Better Read Than Dead (27 page)

“I don’t understand. He’s your client; why can’t you tell me his name?”

I took in a big breath, racking my brain for a plausible explanation. Finally a thought occurred to me. “Because he’s hiding from the Russian Mafia.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

“I’m sorry?” she said, her eyes growing huge.

“Yeah, you remember he had an accent?”

“Yes, but he sounded more Greek than Russian.”

“That’s because he’s been working to change his accent,” I said quickly. “See, he came to this country to avoid persecution, and now he wants to go back. That’s why he came to me, so that he could see if it was safe. But I told him it wasn’t, and that he couldn’t leave yet. In fact, I thought it might be unsafe for him here too. . . .”
Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

“You’re kidding,” Cat said, getting caught up in the tall tale I was spinning.

I nodded convincingly. “No, it’s true.”
Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .
“If anyone knew he was here he’d be targeted for sure. That’s why you can’t mention a word of it to the police.”

For the first time since I started telling her the story, Cat looked at me skeptically. “But the man’s a hero, and he may be able to help track down the guy who attacked me.”

I nodded and said, “Yes, of course. But I’ve already spoken to him, and he’s willing to cooperate as long as the police don’t get involved. He’s promised to give me as many details as he can remember, but he must remain totally anonymous. After all, his life is at stake.”

Cat’s brow furrowed as she weighed the validity of my story. “So . . . what should I tell the police happened?”

“Well, instead of telling them that my client saved you, just tell them that you heard my screams getting closer, then the killer let go of you and took off running. They’ll believe that, and this way my client can remain safe.”

Cat pondered that a while and said, “Okay. I’m going to trust you on this but I am not comfortable committing perjury, just so you know.”

“I know, I know, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t a matter of life or death for this guy. But I think after saving your skin, maybe this is the least you can do for him?”

That cinched it; Cat nodded and said, “Okay, fine. Since you put it like that, what choice do I have?”

I beamed a broad smile at her and squeezed her hand. “Thanks, honey; that’s really great of you. I’ll pass along your appreciation to him too, okay?”

Cat looked sharply at me, thinking of something. “Abby?
You’re
not in any danger, are you?”

“What? Uh, no. Of course not . . . ha-ha, I’m
perfectly
safe.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

“Okay, just checking. Now where’s Tommy? I’m starved!”

 

I left Cat’s bedside when Tommy returned, and headed back to my office to get ready for another long day. I had six clients on the agenda, and I needed some “me” time before the first one arrived.

Getting to the office, I checked my messages first. There were several, so I jotted down all the names and phone numbers, then went into my reading room and sat down for a little meditation.

While I was meditating the phone rang, and I thought about answering it, but decided to ignore it and let it go to voice mail. The thought about checking the message bugged me for several minutes, so finally I got up and played the message.

“Hey, Abby, it’s Dutch. Sorry I missed you. I tried you at home and on your cell, so I thought maybe you were already at work. Listen, I just wanted to call and tell you that I’ve been thinking about you, and I miss you, and I’d like a chance to start over once I’m done with this assignment. I’ll call you in the next couple days and we’ll talk then.”

My eyes got misty as I listened to the recording.
Damn!
I really did miss him. I wondered where he was, and what he was up to, and part of me worried for him because his new job was all about dealing with the worst of the worst. Just then there was a knock on my door, and I sighed heavily as I set the receiver down and got back to the business of the day.

 

Later that night I went back to the hospital and I grilled Cat about what she’d said to Milo when he’d interviewed her. Fortunately she backed up my version, but warned me that Milo didn’t seem to believe her, and kept asking her if she’d seen anyone else come to her rescue.

“Crap,” I said, annoyed that Milo wasn’t backing off.

“Hey, come on now,” my sister said encouragingly. “Maybe you can trust Milo. Maybe he’ll know of a way to get your client’s testimony without exposing him. I think you should talk to him.”

“Cat, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one. It’s a can of worms that I really can’t open right now, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, holding up her arms in surrender. “If you say so. Listen, the hospital is discharging me tomorrow morning. Will you come see us off to the airport?”

