Telling Lies (14 page)

As soon as Laurel had gotten off the phone with Aaron and Helen, Walter made several calls. The first was to Caterina to tell her they had discovered the art dealer’s name, the next was to Ispettore Lucchese to offer DeLuca as a suspect, and the last was to a discreet private investigator in Florence.

Walter had asked the man to quietly look into the life of Giacomo DeLuca and report back as soon as possible. “Giacomo” wasn’t hard to find; both his business and home numbers were listed in the Florence directory. Laurel had laughed bitterly at that piece of news. She imagined that his monumental ego made him feel that it was impossible he’d ever be found out.

By the time the investigator visited both DeLuca’s business and home, it was too late. The shop, a tiny space on the ground floor of an old villa not far from the Uffizi Museum, had had a
“chiuso”
sign tacked to the window. “Closed,” with no explanation.

At his apartment, his landlady told the investigator that Signore DeLuca had left on a very long holiday. He’d paid her six months’ rent in advance and said that he would be in touch.
“Allora.”
She lifted her eyebrows heavenward, as if that was that. After all, she had the Euros in her bank account.

DeLuca had already left Florence. Laurel was sure that he’d changed his name and appearance once more and headed to New York as a completely different person.

“
Ispettore Lucchese lied to us again. He didn’t bring him in for questioning. He warned him. He helped DeLuca disappear as quickly as he made that pin in Fredericka’s file disappear from under my hand.”

“
Perhaps I shouldn’t have called the Ispettore, but I wanted to do something, anything to help.”

“
Please don’t blame yourself. This is not over. We— Aaron and the FBI—will find him. DeLuca will make a mistake, and they’ll get him.”

“
But look at what he has done already.” Walter’s hand curled into a fist and angrily stabbed the air around them. “He stole that money. He left his family and disappeared. It was of no consequence to him. Now he has killed a woman. And, it seems like he will get away with that, as well.”

Her voice sliced through the air like steel, hard, cold, and unbending. “No, he won’t. I promise you. He won’t escape, no matter what it takes.”

“
When they find him,” he demanded, “will your Aaron have the proof he needs to arrest him?”

Laurel shuddered at the thought of DeLuca roaming free. Yet that was how it would be for the moment. She endeavored to explain, as much for herself as for Walter. “There are no warrants out on DeLuca in America because there’s no evidence, or even a witness, to verify that he’s actually committed a crime.” She leaned across the stone bench and gently took his hand. “But Aaron will find something. I know he will.”

“
And the murder of Fredericka Bellabocca? What will he be able to do about that?” Walter’s anger brought him to his feet.

Laurel turned her dark, brown eyes up toward his, fire sparking beneath their surface. “I won’t let her death go unpunished,” she said simply.

“
I know you won’t.” He offered her his hand. With a sad sigh, Walter let some of his anger go. “Come. It’s time we got back.”

Quietly, they walked toward the villa, each lost in thought. Laurel had wanted to be on DeLuca’s flight to New York, even though she knew it would have led to a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Now, it wouldn’t make a difference. DeLuca was already gone. But not for good. Laurel thought about her friend, Monica, and all she’d suffered. Another woman whose life he’d ruined. Another wrong to avenge.

DeLuca might be gone. But she’d catch up with him if it was the last thing she did.

Kennedy Airport

New York

Giacomo DeLuca stepped off Alitalia Flight 1676 from Florence to Kennedy Airport a changed man. His United Kingdom passport identified him as Ian Annand, a sales representative for a London carpeting firm. A perfect forgery, it had gotten him through Immigration and Customs in Italy with no problems. He slid back the sleeve of his sweater and set his watch back five hours. The flight had arrived exactly on time, and he was ready to get started.

Ian Annand smiled as he thanked the pretty, dark-haired Alitalia stewardess in halting Italian that bore just the slightest hint of an English accent. He was rewarded for his trouble with a seductive smile from her full, inviting lips.
No time for that now
, he cautioned himself. Too bad.

When he had finally come to his senses after Freddy’s death, he’d changed his appearance, his identification, and his flight to New York—booking the first one available. He knew from experience that anyone with money could buy a fake passport, purchase a plane ticket, and disappear. Now was not the time to take chances.

A call from a friend proved that he’d been right to be cautious. He shook his head at the
naiveté
of Laurel Imperiole and her friends. They’d thought they had him cornered, but he was too resourceful for that. His confidence had come flooding back in waves, stronger and surer than ever, and he’d been determined to make the most of it.

Once through Immigration and Customs, Ian Annand moved quickly toward the men’s room near the terminal’s exit. He’d dressed carefully but casually for the flight in khakis, a button-down shirt, and a pullover sweater—the kind of outfit a harried, mid-level executive might wear if he were going to spend seven hours on a plane.

Now he stepped into a stall, slipped open his small carryall—his only luggage—and began to transform himself once again. He removed a silk tie and replaced the sweater with a well-tailored, soft wool jacket. He added a slim leather belt to the pants and removed the metal frame glasses he’d worn on the flight. He placed the sweater and glasses in the carryall and, waiting until the men’s room was empty, exited the stall and checked his appearance in the mirror. It reflected back a perfect transformation. He stepped slowly out into the stream of people heading for the airport exit. He was Jeff Sargasso again, ready for the most important meeting of his life.

Straightening his tie and clearing his throat, he hailed a taxi and, in the long unused voice of the native New Yorker that he was, gave the driver an address on the upper east side of Manhattan. As the cab made its way over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, he took in the city’s skyline. It had been more than nine years since he’d seen this view, a panorama that flooded his senses. His eyes were drawn to the spot where the Twin Towers had once stood, and he stared without blinking, his memory filling in the empty space.

