by Cathi Stoler
“Aaron?” she called softly.
“Yes?” His reply was barely audible.
“I need some air. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Laurel reached around him for her purse. Her arm brushed his and a sudden jolt of electricity ran through her. She shrugged it off, grabbed her purse and headed for the door, hoping to dispel her black mood. Outside, the sky roiled with heavy, gray clouds scudding past like bats bent for hell. A storm was coming.
Laurel tried to shake off her feelings of doom. She took the walkway that led to the street. A cappuccino is just what I need, she thought. It’ll give me a chance to regroup and finally call Jenna.
She dodged the traffic and ran across the street and into the Starbucks. After ordering her cappuccino, she took a seat near the window. Jenna had been on her mind all day and every so often she found herself thinking about the message she left on her voicemail earlier. Powering up her cellphone, she saw a list of missed calls from Jenna. She dialed her voicemail and replayed the first message from this morning. She hit reply and listened as the call went through to Jenna’s apartment.
She was sure the conversation she was about to have wasn’t going to be a good one.
“Pronto. C’è Tony.”
“Hey, Tony, it’s Laurel.” She was surprised, yet almost relieved not to hear Jenna’s voice. “How are you?”
“Laurel, bella! I’m fine. How are you?” Tony practiced the niceties of American conversation with a slight twist of an Italian accent.
“Oh, not bad.” She replied easily, not wanting to worry him. “Is our Miss Jenna there? I need to speak with her.”
“Sorry, she is out. She was all excited this morning. Something to do with your Matt. I consider … no,” he struggled to find the right word. “I mean, think, Jenna made a meeting with Matt.”
“What?” Laurel shouted into the phone. “She went to meet Matt?”
“What is the matter? Why are you so … nervosa … so upset? You are not jealous, are you? It is maybe just for a coffee or a drink, a conversation, niente importante, it’s nothing.”
Laurel ignored his questions. “You’re wrong. This is important. Where was she meeting Matt?”
“Jenna did not tell me this,” Tony said. “Only she was going out and she would be back later.”
The other customers were looking at her strangely. Laurel lowered her voice and tucked the phone closer to her mouth. “Please listen to me. I need to know. What time did Jenna leave?”
“Forse, maybe, I think at eleven o’clock.” Now he sounded anxious.
Over four hours ago. “Has she called you?” She tried to keep her voice even.
“No, you know Jenna. When she is busy, she forgets all about me.” Tony laughed, the tension leaving his voice. “She probably met another friend on the way home and they are together, you know, shopping or talking.”
Laurel didn’t want to upset Tony needlessly. Maybe he was right. Or maybe Jenna had put herself right in the middle of things. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“That’s probably it.” Laurel kept her tone light. “I’ll try her on her cell. Do me a favor, please. If I don’t reach her, ask Jenna to call me as soon as she comes in. Please.”
She must have managed to keep her tension under wraps because Tony answered her quickly, with no sign of worry coloring his response. “Of course. You got it, girl,” he said in his best American dialect. “Ciao.”
Laurel disconnected then punched in Jenna’s cell number. It rang and rang before her voicemail kicked in. Jenna almost always answered her cellphone. Why isn’t she picking up? Getting herself under control, she left a message asking Jenna to call her back as soon as possible, then hung up and put her phone back into her bag. She sat staring out at the sky, which was growing heavier by the moment. Not only is Anne dead, but now Jenna might be in danger, too. I can’t let this go on. She thought of something Maxine always said: “No good deed goes unpunished.” Was it true? Was all this the consequence of her good deed, her attempt to help Anne? She never meant it to be that way.
She gathered up her purse and edged her way out of the coffee bar. Rain swept in from the west, pouring down in a slanted waterfall. Waiting for a break in the traffic, Laurel dashed across the street and into police headquarters, her clothes already soaked through. She flew down the hallway and back into the tiny conference room she and Aaron shared for the day, leaving small puddles in her wake. He sat exactly as before, head bent over a report, pen in hand.
