Текст книги "Stormy Weather"

Автор книги: Steve Rollins

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Chapter Five

Around eight o'clock, they retired to Donovan's smoking room. Naomh Walsh made a beeline for the piano and tested the tuning. Without even asking, she sat down and began playing a rhythm and blues tune.

Donovan hovered by the piano bench and listened for a moment. “In the Mood?” he guessed. He was acutely aware he did not know much about this genre of music.

Naomh nodded and changed the tune. This one was slower. It sounded familiar as well, but Donovan could not place it.

Instead of guessing, he stopped lingering and went over to the humidor. He selected some cigars and then went over to the bar. “Drink?”

“Please.”

“What are you having?”

“If you have a good Scotch, I'll have a drop.”

Donovan was surprised to find he was taken aback by her request. For a woman like her, it was only fitting that she liked whisky as well, but he had never actually met a woman who did.

He poured two double glasses of Bruichladdich and brought them over to the piano. He sat down in a chair just beside Naomh and picked up his guitar. He began picking the chords he thought she was playing and it actually seemed to harmonize. It brought a big smile to her face to hear it. They entertained each other by jamming, and expanding on the original tune.

And then the lights went out.

There was a scream. A prolonged scream. Then there was silence. Donovan, for once, did not know what to do. What he should have done was move to the safe room, using the door behind the humidor, but he was frozen. It was unthinkable that anyone should or could get through the security of the loft in the first place, but obviously someone had. The cameras and the special gate system had failed and someone had gotten in. He pulled out his phone and looked at it. There was not even a message from the security company. They had not received a message that the perimeter had been breached.

There was a bang as the door flew open and then a crash as someone barged into something in the hallway. Someone had just entered the house.

“Naomh?”

“Yes.”

“I think we should get out of here.” Donovan used his phone as a torch and found Naomh still frozen to the piano bench. He grabbed her hand and stepped to the humidor. It was a huge structure and he reached behind it and pulled a small lever hidden in a corner at the back of the humidor. It began to swing forward in its entirety. There was a small passage behind it.

That passage had once been installed by Wild Bill, who had become paranoid about everything toward the end of his life. It served Donovan well now. He pulled Naomh with him and they went into the dusty passage. There was a ladder that led down and they made their way through the dust and the cobwebs to a passage that was not shown on the building’s approved drawings. At the end of the passage there was a large, steel-reinforced door. They went through it and Donovan pulled it shut. He flicked a switch and the generator hummed to life, causing the room to flood with light.

Naomh looked startled and shocked. “What the hell just happened?”

Donovan did not answer her, he just pulled out his phone and called the security company. “Storm Donovan. Someone just entered my property, lights went out and we heard a scream. Someone opened the door and we heard them. Got to the safe room,” he paused. “Safely. We'll need someone to get us out of here.”

It was silent for a while after Donovan hung up. Eventually, he broke the silence himself. “Well, that's a good evening spoiled.”

Naomh laughed. “Yeah, well. Maybe that was supposed to be the end of the evening.”

Donovan smiled as well. He sat down on the sofa he had hauled down there right after he had the safe room renovated two years ago. It was not the same quality furniture he had upstairs. It was the sofa from the apartment he lived in during his time studying law. He had the matching coffee table down there too. Along the wall he had set down his old drink cabinet. “Don’t have the quality stuff down here, but if you’d care to join me , we could still have the drink I promised you.”

Naomh sat down next to him on the sofa and shook her head. “I'd rather find another way to keep ourselves entertained than drinking.”

“Don’t you have a husband in the world upstairs?” Donovan laid his arm on the back of the sofa, behind her shoulders.

“I do.” She ran the fingers of her right hand, where she wore her wedding band, over the buttons of his shirt. “But he's not down here.” She came closer and Donovan wrapped her up in his arms. Their lips came closer and her hand slowly moved down. “Even if he were, I don't care.”

Half an hour later there was a knock on the door and then it promptly flew open. The first person in was Albert, who closed his eyes as Donovan quickly pulled up his trousers and Naomh rushed to lower her dress.

“Fucksake, Al!” Donovan swore. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Security guys found a body. I was specially notified.” Albert looked at them sternly.

