that morning, nearly late for his eleven o’clock seminar. Catching his eye had been impossible. Now it seemed he was keeping the students later than usual, and the waiting was tiresome.

  Her stomach growled. Not wanting to miss the British journalist, she’d foregone her customary one hour-plus lunch at the pizza shop around the corner in favor of a tasteless granola bar at her desk. She yanked open a drawer to see if a stray Hershey Kiss was tucked behind the stapler. No luck. Maybe she’d find something sweet further back, behind the tape dispenser?