Telling Lies (22 page)

He scrubbed his hand across his forehead. “I thought we agreed she’s clean. Nothing she’s done in the last few years indicates that she’s had any contact with her husband, or that she knew he was alive.” Laurel had been right about that; Monica Sargasso had been devastated by the news that Jeff was still alive and horrified at the crimes he’d committed.

“
We did clear her on that. This isn’t about contact with the disappeared hubby. It’s about being in bed with the Hammersmiths.” Mickey let this tidbit float in the air, then waited for Aaron’s reaction like a kid watching a balloon being filled until it was ready to pop.

“
What the hell are you talking about?” said Aaron heatedly. “Alexandra Hammersmith and her stepsons would tear Monica Sargasso apart if they could. Remember? They think her not-really-dead husband and his buddy Moto have their fifteen million bucks and that she somehow figures in it.”

Mickey opened the file and extracted a single sheet of paper. “Well, evidently not
all
of them feel that way.” He handed over the paper and waited as Aaron read it.

Aaron had trouble believing what he was seeing. It was as if a light blinked on and off behind his eyes and distorted his vision. When the flare cleared, he rose to his feet and began to pace a path between Mickey’s desk and the door.

From what Laurel had told him about their conversation at lunch yesterday, Monica had been about to close the gallery when a near miracle occurred. She’d been working as hard as she could, but she just didn’t have the knowledge or the contacts that Jeff had had. Over the last few years, she’d applied to several of the 9/11 victims’ relief funds. The problem was that she didn’t have any real proof that Jeff had died that day in the north tower. His journal, which would have shown his appointment with Hammersmith, had been on his person, so there was no proof that he’d actually gone to, or even been in the World Trade Center when it was attacked. No one had seen him there that morning. And no records from Hammersmith and Mann survived to corroborate the appointment. For all intents and purposes, he was simply a missing person. Although many of the various funds’ officials believed her, they couldn’t add her to the list of victims’ families or release any money. Their hands were tied.

Monica couldn’t have Jeff declared legally dead for seven years, so she wasn’t able to collect any insurance, either. In the meantime, she’d inherited the gallery, and along with all its assets, all of its debts.

She’d been trying to make a go of it and had just about given up. Then, about six months ago, a letter arrived from an organization specifically created to help people like her, those in that gray zone. Named the 9/11 Family Repatriation Group, the organization had been set up to help those families who had no other recourse. The FRG, according to the letter, was funded anonymously by several philanthropists who had an interest in helping these families get back on their feet. This included businesses that needed an influx of capital to continue. The letter was accompanied by an application for a very, very low interest loan.

Monica was skeptical but applied. To her surprise, she was approved for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. It was just what she needed to give her a fighting chance.

Aaron finished his pacing and handed the paper back to Mickey. “And?”

“
Want to guess who one of those mysterious benefactors was?” The agent had a self-satisfied smirk.

Aaron shook his head. “What? And steal your thunder?” He could see that Mickey was bursting to tell him.

“
None other than David Hammersmith.” Mickey slapped the file against his thigh.

“
David Hammersmith? Why would he help Sargasso’s “widow?” Do you think that Alexandra and brother Gary know about this?” asked Aaron.

“
I seriously doubt it.” Mickey shook his head. “He obviously has an agenda of his own. And not one he’s made anyone else privy to.”

Mickey pulled out another sheet from the file. “As soon as we got this information, we did a little digging into the Family Repatriation Group. It was set up a year ago, well after all the other Nine Eleven funds and organizations were underway. And, surprise, surprise, it only has one client benefiting from its philanthropy …”

Aaron interrupted, “Monica Sargasso.”

Mickey nodded and continued. “And only one millionaire funding it, David Hammersmith.”

Aaron sat back down in front of Mickey’s desk. “He set it up just so he could help Monica Sargasso? I still don’t get it. What’s he got to gain from that?”

“
Maybe he was in cahoots with her hubby. Maybe he wants to screw his brother and his stepmother—if not literally, then figuratively. Or, maybe he thinks it’s the best way to keep an eye on things and get close to Moto.” The agent raised his hands to the sky in a “who-knows?” gesture.

“
Yeah, and maybe he’s hoping to get the mysterious painting all for himself,” suggested Aaron. “It could be a ballsy move. All those years as the junior member of the team, standing in his father and brother’s shadow. Now he sees an opportunity to make his move.”

Mickey took a sip of coffee and seemed to be considering what Aaron had said. “Could be. But I doubt that’s going to happen. I think Moto is way above this guy’s pay level.” He raised one hand a foot above the other to illustrate his point.

Aaron snorted. “What? A billionaire versus a multi-millionaire?”

“
Yeah. And a brilliant cutthroat big man versus a wannabe.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking through what they’d just discussed. Aaron was about to speak when there was a soft knock on the door.

“
Sorry to disturb you, Mick.” Agent LoBianco entered the room, giving Aaron a long look. “But I knew you’d want to see this as soon as possible. It just came in from our agent in cargo at Islip Airport.” She handed it over to him.

Mickey scanned it quickly while Aaron and Agent LoBianco looked on, studiously ignoring each other. When he spoke, his face was filled with excitement. “Moto landed about an hour ago. We put a guy on the cargo crew unloading the jet. He says Moto has something very special with him—something that needs four security guys with heat watching over it. Something in a large packing crate. They cleared Customs so they must have declared it. Probably had the papers for a piece of art no one would question.