Donovan's eyes opened wide. “Why?”

“We asked to be given every case like the Denny Lang death.”

Donovan was silent for a moment. “Same thing?”

“Same thing.”

It took Donovan a while to collect his thoughts and ask the natural question. “Who?”

“Your janitor.”

Donovan swore. Naomh sat quietly on the sofa. She did not quite know what to do in that moment, even though it was her job to know exactly what to do in a situation like this. But the truth was she solved the same problems over and over, but she had never experienced being caught with her pants down in the more than close proximity of a murder.

“You two will need to come upstairs with me. I'm going to need to ask you some questions.”

“Hell, Albert, you don't think....” Donovan began.

Albert interrupted him. “Don't know. Don't think so. But you know the way it works.”

Donovan nodded.

“So let’s get this out of the way: so alibi, the whole shebang.” Albert continued. “When you're ready.”

Albert walked up the stairs and left Donovan and Naomh Walsh to the care of the security man who was resetting the lock on the safe room.

Donovan just swore; there was nothing else to do. So he just swore under his breath, repeatedly, for about thirty seconds straight.

 

Chapter Six

Albert took Donovan and Naomh to see the body of the janitor. Naomh retched the moment she saw what had been done to the man. Donovan took her inside and made her drink the whiskey they had left behind in the smoking room.

It took her a while, but eventually she managed a sort of grimace that was meant to be a smile. “Well, that was a mood killer,” she joked. Donovan forced a laugh. There was no quick rejoinder here. There could not be. They sat in silence until Albert came into the smoking room.

“Right.” Albert said, pulling out a notebook and sitting down on his usual chair opposite the musical instruments. “Donovan, you know the rap. Begin from the beginning.”

Donovan sighed. He ran his hand through his hair and blinked as he tried to gather his thoughts. “We had dinner and then we came in here. We played some music, Ms. Walsh was on the piano, I was sitting here playing the guitar. I poured us some drinks from the cabinet over there, never left the room. We were just jamming for about an hour. Then the lights went out and we heard a scream. Right after, we heard a sound at the front door. That’s when I decided to head for the safe room. We went through the humidor passage and locked ourselves in. Then I called the security company. They had not received an alert, no breach of the parameter. So we... entertained ourselves? Until you came to get us out.” Donovan was careful and concise in his version of events. He had learned over the years as an FBI agent and as an attorney that he should always make observations, never conclusions. It sounded better and it was a way of speaking that evoked less questions.

Albert looked at Naomh. “You agree with his version of events, Ms. Walsh?”

She just nodded, still shaken by the shock of seeing the mutilated janitor.

Albert got up. “Can I have a word with you, Storm?” He walked out of the smoking room.

Donovan followed him into the passage. “What is it Al?”

Albert eyed him up and down.

“Denny Lang was connected to you, albeit distantly. This is connected to you. Is there anything you aren't telling me?”

Donovan frowned. “For fucksake, Albert. Fucking hell. You're not telling me you think I have anything to do with this?”

“Of course not. But this seems to have something to do with you.”

“If it does, I don't know anything about it.”

“Where did you hear the Langs were after you?”

“What the fuck does that matter?” Donovan felt as though his old partner, someone he trusted beyond anyone else, was trying to set him up for something.

“Because, if this is connected to you, then that might be a key.”

“I heard it from someone on the streets,” Donovan replied gruffly.

“Storm, I'm not messing with you. This could be important.” Albert sighed. “You've got to tell me.”

Donovan sighed. He thought for a moment. He did not want to say it; he always made a point of protecting his sources. He heard things from various people in all layers of society in the area. From drug dealers to businessmen and Upper East Siders to aspiring musicians trying to make it on Broadway. He had better connections than most gossip TV-reporters. But finally he made up his mind. “This does not go on record, understood?” he demanded from Albert.

Albert nodded.

“Frankie Saunders.”

“Frankie Saunders?” Albert sounded skeptical. “The socialite?”

Donovan nodded. “I wouldn’t go so far as to categorize her as a socialite, she’s more like an exceptionally high-end, whore-slash-drug dealer. Won't tell you what she gets up to or who she's involved with. But, she told me that I should watch my back.”

