Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (16 page)

Twenty-Five

I thought about going home to my apartment, to get out of my wet clothes and into a hot shower, but while I was driving back to Astoria, I felt . . . I don’t know, energized somehow. And, as strange as it seemed, I was also dry. So I drove to the agency instead to see to the next item on my list.

I let myself inside and checked to verify that not only was I dry, but it appeared I’d never gone out trekking in three-foot snowdrifts in a storm at all. My suede boots looked as if they’d come straight from the box. Even my hair appeared freshly blown out. And a glance in the bathroom mirror verified that everything about me looked not only presentable but . . . nice?

And I smelled like – I sniffed my coat – cinnamon.

Hunh.

In recent months, I’d come to understand it was best not to look at certain things too closely. But when it came to items of this nature . . . well, I’d take Mrs Claus’ missing reindeer over neighborhood vampire covens any day.

I went into my uncle’s office, shrugged off my coat, switched on the rarely used TV to a local station and got to work, connecting the dots in a way not even a green prosecutor on his first case would be able to screw up.

A few minutes into my work, the words ‘breaking news’ caught my attention.

I glanced up at the television, watching as a popular female anchor readied herself before the cameras. She smiled. ‘Seems all is well tonight in Manhattan as little Jolie Abramopoulos, daughter of real estate mogul George Abramopoulos, is recovered after a horrific kidnapping ordeal . . .’

The screen flipped to images of the seven-year-old girl being led by none other than my would-be arch nemesis Charles Chaney as he led her by the hand toward her father outside his famed apartment building, who scooped his daughter up in a hug reminiscent of a Jimmy Stewart film, snow swirling around them.

I shook my head, telling myself all that mattered was that Jolie was safe.

If I wished Chaney and whoever had given him the better job of collecting the girl, well, that was between me and my Glock, which I’d thankfully recovered from the FBI earlier.

The report went on to say the kidnappers were still at large and then the broadcast returned to the snowstorm that was burying the city.

I smiled.

Having gotten what I was looking for – I’d had a feeling little Jolie’s recovery would hit the media, and, outside a crooked ponytail and wrinkled clothing, she looked well – I used the remote to switch off the television and picked up the office phone, making the first of several phone calls.

An hour later, I’d done most of what I wanted to do with few complications. Seeing as tomorrow was Christmas Eve, I’d expected some more resistance or at least a few groans. I was happy to say I got none outside my cousin Pete, who I wasn’t able to get through to.

A sound out front.

Of course, I was frequently known to speak too soon.

I craned my neck to see out through the crack in the door into the reception area, which I’d left dark. I couldn’t make anything out. Probably because it
was
dark.

Damn.

I wheeled my uncle’s office chair back and went to have a look. I’d locked the front door, but even if someone had managed to pick the locks, I’d have heard the cowbell.

I hoped.

I slowly opened the office door, resisting the urge to say, ‘Hello?’ or something equally lame like, ‘I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.’

The light panel was near the front door, so I had little choice but to cross the area in the dark. A flick of two switches and the room was awash with light, sweet light . . .

Revealing two guys with whom I’d grown all too familiar.

Well, what did they want?

‘What in the hell are you doing here?’ I asked Boris and his forever sidekick.

He grinned at me and began to lurch forward.

I slid my Glock out of the holster and pointed it at him. ‘Unh unh. I’ve long since surpassed my patience for your meeting methods.’

I was relieved I’d at least had the presence of mind to have the FBI return my firearm during our earlier meeting . . . and more than a little grateful.

‘You ain’t gonna use that,’ Boris said taking another step.

I took aim and shot. I’d meant for the bullet to pass between his legs somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, but it instead it whizzed a little higher and took a little inner thigh with it. I watched as the fabric of his pants billowed out and then winced at the sound of the round hitting the second from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet behind him. Well, at least I knew there were enough files in there to prevent it from traveling into the next office.

Boris yelped and both hands went straight for his crotch.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think I hit anything vital.’

