by Cathi Stoler
Other: Travels extensively for business and pleasure. Sails and skis.
Photos attached.
Well, well. Helen put down Laurel’s notes and picked up the photos. Matt certainly was a busy boy and, based on the one time she saw him and these photos, a handsome one as well. With his chiseled features, sensual mouth, and broad shoulders, she saw why Laurel was attracted to the good-looking Swiss.
In most of the shots he turned his face slightly away from the camera and raised an arm in front of it as if he were reaching to brush back his hair or he tucked his chin downward. They weren’t gestures you might recognize as evasive unless you were observing closely. Helen was.
The only straight-on shot was one of Matt and Laurel sitting at a table at what appeared to be a family dinner. They weren’t smiling, but the looks on their faces seemed to indicate that they were listening to someone sitting opposite when the photograph was taken. Matt probably didn’t notice whoever was holding the camera and so didn’t have time to turn away.
Okay, Helen, don’t let your overactive imagination get going. Find out the facts first.
Helen continued to review Laurel’s notes. Matt also had the kind of background that could be difficult to check and easy to manipulate to suit his needs. Getting school records from the Swiss wouldn’t be a whole lot easier than getting banking information. Forget about his employment with the Saudis. They made the Swiss look like a bunch of chatterboxes, especially these days when it was an American who wanted answers. Helen would have to call a contact she had at Saudi Air and ask him to help her get in touch with the right person. Her guy there, an American who had worked with them for over twenty years, would probably have the name of someone at the state-run Arabia National Bank who’d be willing to help, for a price.
Finishing the last of her coffee, Helen tossed around a few options on how to proceed with this assignment.
First, she’d call Maxine Litvinoff, her assistant at the Twenty-third Street office, and get her started with LexisNexis Internet searches of both men. She’d also ask her to run their social security numbers through a few of the investigative services the agency subscribed to. It was a good way to establish if they were stolen or borrowed from people who never worked. Maxine was a master at getting people to volunteer information they didn’t even know they had. Maxine could also call the BMW dealership on Eighty-Seventh Street, posing as a credit bureau associate with a question regarding Matt’s purchase of the roadster. I bet she’ll get some juicy information on Mr. Matt Kuhn and his little James Bond sports car, Helen thought.
While Maxine ran the background checks, Helen would take another tack. She’d check with the police, starting with Aaron Gerrard. As the department’s expert on identity fraud cases, he was the go-to guy. The problem was, as Laurel’s ex, he probably wouldn’t take kindly to looking into the background of her present boyfriend. Well, Helen wouldn’t tell him Laurel was involved unless it was absolutely necessary.
She’d try to reach Laurel again and finish their discussion about Matt.
Helen reached for the phone and began to punch in Laurel’s number but hung up the receiver just before the call went through.
An interesting thought occurred to her. It was a beautiful day and she hadn’t been to SoHo in a while. She could stop at some of the trendy clothing stores on Spring Street, buy a fresh loaf of bread at Provence Sud Bakery, and look in at the Italian glass gallery on Crosby Street, which was right down the block from Matt’s apartment. Hmm, she thought, I ought to take a look at his place, just to see where he lives. I hope he really is out of town.
Helen left the study and walked upstairs to her bedroom. She pulled a few articles of clothing out of her closet and tossed them on her bed—a long black sweater, matte jersey pants and comfortable soft-soled shoes. Just the thing to wear for an afternoon jaunt downtown, especially if the jaunt included a little snooping.
After dressing, she was “good to go,” as they say in the military. As she was just about to open her front door, she changed her mind and went back to the study. It’s also good to leave your options open. She smiled and reached into her desk drawer. Her set of lock picks was nestled in a small compartment on the right-hand side, exactly where they were supposed to be. She fished them out and tossed them into her purse.
Whoever said you couldn’t combine business with pleasure didn’t know Helen.
Chapter 16
Wednesday, 3:12 p.m.
