Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) (9 page)

Twelve

OK, the Fates appeared to have it in for me today . . . big time.

What had I done? And how in the hell did I go about undoing it? Because right then . . . well, I’d far surpassed my monthly quota of odd happenings.

I stared at Porter, completely at a loss for words.

In this case, I suppose there was some comfort in knowing any minute Pino would be up here and Porter would have to leave.

What was I talking about? I was going to kick him out now.

‘Well, I’d say hello, but I think that’s something you do when you open the door to a visitor, not open your door to find him already in your apartment . . .’

My feet felt like . . . well, they felt like nothing. Mostly because I had stopped feeling them about five minutes ago.

‘You really should put something on those,’ Jake said.

I gave a massive eye roll. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

I opened the hall closet door. The only things inside were galoshes and a pair of the pinkest, most hideous slippers known to man, that also just happened to be the warmest.

I put on last year’s gag Christmas gift from my sister one by one, leaning against the wall for support as I did so.

Jake raised a brow and a grin quirked his full mouth.

I gave another eye roll and headed for the kitchen. I checked the kettle for water, added a bit, then put it on to boil.

‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Just dropping in to say hello to a mate.’

‘Yeah?’ I turned and leaned against the counter. ‘Decided to turn over a new leaf?’

I recalled Bruno’s earlier reference to coincidences and decided this was another one that wasn’t going to fly.

Problem was, I didn’t currently have the figurative ammo to shoot it down with any type of guaranteed satisfaction.

But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.

‘So what do you know about the Abramopoulos case?’ I asked.

‘Pardon me?’

I went to the dining room where the window was open (had he opened it for Muffy? Or is that how he’d gained entrance?), peeked out, then back in again. No sign of the mutt.

Damn.

I left it open.

‘You’re not pardoned. Give.’ I took only one cup out and plopped a tea bag into the middle of it.

‘You still have those blasted . . . things in here,’ he said.

I grimaced, finding him looking into my bedroom. Things . . . I guessed he meant gifts.

The first time he was inside my apartment, he’d been put off by the fact I’d kept my wedding gifts. Said something along the lines that I was stuck in the past and until I moved on . . .

Until I moved on, what?

We’d have a chance at a relationship?

Depended on your definition of the word.

And it was obvious mine varied greatly from his.

In his world, he could pop in and out whenever the mood moved him, never answer any questions, and remain a mystery. In mine, I revealed my second grade teacher’s name, how old I was when I first kissed a boy and what my mother was fixing for dinner that Sunday . . . as well as expect him to go with me to said dinner every now and again, even if goat was on the menu.

‘What do you want, Jake?’ I asked.

He slowly turned back to look at me, a somber expression on his handsome face. I’d noticed he looked different, but now I saw the extent of the changes. Yes, his hair was trimmed, but he was also closely shaved, lending an almost a baby-like quality to his striking face and emphasizing how very blue his eyes were.

The color where the Greek sky meets the Aegean Sea, my mother would say.

I quietly cleared my throat and went back into the kitchen.

OK, so I wasn’t as immune to him as I pretended. And accepted I probably never would be. From the get go, he’d touched something inside me. Some sort of animalistic, fundamental shadow that made me crave all things dark and mysterious.

Made me ceaselessly yearn for him.

‘You not seeing that Greek baker bloke any more?’ he asked quietly.

The kettle began to whistle. I shut off the burner, and against my better judgment took another cup out of the cupboard.

‘No,’ I answered just as quietly.

I poured the water over the bags to steep, then stood for a long moment, trying to interpret the myriad currents running through my veins. Part of me very much wanted to walk up to Porter, curve my fingers over his strong jaw and kiss the ever-loving stuffing out of him.

Another wanted to toss the hot tea down the front of his shirt.

I was having a hard time deciding which track I should take.

I removed the tea bags, took out sugar and milk, and put them and the cups on the kitchen table.

‘Black, please.’

I added sugar and milk to mine then took him his, close enough to smell his tangy lime cologne.

Was that humming I heard? I was pretty sure that was humming. And I was also pretty sure I was the source of it.

With me in my hideous slippers, he towered over me by about nine or ten inches, every bit of him hard, raw male.

Double damn.

I forced myself to sip my tea.

‘Whatever Abramopoulos is asking you to do?’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t.’

I squinted at him.

‘I knew it! I knew this had something to do with Abramopoulos.’

I began to turn away, but he caught my arm, strong enough to stop me, but not too much that I spilled either of our teas.

