by Cathi Stoler
“When I mentioned the story to him, he began to act weird.” She put the mug down and absently played with the wet towels piled on the table. “Later that day, I thought I saw him on the street in New York, when he was supposed to be in Siena, and when I called Italy, I couldn’t find him.”
She fixed her eyes on Aaron, as if searching for acknowledgment of the tale she related. He kept his eyes focused on her, his expression attentive and watchful, yet neutral. He waited for her to continue and thought about the information she and Helen had withheld. Trying to mask these thoughts from her, he speculated on what else Helen might have kept from him, and realized his mind had drifted away from what Laurel was saying.
“… and when we were driving here this morning, that call I missed? It was from Jenna. She told me she had some news, some information about Matt and sounded scared.” Laurel shook her head. “You know Jenna, you know she’s very assertive, and has no qualms about getting what she wants. There’s not much that frightens her.” Aaron remembered the call and Laurel’s evasiveness about it, but let her continue in her own time without interrupting.
“I tried to call her back and Tony said she was meeting with Matt. I couldn’t believe it. Knowing Jenna, I’m sure she’ll confront him with whatever it is she found out.” Laurel twisted her hands together nervously. “I tried her cell as well and panicked when I couldn’t reach her. Especially after … after I found this.” She picked up the file she’d read before her trip to the coffee shop, before the outbreak of the storm. She turned to a letter that was its last page and handed it across the desk to him. “Please, don’t be angry with me.” She looked up at him. “I just needed time to think, and try to figure this all out.”
Aaron remembered scanning the file while Laurel was out. He had noted the signature at the bottom of the letter, but the name meant nothing to him at the time. Fury washed over him like a flash flood roaring through a canyon. He quelled it as best he could. “Were you planning to tell me your boyfriend was connected to David Adams and the Santucci family, or were you hoping it would all just go away?” He threw the challenge in her face.
“No … no … it’s not that way…” She paused, seeming to collect her thoughts. “What are the odds of these two people—people I’m involved with and writing about—being connected? How could I know?” Her voice was heated. “How could a coincidence like this happen?”
“Coincidences like this happen all the time, especially between thieves and murderers. So, tell me,” Aaron was barely able to conceal the disgust in this voice, “did you know about this? Did you? Did Helen? Just when did the two of you begin to suspect your Mr. Perfect boyfriend?”
“Stop it!” Laurel tossed off his jacket onto the pile of wet towels and leaned across the desk. Her temper surfaced, and then fizzled. She rested her head in her hands. “I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do, or what to believe.”
Aaron stabbed at the intercom button and asked that Detective Schnall join them. The big man complied and Aaron calmed himself enough to fill him in on the latest developments. It was Norm’s turn to get furious. His face turned red and his voice hardened as he addressed Laurel icily. “I let you come here and be part of this investigation because Aaron trusted you. I can see we both made a mistake. This isn’t a game or some story for a woman’s magazine. Anne Ellsworth is dead. Murdered. That’s what matters.”
Aaron had paced the room while Norm continued to berate Laurel. His old feelings for her threatened to surface and part of him wanted to rush in and rescue her. But the big man was right. Laurel needed to feel the consequences of her actions if she’d ever learn from her mistakes. He let Norm rant at her for a few more minutes until his wrath and frustration were spent. From past experience, Aaron knew that Norm would calm down as quickly as he flared up, and no permanent damage would be done. Aaron slipped out of the room. He wanted to use the detective’s phone out of Laurel’s hearing to call his squad in New York and pass on this new information.
“Identity Theft Squad, Detective Waxman speaking.” The phone was answered on the first ring.
“It’s Aaron. I need you on something right away.” He tucked the phone into his shoulder and spoke softly.
“What’s going on, boss?” Aaron could almost see Larry reaching for a pen and pad as he spoke.
“I want you to set up a tail on a guy possibly connected to the thing here. His name is Matt Kuhn, K-U-H-N. He’s a banker with ZurichBank AG on Park Avenue, so the particulars shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“How does he fit in?” Waxman asked.
“I’m still working that out,” Aaron said. “Keep it on the down low. He might be a link to the Santucci family, as well, and we don’t want it to leak we’re looking at him.”
“No kidding!” The detective hadn’t been able to hide his surprise. “Man, I’d love to get something on that bastard.”
“Tell me about it.” Aaron shifted the phone deeper into his chin and momentarily flashed on Laurel in the other room.
“Make sure he doesn’t know we’re on to him. Do an NCIC search, too. Keep this real close. Just the team. Understand?”
“I’m on it.” Aaron heard the detective clicking away at his computer. “I’ll get what I can find, set up the tail, and get back to you.”
Aaron thanked Larry and hung up.
When he had walked back into the room, the intercom buzzed. It was the Medical Examiner for Norm. He wanted to review the preliminary report on Anne Ellsworth’s case and needed the detective in the morgue.
Norm suggested tersely that Laurel and Aaron take a break, maybe get some dinner, and then they’d talk more. The weather was still causing serious problems. The meteorologists predicted several more hours of severe thunderstorms, and there was a tornado watch in effect. It wasn’t likely they could leave for New York until the morning.
