Telling Lies (2 page)

“
It was no bother,
signorina
.” He rose, his relief apparent, the coffee forgotten. Coming around his desk, he shook her hand, then Aaron’s, indicating that their meeting was over. “I’m sure the loss of your friend was very difficult.” He walked them to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more help.”

Laurel remained silent as she and Aaron made their way through the spacious corridors of the museum for the second time that afternoon, their footsteps ringing softly on the ancient marble floor. “Well?” he asked when they were outside once again, touching her lightly on the arm. “Are you going to tell me what that was really all about?”

Laurel looked up at Aaron’s concerned face, the joy they’d shared just a few hours blown away like a twig in the wind. “Yes, I will. But it’s a long story, so we’ll have to take the later train to Venice.”

Lungarno

Florence, Italy

The man never faltered. He’d kept his composure and maintained a steady pace as he walked through the Botticelli Room and slipped into a back corridor and out a side exit of the museum.

Standing in the shadows under the museum’s colonnaded portico, he watched the river flow below him as he struggled to calm his mind and bring his anger under control.

To see Laurel Imperiole face-to-face after nearly eight years! Just when he was starting to feel safe. “Fuck,” he muttered aloud, slipping into English instead of the carefully cultivated Italian he always spoke. What was he going to do? He was almost certain that she hadn’t recognized him. Nothing in her eyes or her brief apology for nearly knocking him down indicated she had known it was him.

They’d been friends once. Well, she’d actually been friends with his wife from their days at Barnard. They’d had many dinners together. From time to time, late at night when he couldn’t stave off the guilt, he recalled some of those pleasant evenings from the past. Laurel had been interested in starting a small art collection and had asked his opinion about various works she was thinking of purchasing. He remembered that she’d done her homework and was up-to-date on the facts about each of the artists she was considering. He also remembered that she could be a nosy bitch, relentless when she was working on a story, checking and rechecking every fact. It was not a good sign that they’d crossed paths now.

Over the last nine years, he’d become someone new. He’d changed his appearance considerably, substituting colored contacts for glasses, darkening and restyling his hair, opting for more elegant European suits over the casual slacks and sports jackets he’d worn before. But more importantly, he’d changed his life, going from American to European step-by-step, slowly building a history and a business as a very discreet and exclusive art broker. If certain people found out that he was … No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let anyone jeopardize the existence he’d created. He had to think clearly, put his fury aside. He looked down at his hands, clenched around the envelope he’d been carrying, and flashed on how good it would feel right now to put them around Laurel Imperiole’s neck.

Don’t lose it
, he told himself, flexing his fingers and bringing himself back to the present.
There’s too much at stake
. More than Laurel Imperiole could imagine.

He’d need to be absolutely certain she hadn’t recognized him. Smoothing down the front of his jacket, he stepped out of the shadows of the portico into the sunlight. Moving deliberately, he slipped back into his usual calm, cool, and collected persona, a plan already taking shape as he walked away from the museum. He was just an average man enjoying one more beautiful day in Italy.

Trattoria Pino

Florence, Italy

Aaron was making short work of his pizza margherita. He and Laurel were seated at a small table in the outdoor café of Trattoria Pino. They’d left the museum and walked to the restaurant, arriving during the quiet time between lunch and the cocktail hour. On this warm and sunny afternoon, when the tourists were still touring and the natives were still working, the café was virtually deserted. Sheltered under a huge o
mbrellino quadrato
, Aaron observed Laurel’s troubled expression, which changed from sad to sadder in the dappled light of the large umbrella’s shade.

As head of New York City’s Identity Theft Squad, he was happy to be in Italy with Laurel and away from his squad room with its high profile cases. When they’d met, it had been because of a murder. They’d come to Italy in hopes of putting the past behind them and to explore where their relationship was going. Today’s events had seemingly brought their fragile happiness crashing down around them.

Aaron had wanted Laurel to fill him in on the details of Jeff Sargasso’s death as soon as they arrived, but she’d insisted that they order and eat first. Watching her move the antipasto she’d chosen around and around her plate, he suspected that she was just buying time to collect her thoughts.

Picking up the bottle of Pinot Grigio that sat on the table between them and refilling their glasses, Aaron felt that he’d waited long enough. “Okay, why don’t you tell me about Jeff Sargasso and what he has to do with the man you saw today.”

* * *

Laurel took a large sip of the tangy white wine. Setting the glass down on the table, she looked directly at Aaron and began to speak in a precise and factual manner, as though presenting an important case. “The man I saw today
is
Jeff Sargasso, husband of Monica, and, unbeknownst to him, father of Brianna.” Laurel paused for another sip of wine, trying to keep the emotion that was rising inside her out of her voice. “On September eleventh, Jeff left their apartment on West Eighty-first Street at seven a.m. for an early morning meeting at the World Trade Center. Jeff owns, or owned, Sargasso Gallery, which bought and sold pricey works of art. He was scheduled to meet with Alfred Hammersmith, the Chairman of Hammersmith and Mann Brokerage, at their offices on the one hundred first floor in the north tower at eight a.m.”

Aaron held up a hand, interrupting her. “
The
Alfred Hammersmith? The Demon of Wall Street?”

“
One and the same.” Laurel hunched forward, looking down at the table, unable to meet Aaron’s eyes, and twisted her hands together, a gesture that Aaron identified as a symptom of her anguish. “Jeff was meeting with Hammersmith about a painting he was planning to acquire from an even bigger corporate shark, Miayamu Moto, of the multi-billion dollar MMJapan Corporation.” Laurel looked up and took a breath before going on. “Obviously no slouch in the wheeling and dealing department, Moto had demanded some good faith money up front. A ten percent deposit to guarantee the painting’s safety while Hammersmith’s people examined it and authenticated its provenance.”