Laurel spent the afternoon waiting and worrying. She had missed Helen’s call, which had come in while she was in the meeting with John and Aaron. Helen’s message was short: she’d call Laurel back later in the day. Not a word about David Adams or Matt. Of course, Laurel tried reaching Helen. She wanted to tell her about Anne’s disappearance and discuss what they could do to find her.
Also during the meeting, Laurel had missed a call from Jenna, who left a message wanting to know why Laurel split from the gym without saying goodbye. Laurel let the message play out and decided she wouldn’t return Jenna’s call until later in the day. With any luck, Jenna would be onto her next crisis and would have forgotten all about the gym incident.
She sat at her desk, checking the rewrites for one of the junior staff writers, an article about a new method of birth control that targeted male sperm. Losing her place for the third time, Laurel realized working was impossible. She couldn’t stop thinking about Aaron, both the man and the detective. He really got to her with his hostile attitude and the note from Anne. A thought flitted across her mind that she might be missing him, but she immediately brushed it aside.
Forget him, girl. You two are so over. You need a break. Tossing the pencil onto the pile of notes stacked on her desk, she slipped into her jacket, grabbed her purse, and headed for the elevator.
“If John’s looking for me, tell him I had to run an errand,” she tossed over her shoulder to Sheena, the receptionist, just as the elevator doors closed, leaving no opportunity for questions.
Once down on the street, Laurel walked east, away from the tourists filing out of their Wednesday matinees and clogging the pavement with their packages and souvenirs. It was a mild day and the easy breeze spiraling down the avenue from Central Park felt good against her face. Laurel stopped for a double cappuccino to go and sprinkled its foamy top with a generous coating of chocolate, her comfort food of choice. Then, she continued heading east until she reached Madison Avenue.
Her brain caught up with her body as she realized she was heading toward her dad’s store and the solace of its familiar surroundings.
A bell chimed softly as she opened the door and walked in. Mike looked up from behind the display of cigars he was rearranging and beamed at her. “Hey, baby girl, it’s you! Not still mad at me, are you?”
Grinning, Laurel walked up to her father, leaned over the counter and gave him a big hug. “How could I be mad at someone who loves me like crazy and proves it by poking into my business every chance he gets?” She pulled back and tweaked his nose playfully to make her point.
“Right, how could you?” He gave her a hug of his own. “Playing hooky again this afternoon?” He came around from behind the counter and took her arm. “John’s going to dock your pay. As long as you’re here, though, can you stay a few minutes? Let’s go into the back.” The words rushed out as he guided Laurel toward the door of his private office.
“Chris,” he called to an associate who was helping a customer choose a humidor for her husband, “watch the store for a minute, please.”
When Mike and Laurel were settled at the small table that served as his desk, his bar, his computer station and his visitor center, he looked at her. “So, what’s on your mind?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Laurel said. It’s this story I’m—”
“You know my feelings about that.” His sharp reply cut her off before she could finish.
“Wait.” Laurel held up her hand. “Let me get this out.” She sighed and sat back, toying with
the coffee container on the table in front of her. “I know it’s turning into something more than a simple story.” She took a deep breath to prepare herself for the reaction she imagined her next words would have. “Aaron Gerrard was waiting for me in John’s office when I got to work this morning.”
When Mike didn’t interrupt her or make a fuss, Laurel looked at him quizzically. “The woman in Pennsylvania, Anne Ellsworth, has disappeared. I don’t know what to do. On some level, I feel responsible.” She covered her face with her hands.
Mike reached over and took his daughter’s hands in his. “I know all about it. John called me right after Aaron left. He’s worried about you putting yourself in danger. So am I.”
“Damn it, I’m not the one in danger. Anne is. I should have known John would do something like that. Run right to you and get you on my case, too.” Laurel pulled back from her father. “I have to ask you something. When John called, did you tell him about me hiring Helen?”
“No, I didn’t. And that’s not because I was embarrassed about barging into your meeting with her. John didn’t mention her, so I figured you didn’t tell him about her yet. I was planning to speak to you about all of this first.”
