Telling Lies (29 page)

Helen wasn’t a fool. Carry on as she might with Aaron, she knew that snaring Moto in his own den was not going to be a simple task. It would require as much stealth and ingenuity as it would take to stalk a ferocious lion. And if, God forbid, she became the hunted instead of the hunter, well, she didn’t even want to think about the consequences.

A discreet knock on the bedroom door brought her out of her reverie. “Enter.” She feigned hauteur and rolled her eyes at her own behavior.

A young waitress poked her head around the doorframe. “Your breakfast is here, ma’am.” She bit her lip nervously.

“
Just set it up in the sitting room and leave.” No please. No thank you. No tip. I hate to have to behave this way. She paused, conjuring up an image of how Alexandra Hammersmith might operate.
Well, I’ll make it up to her with a large gratuity when I check out, or the hotel will add it to the bill automatically. But right now, I’d better go wake up Joe.

Joe had arrived last evening shortly after Aaron’s departure. He’d brought Helen the Louis Vuitton train case and the nametag that she’d requested. He’d insisted on staying the night to protect her.

“
I don’t care what Gerrard told you. I’m not leaving. You begged me to stay, and I rearranged my plans to be here. Besides, you’ll be safer with me in the next room.”

“
Begged? Safer?” Helen had raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh really,” her inflection had intimated just the slightest nod to their former romantic relationship. Helen had known that Joe would do whatever it took to protect her from harm, but she had also suspected his motives just a teensy bit. He’d been awed at the sight of the sumptuous suite and its view of the city below.

Not to mention the 60-inch flat screen TV that rose like a phoenix from a hidden space in an antique console. Last night he’d kept her company, sharing dinner and conversation—as he’d watched the Mets get clobbered—and had made her feel safe and cared for. But now, Helen had to tell him that it was time to go.

“
Hey, big fella.” She knocked, then entered his bedroom. “Time for breakfast.”

Five minutes later they were facing each other at a table under the sitting room’s giant picture window, eating fluffy omelets and drinking piping hot coffee.

Joe leaned toward her, the steam from his cup rising around his mouth. “I still think I should go with you when you bust into Moto’s apartment.”

“
First of all, I’m not busting in, I’m just … entering the premises and taking a look around.” Now it was Joe’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“
Okay, maybe it
is
busting in, but we talked about this last night. It’s going to be fine. Really.” Helen nodded her head. “I mean, why would Vicki Simon send two assistants to check out the bath? It could give the impression that she didn’t have a handle on what she was doing. In fact, for a client like Moto, that kind of overkill might seem suspicious.” Her eyes were drawn to the train case sitting on a coffee table across the room, as if confirming her thought process.. “It’s better if I go in alone. Honestly, I’m all set. Aaron and Mickey know the plan backwards and forwards. They’ll be keeping an eye on me,” she said with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.

Helen actually hoped they weren’t watching the suite right now. If Aaron knew that she’d let Joe stay over, he’d probably rant on and on about “compromising the operation” and all that other organizational bull. He might even be angry enough to get that nasty house dick to toss her out for real this time. She definitely had to get Joe out of the hotel soon, before the detective or the FBI agent showed up.

Just as Helen was about to hurry him along, her cell phone rang. She picked it up with a curt “Yes,” falling into bitch mode automatically without checking the caller ID. It was Mike Imperiole. Helen tried to cover her nasty tone with a sweet greeting.

“
Hi, Mike. How are you?” she ignored the look of disdain that crossed Joe’s face at the mention of Mike’s name. The two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot when they first met. Well, a bit more than that actually, recalled Helen. Joe had been pointing a gun at Mike. And while, thankfully, no one had been shot, the two men were still extremely wary of each other and a little bit jealous. Mike would appreciate the fact that Joe had spent the night “guarding” Helen just about as much as Joe would relish the idea of Helen and Mike canoodling on her couch.

Men. Go figure. She stuck her tongue out at Joe then turned her attention back to Mike.

“
I’m good. Good,” said Mike flatly.

Helen could hear the “but” in his voice. “Is everything okay?”

“
Yeah. Yeah. Fine, Helen, but I was wondering if you’ve heard from Laurel?” She left me a message yesterday, but I haven’t been able to catch up with her since.”

Mike sounded more anxious than usual. His over-protectiveness toward Laurel was a behavior she had observed the very first time she met Mike and many times since. It had taken about five minutes to figure out how much the father and daughter cared for each other and got on each other’s nerves. Helen knew this time there might actually be reason to be concerned. She didn’t want to upset Mike further, but she didn’t want to lie to him either—especially after their late night heart-to-heart the other evening. “I haven’t spoken to her in a while. Maybe she’s just busy with work. I’m sure she’ll call you soon.”

“
Yeah, you’re probably right. So, what’s going on with you?” He was obviously trying to put his worries about Laurel aside.

“
Well, I’m working today.” Helen used her most non-committal tone. So much for total honesty, but she couldn’t tell Mike what was on her agenda. He was aware of the Sargasso business and Moto’s involvement. Helen knew that Mike would go crazy if he found out that she was snooping around Moto on her own. “But I hope you’re ready for our trip to Las Vegas next week.”

This got Joe’s attention, and he shot her a pointed look as he mouthed the word “Vegas?”

Helen made a nasty face back and mouthed, “Go away.” She turned her back to him. “I got a call from Jimmy Scanlon, and everything’s arranged.”

“
I’m really looking forward to this trip.” Mike couldn’t mask his excitement. “I’ve never been to the opening of a big-time casino hotel before, or any casino opening for that matter. We’re going to have a great time.”

