Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (8 page)

Hey, I’ll be the first to admit even I was surprised by the odd pairing. The two couldn’t have been more different had you plucked them from rival gardens.

But when they’d met at my apartment some months ago . . . well, even I, the skeptic, recognized the signs of love at first sight.

Oh, Rosie had thought she’d hidden the fact they were secretly dating from me – OK, she’d succeeded to some extent – saying she didn’t want to jinx the relationship by sharing too soon, but I’d known that, whoever it was, it was nowhere near a passing fling.

Of course, I don’t think even Rosie suspected Seth’s reason for keeping their relationship a secret had been a little more substantial.

Namely, the staunchly traditional woman opposite me.

‘Rosie?’ I asked now, wiping whatever crumbs there may have been from my mouth with the back of my wrist.

Mrs Nebitz handed me a napkin.

‘Thank you.’ I swallowed the bite lodged in my throat. ‘Rosie . . . she’s fine.’

She nodded. ‘Good. Good.’

Was it me, or did my chewing suddenly sound unusually loud?

I committed the mother of all sins by eating the rest of the knish in one bite, then said to fill the silence, ‘She has that new nephew of hers. She and her sister plan on spoiling him to death over the holidays.’

Mrs Nebitz nodded again. ‘Good. Good.’

I pretended an interest in cleaning my hands.

While I wasn’t entirely sure what had gone down a couple of months ago that had resulted in Seth’s tossing Rosie’s heart to the floor and doing the
hora
on it, I did know that Mrs Nebitz’ role had been a large one. She only had the one good, Jewish grandson. And she wanted him to marry a good, Jewish girl. And go on to produce plenty of good, Jewish great-grandchildren.

And Rosie was as far away as you could get from Jewish.

And probably as far away from good as well.

I understood the mentality. My own family demonstrated enough of it for me to be very familiar with it. I comprehended that it wasn’t so much about racism as it was traditionalism.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking Rosie’s ongoing pain transcended all that.

What about love?

When both men appeared in the kitchen doorway at the same time, Mrs Nebitz and I couldn’t have moved any quicker to stand.

Which meant I leapt up, and she got up in stages.

‘I replaced the washer,’ Seth said.

‘And I tightened the pipes and checked the pressure,’ Joe said.

‘And the leak?’ I asked.

They both smiled.

‘Taken care of,’ Seth said.

‘Gone,’ Joe said.

‘Good, good,’ Mrs Nebitz was clearly pleased. ‘Now, why don’t you two nice, young men come have some of this knish. It’s the best in town, you know . . .’

A couple of hours later, I was back at my apartment, unrolling twinkling lights, an old episode of Seinfeld in the DVD player,
souvlaki
wrappers crumpled up on the coffee table. A sated Muffy was curled in his chair, idly watching me.

So maybe I’d caught the Christmas bug.

OK, at least the sniffles.

I was thinking spotting Mrs Claus’ reindeer might have something to do with it. Even though a street-by-street search following the sighting had turned up nothing.

Of course, I purposely banned any thoughts related to his being anywhere near Queens Boulevard, which was also unaffectionately called The Boulevard of Death. I argued that anyone else would be sure they were seeing things and would give him a wide berth.

A human being, on the other hand, they would hit.

I’d happily called Mrs Claus and reported the news. Why, I don’t know. To let her know I’d spotted him, apparently alive and well? She’d been so overjoyed even I smiled.

Of course, that didn’t mean that tomorrow he wouldn’t end up sausage or reindeer jerky if the wrong person crossed paths with him.

Damn. Now why did I have to go and think that? Yuk.

I thought that perhaps there was something I should be working on related to the kidnapping case, perhaps beating the bushes or pounding the pavement, but since so many others were also on the case, I didn’t like the thought of fighting with anyone the way I had to at department store sales.

As far as I was concerned, they could have the last pair of red, suede boots at a killer price.

