Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis) by Tori Carrington Read Free Book Online Page B

phone.
    I imagined her rolling her eyes. ‘When have I ever been wrong about anything? Now is that all? ’cause I got stuff to do and you’re keeping me from it.’
    ‘By all means,’ I said. ‘Oh, and thanks.’
    ‘Yeah. Whatever.’
    She hung up.
    As I pressed disconnect and tossed my cell back into my purse, I came to the conclusion that the word currently inhabiting my most hated list was ‘whatever’.
    Of course, she was rarely off on any of the info she gave me, so I cut her some slack . . . a little, anyway. While I was familiar with many of her sources, she had a few mystery contacts she liked to call ‘job security’. And seeing as she’d been working for my uncle long before I ever signed on, I could only imagine what those might be.
    I took another pull from my frappé, put it down between the seats and then climbed out of the car, trying to ignore the cold and failing.
    Moments later I was knocking on the door to Apartment Three-B in a three-floor apartment building that had seen better days, hoping one certain ex-Mrs Abramopoulos was going to answer the door.
    Nothing.
    I looked up and down the dingy hall. I’d been in plenty of similar places before. Knew chances were good someone was always going to be boiling cabbage no matter the time of year. And that you didn’t want to pull up the carpet for fear of what creepy-crawlies resided under them.
    And I’d thought the Kew Gardens house she had resided in before was bad. This place rated somewhere between there and hell, leaning more heavily toward the latter than the former.
    I knocked again, leaning in closer to try to detect movement inside over the din of cartoons from a nearby apartment, and a loud, profanity-laden argument coming from another.
    I sighed. While Rosie might be right and one ex-Mrs Abramopoulos might be inside this particular apartment, she wasn’t intent on answering the door. Not that I blamed her. If my daughter were missing, the last thing I’d want was company. Especially if I was suspected of taking her.
    I twisted my lips and knocked again. ‘Ms Abramopoulos? My name’s Sofie Metropolis. I’m a PI. I’m here to talk to you about your daughter if you’ve got a minute.’
    There’ve been times when I’ve employed more creative tactics in enticing someone to open the door, but I was guessing this particular apartment-hider would appreciate a more direct approach.
    After long moments passed with no response, I supposed I could be wrong.
    I was about to turn away when I heard the chain on the door.
    ‘What is it? What’s the matter with my daughter?’ a small, female voice asked.
    I squinted through the slight crack, unable to make anything out in the dim light.
    ‘Hi, Ms Abramopoulos—’
    ‘Please, call me Sara.’
    ‘OK.’ I slid one of my cards toward her. ‘I was wondering if I might come in to talk to you for a couple of minutes.’
    While it was entirely possible she didn’t have any idea what had happened to her daughter, I wasn’t going to pass up a primo opportunity to have a look around.
    Only I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.
    The door closed, the chain disappeared and then I was motioned inside.
    I went.
    Either the pretty yet too-thin woman with the dark circles under her eyes was a good actress and trusted her skill, or she really was concerned about her daughter.
    I decided since the straightforward route had gotten me this far, I might as well take it farther.
    So I told her what I knew. Well, at least a little.
    Her eyes grew even larger as she listened. ‘Kidnapped? By who?’
    The apartment was sparsely furnished and looked more like a man’s than a woman’s place. Dark furniture made the faded wallpaper and stained carpeting look even drabber. Might help if the heavy curtains were open, but they weren’t. Empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers covered nearly available surface along with overflowing ashtrays.
    And unfortunately for me it smelled like it looked.
    I answered her