“
You bet we are.” Helen thought of her childhood friend, Scanlon, now a big wheel in Vegas. He was about to open “January,” the most lavish hotel and casino on the strip, and he’d invited Helen and a guest to attend the gala ceremony, comping everything and tossing in a ride on his private jet.

How could she say no to her oldest partner in crime, the fifth grader who’d accepted her dare to set off a fire cracker under Sister Mary Margaret’s desk just to see if the nun would utter a curse word?

“
Jimmy’s giving us a deluxe cabana by the pool and tickets to all the hotel’s shows, so we’re all set.”

“
Sounds great. Let’s hope everything goes off without a hitch.”

“
Yeah.” Helen turned back around toward Joe, only to realize that he’d left the suite, and she was alone. “It’s Vegas. What could go wrong?”

West Side

New York City

He’d finally gotten the call. “Be ready to go at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” The remainder of the directions had been precise. A car would pick him up on the corner of Seventy-seventh Street and West End Avenue. In the backseat he would find a change of clothes. Once he dressed, the driver would bring him to a different vehicle in which he would find the keys. Next he was to collect his buyer and bring him to the Stanfield Hotel.

At the hotel, Sargasso and the buyer were to drive up to private residence number six on Eighty-first Street. An escort who would show them in to the town house would meet them, and their car would be removed to the hotel’s underground garage. Everything was very specific. The most important directive of all was that the buyer was to come alone, or the deal was off.

Sargasso ran over the information in his mind, trying to determine if there were any potential problems or obstacles that might get in the way. There were none that he could foresee. He could relax a little, now that the end was in sight.

If all goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow I’ll be out of the country and beginning my new life.

He lay back on the squeaky bed—one of three beat-up pieces of furniture in the cheap West Broadway SRO room he had rented. The space was disgusting—shabby and filthy, with a rust-stained sink in the corner that dripped incessantly. If he had wanted to sleep, it would have been impossible. The paint was peeling off the walls in long, ragged strips, and wooden slats showed through where big chunks of plaster were missing. Even if he squinted, he couldn’t imagine any ruin in Florence looking this bad. But this was no Italian historic sight, he sneered derisively, just a falling down dump. A necessity, he reminded himself, but thankfully one that was merely temporary.

He suddenly thought of an old song his mother had been fond of
,
“What a Difference a Day Makes,” and laughed out loud.

That day was tomorrow, and what a day it would be. Moto was certain to be taken aback at the identity of the buyer. David Hammersmith was counting on that. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to ensure his anonymity. Even paid Sargasso a two million dollar fee to act as the go-between and set up the meeting to purchase the painting without revealing that he was the buyer.

Moto had balked at the terms at first but was greedy enough finally to acquiesce. He’d paid Jeff a hefty finder’s fee as well, deposited in a Swiss bank account that couldn’t be accessed by anyone else. There is a certain irony in that, Sargasso grinned. Along with the fifteen million he’d already walked away with on 9/11, he’d be set for life. The trick was to make sure he had a life.

Jeff Sargasso was no fool. He knew that Moto always suspected that he had the fifteen million, which the billionaire rightfully believed should have gone to him as per his agreement with Alfred Hammersmith. He’d kept an eye on Jeff all these years by using him from time to time to buy and sell pieces for his vast collection. With Moto always watching, Jeff had been careful not to live above the means of a moderately well-off art dealer. So far it had worked. Now, if Moto sensed Sargasso had set up a double-cross, he’d do whatever it took to track him down, squeeze him dry for both the finder’s fee and Hammersmith’s money, then eliminate him for good.

The same was true of Alexandra Hammersmith and her stepson Gary. They were vocal about their certainty that he was still alive and reviled him as a cunning scam artist and a thief. They’d off him in a heartbeat if they could get away with it.

Jeff stared up at the water-stained ceiling and snorted. Amateurs. They should only know some of the things he’d done to get this far and what he was planning to do before he disappeared. What they thought and believed was of little consequence to him.

David Hammersmith was the only one who didn’t seem to care—about the missing money, about what it cost to hook him up with Moto, or about Jeff’s life over the last nine years—which was just fine with him. Alfred Hammersmith’s younger son had his own agenda. He suspected that David Hammersmith would probably try to steal the painting and kill Moto in some twisted attempt at revenge or proving himself to his family.

Hey, let him go for it. Revenge could be sweet, couldn’t it? Sargasso envisioned Laurel Imperiole bumping into him at the Uffizi Gallery. He hadn’t forgotten about her and all the trouble that chance encounter had caused him. Not for one minute. He might be leaving tomorrow, but not before he said goodbye to that bitch Laurel. And what a sweet farewell it would be, at least for him.

Grand Street

New York City

The scream died in her throat as Laurel fully awoke. For one horrifying moment she thought she was back in Hammersmith’s basement, and the awfulness of what had happened washed over her. Gasping, she opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill out at the memory.

It was the sun that had awakened her, a thin slice of butter-yellow light slanting through the side of the shabby shade, a sliver like the one she’d seen when the door in that dark, disgusting basement prison had been opened by Lior Stern.

Laurel shivered, even though the room was warm—too warm in fact. She threw off the blanket that had covered her while she slept.

She could hear the Mossad agent in the other room, moving about quietly. A few soft footfalls on the worn linoleum, running water, then the soft clank as the kettle met a burner on the stove and the hiss of the gas being turned on. Sounds that told her he was probably making tea. Tea strong enough, she hoped, to get her through the next few hours.