“I need you to promise you won’t mention her to John just yet,” she said. “You have to trust me on this. I will tell him, but after I talk to Helen again and ask her to look into Anne’s disappearance. I don’t want him to stop the story now. If he hears I hired Helen, he might. Promise?”
“Okay,” Mike said. “I won’t mention it for now if you promise me you’ll stay away from anything that looks like it could be dangerous.”
“Thanks. I’ll be careful. I always am.” Laurel rose from her chair and kissed her father. “Now, I’d better get back before they send out scouts to look for me.”
Chapter 17
Wednesday, 4:10 p.m.
Helen’s cab ride down to SoHo was quick and uneventful. Traffic was light and, thankfully, the driver was a silent type who didn’t try to talk to her about everything wrong with the city. She used the time in the taxi to mentally review the case.
There were very few facts to go on, but what information she did have made for interesting suppositions. Her years of experience told her David Adams was definitely trouble—a bad guy no matter how you looked at it. Now, she’d have to find the hard facts to prove it.
Matt Kuhn, however, was a different story. On the surface, he appeared to be picture-perfect. Nothing Laurel told her so far indicated anything to the contrary. It was more to do with what was left unspoken.
Helen tucked her hair behind her ear and stared out the window as the taxi bounced its way along Houston Street, with its familiar landmarks of Katz’s Deli and Russ & Daughter’s. So, here she was, on her way to SoHo to snoop around, even though she had nothing concrete to investigate and no real reason to be there. Except her instincts.
As the taxi turned left onto Broadway, Helen was struck by how busy and active this neighborhood had become. Once an outpost for a few poor artists brave enough to live over sweatshops and foundries, it was now one of New York’s hottest areas, a haven for foodies, fashionistas and the art crowd. Helen laughed at herself, realizing she fit in two of the three categories.
Today, the sidewalks were thronged with people walking, shopping and generally soaking up the atmosphere of this very expensive neighborhood.
“Ma’am?” the driver’s voice broke into Helen’s reverie. “We’re here, Spring Street.”
Ma’am? Helen silently bristled. Do I look that old? She paid the driver and got out of the cab. She’d walk the short block east to Crosby Street. For a moment, after leaving the taxi, she had the oddest sensation that someone was watching her.
Upon leaving her house, she had surveyed the street without seeing any suspicious characters. On the way downtown, she’d checked the taxi’s rearview mirror several times. No sign of a tail.
So what was this eerie feeling? Looking around as inconspicuously as possible, Helen noted the people nearby. There was a young couple walking with arms entwined and eyes and lips locked who probably wouldn’t notice her if she stood naked in front of them, a few middle-aged tourists weighed down with shopping bags, a group of teenage boys dressed in jeans so big, baggy, and low on their hips, their Calvins underneath showed, and a few chic men and women who looked as if they were on their way back from a late lunch.
Okay, take it easy. No one is even looking your way. No goombas or Jersey plates in sight.
Helen decided to walk down the west side of Crosby toward Broome Street and take a peek at Matt’s building across the way. According to Laurel, he occupied the entire third floor with two other tenants filling the space on the floors below. She passed Provence Sud’s restaurant and turned the corner. Quiet and calm, the street was nearly deserted, unlike the hustle and bustle of the noisy street just one block away.
Number 361 was a few doors down from Starbucks, which anchored the southeast corner. To its left was a lighting gallery and to its right another semi-attached converted loft building, which was where Helen stood now. Directly across from her was a furniture design store. Helen entered the store and smiled at the two salespeople sitting behind a large farmhouse table. Both were on the phone and nodded at her, indicating they’d be with her shortly. For Helen’s purposes, the longer they left her alone, the better.
She began to stroll around the store, looking at the unique furniture it offered. Helen kept to the front, where she could easily see number 61 through the floor to ceiling windows. All the blinds on the third floor were down and no light showed from behind them.