As for me . . . well, I planned to wait until the holiday crowds dispersed and a regular clearance sale would get me the same pair without the fight.

Guess the same could be said of my method of detecting. While chasing down leads yielded important clues, they also led down many a wrong road. I was satisfied for now that I had enough information to work with until I figured out my next step. Since no ransom demand had been made yet, there wasn’t all that much to go on.

The idea that the little girl might have been taken by a child predator . . .

No. Chances of that were so slim, they weren’t worthy of consideration.

And considering the money at stake, my thinking was she would be well looked after.

Hopefully.

Anyway, I certainly wasn’t going to solve the case tonight. So I had my notes and background checks and photographs spread out on the back of the sofa, passing them often and pausing here and there to leaf through a page or two while I decorated.

I didn’t have plans to buy a tree – artificial or otherwise – but while I was out picking up a couple of smaller gifts for my family, I put a few holiday decorations in my basket. Nothing major. Just some colored strings of lights, a couple of cookie trays with Santas on them (which I hoped Muffy would refrain from watering), and two fragrant table arrangements of live pine branches that filled the space with at least the scent of Christmas; one for me, one I planned to take to my mother.

Seeing as this was my first Christmas on my own, I wasn’t sure how big or how small I wanted to keep it. But while I’d grumbled at Rosie’s overboard efforts, truth was for the most part I liked the little touches around the office. Made it feel more festive somehow.

Festive. Now there was a word I hadn’t been compelled to add to my vocabulary lately.

Truthfully, I don’t think I’d used it before.

‘. . . then there’s Miss Platterpot, she live downstairs. She no like kids. Always tell Jolie “keep quiet” . . .’

I’d set up my cell phone to play my earlier interview with Jolie Abramopoulos’ Argentinian nanny. I was a half an hour into the nearly uninterrupted monologue of names and details and had essentially tuned out about ten minutes ago, much as I had during the conversation itself.

As with then, nothing glaring stuck out at me. But I still had an hour to go on the recording. And if there was something there, bookended with inconsequential details about the night security man’s bathroom habits (seemed he liked to relieve himself on tenants’ car tires), and the nice new mailman who always gave Jolie a head pat, I was determined to find it.

A knock at the door.

Lights still in hand, I looked in that direction, then at where Muffy didn’t even raise his head from his paws.

A friendly.

Then again, with the security door downstairs, what was I expecting? A hostile?

I put the lights on the kitchen table, pressed pause on my cell phone and went to see who it was, although I was already pretty sure it was Mrs Nebitz, probably to thank me again.

I smiled and opened the door, only to discover I was wrong.

Oh, boy, was I ever wrong . . .

Eleven

OK, this was getting old.

As I was ushered into Bruno’s Manhattan office, snatched and grabbed for the second time in as many days – this time from my own apartment – and transported downtown, I glowered at the men responsible, and then turned to stare at Bruno, who for all intents and purposes should be dressed like a street thug, but instead looked like he was ready for a business meeting with foreign heads of state.

‘Miss Metropolis. We must stop meeting like this.’

He crossed the room and held out his hand.

I really wished my Glock wasn’t hanging in its holster from the coat tree back at my apartment so I could shoot him.

Hell, I didn’t even have a coat.

Not that I’d needed one. I’d only felt the cold during those brief moments when I was between warm buildings and warm car.

Still, I felt . . . odd, somehow, without one.

Not to mention stupid standing there in my bare feet.

And he wanted to shake hands?

I didn’t think so.

‘Ah, you’re upset. Understandable,’ he said, crossing the room and rounding his desk. ‘And it also puts you in the right mindset to see why I’m also upset.’

‘You’re upset? You’re fully dressed . . .’

My sentence flapped in the proverbial wind as he held up a report of some sort. I stalked toward him and snatched it out of his hand.

Oops.

There in black and white was the record of my calling Sara Canton mere seconds after Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy’s text saying he had found her.