“You’re leaving already?” I asked, hiding a huge sigh of relief.

“Yes. Tommy’s taking me to Aruba so that I can make a full recovery. The boys’ll be in Disney for another week, so this works out perfectly. Our flight leaves at ten. Can you come see us off?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, privately thankful she was going someplace remote and out of harm’s way.

 

The rest of the weekend was a flurry of activity. On Saturday I saw Tommy and Cat off at the airport, heaving a huge sigh of relief when I watched their plane take off for the tropics, then headed back to work for two more busy days until the moment of truth on Sunday night, when, at exactly seven o’clock, a silver sedan pulled to a stop at the foot of my driveway. I’d been watching out the window and immediately went outside to the car. Without a word I opened the door and got in. There was the familiar driver in the front seat, but no Goon to greet me in the back. I shrugged my shoulders at his absence; it was obvious Andros would want us separated until I’d helped him with his “project”—whatever that might be.

The driver nodded to me as I buckled my seat belt, and we set off, heading southeast. We got onto I-696, then to I-75, and exited at Mack Avenue. Twisting and winding our way through various neighborhoods in alternating states of decay, we finally got off of Mack and entered a completely different world. Mere blocks away the ravages of poverty and social inequity had decimated homes and neighborhoods as effectively as a bomb blast, but here . . . I looked upon opulence so overt it took my breath away.

Mansions of enormous size sat pregnant and bloated atop small ridges that overlooked immaculate lawns. My jaw dropped as I gazed upon real estate that kept escalating in size and scope in a display of overindulgence that I’d seen only on television.

Our car wound its way down to Lakeshore Drive, and here the party really began. To my right was Lake Michigan; to my left sat mansions tall as cathedrals, built to one purpose—a grand view of the lake. Our journey ended about a half mile down the road, as we turned into a driveway that wound its way through a colossal wrought-iron gate imprinted with a gigantic Old English
K,
and up to a mansion that made Cat’s house look like an outhouse.

The “home” was enormous, at least fifteen thousand square feet. We passed a tennis court, pool and volley-ball pit. The circular driveway ended around a large fountain, drained for the winter, and several other luxury cars parked neatly in parallel spaces along the west side. I got out of the sedan and craned my neck to look up at Kapordelis’s home.

Three stories fanned out evenly across the face of the structure. The mansion was colored gray brick, with black shutters and a black slate roof. Three stairs led up to a large dais partially covered by a balcony jutting out from the second floor. The front door was at least eleven feet tall, and made of intricately carved wood. It looked far too heavy to open, but my driver seemed to have no trouble as he led me inside.

Once I crossed the threshold and into the front foyer, it was hard not to let my jaw dangle; the interior was like the Taj Mahal. Sparkling white marble floors, and eggshell-painted walls were offset by an abundance of trim in gilded relief. The furniture was dark walnut, shined to a brilliant sheen, and an enormous divided staircase sloped grandly up to the second floor.

I was told to wait in the foyer as my driver disappeared through a set of French doors to my right. I stood nervously looking around, unsure of what to do with my hands. I wanted to look poised and confident, but it just occurred to me that I’d entered the den of a very dangerous lion, so, nervously, I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets and waited.

After a short while the French doors opened and a gorgeous olive-skinned man with jet-black hair and ebony eyes greeted me with a warm smile. “Good evening, Miss Cooper. I’m Demetrius Kapordelis. My father is expecting you. If you’ll please come this way?” he said, indicating that I should follow him.

Demetrius led me through the French doors and into a spacious sitting area that spun off onto three other rooms, one containing a dining area, another that seemed largely devoted to watching television, and yet another that was lined with shelf upon shelf of books. We turned a corner at some point, my head bobbing from side to side as I tried to take everything in, and finally we came to rest in front of two large wooden doors that faintly resembled the front door. Demetrius opened one of them and led me through, then closed the door behind us and stood with his back against the frame, effectively cutting off any escape I might be considering.

