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.