Keeping Secrets

by Cathi Stoler

  Dinner arrived and there was barely room for it on the table.

  “Wear these,” Laurel pointed to a chunky amethyst, lapis, and gold rope with matching earrings, “with your long, backless Prada and Manolo stilettos.”

  Jenna turned on her mock movie star Czech accent as she smiled wickedly. “Veddy good.” She swept all the jewelry back into the bags and tucked into her dinner of salmon with pesto and mashed potatoes. “We moost to eat fast. I moost to go home and maked myself totally irresistible.” She licked the pesto from her fingers with a graceful flourish.

  After dinner, Jenna hailed a cab and stowed all her stuff in the trunk. Laurel could hear her giving the poor driver orders before the door closed behind her. Laurel waved but was sure Jenna missed it in the excitement of backseat driving.

  Maybe I’ll stop and get some dessert for later, she thought. On her walk home, Laurel turned into the corner deli for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and an armful of magazines.

  As soon as her apartment door clicked shut behind her, she dropped her purchases on the kitchen counter and checked her home phone for messages. She felt disappointed and worried, too; there was still no word from Anne either here or on her cell.

  Putting the ice cream in the freezer for later, Laurel walked into her living room and turned on the TV. Good, I’m just in time for the start of Newsmakers, she thought. The opening credits began to roll and the announcer introduced the feature story on hidden identities.

  The program’s host, Jane Paulson, introduced her guest, Laurel’s friend, Manhattan PI, Helen McCorkendale. Laurel had met Helen while working on a story last year, and the women became good friends. Helen was smart and funny, with streetwise instincts honed from years of living and working in the city.

  On the set of Newsmakers, Helen and Jane discussed one of Helen’s latest cases. It concerned a wealthy New York businessman involved in training and showing quarter horses.

  Laurel was completely riveted by the story. The man simply vanished one evening after a horse show in Katonah, New York. The last time anyone saw him, he was in the parking lot being helped into his van by his new, young wife. He looked ill and disoriented and was barely able to speak. She told their friends and family he was checking into a rehab center for his drinking problem and didn’t want anyone to know his whereabouts. No one questioned this explanation at first, because he’d been in rehab several times in the past. After about a month with no communication from him, his daughter began to believe something had happened to her father. She confronted her stepmother, who stuck to her story he was in rehab. Then, a few days later, the wife vanished as well.

  By now, the man’s family was frantic and called Helen. They believed the man was dead. They’d soon be proven right when, about a week later, workers in an upstate vineyard found a body buried in a shallow grave. It turned out to be the businessman.

  When Helen began to investigate, she discovered the wife had been arrested seventeen times and had multiple aliases. Laurel shook her head at the information. Can you imagine? One of the arrests was for attempted murder. She had disguised her past and hid her identity so effectively she completely fooled everyone. Her husband never knew who she really was until it was too late. It cost him his life.

  Helen went on to say this tragedy might have been avoided if the murdered man checked into his wife’s background before he married her. The Better Business Bureau and many police stations offered information on detecting a hidden or false identity. Another option was to hire someone to conduct an investigation before a relationship went too far.

  After the show, Laurel shut off the TV and paced around her living room, fingers trailing lightly over the photos, books and keepsakes it contained,. She felt safe and protected in her surroundings, comfortable in the room’s mellow lighting, with its slightly shabby couch, bright artwork, and family photos that were so much a part of her life. Unlike Anne.

  Standing at the window, Laurel raised the blinds and looked out over Sixty-sixth Street. Her view took in the buildings, stores, and neighborhood oddities she knew well. Her eyes rested on the beautiful oak doors of the brownstone across the street, the huge maple that shaded old Mrs. Pierro’s front room window, and the candy store where the grammar school kids and their moms stopped for treats.

  She gazed up at the moon, taking comfort in its silvery light. Fat and round, it hung so low in the sky she felt she could almost touch it. She stared at it for a long while, then turned from the window and walked over to her desk.