“Aaron?” She was barely able to contain herself until he acknowledged her. Her words tumbled over each other. “There’s something I have to tell you.” A flash of lightning illuminated the space, followed soon after by a crack of thunder.
* * *
Aaron kept his head down when Laurel entered the room, determined to ignore her presence and concentrate on the papers in front of him. When she brushed by him earlier, electricity had passed between them that he’d tried hard to overlook.
Yet, as soon as Laurel spoke, his resolve wavered and his head shot up. Her words were simple and spoken with an intensity that turned them into a primal premonition of doom. Aaron’s face grew hot and his forehead beaded with sweat as if something truly dangerous was about to attack. He fought off a sudden surge of fear for Laurel that nearly overwhelmed him. Having been down this path before, he’d sworn not to let it happen again. Yet, almost without thinking, he stood up, knocking against the table. The papers scattered and it teetered back and forth on its legs.
Aaron reached out his hand and wiped away the moisture from Laurel’s cheeks, where the raindrops now mingled with her tears.
Chapter 32
Thursday, 4:30 p.m.
Suave Sal Santucci relaxed into the big wingback chair, swirling thirty-year-old Scotch around the heavy crystal goblet in his hand, coating its sides, and watching the amber liquid slide down to the bottom before taking another sip. He let out a contented sigh and pushed the head of the young lady who was servicing him a little farther down into his lap. Things were going to work out exactly the way he wanted them to. Don’t they always?
Sal had decided to call it a day after speaking to that woman PI. As befitted his celebratory mood, he had that new kid, Ralphie, drive him uptown from the Three Aces for an early cocktail hour and a little afternoon entertainment at Tally Ho, a gentleman’s club on East Sixtieth Street.
Now, he was in one of the private rooms reserved for customers who required the utmost discretion. Politicians, socialites with famous names and famous wives, CEOs, and corporate executives whose stockholders might not understand certain dues and membership fees were their right as perks of the job. Sal snorted loudly. These men thought coming to the club meant living on the edge. The sneaking around, the girls, the little touch of danger. They didn’t have a clue how dangerous life could get.
The girl looked up at him and smiled. He gave her a thumbs-up and she got back to work.
Sal was treated like a king at Tally Ho. It didn’t hurt that he was one of the backers of the club, a silent partner who enjoyed taking some of his profits in trade. The two brothers, Adam and Scott Lehman—the front men and the owners registered with the State Liquor Authority—had no idea what they were in for, but they’d find out soon enough. Chidrules. Sal smiled. Those fools thought they could work with the family and still be in charge. He shook his head in wonder.
Sal got hot and excited. Always in command, he didn’t want the girl to sense his pleasure or feel she did too good a job. While Candi—or was it Brandi?—continued to do her thing, he took in the small, yet elegantly decorated room. Designed to replicate the drawing room of an English Manor house, it sported refined prints of fox hunting parties on its Scalamandré silk-covered walls and subdued lighting from strategically placed Wedgwood sconces. Sal liked the style. At least the brothers had put some of his money to good use.
The booze wasn’t bad either. He made sure they understood they were supposed to serve the good stuff—McCallan twe
nty-five-year-old Scotch and Louis XIII Cognac—to the private clients. The rest of the assholes had to be satisfied with the house brands the bartenders poured from the bar’s well. Besides, the liquor wasn’t the real draw. It was the girls like Candi, who brought in the suckers every night with the lap dancing, stripping, and extra-curricular activities.
Sal gave a little twitch, let out a small sigh, and gently pushed her away. She rose slowly and swallowed discreetly. Then she stretched and arched her back to show off her breasts, sat in front of him, and picked up the drink she had nursed since he poured it for her an hour ago. She sipped provocatively, rolling her tongue around the rim of the glass and looking up at him from under lowered lids. Every one of the girls who worked at Tally Ho knew who Sal Santucci was and was anxious to please him.