“
What kind of good faith money are we talking about?”

“
Moto asked for fifteen million dollars to be wired into a Swiss holding account set up by Hammersmith as insurance against any kind of malfeasance. The amount was ten percent of his asking price.” Laurel sat back in her chair and paused before dropping the real bombshell. “Plus, he added a codicil, a guarantee that the money would be his, if for any reason at all Hammersmith changed his mind.”

“
Holy shit,” Aaron pulled back from the table. “What a cocky bastard. A take it or leave it payment of fifteen million? That’s a pretty hefty number to fork over, just for the opportunity to get a peek at the goods. Hammersmith must have really wanted it bad. So, with fifteen million as the ten percent down, we’re talking one hundred fifty million.” Laurel nodded in agreement. “Jesus, what was Hammersmith buying, the Holy Grail?”

“
I’ll get to that in a minute. Jeff already had a relationship with Hammersmith. He’d purchased other paintings and sculptures for him in the past but, obviously, nothing of this value. When Hammersmith asked him to go to Japan to oversee the sale and turn over the access codes that would open the door to the holding account, he jumped at the chance.”

Aaron’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You think? Imagine the commission from brokering a sale like that.”

“
I’m sure that was a major factor. So was the opportunity to meet Moto and establish an alliance with him. Buying and selling for Moto would definitely have put Jeff at the center of the art world.”

“
He’d never met him before?”

“
No, and he was dying to.” Laurel sighed, realizing her unfortunate choice of words. “Jeff was scheduled to leave for Japan on Hammersmith’s private jet immediately after their business had been concluded. In Tokyo, he was going to be met by a well-respected European art appraiser, also chosen by Hammersmith. The two were scheduled to travel by helicopter to Moto’s estate in the country, where the appraiser would authenticate the painting. After Jeff was satisfied with its provenance, he would turn over the codes that would allow Moto to access the fifteen million that had been transferred.”

Aaron was shaking his head in disbelief. “Not only do they have to come to him on his turf but also pay him no matter what happens. No wonder the guy’s a billionaire.”

“
Well, obviously things didn’t go as planned.” The sadness slid back into her voice. “Jeff was with Hammersmith when the plane hit the tower. He called Monica on his cell right before all the phones went down.” Her voice had become so soft as she spoke these last words that Aaron had to lean forward to hear her. “He told her the building was on fire and that people were trapped, confused and trying desperately to get out. What little she could hear in the background sounded like bedlam, with people screaming and crying. Then,” her voice cracking, Laurel struggled to continue, “the phone went dead. That was the last time she spoke with him.”

* * *

Questions spun around in Aaron’s head. How did Laurel know all this? Had anyone else been in the meeting? If so, did they make it out of the tower? These were a few of the ones he wanted to ask, but the one uppermost on his mind was the one he’d already voiced. Everything had revolved around the painting. It was the key to all that followed. “Laurel, what was the artwork Hammersmith was buying from Moto that made it probably the most valuable painting in the world?” She shook her head. “A Picasso or a Van Gogh like the two that brought those record numbers at auction? Or, was it some other masterwork that Moto had under wraps?”

“
That’s just it, no one knows. Hammersmith had insisted on complete secrecy on that point. He and Jeff were meeting that morning to go over the final details, including the name of the painting and the procedure for releasing the funds.” Laurel stopped speaking while the waiter came to their table and cleared away their plates.

“
Signorina, che fá?
Non le piacciono i nostri antipasti?”
He looked at her with concern, seeing that she’d barely touched her food.

Laurel smiled up at him, “No, no, it’s nothing.
Il cibo è molto buono.
The food is delicious. I’m just not hungry.”

The waiter turned to Aaron, pointing a finger at him
.
“Perché, lei non mangia? È sempre cosí?”
he demanded. “Why isn’t she eating? Is she always like this?” Shaking his head, he walked off in a huff, muttering to himself,
“Americani.”

Laurel rolled her eyes and turned back to Aaron. “From what I’ve heard about Hammersmith, he was just as ruthless in his personal life as he was in business. He was one of those private collectors who’d pay any price to have what he wanted and God help anyone who got in his way.” Laurel reached for her wine and twirled the glass by the stem. “I suspect he wasn’t too concerned about how Moto had acquired this particular painting, as long as it was the blockbuster he expected.”

“
And Jeff?” Aaron’s words held the hint of suspicion. “How particular was he? Would he also do whatever it took to make a sale like this and walk away with a huge commission?”

“
I don’t know.” Laurel continued to fiddle with her glass.

He reached across the table to still her hand. “Laurel, did anyone but Jeff have the access codes to the holding account or could someone else have gotten hold of them? That’s a lot of money to be stashed away unaccounted for and untouched for the last eight years. What about his family? Did they know what bank Hammersmith was using?”

Laurel shook her head. “No, they didn’t. His wife and sons tried everything they could to find out, but it was useless. They couldn’t determine which Swiss bank was holding the money. Even if they did, the bank would never have released it without the codes.”

“
So the Hammersmith family wasn’t privy to the deal.”

“
The way I understand it, Jeff and Alfred Hammersmith were the only two people who knew the codes, and that’s presupposing that the meeting had gotten that far. If the codes were in Hammersmith’s computer or written down anywhere in his office, they’d have been destroyed in the fire.