‘No, Sofie. This has to do with you . . .’

Was he going to kiss me? It really looked like he was going to kiss me.

Yeah, he was . . .

I tried to decide whether or not I’d let him when his mouth pressed against mine . . . and my body decided for me by sighing against his.

God, he tasted so very good . . .

Every part of me melted on the spot, including my feet, which were now tingling inside my slippers for reasons not having to do with the cold.

I’d pretty much figured out that even if I lived to be a hundred and two I’d never figure out what it was that drew me to Jake Porter. No matter what stunts he pulled, or secrets he kept, there was no fighting my attraction to him. In fact, the more I battled, the greater it grew, like a snowball rolling downhill.

If only the sensation that an icy wall lay at the bottom of the hill would go away, I might have been able to stop fighting and surrender to him.

There was that humming sound again.

His tongue slid against mine and my core temperature rose even higher, igniting thoughts of finally making it to my bed in the other room, unopened wedding gifts be damned . . .

A loud knock at the door.

I found I’d gotten up on my toes in order to kiss him more fully. I now stood flat-footed.

He slowly pulled away.

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Jake said, grinning.

I resisted the temptation to wipe the drool I was sure was dripping from the left side of my mouth. ‘Um, yeah . . . that I do.’

Another knock, then Pino said, ‘I know you’re in there, Metro. Don’t make me force entry.’

Jake hiked a brow even as I longed for a whole different type of entry that had nothing to do with Pimply Pino Karras and everything to do with the hot Australian in front of me.

‘I dare say you’d better let him in.’

I didn’t want to. I wanted to kiss Jake again. And again. And again.

Unfortunately the insistent knocking proved Pino was more determined than I was.

I let out a soft breath that seemed to carry out with it some of the longing pressing against my insides.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I called out when I heard what sounded like scratching against my doorknob. Probably Pino had gotten out his lock-picking kit.

I reluctantly put my tea down on the kitchen table and went to open the door.

‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, looking more upset than I’d seen him in a while.

‘Pino I’d like you to meet . . .’

I turned around . . . only to find Jake was gone.

Hunh.

No matter how many times he did that, I’d never get used to it.

Pino picked up what had been Jake’s cup on the kitchen table next to mine.

‘For me?’ he asked.

‘What?’

He raised the cup.

‘Yeah.’

The ghost had left the building . . . again.

Jake’s words swirled around my head in an endless stream as I tried to calm an agitated Pino, promising him I’d let him in on what I was doing when the time was right, then again during the drive over to Grandpa Kosmos’ café; an appointment I’d nearly forgotten about and probably would have entirely had Pino not interrupted that kiss.

I found my fingertips lingering against my lower lip.

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop it,’ I told myself, nearing my grandfather’s place.

Probably I should be thinking more about his words than the sinful mouth from which they’d exited. I nearly plowed into the back of a car that had stopped suddenly in front of me. Probably I should be paying attention to where I was going.

I looked closer at the dark corner coffee shop. That was odd. Why were the lights off? I knew he was closed Tuesdays, but it wasn’t Tuesday, and, even if it were, there would be some lights on.

I found a parking spot on the side street and got out of the car. I’d thought about calling to cancel our appointment, but considering how odd my grandfather had sounded, I didn’t dare. Besides, it had given me the excuse I needed to get rid of Pino . . . and to remove myself from an apartment with walls I would probably climb wondering where that kiss might have led had circumstances been different.

OK, it was official: I was insane. Just lock me up in a rubber room in one of those white jackets and leave me there until I started thinking with a part of my brain that worked properly.

Or worked at all when it came to Jake Porter.

What had he meant by don’t do whatever Abramopoulos had asked me to? And how would he know I’d been asked to do anything?

Why was it Jake Porter knew more about what was going on in my life than my mother?

Speaking of which, where was my mother?

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and dialed the house.

No answer.

I knew my father wasn’t home yet. Could see his steakhouse was still open for business across the street, and odds were his car was still parked out back.

And my black-clad grandmother – better known as Yiayia – never answered the phone because she didn’t speak English. Or, rather, pretended she didn’t.

But my mother?

Someone picked up on the tenth ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Mama?’

‘Sofie?’ She sounded decidedly groggy. ‘What’s the matter,
koukla
mou?
Ti
simbeni
?’

She asked me in Greek what was wrong.

‘I was hoping you could tell me that. What’s going on? Are you in bed already?’

She never went to bed without my dad. Unless . . .