“Even if it won't go on record, I'll have to interview her,” Albert said tentatively.

Donovan shook his head. “I'll have to have a word with her. If you go after her for anything, she'll deny everything anyway. Plus, she can't afford to be seen talking to an FBI agent.”

“As long as you tell me what you find out,” Albert agreed. He was sensible enough not to challenge Donovan on this one. He walked past him, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly as he passed.

Donovan was left alone when Naomh Walsh left half an hour later. Whatever might have been in the cards that evening, the sight of Juan’s opened rib cage had taken away any carnal desires he originally set out with. He made his way to his regular bedroom and lay on the bed for a long time. Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, only to wake up too early to call it morning.

He drove his SUV to the office; a head foggy from lack of sleep was not a condition he was willing to impose on the Jag. The commute from Brooklyn across the bridge into Manhattan took twenty-plus minutes, and he was thankful it was over when it was. He walked up the stairs from the parking lot without his usual gusto; he was still exhausted from the previous night. He sat down at his desk. He yawned and tried to focus on the endless list of messages in his inbox. It was no use. The only message that registered was a dinner invitation for that evening by Gregoris Sedakis.

He pulled out his phone and pushed seven digits. A soft female voice answered. “Frankie.”

“Frankie, it's Donovan.”

“Oh hi, what's up?”

“Got time to meet me today?”

“Business, pleasure or social?”

“Bit of all those.”

“I'm staying at The Plaza at the moment. You can drop by, we'll see about the rest.”

“Sure.” Donovan wondered what she was doing there. “What are you doing staying there?”

“Fiancé decided to come over from LA, so I took off.”

“You still don't want to marry him?”

“Don't know. He's boring really. Good PR for us both, but boring. And he'd intrude on the more lucrative parts of my life.”

Donovan managed to produce a grin. “Well, I'll drop by as soon as I can.”

Donovan left the moment he knew his associates and his secretary could deal with the day's affairs. He arrived at the fabulous Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue not long after. He drove even though the hotel was a twenty minute walk versus the thirty minute drive through peak hour traffic. He left his SUV to be parked by the valet and asked at the concierge desk which room Frankie Saunders was staying in. They knew him there and had no problem telling him she was staying in one of the suites, but was probably bikini-clad and by the pool.

She was something. Frankie Saunders’ most attractive features were her mysterious gray-green eyes set on Mediterranean skin and a perfectly shaped body. Frankie haunted many a man’s daydream. She was one of the few women of the upper echelons of Manhattan’s society that had never had any part of her body enhanced or altered by a surgeon. There were lots of clinics these days that could do great work without any scarring, and plenty of PR agents who could hide or explain any mention of it in the media. But Frankie didn’t need either; she was a natural beauty. She wore a tiny bikini, even though the long line was in fashion, and comfortably swam the length of the pool to show off her completely natural tan. She worked out a lot, but she had time for it. Her body showed the effort she put into it, though.

Donovan knew from experience how much she worked out some of the non-visible parts as well. He could get anyone he wanted, spend time with anyone he wanted, but Donovan chose to pay for Frankie's time whenever he could and her schedule permitted. She allowed very few men to spend time with her in private and charged them a small fortune for the privilege, and she was worth it. But Donovan was a different animal; he didn’t just pay her for her private time, he paid her for the insights she could offer him into aspects of New York’s elite. She gave him access to parts of New York only a beautiful and manipulative woman could.

He sat down on one of the beach chairs that stood around the edge of the pool and waited for her to notice him. After two lengths, she finally looked at him and winked. She looked gorgeous without makeup. She swam to the side and pulled herself out of the pool. She casually wandered over and pulled Donovan into a very wet hug. “Donovan!” she exclaimed delightedly.

“Frankie!” Donovan hugged her back and lifted her off her feet. “How are you?”

“I'm great! Thanks!” she squealed.

They made small talk for a while, sitting themselves down on the beach chairs before eventually Frankie offered him coffee in her rooms.

The moment they were indoors, Frankie told him to sit down on the chair and wait. Donovan knew the way she worked. She would first sweep the room for bugs and then scan the windows for paparazzi, drawing the heavy drapes for prolonged privacy. After that, she would dress for the occasion. She was an expert seductress and tease.