  Laurel picked up her landline phone and punched in Helen’s number, which she had memorized. If she had any doubts about interfering in Anne’s business, the Newsmakers show swept them away. As the phone rang on the other end, she thought about what she was going to tell Helen to put her plan into action.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday, 12:29 a.m.

  Helen McCorkendale sunk her chin deeper into the ratty collar of the worn coat wrapped over several layers of dirty, smelly clothing. The City Harvest people were making their way down the street, handing out sandwiches and sympathy to those in need. Damn. Soon, they’d reach her and the location she chose so carefully next to the overflowing dumpster in the alley between the Chinese takeout place and the Italian salumeria.

  She pushed back deeper into the alley and hoped they hadn’t seen her. The last thing I want to do tonight is call attention to myself, she thought. Dressed in her tattered hat and coat, piled with unraveling scarves and carrying ragged old shopping bags, she knew she looked like every other New York City bag lady—which was exactly the way to remain unnoticed while staking out the Three Aces Social Club on Carmine Street. If its members saw her at all, they saw was an old, homeless woman rummaging through the dumpster and talking to herself.

  What is with these Mafia guys? Why three aces and not four? She’d never understand the psychology behind some of this mob stuff. Especially the names: Joey Bones, Philly the Kid, Patsy Three Legs. She didn’t even want to imagine what that final name was all about.

  Then, of course, there was Suave Sal Santucci, the Don of the Giambello family. Known as much for the cut of his suit as the sting of his gun, Sal was Capo di Tutti Capi of the New York region and had an army of captains and soldiers under his command.

  Helen knew anyone who wanted to make a move in New York had to go through Sal and his boys. Guns, prostitution, drugs, stolen merchandise, identity theft—it all began and ended at the Three Aces, a dump of a storefront with Formica tables, folding chairs, and a giant espresso machine. Helen chuckled. Sal hadn’t felt the need to splurge on the décor, but had gone all-out on the bronze and silver Bormioli coffeemaker.

  She watched the club’s doorway open and close over and over from her spot in the alley. Looks like a regular crime-busters convention is going on over there. Too bad I seem to be the only good guy invited to the party.

  Was she in over her head? Probably. Was her adrenaline pumping and her heart rate spiking? Absolutely. Was she going to kill Joe Santangelo, the guy who had hired her? That remained to be seen.

  Helen thought about Joe. As her friend, former lover, and New York F&T Insurance’s chief investigator, he had asked her to help with a potentially dicey case. A Park Avenue couple had reported the theft of a rather large and expensive diamond ring. They were distraught. They were inconsolable. They wanted the insurance money. Fidelity was about to pay until Joe put a hold on the deal.

  Joe had run his hand through his hair when they met to discuss the case and he laid it all out for her. Helen appreciated his thick mane of naturally dark blond hair, rare on a man in his forties—unless he secretly dyed it. She smiled to herself. When they first met several years back, they had an instant mutual attraction that sparked into an affair. It flamed out fairly quickly, leaving them just good friends and pals who could also be useful to each other. And now, of course, she was dating Laurel’s father, who was ten years older but just as handsome. Ah, men, she thought, I do like ’em.

  Jo
e had conducted the preliminary investigation into the case she was currently helping with. On the night of the robbery, the couple was at dinner with friends and the maid—a new, live-in girl from Guatemala with very little English—was visiting a relative in Queens. When the couple returned home, the wall safe in their bedroom was open, and a ring and some cash were missing. They immediately called the police and then New York F& T Insurance.

  Joe showed up the next morning to interview them. The wife, a slim, blond matron from a prominent New York family, was upset, as one might expect. But the husband, a high-end real estate broker, was rude and imperious. Joe’s bullshit meter kicked into overdrive. He checked the locks and the building security tapes and spoke with the management. There was no sign of forced entry.