‘Are you sick?’

‘Sick? Knock wood. What would make you ask that?’

What, indeed.

‘I just had a long day, is all. Went to bed early.’

I squinted into the dark as if it would help me make sense of everything.

‘Can I call you back in the morning?’ she asked.

‘Sure . . . OK.’

‘
Kalinikta
.’

‘Good night.’

I hung up and looked again at my grandfather’s dark windows.

Had I fallen asleep and woken up in some sort of parallel universe? Because right now, nothing was as it should be.

I got out of the car and walked to the front door of the dark café. I pressed my nose against the glass, my hand shielding my eyes against the street light. The door opened slightly inward.

I started and slapped the same hand against my chest.

What was the door doing unlocked?

Oh, boy. This was not boding well . . .

‘Hello . . .?’ I called out, opening the door. ‘
Pappou
? Are you in here?’

As many times as I’d been in this place, I’d never entered in the dark and I lost all sense of perspective. I bumped into a stool, the screeching of the legs against tile sending icy tentacles up my spine.

Oh, this was ridiculous. Probably Grandpa Kosmos had forgotten about our appointment. Probably he’d gone out somewhere with a couple of his friends. Or despite the darkness of the overhead apartment, was upstairs, maybe even sleeping, like my mother.

Right . . .

Having one of them in bed this early was enough. Both of them? I was calling a doctor.

I reached for my cell phone, thinking I should call him, see what was going on.

A sound in the back.

I couldn’t tell exactly what. Why did things sound different in the dark than they did in the light? It was similar to the stool legs against the tile . . . but not.

What if he was lying on the floor in here in the dark? If he’d fallen and hit his head?

My heart expanded to block my air passage.

‘
Pappou
. . .?’

I whispered the word so softly, I barely heard it.

Another sound . . . this time a kind of wet plunk . . .

All things dark and sinister leapt to mind.

What if the reason why the front door was unlocked was that he’d been robbed? And the assailant was even now still in there?

I reached for my Glock and considered running for the front door, the thought of dialing 911 floating around in there somewhere . . .

‘Please . . . Come in, Sofie . . .’

Thirteen

‘Pappou, what are you doing sitting in here with the lights off?’

The instant I recognized his voice, I sighed off my fears, re-holstered my Glock and walked to the end of the counter where the light panel was located on the far wall. I flicked the first switch I came to, which illuminated him where he sat in the back at the table his friends claimed during the day.

He lifted his hand to ward it off. ‘No, please. Turn it off.’

‘No.’

He stared at me.

I turned it off.

Now that I knew where he was, it was relatively easy to make my way back to where he was sitting.

‘How come you didn’t answer me when I called?’

He sighed heavily. ‘I must have fallen asleep. Sorry.’

I held my hand out in front of me, feeling around for the chair backs. Then I pulled out the one next to him and sat down.

‘Are you OK?’

‘What? Yes, yes. I am fine. How are you?’

Right then? I was so not fine it wasn’t funny.

Was it something in the water? The reason for the funny way everyone was acting?

If so, I determined I should stay away from it.

Then again, perhaps if I downed a good gallon of it, everything would make sense.

‘Fine is not sitting in your café in the dark,’ I told him. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Really. It’s nothing.’

I tried to come up with a few reasons to explain his strange behavior. ‘Is it the café? Is everything all right? Business is good?’

‘Huh? Yes, yes. Business is very good.’

‘Is it . . . Yiayia?’

My grandmother had died some years ago, but occasionally my grandfather slipped into a funk and sometimes didn’t re-emerge for days. But usually it was around the time he’d lost her, which was spring, not winter.

‘Can I make you something?’ I asked. ‘Warm milk, maybe?’

My mother had sometimes made it for me and my siblings, including lots of sugar and some sweet bread dunked into it. Every now and again my brother and I would pretend we couldn’t sleep just to get the treat. I was pretty sure Mom was wise to us, but she’d always made it.

‘What? What do I look like, a kid? Or, worse, an old man?’

The one thing I hadn’t asked him about was his health. Partly because I was afraid to. Mostly because I was afraid to.

‘Of course not,’ I reassured him.

He made some disgruntled sounds that were at least reassuring in their familiarity.

‘So . . . what did you want to see me about?’

Silence.

‘Pappou?’

‘I heard you.’

‘But you didn’t answer.’

He leaned forward, causing his chair to creak slightly. ‘You remember last summer? I asked you to find something for me?’