“Thanks, sweetheart, that was good.” He zipped up his pants, reached into his pocket, and handed her two one-hundred-dollar bills folded in half. “We’re done. You can go now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santucci.” Candi slipped the money into the “V” of the skintight riding jacket that barely covered her large breasts. “Anytime.” She smiled as she picked up her riding crop and left the room. All the girls at the Tally Ho dressed in quasi English riding gear—red jackets with nothing underneath, high boots, black thongs, and fishnet stockings standing in for jodhpurs. Each girl also carried a riding crop, a nice S&M touch. It was one of the few good ideas the Lehman brothers came up with, and the customers really went for the look. It made them feel they were with refined English ladies who might go a little wild if prompted in just the right way. More chidrules, but let’s keep those suckers coming.
He waited till Candi left the room, then stood up and viewed himself in the gilt mirror on the far wall. Sally, baby, you still got it. He smoothed back his silvery hair and straightened his tie. He was just about to pour himself another shot of Scotch when a discreet knock on the door broke his self-satisfied mood.
“Come in.” Ralphie Bonatura, the new kid who’d chauffeured him uptown, entered the room.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Santucci, sir.” Ralphie ducked his head obsequiously. “There’s someone here to see you. He says you’re expecting him.”
“I am. Send him in.” The kid practically bounced on his feet as he left. A little nervous, isn’t he? The kid’s probably wondering why I asked him to drive me around and not Vic or Bennie.
A young man entered the room and crossed to where Sal settled back into his chair. “Zio Salvatore,” the man said as he hugged Sal, slapping his back, and kissed him on both cheeks as a sign of the respect that was his due. “Uncle Sal, I got your message and came as soon as I could. Can we speak here … safely?” He gestured around the room.
“It’s clean. This room is swept for bugs every morning. We can talk.” Sal’s tone was a touch reproving. “You know how I feel about us being seen together. I’m not pleased I had to send for you, or the reason why.” Sal leaned in. “No one in the family, not even my two most trusted capos, Vic and Bennie, know about our connection. I even had the new kid drive me today, so no one would see us together. I want to keep it that way. Capisce?” His tone left no doubt he meant it.
The young man nodded his understanding and hesitated. Strain seeped into his words. “The problem we encountered yesterday? Have you … been able to resolve it?”
“It’s done. We’ll be getting our property back tomorrow evening. You were lucky this time, Nephew.” He controlled the anger that began to rise again, his black eyes pinning those of the man opposite him with a deadly stare. “If there are any more problems with this project …” He shook his silvery head from side to side.
“There won’t be, Uncle.” His nephew’s words were heavy and tinged with the slightest touch of alarm. A thin film of sweat broke out on his upper lip. “I’m expecting to hear from my contact in Pennsylvania today. Once I have his final information, we’ll be ready to move.”
“I hope that is so.” Sal touched the small, black mole above his mouth, accentuating his stern words. “There can be no mistakes this time.”
“There won’t be. I swear on my life.”
Sal assessed the young man opposite him and chose his words thoughtfully. “Be careful what you swear, Nephew. You might have to deliver.”
Chapter 33
Thursday, 7:40 p.m.
The storm raged on. It flooded the roads leading in and out of town and wiped out the electricity in the outlying areas. Laurel and Aaron weren’t able to leave Doylestown. They took refuge at The Willow, the small restaurant where Anne Ellsworth had waitressed. The restaurant made the most of the severe weather. Even though an auxiliary generator powered it, they served by candlelight, which might have been romantic under other circumstances. Laurel and Aaron were seated across from each other at a small table in a cozy nook in the restaurant’s quieter back room.
Laurel took it all in and thought about Anne, the young woman she’d never had the chance to meet. Her presence seemed to hover over the restaurant like a specter searching for sanctuary. Or so Laurel felt as she took in the busy bar, the full tables, and the people laughing, drinking, and enjoying themselves over a nice meal while they took shelter from the storm.