Helen looked at a few more pieces of oversized furniture, obviously designed for the vast loft spaces in the neighborhood, then returned to an easy chair close to the window. She sat down and ran her hand over the slick, gray fabric as though considering its possibilities. The salespeople were still on the phone. She smiled again, mouthing, “Take your time.” She snuggled into the chair and let her head fall back, seeming to evaluate the comfort of the piece as she slid her eyes toward Matt’s loft every few seconds.
Her eyes were half-closed as the door to number 61 opened. A man stepped out. Dressed in a dark blue business suit with a blue tie and blue shirt, he turned, checked to see the door was locked, jogged down the steps and walked off toward the corner. As he moved, he brought his left hand up to his forehead, obscuring his face. It was a gesture Helen recognized from Laurel’s photos, a Matt Kuhn gesture.
Helen almost jumped out of the chair. She hadn’t really expected to see anyone. She’d checked herself just in time. She didn’t want to make any sudden movements that might be reflected in the window and bring unwanted attention.
The man turned the corner, moving east at a fast pace. Helen couldn’t be sure, but she believed it was Matt Kuhn.
Well, well. After waiting a few moments, she lifted herself out of the chair. The salespeople were still on their calls. She turned to them, pointed to her watch, shrugged her shoulders, and gave a little wave goodbye as if to say, “You snooze, you lose.”
Back on the street, Helen crossed to the Starbucks and stood out front. She looked at her watch and then up and down the street, as though waiting for someone. The man who exited number 61 was nowhere in sight. She entered the coffee shop and placed an order. She waited to see if the man returned.
Helen sipped her latte and thought about what to do next. She could go home, do her research, make some phone calls, and speak with Laurel about Matt. Or she could wait a few more minutes and, barring the man’s return, take a quick look inside the loft.
As she finished the coffee and tossed the cup in a trash can, Helen made up her mind. She had always wanted to see the inside of one of these renovated lofts.
Keeping an eye out for anyone looking her way from the stores and buildings nearby, Helen walked slowly toward the building. No one was in sight. She reached into her tote bag and slipped out the lock picks. Her days in Girl Scouts with their motto “Be
Prepared” had left an indelible impression on her. Sister Mary Emiline, the troop’s leader, would be proud. Or, maybe not. Helen moved quickly, climbed the stairs and turned her back to the street so she covered the doorway with her body. She slipped on a pair of Latex gloves from her bag. No sense leaving any nasty, telltale fingerprints. Inserting a pick into the outside door’s lock, she jiggled it back and forth until it clicked and the door swung open. A Mul-T-Lock double-cylinder dead bolt protected the building. A good lock, but not good enough to foil her picks.
Helen stepped into the tiny lobby and took a deep breath as she pulled the door closed. When no one started screaming, “Hey you, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” or any other epithets that meant she was busted, she slowly exhaled.
The building was totally quiet. No music. No TV. No chatter. Hopefully, all the residents were out or busy at work, and she wouldn’t be disturbed for the ten minutes or so she needed for a quick look around.
Helen sidestepped the old-fashioned, open steel grid elevator—too noisy—in favor of the stairs and quietly climbed to the third floor. There was a steel door fortified with a Medeco lock guarding the entrance to Matt Kuhn’s loft. Billed as jimmy-proof, the lock would most likely give way to her picks, but first she needed to see if the loft had an alarm system.
She waited a full minute to be sure there were no sounds coming from inside, then she ran her hands all along the seams where the door met the frame. No wires Helen could see, or tape indicating that an alarm was wired to the door. It was a crazy thing about New Yorkers and alarms; half of them thought they couldn’t risk living without them, the other half believed their alarm systems were impregnable.
She took a deep breath to steady her hands. Then she chose two smaller picks, inserted them in the lock and felt the tumblers give way. The two picks always did the job with locks like these. It was one of the many small tricks of the trade she learned from Johnny Trains, a former “consultant” she met early in her career. She had nabbed him for a series of robberies in the 1/9 IRT train stations on the Upper West Side, but he hadn’t held it against her.