Free Genie for Hire by Neil Plakcy

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 23 rd 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.
    The bed had been slept in, the simple black and white
comforter  thrown back. But there was only one body’s impression, and only
Kiril’s skin cells remained.
    Biff looked at his watch. He’d been in the apartment for at
least a half hour, and he had no idea when Kiril might return. He had to get
moving.
    He turned to the huge walk-in closet. Douschka’s clothes
were a collage of designer labels in small sizes, zeroes and twos, and she
favored very high heels. Her lacy silk underwear came from La