Norm left them for a few minutes, and when he returned, he told them he had booked a pair of rooms at the Doylestown Manor on West State Street, just a few blocks away. Then he left for the morgue with a parting shot at Laurel. “I’m not through with you yet.”
They departed the station, Aaron’s mind churning with unanswered questions. Laurel had tried reaching Jenna several times but still hadn’t managed to get through. The weather and blackout disrupted both land and cell service, and there wasn’t much they could do about it. Aaron was lucky he had been able to reach his squad. He tried to call Helen, as well. All he had gotten was a call failed message.
Now Aaron picked up his wine and took another sip, reflecting on the situation. As things stood, it seemed they’d spend the night in Doylestown. Aaron cast a surreptitious glance at Laurel. He was angry with her, worried about her, and—worst of all—falling for her again. His mind and his emotions were in turmoil and he was being drawn down into a whirlpool as captivating as the deep red wine he swirled in his glass. Taking one last gulp, he looked at Laurel. He didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep tonight, no matter what happened next.
Chapter 34
Thursday, 10:45 p.m.
Helen’s head spun. She’d been writing in her notebook for hours. Now, sitting cross-legged in front of the pile of notes, papers, and folders spread out before her, she rubbed her temples. She sat on the floor of Joe’s living room in his Gramercy Park apartment, a beautiful square in the heart of New York City with its own private village green.
She loved Joe’s apartment, with its impressive proportions, high ceilings, and graceful French doors adorned with ornate moldings that framed each room like eloquent quotation marks. The apartment was located on the west side of the square on the second floor of one of the block’s older, more elegant row houses. It offered an unobstructed view of the park below.
Helen stretched and caused a small flurry of air to riffle the pages in front of her as if a ghostly hand were trailing its fingers lightly over them. She sighed, closed her notebook, uncrossed her legs, and stood up. Picking her way carefully over and around the pile
s of work scattered at her feet, she crossed to the set of French doors that led to the apartment’s pièce de résistance—a tiny jewel of a balcony. Helen pressed her face up close against one of the small panes of glass and felt traces of the cold night air. She felt like a child waiting for a parent to arrive home, or in her case, waiting for Joe Santangelo to return with their midnight snack. She mentally assessed all she had learned in the last few hours, especially during the call from her favorite new phone pal and mob guy, Mr. Suave Sal Santucci.
Even though she was safe and secure in Joe’s apartment, just the thought of that slimy bastard gave her the heebie jeebies. His second call to her office had been expected, but sweat-producing nonetheless. She imagined him sitting there, the smug SOB, king of the Three Aces, patting back his silver mane, shooting his cuffs, then picking up the phone to terrorize her.
“Helen, Helen,” he said, his tone avuncular after she told him she’d be returning the DVD, “I knew I could count on you.”
The patronizing bastard. “I appreciate your faith in me, Sal,” she said, friendly in kind. “I’d like to return it to you as soon as possible.” Steeling herself, she tossed out the hook and hoped he’d swallow the bait. “I’m going to be having dinner downtown tomorrow evening at Provence Sud on Spring Street. Perhaps we could meet there at nine or so.” She waited for a reply.
“I see you chose a public place. Don’t you trust me?” His question sent a chill down Helen’s spine. He had her where he wanted her.
They discussed the details and came to an agreement. Helen said her goodbye quickly, eager for the conversation to be over.
Before hanging up, Suave Sal couldn’t resist tossing out one last threat. “I know I can count on you to make sure no copies of this merchandise are left in circulation.” He paused and the effect wasn’t lost on her. “That would be a terrible mistake.” All the joviality was gone from his voice. “Very bad for all concerned. I’m sure you understand.”
Helen gulped and hoped he couldn’t sense her trepidation. “I understand perfectly,” she replied as calmly as possible.
Joe wasn’t home when Helen arrived, so she used the spare key he left for her and let herself in. She got settled and dove into the information Maxine had gathered on Matt. Most of the file centered on the usual—credit history, employment records, residences, school background, acquaintances. Some of the information matched what Helen had already received from Laurel, and it positioned Matt as a regular, upstanding guy.
Maxine had poked deeper. She called the BMW dealership on Fifty-Seventh Street and confirmed what Helen suspected: Matt Kuhn paid cash for his pretty new Beemer, over sixty-five thousand dollars. Unless you were a very busy drug dealer, or selling AK-47s to the Iraqis, forking over that kind of money was a stretch, especially for a solid, mid-level bank executive. She checked for a mortgage on the loft in SoHo and found it was owned outright by an offshore corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. Since Max couldn’t turn up any paperwork linking the corporation to the ZurichBank AG, they had to assume the loft wasn’t a perk of the job. Matt paid the maintenance and it was extremely low, just five hundred a month. A regular steal, no pun intended. Helen made a note for Max to dig further and see if they could find out who owned the building and who was subsidizing the apartment’s maintenance.
