Genie for Hire

7 - Emotional Frequencies

The Odessa was just a block farther down Collins. As he walked up the steep curving driveway of the glass tower built on top of a parking garage, he heard a woman complaining in a heavy Russian accent.

"I should not be waiting for my car," she said. "I am calling you ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, ma'am, but we're short-handed," he said, holding the door to a Cadillac Escalade for her. "Usnavy died last night and we haven't been able to hire a new guy yet."

Jimmy had obviously already been there and talked to the staff.

"Is not my problem," the woman said, climbing into her SUV. "Next time, I want car ready. Yes?"

"Yes, ma'am." The valet closed the door. Biff saw him give the woman the finger behind his back as she drove away.

Waiting until the valet was busy unloading groceries for an elderly woman and her Jamaican aide, Biff slipped into the mirrored lobby, which had been designed to resemble the reception area of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. It was lined with gold columns with Corinthian capitals and square bases, with a massive chandelier in the center of the room. The floor was marble, and the room was rimmed with a balustrade around a second-floor mezzanine. A few hundred years before, during the reign of Catherine the Great, Biff had attended a ball at the Winter Palace while spying on the Russian army for Emperor Selim III, and wasn't impressed with the imitation.

The concierge, a young Haitian woman in a faux-military uniform, sitting behind a half-round desk, was involved in a long Creole conversation about a boy who had cheated on her. Biff waited until she was rummaging in her desk for a tissue, and walked quickly past her. Once inside the elevator, he discovered that it required a key card to operate. He opened his wallet and extracted a plain white card similar to a hotel room key. He held it between two fingers for a beat of about fifteen seconds. Then he inserted it in the slot for the 23rd floor. The number 23 illuminated on the panel and the car began to rise.

He stepped out of the elevator and into a small marble foyer. The massive double doors ahead of him were locked and dead-bolted. He focused his third eye on the interior of the apartment, scanning to be sure there was no one inside. When he was confident that it was empty, he transformed into a puff of smoke and slid through the tiny gap between the doors. "So much security, and so easy to breach," he said when he resumed his human form.

Ahead of him was a vista of ocean framed by sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. The furniture had the sleek lines of expensive Scandinavian design, all blond wood and black leather, with glass coffee and end tables with sharp edges. He stood there and sniffed the air, surprised to find so little trace of human habitation. It was as if the apartment had been professionally cleaned within the last day or two.

He walked slowly around the living room, with his senses open. Strong emotion often left an impression on the inanimate objects in a room, even the dust motes that floated in the ar. He had often been able to intuit when arguments had taken place, when two people had been in love, when there was fear or apprehension. But this room was strangely empty.

He stepped into the kitchen, where the top of the line stainless steel appliances looked like they had never been used. Nothing had been cooked in there for some days, and the garbage can was empty.

Biff began to get irritated by the lack of information to be found. The only trace of skin cells was one that led from the front door to the master bedroom, and that appeared to belong to Kiril. As he followed the trail he sensed the faintest traces of several different perfumes, which confused him until he followed the scent into the dressing area, where he found bottles of Ralph Lauren's Notorious, Joy by Jean Patou, and Fauborg by Hermes. But the most recent scent was several days old.