Yes, I remembered. All too well. He’d requested I find an old war medal of his.

‘Well?’ he asked.

I realized I hadn’t answered him. ‘Yes, yes. I remember.’

‘Good. Because I need for you to find it for me now . . .’

When I finally returned home, I was beat . . . physically and mentally. I mean, how much was one person really supposed to take?

I looked up at the ceiling while I climbed the stairs to my second story apartment.

My feet protested my every move and I had the sinking sensation I might end up catching more than the Christmas bug before this day was over, no thanks to Bruno and his gorillas.

I half expected Mrs Nebitz to crack open her door as I unlocked mine; I was thankful when she didn’t.

I let myself in and then collapsed against the closed barrier, imagining it was some protection against me and the rest of the world.

I’m not sure what it was about the cycles of life that always catch me unawares. You get a long, dull stretch of nothing much, then BAM! Everything is lobbed at you at once, with little hope of catching half of it.

I slowly blinked, looking for the energy to push from the door when I became aware of two things: the lights were out; and it was freezing.

I always, but always left the lamp on the side table on. There were few things worse than coming home to a dark house . . . or café, as my earlier experience bore out. Or a cold one.

I watched where a frigid breeze billowed the sheers on Muffy’s open window. I was surprised they hadn’t frozen. Or maybe they had and I wouldn’t see for sure until I went over there.

Something I couldn’t seem to muster the motivation to do.

Had Porter come back? I took a deep breath, trying to detect his cologne on the cold air. I couldn’t make out anything but the scent of the pine boughs.

‘Muffy?’ I whistled softly. ‘Come here, boy.’

Nothing.

Shit.

OK, surely it was written somewhere that a body shouldn’t have to enter a dark place twice in one night. Especially if said dark place was her own apartment.

I slowly slid my hand across the door and over to the light switch. Click. Nothing.

I brought my hand back and took my Glock from its holster for the second occasion that night.

OK, time to see what was going on in my own apartment. Although the option of driving up the street to stay the night at my parents’ until dawn broke was mighty tempting.

That, however, wasn’t going to help Muffy.

I remembered a time not so long ago when I’d returned to find the Jack Russell duct taped in the bathroom.

My heart gave a sharp squeeze.

I crept slowly forward, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I considered opening the door, allowing the hall light to illuminate my way. Problem with that is it would also outline me like a close target.

No. Better to do it this way.

Creak.

Funny how you never realized how much noise your floorboards made until you were walking across them in dark silence. I mean, I was familiar with old buildings; the house I’d grown up in was at least as old as this place and it had taken teenaged creeping to learn where to step when without waking my parents or Yiayia.

One night I’d made it down the stairs and was breathing a sigh of relief when I’d run straight into my grandmother.

I’d screamed.

She’d merely stared at me, arms crossed, brows raised, her gray head shaking.

I’d slunk back upstairs without a word . . . and didn’t try sneaking out again for at least two weeks.

Now that I was on my own . . . well, somehow it didn’t hold the same innocent appeal. Although I would still prefer the floorboards didn’t creak as loudly as they did.

‘Here, Muffy, Muffy, Muffy . . .’

I wasn’t clear on what bothered me most: that Muffy wasn’t responding to my calls or that the lights were off. Maybe it was a toss up. Maybe one amplified the other.

Maybe I was just overtired and in dire need of a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

I cleared the coffee table and sofa and nearly tripped over something that shouldn’t be there.

I held steady, taking deep breaths I hoped weren’t too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Please, please, please don’t be a body . . .

I really didn’t want to see Pino again tonight.

I nearly giggled, wondering if a ruptured gas line could be responsible for the silly ping-ponging of my thoughts.

Then it occurred to me the object could be Pino . . .

Holding my gun tightly in my right hand, I slowly knelt down, blindly feeling around. I didn’t realize I had my eyes tightly closed until my fingers touched something cold and metallic.

Not a body.

I shuddered with relief as I felt out the lamp I usually left on.

Well, that explained why there was no light.

As I quietly turned it upright, I reminded myself that what went unexplained was how it had ended up on the floor.

I stood back up, reasoning out other lights should be in working order. I stepped the few feet toward the kitchen and tried the switch.

I was so relieved the apartment was no longer pitch black I nearly let my guard down with my gun.

Not so fast . . .

I moved around the apartment, turning on lights as I went, aware of every movement. Or rather, non-movement.

Until I reached my bedroom.

There, in the middle of the bed, lay the last thing I expected to see . . .