‘What’s this?’ I tried playing off. ‘I recognize the agency number. Who does the other belong to?’

Bruno slid the paper from my fingers and dropped the report to the desktop. ‘Let’s not play games, shall we, Miss Metropolis? I can guarantee I’m much better at them.’

‘You ever pick up a baseball bat?’

My reference linked back to another man who was convinced he had me beat . . . until the last thing he saw before passing out was a baseball bat swinging in his direction.

I leaned my hands against his desk, feeling far braver than I probably should have. Anger and adrenalin were dangerous on their own; lethal when mixed together.

‘Look, Mr . . . Bruno. I have no idea what you’re referring to. My agency makes at least a hundred calls a day. That number could belong to anyone.’

‘So it’s a coincidence then that it happened to belong to Sara Canton’s brother? And that it occurred not even a minute after my text bulletin offering a bonus for her location.’

‘Normally I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I said, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘But in this particular case, it’s true.’

I could have tried pointing out there were others in the office, in addition to staff that came in and out, that it could have been any one of a number of individuals, but where six months ago I might have over-explained, embellished a lie too thickly, now I was learning to keep it simple.

Besides, what did it matter? Both he and I knew I’d dialed that number.

He sat down, considering me long and hard.

I stood my ground, offering nothing more.

‘I’ve got a proposition for you . . .’

I squinted at him.

He remained silent.

‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.’

‘I said I have a proposition for you.’

I gestured for him to go ahead, hoping he wasn’t going to offer me a choice between being hung out the window by my feet, or being fitted for another pair of cement overshoes.

‘A ransom note came in a half hour ago.’

‘So the case is officially a kidnapping now,’ I said.

‘The case is officially a kidnapping.’

‘How much they asking for?’

‘Two million.’

I raised a brow. Hardly worth all the pain the kidnappers were going to suffer once they were found.

And I was pretty sure they would be found.

‘And?’ I asked.

‘And Mr Abramopoulos would like you to make the drop, when one’s arranged.’

More than my bare feet suddenly felt cold.

‘No.’

Bruno smiled and rocked back and forth in his chair. ‘It wasn’t a question, Miss Metropolis.’

‘What is it then? An order? Because the last time I checked, I wasn’t directly employed by the Abramopoulos firm. In fact, I’m not even indirectly being paid by it, either.’

‘It’s atonement,’ he said.

‘For what?’

Oh.

For calling and warning his ex.

Shit . . .

What had I gotten myself into this time?

A half hour later I was being unceremoniously dumped outside my apartment building, bare feet and all, and told I would be contacted once a drop had been arranged. Something that wasn’t expected for at least twenty-four hours, when the kidnapper was scheduled to call back.

By ‘contacted’, I assumed they meant collected in whatever state I was, at whatever time.

Probably I shouldn’t be in the shower.

The late model, black, four-door sedan’s tires spun on the ice before racing down the street in a cloud of exhaust.

I was strongly considering flipping it and its occupants the bird when red-and-white lights flashed behind me.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

I slowly turned to watch Pino roll to a stop in the street in front of me.

Did the guy ever have down time? Was he on the job twenty-four/seven, for cripes’ sake?

Leaving the lights flashing, he got out of his car and walked toward me.

‘Metro.’

‘Pino.’

I scanned the neighbors’ windows, wondering if anyone else found the scene as ridiculous as it felt. Me, standing without a coat and barefoot on the ice in the middle of the street . . . Pino walking toward me as if I were some sort of dangerous criminal, his hand on his firearm.

Dino’s handsome face drifted through my mind. What must he have experienced when those Homeland Security officials – or FBI agents – or whoever had picked him up at the bakery, handcuffed him and taken him directly to the airport and put him on the first plane out. Had he been scared? Confused? Pissed?

I was guessing a combination of the three.

Pretty much what I was feeling just then.