Even though I’d enjoyed giving him the lookie-loo I had to assume that he was as deeply involved with his father’s business as Andros was, and the warning bells my intuition was giving off seemed to confirm that he was just as violent and deadly a man as his father, so, mentally, I kept my distance.

I looked quickly around the room, which appeared to be a study, getting a feel for the environment. The room was a good size, roughly fifteen by twenty, painted a deep burgundy, and offset by richly stained wood trim and chair railing. There was a seating area off to one side, with two comfortable brown leather sofas that sat facing each other, and a big-screen plasma TV hung on one wall.

My eyes wandered in a circular motion, taking in expensive sculptures, oil paintings, and knickknacks, and coming to rest—with a little gasp of surprise from me—on Andros, who was seated behind an enormous desk of carved wood. I recovered myself quickly as I looked at the desk he sat behind. A true craftsman had carved intricate designs into the base of the desk, and I imagined that it was probably worth more than my house.

My gaze drifted back to Andros, who looked pale and sweaty this evening, his breathing quite labored and his pupils tiny. He’d obviously been taking heavy doses of pain medication to deal with his condition. Waves of pain and sickness emanated from him, and it was all I could do to stop myself from assessing his energy. I satisfied myself by letting my eyes go out of focus and allowing his aura to appear to me. Andros was covered in a brown so dark it bordered on black. He had, I guessed, only a very short while left to live.

“Good evening, Miss Cooper,” he said in greeting.

“Mr. Kapordelis.” I nodded, meeting his gaze.

“That will be all for now, Demetrius,” Andros said dismissively.

Reflexively I looked at Demetrius, and noticed his eyes narrow at his father for a split second, then return to their normal shape as he asked, “You don’t want me to stay for the interview?”

Andros grew angry. “I said leave us, Demetrius!”

Quickly Andros’s son withdrew from the room. I wondered at the tone Andros had been quick to use with his son, but figured it probably came with the territory.

“So what’s this ‘project’ you need me to work on, Mr. Kapordelis?”

Andros regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, the way a crocodile might watch a deer dipping low to drink before he attacked. “First things first, Miss Cooper,” he said without explanation.

“Okay . . .” I said after a long minute. “What’s first?”

“A test.”

My brow furrowed. I didn’t think I was going to like this. “What kind of ‘test’ we talkin’ about?”

“Well,” said Andros matter-of-factly, splaying his hands for effect, “I can hardly trust you on your word, now, can I? After all, I could give you my project and you could make up all sorts of stories about it, and there’d be little I could do if you were lying, correct?”

“I have no idea,” I said bluntly, “because you have yet to tell me what your little ‘project’ involves. But you do know my work. I’ve given you a reading before, and that was given under duress. If I were going to lie, don’t you think I would have done so then?”

Andros chuckled. “Perhaps,” he said, toying with me. “Perhaps not. The only way for me to be certain, however, is to give you a small test. You pass the test and I’ll give you the project and we move on with our bargain. You don’t pass the test and I know that you’re lying, and we move on to other things. . . .”

I gulped in spite of myself. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“It is now,” he said, his voice quiet and menacing.

I sneered at Andros for a minute or two, coming to the conclusion that I really didn’t have much choice. If he wanted to tack on a bunch of games, there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. He had a better hand than I did. “Fine,” I said, giving in, “but once I pass this test we move forward. You got it? I’m not going to jump through a lot of hoops for you, so give me the test and let’s get this over with.” As I said this I came around to one of the chairs in front of his desk and took my seat with a huff. I refused to be intimidated.

“Wise choice.” Andros chuckled, then leaned forward to pick up his phone and dial two numbers. After a moment he said, “Bring them in,” and hung up.

We waited in silence for what, I didn’t know; then after a minute or two the double doors to the study opened and I began to turn as I heard shuffling behind me. I pivoted in the chair for a better look, and luckily my reaction was hidden from Andros as my jaw dropped clear down to my shoes. There, looking rumpled, disheveled and struggling against the four thugs who shoved them through the door, were my boyfriend and his partner.