Telling Lies (25 page)

“
That won’t be necessary.” Helen held up a hand, afraid that he’d lift the suitcase and realize that her Louis Vuitton was a: a fake and b: almost empty, with just a few items inside, including a black suit exactly like his. “My assistant will be here momentarily to unpack for me.” She handed him a ten dollar bill and smiled as he left the suite.

I hope Aaron Gerrard appreciates what I’m doing for him.
She tucked her quickly emptying wallet back in her purse, then flopped down on the room’s king size bed.
Maybe I can expense this with the NYPD or the FBI
. Helen stretched her body from head to toe on the soft and roomy mattress and surveyed the beautiful room with its sleek, modern furniture accessorized with Japanese antiques. She smiled.
A girl could get used to this, but unfortunately, this girl’s got work to do
. She sat up and reached for her cell phone. There were calls to make and people to spy on.

Helen worked her way down her list. She let Joe know she’d checked in and asked if he’d like to spend the night. “No hanky-panky,” she reminded him, “just a little protection and reassurance. And, wear a black suit.” He hung up on her.

She dithered about calling Aaron, then decided to leave him a message on his private line. It was better to tell him where she was, if not what she was up to. Knowing Aaron, he’d quickly figure out that she wanted to keep an eye on Moto and try to drag her away before she could interfere in
his case
. They could fight about that later.

Laurel was on her list, too. Helen hadn’t heard from her since yesterday afternoon and wanted to speak with her about Monica Sargasso. It wasn’t like Laurel to just disappear, and Helen was starting to suspect she might have done something that had gotten her into real trouble. She was tempted to call Aaron again, but she didn’t have anything specific to tell him. It was just a bad feeling. Helen didn’t want to push everyone over the edge into a panic. Not at this point, anyway.

Hopefully, Laurel was simply still in a snit over what Helen had said. And, Mike Imperiole was in his worried father mode. She hadn’t known what to tell him when he’d called this morning to see if she’d spoken to Laurel. Helen had heard the anxiety in his voice but hadn’t been able to diffuse it. She’d bitten back the words that threatened to spill from her lips—her suspicions would only add fuel to the fire—and she really didn’t know where Laurel was or what she was up to.

She shook her head and smiled. She really liked Mike. He was a great guy, and she loved spending time with him. But their relationship was complicated—mixed up by her working with Laurel. Helen didn’t want to blow it. She realized that Mike would feel terrible if he knew about her apprehension about Laurel, not to mention where Helen was right now, and that she’d invited Joe to spend the night. Mike would never understand that Joe was just a friend.

Helen’s last call was the most important. It was to Vicki Simon, the hotel’s bath concierge. She made an appointment an hour from now for a refreshing and energizing basil, rosemary, and lime bubble bath with scented candles and African tribal music. At two hundred and fifty dollars a session, she couldn’t wait to see what goodies Vicki would bring her. And how she could use them to get to Moto.

5
^th
Avenue and 81
^st
Street

New York City

Aaron was in an unmarked cruiser across from the Stanfield Hotel. The air was stuffy and filled with the familiar aromas of a stakeout—coffee, fast food, and sweat. They’d been at it for over four hours, and Moto was still en route. Aaron had visions of him pulling off the road in Flushing to grab a few hotdogs and catch the Met’s twi-nighter at Citi Field. He wouldn’t put it past the cocky bastard to do something totally unexpected. Whatever the deal was, it was going to go down in
his
time and in
his
way.

Aaron had just flipped closed his phone and tuned into the conversation Mickey Buonarroti was having with Agent Jimmy Liu from the FBI Art Crimes Team, who’d just slipped into the backseat.

“
We’re in place, Mickey, just waiting.” The veteran agent, Jimmy Liu, glanced at his watch and shrugged as if to say all that waiting was business as usual. Then he ticked off the team’s deployment on his fingers. “Two of our guys are in a building across the street from the private residences. Our mics are live, and we’re all set up, as soon as something happens worth taping. We got Max Roth undercover as the hot dog guy on the corner by the entrance to the park.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the scruffy looking Fibbie serving hot dogs to a pair of teens with skateboards. “There is a team in an unmarked around on Eightieth Street and two teams of Lieutenant Gerrard’s people inside.” He consulted a notepad. “Tassone and Fareri are in the bar, and Waxman and Jones are in the dining room. Hope the NYPD has a fat expense account. This place is pricy. Anyway, we’re ready to rock and roll.” Jimmy nodded confidently.

“
Any civilians who might be in the way?” Mickey was thinking of the hotel’s guests and the stink the management would make if they found out the FBI and NYPD were camping out in and around the hotel without their knowledge. The new owners of the Stanfield were personal friends of the mayor, and they wouldn’t hesitate to call him, especially if anything went wrong.

“
Naw, not that I could see. Just a bunch of upscale tourists and the postprandial Madison Avenue drinkers.” Agent Liu appeared to notice Mickey’s expression at the choice of words. “What? I went to college, just like you,” quipped the agent. “I don’t think any of them will notice us. But we’ll try and keep everyone clear of the action.”

“
Well, there’s one guest I’d like you to keep an eye out for,” interjected Aaron sarcastically. “Actually, I’d like you to cart her off to the closest station house if you see her.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

“
Helen McCorkendale.” Aaron replied to Mickey’s unspoken question. “The biggest pain-in-the-ass P.I. I know. That was the intrepid Ms. McCorkendale leaving me a message.” He waved his cell phone in the air. “Just wanted to let me know she was going to be staying at the Stanfield for a few days, in case I wondered where she’d gone off to.” He snorted.

“
Fuck. What the hell is she doing here? If she gets in the way, it could be very dangerous.” Mickey banged his hand against the steering wheel. “Worse yet, it could blow the whole deal.”