  Joe returned to his office to run a check on the couple and discovered they weren’t quite as affluent as they seemed. The money was hers—or had been. Now, thanks to the husband’s greed and Bernie Madoff’s willingness to exploit it, they were almost broke. Joe told Helen he wondered how much the wife knew about their reduced financial situation and, if she didn’t, what she’d do when she found out.

  The whole thing felt wrong and, going with his instincts, Joe decided to tail the husband for a few days to determine if Fidelity had any cause for concern.

  On the morning of the second day, the husband left his building at his usual time, carrying his briefcase and a folded copy of The New York Times under his arm. Instead of hailing a cab and heading downtown to his office at Madison Realty, he headed west. Joe followed him to Riverside Drive, almost to the Hudson, as the husband made his way to the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin and found a secluded bench. He placed the folded newspaper on the seat next to him.

  A young guy, also carrying a folded paper, took a seat on the same bench. The kid lit a cigarette and placed his copy of The Times on the bench between them. He sat back, staring up at the trees as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and polluted the air with a line of smoke rings. This was the way Joe had told the story to Helen, who knew Joe was probably almost as annoyed by the smoking as he was by the robbery.

  A minute later, the husband, who looked like he’d never sat on a park bench before that morning, picked up the second paper, tucked it under his arm and headed off in the direction of the underpass leading to Riverside Drive.

  Joe observed the switch. It was executed with a certain amount of skill. Did the husband leave the guy a payment for fencing the ring? Was he getting back an extra apartment key? Leaving the husband to continue his day, Joe tailed the young guy to a tenement on Sullivan Street and checked the name on the graffiti-covered directory: Ralphie Bonatura.

  A little digging turned up the fact Ralphie had a record for petty theft and an uncle connected to the Santucci family. Ralphie also worked for the contractor who did repairs at the couple’s building a few weeks prior to the robbery. That offered plenty of opportunity for the husband or wife to meet him and strike a deal. Joe smelled insurance fraud big time. The husband looked good for it, especially after the rendezvous in the park. Joe needed to gather all the evidence he could before confronting the high-profile couple.

  That was when he called Helen and asked her to take over the tail on Ralphie while he kept digging into the couple’s background. Watching Ralphie for the last few days had been a real treat. She rummaged through the dumpster and pulled out one red stiletto shoe. And, I thought all I’d do was follow him all over SoHo and Alphabet City as he made his rounds checking in with an assortment of lowlifes and weirdoes. Silly me.

  Tossing the shoe aside, she risked a glance at the Three Aces, where Ralphie had spent the last few nights and early mornings. Tonight he was back, playing doorman to a long line of too-tanned men in sleek suits and beefed-up bodyguards emerging from long black limos with Jersey plates.

  Something is definitely going on and I don’t think it has anything to do with Joe’s missing diamond ring. She scratched her scalp through her matted blond hair and settled back against her shopping bags. She scowled as she felt the first drops of water hit her dirt-encrusted face. Rain. Great. It was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday, 5:04 a.m.

  Laurel didn’t sleep well. After tossing and turning for hours, she finally slipped out of bed while the moon was still high and made a cup of herbal tea.

  After almost two hours of pacing around her apartment, she checked the clock. I could be sleeping for at least another hour. She shook her head. That’s not going to happen. I might as well start getting ready for work. Laurel walked into her large closet, moving on autopilot. She gathered up an armful of clothes and tossed them on her rumpled bed. Stifling a yawn and plopping down, she ran her hand over her warm and inviting down-filled comforter, one of her few real indulgences. “Come back to me,” it seemed to whisper. “I’ll take good care of you.” Sure you will; then I’ll never get to work.

  Laurel dressed slowly. She hadn’t made any real progress, as evidenced by the one black sock on her left foot and the one brown on her right. She smiled. Now, that would make an interesting fashion statement someone at the office would be sure to notice.