Unless, of course, he was one of those malformed men whose penis hung to his knees.

I cocked my head, keeping my Glock aimed at him. Nah . . .

His pal was bent over looking at the flesh wound and both of them were speaking in rapid-fire Russian. Or what I thought was Russian, anyway. For all I knew, they could be speaking Swahili. Although I think the chances of that were slim considering their background report.

‘Let me rephrase the question: what do you want?’ I asked.

Boris stared at the smear of blood on his hand – certainly not enough to write home about – and glared at me. ‘Where is the money?’

‘Right where you had me put it,’ I said. ‘Or in the hands of the kidnappers.’

He made the same tsking sound Rosie was partial to, although hers was much cuter. ‘I get report you went back to park.’

‘Ah, yes. I did. To find Rudolph.’

The two men stared at me.

‘Anything else?’

They looked at each other, Boris still holding his thigh as if afraid something might fall out if he didn’t.

‘Well, then, I’ll wish you a good night, gentlemen.’ Keeping my Glock trained on them, I opened the door, stepping far enough back so I was out of arm range.

They didn’t move for a long moment . . . then finally Boris lead the way out, mumbling no doubt profanity under his breath.

Hey, I did it all the time in Greek.

Well, maybe not all the time, but it did come in handy to be able to cuss in a foreign language from time to time. There was a certain beauty in no one around understanding what you were saying; no need for apologies later.

I closed and locked the door after them, watching as they got into the sedan parked at the curb, one in the driver’s side, the other the passenger’s, and then drove off.

OK, that was interesting. I hurried to my uncle’s office, thinking it would be a good idea if I got out of there. Not only because I was sure Boris was going to come back with reinforcements just as soon as he made sure I’d done no major damage, but because I didn’t want to take the chance someone had heard the shot and called the police.

Or, more specifically, Pino.

Yes.

It was time to finally wrap this up.

As I entered the doors to Kennedy Airport, I glanced at the monitors flashing DELAYED on all flights and smiled. I’d known the instant Waters had called me with the news of his subject’s whereabouts that the person he’d been following wouldn’t be going anywhere for a good, long while. In fact, I knew from previous experience that the worsening storm outside meant that DELAYED would soon flash to CANCELLED and weary travelers and runaway kidnappers were going to be left stranded for the night.

It had happened to me once when I was a teen and gone to Greece for the holidays with my parents (we’d been made to sit at the airport for six hours, then went home, only to turn back when we were rebooked, and waited for another five hours for that plane to leave because of the bottleneck of flights trying to take off), and had watched as it happened at least one other time since. A quick phone call had also verified that no flights would be leaving for the foreseeable future, and the continuing snowfall pretty much guaranteed that would hold.

Not much was capable of shutting down New York City, but a good snowstorm did the trick every now and again.

‘Hey,’ I said to Waters, who was leaning against a store doorway flipping through a magazine and watching three black women walk by.

‘Hey, yourself, hot mama.’ He flashed his gold tooth at me as he smiled, looking none the worse for wear.

Well, relatively speaking.

‘She come back out?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. Think she hoping they going get planes back up in the air again soon. Girl must be blind, ’cause it’s still coming down like a motherfucker out there.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for sticking it out.’

‘No problem.’ He ran his tongue around his teeth. ‘That’s just the way I roll.’

Indeed.

Probably he was mentally counting his bonus money.

Even eight months into the job, I found it interesting how these things worked. One change in a subject’s routine, combined with one bit of information, and a picture materialized as quickly as colorized metal pixels attracted by a powerful magnet. Miss one, and the other didn’t matter. Put them together and, voila, a case was solved.

I wondered if the process would ever cease to fascinate me. Did my uncle Spyros still experience the same rush?

It was better than sex.

My brain momentarily froze and three men emerged in my mind.

Three?

Yes. Jake . . . Dino . . . and, much to my surprise, David Hunter.

