just want to know if he’s here,” Annja said. “You don’t even have to tell me the room number. If I can confirm he’s here, I’m going to file a complaint with the police. They can come talk to him.”
“That would be the best.” The clerk looked at Annja and nodded. “You need a break, girlfriend. I can hook you up.”
“Have you met him?”
The clerk shrugged. “If he hadn’t been hitting on me yesterday, I might not have remembered him. He definitely doesn’t have a confidence problem.” She frowned. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”
“He’s nothing but trouble,” Annja insisted. She wasn’t exactly happy with her method of getting the information, but it was working. Don’t mess with success, she told herself.
“I hear you.” The clerk sighed. “But he is good-looking.” Then she turned her attention to the computer in front of her. “If anybody asks, I didn’t do this.”
Annja mimed turning a key to her lips and throwing it away.
“Dieter is staying in room 616,” the clerk said.
“Dieter?” Annja repeated as if confused.
The clerk nodded. “It says here his name is Dieter Humbrecht.”
“That isn’t the name he gave me,” Annja said.
“What a creep.” The clerk looked back at the computer. “Let me check something.” She typed for a moment, then waited. “Your ex checked in at the same time another guy did. His name is Klaus Kaufmann. Does that sound familiar?”
“No.” Annja added the name to her mental list.
“I thought maybe he was using his buddy’s name,” the clerk said. “Sometimes guys like him do.”
“I appreciate your help.” Annja closed her computer and shoved it back into her backpack.
“I hope it helps,” the clerk said sympathetically.
“Me, too.”
6
Outside, Annja had one of the bellmen flag down a cab for her. She gave her destination as Fulton Mall, at a small bistro near the corner of Flatbush, then settled in the back of the cab to think.
She could have staked out the hotel, but since the men looking for her already knew who she was, she figured that wasn’t a good idea. She needed to know more.
Or she needed Bart to call. Bart could get a lot of answers that she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have had a policeman’s life. As long as she’d known Bart, she’d also known that. Policemen saw too much of the harshness in life.
Then she thought about everything that had happened to her since she’d found the sword.
You’re not exactly leading a sheltered life, she told herself.
She made note of the two men’s names. At least there was a trail to follow. What she needed was the real package that Nikolai had hidden away.
S INCE SHE DIDN’T WANT to leave her phone number or allow someone to track her calls by getting a court order and looking at her records, Annja used the public phone in the bistro. She watched the street, wondering if anyone had followed her.
The bistro was small. A dozen tables were scattered across the black-and-white-tiled floor. Long-bladed ceiling fans stirred the air slowly overhead. Heat from the kitchen fogged the front window against the lingering winter chill.
Annja dialed the number for Mailboxes & Stuff. A woman answered, sounding a little tense.
“Could I speak to Nikolai?” Annja asked.
“Could I tell him who’s calling?”
The strange question pinged Annja’s radar immediately. “This is Nicole.”
“Oh. Well, Nikolai isn’t in right now.”
“I see.” Annja watched the television as a news reporter delivered an update on the violence that had broken out in Brooklyn. Police were still in the area. “I was just calling to make certain Nikolai was all right. I saw there was some trouble in his store a little while ago.”
Not even two hours ago. The short amount of time was unbelievable.
“He’s fine,” the woman said. “He’s with the police now. They’re hoping he can identify the men who came in here. This is really bizarre, isn’t it?”
Annja continued the conversation for a moment longer, then managed a graceful exit. She felt frustrated. But since she was hungry and there was no sign of anyone following her, there was only one place to go—Tito’s, her favorite restaurant.
There was no sense in going to her loft. Agent Smith, or Dieter and Klaus or their buddies might be there by now. She was certain someone would be.
She used the pay phone again, this time calling Wally, her building super. Wally was sixty-seven years old, a retired semipro baseball player who had bought the building with his wife while he’d still been playing ball. Tough and intelligent, Wally was a crusty guy who tended to follow his own line of thinking.
The answering machine picked up.
Annja debated leaving a message, and decided to because she wanted to know about her loft. “Wally, it’s Annja. If it’s not too much trouble—”
The phone clattered as it was lifted from the cradle.
“Hiya, little lady,” Wally said boisterously.
Annja smiled. It was nice hearing a genuinely friendly voice. “Hi, Wally.”
Wally’s voice quieted, but since he normally talked like Foghorn Leghorn, he was still loud. “Got yourself in some trouble again, do you?”
“I didn’t do this,” Annja said.
“You shoulda stayed down in Florida with the rest of the snowbirds.”
“I can always go back.”
“Getting out of the city could be tricky,” Wally said. “First of all, you got these unidentified types that have been watching your loft for the last three days.”
“Unidentified?”
“I don’t know them.”
“Okay.” Annja smiled a little at the man’s protective nature.
“And now you got cops,” Wally said.
“The police are there?”
“Oh, yeah. I spotted a couple of plainclothes guys in the neighborhood. After I rousted one and he identified himself, he asked me to let him into your place. I didn’t, of course. He had no legal right there, and I told him that. You ask me, he needs to watch a few more Law &