  She changed her socks to a matching pair, then checked her answering machine for the tenth time, even though the phone hadn’t rung since she looked five minutes before. Laurel sighed. Still no word from Anne, or from Helen. Laurel hoped Helen listened to her message. She’d try calling again as soon as she got to the office.

  The herbal tea long since poured down the sink, Laurel was on her second cup of strong, black coffee when the phone rang. “Anne?” She picked it up on the first ring without looking at the caller ID.

  “Hey, baby girl, it’s me!” It was her father with his usual greeting. “Who’s Anne?”

  “Hi, Dad,” Laurel hoped he hadn’t noticed the disappointment in her voice. “What’s going on?”

  “I think I should be asking you that,” he said. “You don’t sound too great this morning.”

  “I had a bad night and I’m tired.” Laurel yawned into the phone. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” She told her father about Anne and David.

  “Why are you involved in something like this?” Her father was going into over-protective mode. “You should take your own advice. Let the police handle it.”

  I shouldn’t have mentioned anything to him, she thought. She was glad she hadn’t told him she called Helen. That would probably put him over the edge. Helen and her dad had started seeing each other last year. She had introduced them, and he was nearly as over-protective of the self-assured investigator as he was of Laurel. “I’m just going to speak with Anne and listen to her whole story,” she said. “It’s nothing you should worry about.”

  “Nothing I should worry about?” He geared up for a lecture. “You don’t know this woman or her fiancé. The guy sounds like a real operator, one who likes to prey on women. He could be dangerous.”

  “You’re overreacting, as usual.” An edge crept into her voice.

  “Stop by the store later and we’ll talk about this before you get involved in something you can’t handle.” Her father was adamant. “Don’t go getting Helen involved, either. I know how you two are when you get your minds set on something.” His reference to Helen made Laurel feel like he read her mind. “You hear me?” he continued in that listen-to-me tone that made her crazy.

  “Of course I hear you,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing a thing before consulting you.” Her voice took on a slightly sarcastic tone he wouldn’t miss. “Bye, bye, Mike.” She replaced the phone in its cradle.

  The fireworks that tended to occur when she and her father disagreed made her nuts. Of course, I’ll be careful. She picked up her now lukewarm coffee, feverishly stirring it with her finger into a mini whirlpool before taking a big gulp.

  Ever since a hit-and-run driver killed her mother sixteen years earlier, she and her dad tried to outdo themselves in taking care of each other. I’ll never stop him from w
orrying about my job, my friends, my trips, or living on my own. I’m just as bad, worrying about his working too hard and his concern over my well-being. We love each other and both of us have a hard time letting go. We both still miss Mom.

  Christina Imperiole had been the calming force in Laurel’s life. A poet who viewed the world through a window of words, Christina taught her husband how to say what he felt and how to live in the moment. Although, on days like today, Laurel didn’t think her dad’s compulsion to speak his mind was such a great attribute.

  The phone rang. Once again, her heart leapt as she ran to answer it. “Hello?” “Ciao. Sono io. It’s me, Matt. Like my Italian? I thought it’d be appropriate since I’m calling from Siena.”

  “Ah, Siena, the banking capital of Italy.” Laurel was glad to hear from Matt, despite her continuing frustration at receiving no word from Anne.

  Matt had taken off suddenly two days before for Europe as he often did, on business for the New York branch of ZurichBank AG. “At least the food is good but I can’t believe they made you leave on such short notice,” she said. “I don’t even know where to reach you.”

  “What?” Matt said. “You don’t think an hour is enough time to get ready? I did have thirty seconds left over to call you from the airport right before the plane left.”

  “Yeah, to say you were getting on a plane.” Her tone cooled as the enthusiasm she tried to muster left her voice.

  “You sound funny. Something the matter?” Matt asked.

  “I’m …” Laurel almost told him about Anne and David but something made her hold back. She couldn’t deal with any more opposition to her desire to help Anne, and she didn’t want to explain just yet the idea hatching in the back of her mind, or the way it might involve Matt.