Donovan sometimes wondered whether he should not ask for some of the products she offered for sale instead. It would be easier to approach her like that, but he had always rejected the idea. They could both survive a sexual encounter coming out into the public, but if anyone found out he had possessed drugs, his business was likely to collapse. Many of his clients would simply walk away.

When Frankie Saunders showed up again, she was dressed in sheer silk lingerie. Louboutin heels and silk stockings made her outfit complete and despite his intentions, Donovan felt the blood being redirected to his groin.

Frankie sat down on her knees before him and began to stroke up and down his legs. She knew he was not one for messing about for a long time.

Donovan managed to shake his head back into action and stroked her chin and cheeks to make her look up at him with her big, begging, mysterious eyes. “Bit of a change from normal, Frankie. Need to talk first. If I have time after, we'll get to the pleasant part.”

She looked disappointed. She had chosen the line of work she did for a reason. She was a socialite by virtue of her birth, related to Devonian royalty, but she refused to rely only on the family fortunes to fund her lavish lifestyle. Like most of Manhattan’s socialites, she worked in public relations. She often showed up at functions and parties to give them a bit of a boost. But the money she made from that was never enough, so she began supplying her friends with product that was always in demand at the social events and parties she attended.

When a billionaire mogul bought from her and jokingly offered her several thousands of dollars to fulfill a reference he made to the common phrase “hookers and blow,” she seriously accepted the offer. A year later, she had discreetly built up a short list of loyal clients whom she served when the mood suited her. It was obvious to all her clients that she loved what she did, and it was a good way to indulge her promiscuous nature which she otherwise had to hide. It did not do well in elite New York circles to be known as a whore. There were plenty of drug-addicted, drunken sluts with rich daddies in Manhattan and she would not be able to, nor was she willing to, compete with some of the bigger names among them for the title of the Upper East Side Sure-Thing.

Donovan was one of her favorite clients, though. He was in good shape, intelligent, well informed, elegant, well-educated and a good lover. She did not mind when he paid her for information instead of sex, as long as she got her way with him as well. With him, that was the payment she really wanted.

“What is it then, darling?” She kept looking up at him with her famously manipulative eyes.

“The Lang guys. You heard Denny Lang is dead?”

Frankie shook her head and got up. She pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward a bit, her legs crossed. “No...”

“Two days ago.” Donovan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Know what a Blood Eagle is?”

Frankie shook her head. She looked scared, as though anticipating Donovan to hurt her.

“Someone cut his back open, cracked his ribs and folded them inside out. Then this someone pulled out his lungs and laid them out over his opened ribs to make it look like wings. Left him to die of shock and blood loss.” Frankie's face was a mask of disgust, fear and horror. “Someone did the same to my janitor last night.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.

“Because you told me about the Lang brothers being after me. Day after I check up on them, one of them dies. And then the next day, someone manages to infiltrate my security, didn’t set off one alarm, and tortures my janitor to death.” He raised his voice slightly. He used a deeper tone, trying to make his voice sound more dominant, more frightening; more urgent. “I need to know who told you.”

“I can't tell you that...” Frankie whispered. “They'd kill me.”

“If you don't tell me, they'll probably kill me.”

Frankie shook her head.

“You need to tell me, Frankie.”

“I can't...” she whispered again. But after a while she blinked. “I can't tell you. But you might do well to check up on their siblings.”

“Sibling.” Donovan corrected her. “They only had a sister, Mara.”

Frankie slowly shook her head and then dropped from the chair, crawling toward him. She sat on her knees before him again and ran her hands up his legs again. “Now can we please forget this? Or at least, allow me to make you forget.”

Chapter Seven

Donovan arrived at the Sedakis’ mansion that evening still feeling tired. Frankie had let him sleep after they were done, but before she let him leave, she had shown him all sides of the suite. Still, Donovan mused, she gave up a little bit of a lead, and he had enjoyed himself more than he had in a while. It certainly had made the afternoon better than it would have been if he’d stayed at the office.