‘OK, I’m thinking you should be just about ready to tell me what’s going on,’ Pino said.

Over his shoulder, I caught sight of another recently familiar sight.

Parked two cars behind him to the right, sat the Crown Vic, the exhaust smoke snaking through the cold air telling me my new friend was sitting inside, probably laughing at me.

‘Just about . . .’ I said non-committally. ‘Can it hold for a minute? There’s something I need to do . . .’

‘Sofie . . .’

‘A minute. That’s all I’m asking for. Sixty seconds. Can you give them to me? How far am I going to go without a coat and shoes?’

He stared at me speechlessly.

OK, maybe I was being hard on him. He’d had the bad fortune to be the closest available object and I needed to vent.

I cleared my throat. ‘Thanks. Be right back.’

I stalked around Pino and headed straight for the Vic. When I was about ten feet away, the driver figured out he might not like my intentions and the red taillights glowed against the car behind him as he put the Vic into gear.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ I said, picking up my pace.

He hit the car behind him. Not hard, but hard enough to set off the alarm. I recognized the ten-year-old Chevy as belonging to the jarhead who lived across the street. The car was a piece of shit, but he treated it like it was a showpiece.

He was not going to be happy.

And when he wasn’t happy, nobody was.

I knocked on the driver’s-side window even as Pino came rushing up behind me, thankfully distracted by an honest-to-God crime in progress.

Or an accident, anyway.

The window slid part-way down.

‘Hi,’ I said, thrusting my hand through the window. ‘My name’s Sofie Metropolis. But I’m guessing you already know that. I’m also guessing you’re Charles Chaney. What I don’t have a clue about is what you’re doing following me . . .’

Pino stopped a couple of feet away and was opening his ever-present mini-notepad, writing down the Vic’s plate number.

I was just glad he’d climbed off my back for a second.

‘I’m not following you,’ Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy said, looking suddenly twice as moist at the sight of a uniformed officer.

‘Sir,’ Pino said, having apparently finished his notation business and moving on to the next step in the police officer’s procedural. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.’

I smiled at Chaney. ‘I’d say it was nice to officially meet you, but I have a feeling I’m going to being running into you again soon.’ I leaned back and stared at the Chevy where John Cain, its short-fused, ex-Marine owner had somehow made it outside in record time and was surveying the damage, his profanity-laced tirade telling me Mr Chaney was, indeed, going to have his hands full for a while.

‘Hey,’ Pino said as I stalked toward my apartment building. ‘Where are you going?’

I stared at him. Then I gestured toward my feet. ‘You want I should tell your mother you contributed to giving me frostbite?’

John started yelling at Chaney and Pino.

In the resultant confusion, I pushed Mrs Nebitz’s bell. Within two seconds, she pressed the buzzer to let me in.

‘Thank you again, Mrs Nebitz,’ I said after explaining to her satisfaction what had happened . . . or at least something that matched up with what she’d seen through her front window, probably drawn there by the police cruiser’s flashing lights.

‘Thank you, schmank you. You go get into a nice, warm shower – not hot. And put something warm on. You want I should bring you a cup of chicken soup? I made a fresh pot this morning. It’s Seth’s favorite, don’t you know.’

Yes, I did know, mostly because she told me every time she made it. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Nebitz. I’ll fix myself a nice cup of tea.’

Her gaze was drawn to her front apartment windows where the lights still obviously flashed. I was glad she appeared to want to get back to it.

‘Good night, Mrs Nebitz.’

‘Huh? What? Oh, yes. Good night, Sofie.’

She closed her door, my frost-bitten feet apparently forgotten. Which was OK with me, because just then I would prefer not to be fussed over. I needed to get in, get warm, and figure out how I was going to get myself out of this mess.

The door closed behind me and I froze.

Leaning against my bedroom doorjamb was none other than Jake Porter.

And for the first time since I met him, anywhere near my bedroom was the last place I wanted him.