Aaron knew Mickey was right. Helen wasn’t stupid, far from it. She had great instincts, but sometimes was incredibly headstrong. Helen didn’t always realize that what seemed like a good idea at the time could be the recipe for disaster instead. The last time they’d worked together, Aaron had literally jumped in at the very last moment and saved her from being shot by a crazed murderer and scam artist. He didn’t want it to come to that, ever again.

Shit. This might be my fault. I told her it was okay to try and find out where Moto was staying. Of course, I wanted her to tell me, not just go off on her own. Damn, leave it to Helen to figure it out then make her own plan. He wondered if she’d told Laurel what she was up to. Thinking of Laurel added to his frustration. He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday afternoon. He was hoping that she was just busy and wasn’t avoiding his calls. He’d try to reach her again in a little while. In the meantime, he had to concentrate on the operation about to go down.

He looked at Mickey. “Moto doesn’t know Helen. He’d have no reason to. Neither of us ever mentioned her in any official capacity, so her name isn’t listed anywhere he’d have access to.” Aaron started to open the car’s door. “She did interview Alexandra Hammersmith and the Hammersmith sons, but they’d have no reason to give her up to him. She’ll be okay. Anyway, there’s no way she could get close to him, not with all his security.”

“
I don’t know. I don’t want to take any chances of Moto recognizing anyone and pulling out before we get a crack at him and Sargasso.” Mickey pulled out his phone and began to punch in a number. “I’m going to get one of my guys to go in and find her and pull her out.”

Aaron placed his hand on Mickey’s to stop him from sending the call. “Hold up. I’ll go get her. I haven’t been in the hotel yet, so no one will make me.” A cunning smile crept across his face.

“
What?” Mickey noticed the evil grin.

“
I’ll flash my badge quietly and say I’m from the vice squad. Tell them I’m looking for a well-dressed, good-looking woman with short blond hair named Helen McCorkendale, who might be trying to set up business. Tell them she’s probably using an alias, which she’s been known to do. Hey,” he shrugged, “these very good friends of the mayor certainly wouldn’t want a prostitute to sully the reputation of their tony hotel, now would they?”

Mickey nodded as Aaron stepped out of the car. He made his way across to the Stanfield’s elegant entrance and smiled inwardly at the operation he was about to execute. He’d find Helen. And she might even appreciate the irony.

New York City

Laurel heard pounding. It seemed to be coming from far in the distance and close by at the same time. She tried to ignore the annoying sound. She didn’t want to make the effort to find out what was causing it.
Maybe it will just stop
.

The pounding got louder.
It’s not going to go away
. She decided to go deal with it. That’s when she discovered she couldn’t move. What? What’s this? Her eyes flew open and all she could see was—nothing. Nothing but overwhelming darkness.

Everything came rushing back in a gut-wrenching instant—the meeting with David Hammersmith, the drink, passing out. Laurel closed her eyes tight, as if shutting out the memory could prevent the event in retrospect. When she opened them again, the horror was still with her. So was the pounding. It was coming from inside her head—a thumping, insistent beat, moving in sync with her racing pulse.

Laurel tried to reach up and swat it away, but her arm wouldn’t move.

Panic edged its way into her mind as she realized she was bound—her hands behind her, her ankles tied tightly together—and lying on her right side on a hard surface, her face pushed against it. Total blackness enveloped her, and she screamed, but the sound died in her throat, muffled by the tape that was covering her mouth.

Oh God, I’m going to die
. Panic dug in and held on tight. Her body began to shake, and tears poured down her face. She couldn’t breathe.
If you keep crying, your nose will close up and you’ll suffocate
, said a voice from somewhere deep in her mind.
Just breathe, pump air into your lungs. Do it!
Slowly, her body registered her brain’s advice and calmed enough for her to stop crying and take in the air it needed. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes wide and tried to look around. Her vision and her senses were slowly becoming adjusted to the inky darkness surrounding her. She could see the thinnest sliver of light somewhere on the horizon and feel a stifling stillness around her. She shuddered and bit back another scream. Concentrate. Think.

Ignoring the thumping behind her eyes, Laurel tried to move again, this time inching sideways, crablike on her right side, her right eye, closest to the floor, in line with the miniscule edge of light in front of her. After a few seconds, her head encountered something solid to the right. A wall? Now she crept backward and soon encountered another firm obstacle. Two walls and the light on the floor? Her mind tried to process the information. Was there a door? A way out?

Laurel thought that she must be in a small space of some kind. She attempted to extend her legs but couldn’t straighten them all the way. A fourth mass defined the space that held her. A very small space, she realized, gulping in air and fighting off claustrophobia. She tried to concentrate on figuring out where she was being held.
I’m in a tiny room of some sort. There’s air, so it’s not underground.
Chest heaving at the thought of being buried in an airless chamber, she pulled her legs back up into the fetal position, making herself as small as possible.
Think, Laurel, think
, she commanded her brain.

The floor she was lying on was cold and rough, some sort of concrete. She tried to recall the layout of David Hammersmith’s loft. It was entirely open—the living room, bedroom, and kitchen areas defined only by their furniture. It was all sleek and modern with highly polished wood floors. They wouldn’t feel anything like this.
It’s not his apartment. He moved me while I was unconscious.
She swallowed the bile that was rising in her throat.
He put me here, but where is here, and where is he?

Laurel made her shaking body even smaller. Is he out there somewhere nearby, waiting for me to wake up? Waiting to finish me off? No, if he wanted to kill me, he would already have done it. He just wanted me out of the way. But why? Her stomach turned over with fear. What does he want with me? How stupid I am. She gulped back her emotions. Why didn’t I tell Aaron what I was going to do? Or even Helen? No one knows where I am, and Hammersmith could come back at any moment.