He had driven home to change and switched cars for the third time in two days. He drove out toward Sedakis’ White Plains mansion. His favorite car was the Jag and he often drove the SUV when he was tired and on long journeys, but this car was one he used to show off. The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport was a distinct car, with an even more distinct sound. And this evening, the engine's baritone bellows seemed to fit the mood he was in and the way he wanted to appear to Sedakis; the impression he wanted to make on the man's new wife.

He drove up the driveway, revving the engine as high as he could. By the time he reached the house, Sedakis himself was already opening the door. The big Greek man ran out to admire the car like a little child checking out a new toy in a store.

“My God!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “When did you buy this?”

“About two years ago,” Donovan said as he got out. “Not long after it came out. One of the most high-tech cars out there. And fastest, of course.”

Sedakis nodded fervently. “Yes! Delightful! Sat in one, wanted to buy one. Wife made me buy a Bentley instead!” He looked at Donovan with pleading eyes. “Could I have a go?”

Donovan narrowed his eyes. He did not like lending his cars to anyone. “After dinner? Your wife will kill us if we let her food go cold.”

Sedakis looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement all the same. “Quite so.” He pulled Donovan into a bear hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Come, meet the wife, meet her!” Sedakis let him go and beckoned him into his immodest mansion.

Sedakis pushed him into the dining room and Donovan sat down quickly. There were two other guests. There was Sedakis' right-hand man, Niklas Papadopolis, the CEO of American Stevedore, Inc. and a medium-sized woman with long curly hair and olive skin. She was looking at some of the artwork that clearly belonged to the house long before the Sedakis family purchased it.

“You know my man, Niklas?” Sedakis gestured toward the man.

“We've met before, right Nick?” Donovan offered the man his hand. They shook and then Donovan looked over at the woman, who had turned toward him upon hearing his voice. Donovan smiled broadly as he saw her face. She did the same.

“And this is...” Sedakis began.

Donovan interrupted him. “Hello again, Naomh.”

“Hello again, Donovan.” Naomh Walsh came forward to give him a small kiss on the cheek.

“You know each other?” Sedakis wondered.

“We have met before,” Naomh Walsh answered.

“Yup,” Donovan confirmed.

Sedakis looked from one to the other a few times. “Ms. Walsh helps my wife. Advises her on some matters. Society stuff and the like. Stuff she finds important. I never understood why it's all such a big deal.” He looked around and promptly marched toward the kitchen. He mumbled to himself as he walked away, “I'll just see how far she's gotten with the moussaka.”

Naomh waited a moment until he was out of the room, then she snuck a quick but deep kiss with Donovan. “Nice to see you again, she grinned at him. “By the way, don't say a thing about the wife. And no season remarks.”

Donovan frowned, not understanding. But he didn’t have time to ask her anything because Gregoris Sedakis came back moments later with his wife in tow. Donovan immediately understood what Naomh had meant.

The new Mrs. Sedakis, proudly introduced to him by Gregoris as Maria Sedakis, was still a teenager. Donovan thought she looked like she was sixteen, but understood immediately that she must be at least eighteen. She had a very young face, but was shaped well with a lean, athletic body not as full or as feminine as Naomh Walsh or Frankie Saunders. He reckoned she had probably started to develop later than the average teenage girl and would keep growing a bit into her early twenties.

“How old is she?” He whispered the question to Naomh.

“Nineteen next month.”

“What the fuck?”

“She snuck into a party at his country club two months ago and when he caught her and told her he'd tell on her, she... um...” Naomh tried to find a suitable euphemism.

It was Donovan who provided the words. “Entertained him?”

“Yeah, that's it. Divorced his wife a month later and married her a week after that.”

Donovan shook his head. “Jeesh.” It was more than slightly unscrupulous. He liked Sedakis, but he did not know what to make of this. “So what do you do for her?”

Naomh shrugged. “She was not born into the elite circles of New York’s blue bloods and I have to teach her how to behave so she won't embarrass Gregoris. And get her into the right places. Get her doing PR gigs, parties and stuff that Sedakis himself won't do, or would hesitate to do.”

Sedakis kissed his young wife full on the lips and she kissed him back. Then he slapped her bottom, sending her back to the kitchen. “Marvelous creature, isn't she?” he remarked proudly. He sounded almost like a breeder talking about his prize filly.