For one fleeting moment, it hit him as hard as the planes had crashed into the towers. He could literally hear the screams and the sirens, feel the heat and the soot, smell the smoke and burning flesh. A gasp escaped his lips, and he swallowed hard.

“
Hey, pal, you okay? You don’t look so good.” The driver was eyeing him with concern in the rearview mirror.

He wiped away the tacky coating of sweat from his face. “No problem. I’m fine.” He took out a handkerchief and touched it to his forehead. He thought of his wife, Monica— beautiful, sexy and unwaveringly honest. Then he put her out of his mind. It was time to finally lay the past to rest, to focus on what was to come—on eliminating the one obstacle that stood in his way, Laurel Imperiole.

Kennedy Airport

New York

Aaron pushed through the swinging doors into the arrivals hall at JFK’s Terminal One and stood stock-still. The number of people who immediately surrounded him made it almost impossible to move. A quick glance at the arrivals board showed that Lufthansa, Air France, and Alitalia Airlines all had flights disembarking at this precise moment. “Jesus.” Aaron had encountered a nearly empty terminal on his return from Italy. “They must be running some great deals this week.”

The overstuffed baggage that each and every person was tugging, pulling, or wheeling behind—as if he or she were the only traveler in the airport—compounded the congestion.
Whatever happened to the idea of packing light?
Aaron tripped over his own feet in an attempt to sidestep a young woman maneuvering two large suitcases, an overstuffed duffle bag, and numerous shopping bags emblazoned with the Prada logo. Too bad Laurel had been so preoccupied. If things had been different, she would have spent half her time shopping in Florence’s elegant stores. He knew that Laurel had been devastated by everything that had happened in Italy, especially the death of the young art assistant, Fredericka Bellabocca. He shook his head. Thank God she was coming home.

Aaron checked his watch and moved to the outer edge of the arrivals space. It was a little after two, and Laurel’s plane wouldn’t be landing for at least three more hours. He couldn’t wait to see her and flashed on the bouquet that he’d left in the car. He’d deliberately arrived at the airport early so that he could check in with a buddy in Customs and Border Patrol. Showing up with an armful of flowers for a conversation with Mark Smith just wasn’t going to cut it.

Skirting the crowds, he walked over to the CBP office, quietly flashed his badge against the bulletproof glass, and asked for Inspector Smith through the microphone.

After a few minutes, Mark ambled out of the office, adjusting the Glock he wore holstered on his right hip. His bow-legged gait made Aaron smile. “Hey, pardner. How’s it going, cowboy?”

“
Aaron. Long time. What the hell brings you here?” Mark cocked his finger at the detective in a parody of a quick-draw sheriff.
Some things never change.
Aaron remembered how the former 13th Precinct patrolman had always imagined himself as a hard riding lawman rounding up the bad guys in the wild west. He’d worked out of East Twenty-first Street and had rarely even made it to the west side of Manhattan, never mind the real west.

“
Actually, I was hoping I could pick your brain about a case I’m working on. Let’s grab a coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

Mark gestured to the Customs Duty Officer that he was taking a break, and he and Aaron made their way over to the terminal’s food court.

At JFK, one of the busiest airports in the country, the CBP was always operating on full alert. Working under the Department of Homeland Security, CBP officers were responsible for overseeing Customs and Immigration for the more than 120,000 international flights that landed at JFK every year. As those who were at its center would tell you, it was a daunting task, demanding and intense. Many of the inspectors were former cops. Mark, sharp and savvy, had put in his twenty years and then moved on. Aaron remembered when Mark retired and how he’d quickly become bored with the lack of activity. Aaron hadn’t been surprised when he heard that Mark had joined the CBP. It was a good use of the skills he’d honed while on the force.
We need people like him watching our backs.
Aaron began to tell Mark what had occurred over the last few weeks.

“
So this Sargasso bastard got out of Italy with no trouble?” asked Mark, after Aaron had finished.

“
It appears so. And Laurel is convinced that one of the Italian detectives working the murder case gave him a heads-up.”

The inspector hunched over the plastic table they’d commandeered and leaned in close. “You think he’s back here already, trying to hook up with that Delrusse character?” Aaron nodded. “Think he’d be dumb enough to use his real name? Come in as a returning resident?”

“
No. He’d have to know that would set off a red flag. The guy’s stayed hidden for over nine years. I doubt that he’d slip up on a detail like that, or be using any kind of American passport at all. He got out quick, too. Probably from Florence, or maybe Rome.” Aaron tapped his fingers on the table. “I’d bet my shield that he had everything ready to go.”

“
Got any aliases we could check?” Mark took out a notepad and pen.

“
Just one. Giacomo DeLuca, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have a whole bag of them to pick from. Like I said, there’s big money involved in all of this.”

Aaron stared down at the dregs of his coffee, then looked up at his former patrolman. “I was hoping you could get me into the secure area and that we could check the computer for passengers coming from Italy in the last few days.”

“
Why not ask me to do something easy,” laughed Mark, “like evacuate the entire airport?”

“
Yeah, yeah, I know, no civilians allowed. But I’m not exactly a civilian now, am I?”

“
Naw, you’re a brother soldier in the war on terror.” Mark lifted his right eyebrow. “Or, at least that’s what I’m going to tell my Field Office Supervisor. Give me five and I’ll come get you.”