Many of the restaurant’s patrons stopped talking when Laurel and Aaron entered the room. It was one of those brief but complete silences accompanied by furtive glances, immediately followed by the whispered, yet loud, buzz of uneasy supposition. It was, after all, a small town, and Laurel supposed they’d heard about the police from New York being involved. Most of these people had met Anne at one time or another. Laurel imagined that to them, Anne’s death was a horrifying occurrence that was also fair game for speculation, sprinkled with shock and dispensed with dread. From their furtive glances at her and Aaron, Laurel realized they were curious and maybe a little scared. Talking about it—human nature being what it was—helped keep their fears at bay. Still, the noise was jarring.
It was visibly different for the few employees who were close to Anne. Her friend, Cindy, the waitress who took Anne into her home when she left David Adams, and the restaurant’s manager, Art, who had tried to protect her, seemed genuinely saddened. Both offered to help Laurel and Aaron in any way they could.
After a young, pretty server brought their plates to the table, an uneasy silence settled between them. Laurel picked at her food and pushed it around her plate. Aaron, a detective whose job exposed him to death and its aftermath in many forms many times, didn’t appear as emotionally involved. Plus, he was a man. His appetite certainly didn’t seem to suffer as he enjoyed the well-prepared food.
If only I could do the same. Laurel continued to rearrange her food and think about Anne.
* * *
Aaron took a sip of the robust, ruby red Barolo wine he had ordered and stole a glance at Laurel over the rim of his glass. He was struck again by her beauty. Her brown eyes were downcast and sad, but that couldn’t hide the passion within. His eyes traveled down to her lips and he remembered how they tasted. As delicious as the wine he sipped. He struggled to push personal feelings aside and wrap his mind around the case.
The last hours after Laurel had returned to the station conference room were a revelation. She was in a panic over not being able to reach Jenna, and the possibility of what had happened to her friend seemed to terrify her. Slowly, in bits and pieces, Aaron learned what Laurel had been hiding.
As the storm raged around them, Aaron used all his skills and training as a professional negotiator to calm her down and get her talking.
“Aaron, there’s something I have to tell you,” she repeated, after he moved his hand away from her rain-soaked and tear-stained face. She shook all over and gulped in air. “I can’t keep denying it. It’s too … too dangerous.”
Her simple sentence blindsided him. He wasn’t prepared for the outpouring of honesty. It took guts for her to tell him that she’d been concealing, and his prior history with her made him expect she wouldn’t come clean. He li
stened to her words, his emotions going from anger to fear, to something he wouldn’t allow himself to identify. He looked at her soaking wet and trembling before him and was afraid she was going into shock. Quickly, he yanked his jacket from the back of the chair and walked around the table.
Struggling to control his feelings, he wrapped the jacket around Laurel’s shoulders and gently urged her to sit, enveloping her with his arms to help warm her. He swallowed hard and hit the intercom button on the phone. He asked the patrolman who picked up to bring in some towels from the locker room, along with a mug of hot coffee. He held her until the towels and coffee arrived, the whole time murmuring softly that it would be okay. Then he helped her dry off.
She shivered, and he spoke gently and softly, in an effort to calm her. “What is it? What is it you want to say?” he asked.
She gave one last shudder. “I haven’t been entirely honest about the reason behind my story and what Helen and I are working on. I should have told you before we left the city, but …”
It began to spill out. The idea for a story about hidden identity to help protect women like Anne. The plan to use Matt as a foil to David Adams and her request for Helen to help investigate them both. Laurel spoke nonstop, hand wrapped around the coffee mug the patrolman gave her, absorbing its warmth.
Aaron tried to focus on Laurel’s story and not think about her subterfuge. He held up his hand to slow her down. “Why would you want to investigate your boyfriend?” He was barely able to get the word out.
“I thought Matt would be the perfect choice, the hero of the piece, an upstanding Swiss banker with great credentials and nothing to hide.” Laurel laughed cynically, acknowledging her naïveté. “Another great judgment call on my part.”
Everyone has something to hide. In an unconscious attempt to put some distance between them, Aaron moved to the other side of the table as she continued with her story.