“Yeah, she's amazing.” Donovan joined in to sing Maria Sedakis' praises. And if he did not quite mean it at that moment, he did mean it later, after a generous portion of moussaka. The girl did know how to cook, which went a long way to explaining why Gregoris Sedakis had married her.

There was baklava after, which again, was great. The girl, Maria, said little throughout the meal, but Donovan noticed she was keenly observing everything. She seemed eager to learn about everything they discussed at the table, from business to the local gossip. She seemed to know instinctively what she had to learn in order to be a good wife to Sedakis. Whether that would be enough remained to be seen.

After a while, Sedakis brought out the ouzo and they sat down with a few glasses. Papadopolis retired after that, heading home before the evening got out of hand. Donovan himself was determined not to drink too much, as he had to drive home. But as they sat down and got to talking, he concluded that would probably be a vain hope so he prepared himself for a long night.

“So I heard someone killed your janitor?” Sedakis stated at some point. It was a question and a statement rolled in one; not one nor the other. “Same thing as that man in my warehouse.”

Donovan nodded. “Yeah, it wasn't pretty.”

“Know anything yet?”

Donovan wondered for a moment whether he should tell Sedakis and Naomh Walsh about what Frankie Saunders had advised him on. His common sense told him he should be prudent, but as Sedakis poured him another shot his ability to listen to common sense soon passed. “Seems there's something about the siblings of these Lang brothers. But I only ever knew them to have a sister, Mara. She's dead, though. Car accident outside the court building the day her brother was convicted.”

Naomh intuitively felt the question come up. It felt like one of those questions that had to be asked and answered. “Who was driving?”

Donovan looked down. “I was.” He kept looking at his feet, even as Naomh's hand touched his knee. “She was only 17 or so, still in school I think. Her brothers turned to crime, sacrificed, to get her through some expensive boarding school.” He sighed. “Poor Mara Lang. I couldn't do anything about it, I know that. But it still feels like I might have been able to save her.”

“I knew a Mara Lang.” It was the first time Maria Sedakis felt confident involving herself in the evening’s conversation. “She was a few years ahead of me in the boarding school I attended in Québec,” she remarked. “She died in a car accident. But she can’t be the same person. She had a sister in my class; I don’t remember anyone mentioning brothers.”

Donovan looked at her questioningly. “What was her name?” he asked curiously.

“I think Eva. But she disappeared from the school before her sister was killed. Nobody knew where she went.”

Donovan shook his head and drew his silver case of cigars from his inside pocket. He offered one to Sedakis. “Want one?”

Sedakis shook his head. “She's making me quit.”

Donovan shrugged as he saw Maria nod happily. “Suit yourself.”

As he stood on the terrace at the back of the house, smoking, he heard the door opening. It was Naomh. “You mind if I have a few puffs?” Donovan shook his head and offered her his cigar. She breathed in a large amount of smoke and then suddenly kissed him, breathing the smoke back to him. “Share and share alike, eh,” she said as she broke away from him, running her hands over his cheeks. He looked distracted. “What are you thinking?” she demanded seriously.

“Eva Lang,” he said, staring into the New York woodlands; it was a beautiful part of the state and so close to the city. “She's got to be somewhere, and she's got to be connected to this. But how? And where is she?”

Naomh shrugged. “Well, she's not an A-lister here, or I would have known about it.”

“Suppose you're right,” Donovan said.

When the cigar was finished, they went back in, only to find that Gregoris Sedakis had already taken his wife to bed.

“I do feel a bit sorry for her,” Donovan remarked. “Laboring under that big fat belly.”

Naomh laughed. “Yeah, can't be easy.”

Donovan shrugged. “Ah well, I suppose it's time to head home anyway. “ He began to walk toward the door, but found himself staggering. He swore. The ouzo was obviously having more of an effect than he originally thought it would. But he was not going to let anyone notice that. He turned around and looked at Naomh. “You want a ride?”

Naomh shook her head and walked over to him, grabbing him by the arm. “You're not going anywhere,” she said as she pulled him toward the stairs. “You've had far too much ouzo to drive your flashy Bugatti.”

“Damn you,” Donovan grumbled at her.