OK, maybe it was almost as good as sex.

Almost.

Of course, I didn’t know what sex with David Hunter was like.

Yet
, a small voice in my head whispered.

No. No way I was going there. Not with all the man trouble I had landed in lately.

Still, it was nice knowing the option was available . . .

‘Where’s the suspect?’ Waters and I looked at where Pino had come up behind me.

‘Still inside, probably checking her watch and sweating a puddle,’ I said.

Then again, I wondered if people like her actually sweated. Did they possess some sort of deviant gene that made them think they were above the law? Entitled to do as they pleased without thought to the consequences?

Pino nodded at Waters who nodded back, then he moved aside to introduce two TSA agents.

‘We ready to move?’ he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

‘Ain’t gotta ask a nigga twice,’ Waters said, smiling at the black female TSA agent who merely rolled her eyes.

‘He gotta come with us?’ I heard her ask Pino.

Pino looked at me.

I nodded.

‘Let’s go.’

We were on . . .

Funny how I forgot how large JFK and its various terminals were until I was forced to walk the length. It took us a good fifteen minutes to get to the right departure gate. And since the area was so large, we decided to split up as we entered the final concourse in case we were spotted instead of being the ones doing the spotting.

Which turned out not to be a worry.

Miss Elizabeth Winston, Abramopoulos’ well-coifed and composed executive personal assistant, was sitting calmly in one of the coffee shops, legs crossed, her nose in a glossy fashion magazine.

I alerted the others and, taking different routes, we approached her.

‘Elizabeth Winston, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to kidnap Jolie Abramopoulos,’ Pino said and then read her her Miranda rights while the two TSA agents stood at the ready.

I had to give Winston credit; she looked as calm as they came, barely batting an artfully lashed eye at the accusation.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She closed her magazine and put it on the table in front of her as easy as you please.

Waters pulled up his pants in the way Pino once had, causing me to wince and avoid looking directly at his crotch. At least his pants weren’t in danger of revealing his socks; first because they were bell bottoms, second because they were long enough to cover most of his seven-inch platform shoes.

‘Oh, yeah? Then whatcha doin’ flying the coup to Brazil then, huh? Tell me that? I don’t care how fine you are – and you are fine, super fine – you are busted.’

‘I’m going to Brazil to visit my sister,’ she said with a cool smile. ‘The trip’s been planned for over a month.’

Pino looked at me and I looked at Waters.

‘Sounds like a crock of bull to me,’ he said.

I agreed. But not because of his reasons. Because I had proof of my own.

‘Tell me, Miss Winston,’ I said, turning on a smile of my own I hoped held a fraction of the wry coolness hers did. ‘Will Mr Daniel Butler be joining you there? Or are you meeting up with him somewhere else?’

While she may have had her trip planned in advance, I was also certain she was the one who’d enticed little Jolie Abramopoulos into that car after school on the day she was taken.

That was one piece of information gleaned from listening to nanny Geraldine Garcia’s recorded interview time and again. Given her father’s prominence and wealth, it had been drummed into the little girl never to get into a car with a stranger. Beyond that, she’d gone through two self-defense courses where mock kidnapping situations had been staged to make sure she couldn’t be tricked or coerced.

Mrs Garcia had been adamant. ‘Oh, no, little Jolie would never go with any stranger.’

So that day after school she had known the person who had come to pick her up, or else the well-trained little girl would never have gotten in.

And that person had been her daddy’s executive personal assistant, Elizabeth Winston, whom she would have seen often since Winston appeared to accompany him wherever he went.

Oh, I was sure Winston and her accomplices had likely arranged for a faux ‘kidnapping’ shortly after the pickup, you know, a storming of the car by masked men. Something that would hopefully eclipse the memory of Winston’s picking her up – or at least knock it down in importance – and eliminate her as a suspect.

In fact, I was fairly certain that unless asked directly about Winston’s involvement, Jolie wouldn’t even mention she had been the one to pick her up after school.