Aaron could see the excitement building in Mickey as he continued.

“
Our man overheard them talking. They’re on their way to the city—to the Stanfield Hotel.”

Aaron was rising before Mickey finished. “I need to get back to my team right now.” He moved toward the door.

“
Whoa! Hang on there, A.” Mickey put up a hand. “First, we need to get our people in place at the Stanfield, and do it quietly, not with NYPD guns blazing. It’s an FBI operation now.”

“
Are you crazy?” roared Aaron. “I brought you in on this. You know Sargasso figures in somewhere. He’s got to.”

“
Hey, wait a minute. You came to me for help. Don’t think now you get to say, ‘Gee, thanks, Mick, but I’ll take it from here.’ That’s not how it’s going to be. And what about Moto? And that Mossad agent from Delrusse’s gallery who we ID’d for you? That makes it FBI business.” Leaning forward, he placed his hands on his desk and locked eyes with Aaron.

“
This is
my
case.” Aaron jammed his face closer to the agent’s. “You better believe I’m going to be part of it.”

“
Guys?” interjected Agent LoBianco, trying to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you …”

“
Thanks, Lisa, you can go now.” Mickey cut her off, eyes fixed on Aaron.

“
But …”

Mickey’s tone left no doubt. “I said you can go.”

The agent looked from one man to the other as she began to walk away. Then she stopped for a moment and turned. “Assholes.” She slammed the door behind her.

West 79
^th
Street

New York City

Jeff Sargasso was as ready as he’d ever be.

He’d bought a throwaway cell phone from a no name electronics store on upper Broadway, then called Moto’s assistant and gave him the number. Now all he could do was wait until he got the signal to move. Once that happened, he was supposed to contact his buyer and finalize the time and place of the meeting.

He was occupying a bench across from the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin, watching the small schooners and houseboats bobbing up and down at the edge of the Hudson in the soft afternoon light. He was just killing time, cell phone in his pocket.

That he’d been able to keep the buyer’s name confidential was nothing short of a miracle. Moto had pressed and pressed, but he’d insisted the buyer was determined to remain anonymous until the last moment. It was a deal breaker. The buyer would reveal himself when they met—then and only then. Jeff had assured the billionaire that his client was just being cautious—if Moto didn’t know who he was, the man reasoned, the billionaire wouldn’t be able to play one bidder against the other. Jeff had also reassured Moto that his client had the funds required to purchase the painting. That much at least was true. The buyer could afford the artwork, but he had no intention of actually paying for it, since he believed he already had.

Jeff knew it was a dangerous game he was playing. But, he reminded himself, nothing would go wrong. It wasn’t even an option. He’d worked too hard, come too far, and sacrificed too much to allow that.

He’d planned everything out to the very last detail. In fact, he knew he was staking his life on his plan being perfect. When it was over, he’d walk away like last time; only this time, he’d disappear forever. Moto wouldn’t be able to find him or touch him. He’d be safe. And very rich.

The inactivity was starting to get to him, though, messing up his mind, raking up the past. Sitting around doing nothing was for losers. Acting swiftly and decisively was what had gotten him this far. He’d proved that over and over, hadn’t he? But his orders were specific. And he couldn’t disobey without causing suspicion. Sit tight until summoned. Even the way it had been phrased left no fucking room for maneuvering.

Shit, I could have made a move yesterday when Monica was having lunch with that Imperiole bitch. It would have been easy to skate around for a while and mess her up when she was leaving the park. Whoever had set up their security had concentrated their attention on Monica. It hadn’t seemed as if anyone were really paying attention to that other bitch. Well, not anyone he’d spotted. She would have been easy prey, a victim of a mugger on rollerblades, he mused, savoring the image. It would have been over before anyone even knew what happened.

He closed his eyes, imagining the look on her face as he slipped the knife into her back and whispered his name in her ear. He laughed out loud, scattering the pigeons that were milling around his feet, scrounging for a few spare crumbs. The same filthy birds that plagued everyone in Florence. Freddy used to call them
topi volanti
, disgusting flying rats. Thinking of her wiped the smile from his lips. For just a moment, a cloud of doubt shaded his eyes. This is what being back in New York was doing to him. Too much time with nothing to do but think. It was time to act … to fucking take command. To do what he came here to do. Winner take all when the deal was done.

Chelsea

New York City

Laurel had decided to take the direct approach. Instead of confronting David Hammersmith at his office, where he could hide behind his staff, she chose to wait for him outside his Chelsea loft on West Eighteenth Street.

She’d left her office at
Woman Now
in the late afternoon and stood across from his building for a little over an hour. There was no doorman, so her loitering hadn’t been noticed. The lack of anyone manning the door also meant that Hammersmith would have to let himself into the building. Laurel had planned it all out: she would slide up behind him as he opened the front door and slip in before it closed. She hadn’t gotten any further with her plan than making an entrance. Now, as she waited, there was time to think through what to say, just how far to go with her accusations.

A call to the offices of Hammersmith and Mann twenty-five minutes ago had confirmed David Hammersmith was gone for the day.
And, with any luck, on his way home
. Laurel glanced at her watch, as she had every ten minutes or so. She hoped that he wasn’t going out for drinks or dinner, or at least, if he was, he’d stop by his apartment first. If not, it was going to be a very long night.