‘Amy Kittrell is my best closer. You know that house on Madison Avenue, the one with the Grecian columns?’
Meghan and Beth shook their heads, struck dumb by the speaker’s forcefulness.
They were in the mid-town office of Carey Landsman, where Amy Kittrell worked, on the eleventh day since the kidnapping.
The firm was named after its founder who sat opposite the twins, dressed in a pale green outfit that shimmered as she moved.
Landsman was in her late fifties, but a strict dietary regime, the best beauticians money could buy, and artful plastic surgeons, made her look forty.
Her pale blonde hair kept falling over a brow. A practiced flick tossed the curl back to top of her head.
In an elegantly manicured hand she held an electronic cigarette and delicately puffed away at it.
Red nails painted the air. ‘You don’t know where it is.’ There was no sneer in her voice, just a statement that Landsman moved in rarefied social circles.
‘Amy sold it. In one week. For the asking price. This girl comes out of some town, Lord knows where, and outsells my ace closers.’
The cigarette came to within an inch of Meghan’s face.
‘I want her back. You folks are harassing her. You need to back off. Stand down. Call off your dogs.’
Pizaka and Chang had interviewed Landsman the day after the kidnapping; they had come back with just one fact. That Amy Kittrell worked there.
Chang had rolled his eyes dramatically when describing her, ‘I would rather feed the lions than meet her again.’
Carey Landsman was a socialite who had turned to selling luxury homes in the city, a decade back. She knew everyone. More importantly, everyone who mattered, knew her.
She had lost a husband to cancer. A daughter to a traffic accident. She had never married again, and was frequently featured in celebrity shows and gossip columns.
Talking to Landsman had been way down on the twins’ to-do list; however a flunky had called them the day before.
A saccharine voice had whispered over the phone, ‘Ms. Landsman wants you to meet her.’
Meghan and Beth had chuckled at the exec’s choice of words.
Her assistant didn’t get the words wrong. I am surprised we didn’t have to bow and kiss her hand.
Meghan suppressed a smile and put a serious expression on her face.
‘It’s not in our hands, ma’am. The case is quite complicated.’
Landsman leaned forward in irritation, picked a tiny bell and rang it.
Wow, a real silver bell?
The exec rushed in on high heels and a short skirt.
‘Green tea,’ her boss commanded and the exec disappeared.
‘Honey,’ Landsman turned her attention back to Meghan, ‘Amy sold more houses for me in the last five years than all my other closers put together.’
She waited for Meghan or Beth to reply. Neither of them did.
‘You know what that means? My business, my reputation, is sinking, while you and the cops are playing detective.’
An angry puff of smoke forestalled Beth’s retort.
‘Carey Landsman sells to billionaires. Hollywood stars. A-listers. They want to deal with Amy Kittrell alone. What am I to tell them? That some little investigation is keeping her away?’
‘I.’ Puff. ‘Want.’ Puff. ‘Her.’ Puff. ‘Back.’
Green tea arrived and with it the torrent of words stopped. The exec poured for Meghan and Beth in delicate ceramic cups that the twins held gingerly in their hands, and sipped from.
No need to ask us what drink we want. What’s good for Carey Landsman is good enough for us.
‘Ma’am,’ Meghan placed her cup down.
Cool eyes flicked in her direction. A plume of smoke rose delicately from red lips. Sipping and smoking. The socialite turned luxury realtor could do both at the same time.
‘Was Amy Kittrell happy?’
A frown marred the smooth porcelain forehead. ‘What’s that got to do with selling homes?’
Meghan looked at her steadily. ‘Shall we drop this charade? We don’t give a damn about your business. None of this,’ she let her eyes roam around the exquisitely appointed office, ‘impresses us.’
‘Madison Kittrell is out there. We have to find her. That’s all that matters,’ Beth leaned forward, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
Carey Landsman didn’t move for several seconds. She didn’t speak. She watched the twins through narrow eyes, through a haze of smoke that lazily swirled toward the ceiling.
She moved when the silence became unbearable. She placed the electronic cigarette on a tray, her expression still unreadable.
‘You aren’t from New York, are you?’
‘Wyoming, ma’am. Jackson Hole,’ Meghan replied.
A smile broke out on the older woman’s face. This time it warmed her eyes. ‘I am a Cheyenne girl myself. Married well. That was my lucky break. The rest, I earned.’
She broke off and looked at them appraisingly. ‘Petersens. There was something about a shooting rampage in a college. One sister lost her memory. Their dad –’
‘That’s us, ma’am.’
I hope she doesn’t shower us with pity. We can do without that.
Carey Landsman didn’t do pity. She rose, went to a side table and poured coffees from a silver flask and served them herself.
‘I lost my daughter, my husband. They were my life. I know something about loss.’
The façade, the larger than life persona, disappeared.
The real Cary Landsman was an intelligent woman who spoke about moving to a large city, living a life she had never experienced. She talked about building the high profile real estate firm on her own.
She spoke about Amy Kittrell in glowing terms. Kittrell had applied for a job in her firm when she had arrived in New York.
Landsman had been impressed with her grit and saw herself in the younger woman.
‘How bad does it look for her?’ she asked the twins.
‘She’s making it bad, ma’am,’ Meghan broke it down to the realtor. ‘If she only spoke freely. Told us who that man was, we might get somewhere.’
Landsman stopped them when they were leaving.
‘I met him a couple of times. Partner. That’s how she introduced him.’
She looked searchingly at the twins.
‘She wasn’t happy.’