Max also contacted an old friend of Helen’s in Zurich, Pieter Schneider, a retired investigator who worked for the Swiss Banking Commission for many years. Max explained what Helen needed and Herr Schneider agreed to look into the Kuhn family background. His search dug up the mother lode; they hit pay dirt. Between Max and Herr Schneider, they exposed Matt Kuhn for what he was—a liar and a cheat, although as Helen read through the report, she could see it was much more complicated than that.
Matt Kuhn started life as Mateo Taurone, son of Bernardino Taurone and Angelina Iannini of Rocca d’Aspidi, Calabria, in the tip of the boot in southern Italy. Mountain of Snakes. How aptly named. When little Mateo was just two years old, Bernardino, an enforcer for the local Mafia chieftain, was murdered in a gang war between Rocca d’Aspidi and the lovely people from a rival Mafia band based in the town of Castrovillari in the neighboring province of Cozenza. It was only a matter of time before the assassini came back to find Angelina and her son and finish the job; it was never wise to leave relatives alive who might seek revenge at some point in the future.
My God. Helen almost laughed. It sounds like they all could have auditioned for The Godfather. She continued reading Maxine’s report. Spiriting the young Mateo away in the dead of night, Angelina traveled to Switzerland and brought him to the home of her younger sister, Carmela, who recently moved to Zurich when she wed Edvard Kuhn, a Swiss engineer.
Helen’s nose twitched with anticipation. All the loose threads were weaving together into a magic carpet that would take her where she wanted to go. The connection was there and she was about to find it. Angelina and Carmela also had an older stepbrother from their mother’s first marriage, Salvatore. An up and coming underboss, he had emigrated to America a few years earlier and was incensed when he learned of his stepbrother-in-law’s death and his stepsister’s situation. Angelina returned home against his advice to settle her husband’s affairs and smuggle out the lire they amassed over the years. When, as she originally feared, the assassin returned to Rocca d’Aspidi and murdered her, Salvatore swore revenge. He contacted an assassin and conducted a vendetta that made his reputation in Calabria and spread like wildfire across the Atlantic to New York.
As she read, Helen shuddered. All her training as a detective told her that what was coming next was going to be bad. She had no idea how bad. Salvatore Santucci ordered sixteen people killed, including Rocca d’Aspidi’s mayor, several members of the Town Council, and the head of the Carabinieri, as well as the neighboring province’s rival Mafioso band that had started the war. After the blood dried in the hot Calabrian sun, the name Salvatore Santucci was legend. He was a made man many times over. His sister, Angelina, and her husband, Bernardino, were avenged and his nephew Mateo was safe.
Helen remembered the serpent-shaped “S” logo on the cassette and how she and Joe joked about it being the Santucci coat of arms. Holy shit. It certainly was a symbol with meaning.
As she looked up from the page, Helen gulped in a huge lungful of air. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath. Matt was Sal’s nipote, his nephew. No wonder Sal was so determined to protect him and the carefully constructed identity created for him as a supposedly legitimate banker. Matt Kuhn could go places Sal Santucci would never have entrée to and set up deals that appeared to be squeaky clean. It was perfect. Or had been. Now Helen was on to him, thanks to a little investigative know-how and Laurel’s idea for a hidden identity story.
Her hand went ice cold and she dropped the page she read. Helen put her considerable fear aside and thought of Laurel again. She had to tell her what she had learned about Matt. She had to make Laurel understand he couldn’t tolerate anyone looking too closely at who he was—especially not a girlfriend who wanted to write about him for all the world to see.
Helen picked up the phone and dialed Laurel’s cell. She’d been trying to reach Laurel and Aaron for hours. The storm that was still raging across Pennsylvania was disrupting the landlines and the towers that served cellphones. It had something to do with the microwaves, or so the five or six phone company employees she spoke with over the course of the afternoon and evening told her. She punched in Laurel’s number again and this time it rang. Her heart gave a little lurch; the call was going through. Laurel said, “Hi,” and Helen started to reply before she realized it was the first word of her voicemail message. “Damn.” Helen left a message after the beep. “Laurel, it’s Helen. Please, please call me as soon as possible. It’s urgent we speak.”
She hung up. “Where is that girl at this time of night? What could she possibly be doing in the middle of a storm that’s so important she’s not answering her phone when it’s f
inally working?” she shouted aloud in frustration. She decided to try Aaron and was disappointed again when his voicemail kicked in. She left a message and clicked off.
Looking at the phone in her hand, she wondered about the case and what Laurel and Aaron were discovering. Remembering how they circled each other like lions ready to fight, she hoped they weren’t at each other’s throats. She pictured them in her mind’s eye. Her imagination jumped ahead and she couldn’t help but speculate. “No,” she said adamantly, answering the question that flitted through her brain. “They wouldn’t, would they?”
Chapter 35
Thursday, 11:49 p.m.
Laurel’s cellphone rang. It played the “Campanista,” the quirky tune that made her think of her great-aunt Dorothy, who used to sing made-up lyrics to the tune when Laurel was a baby: “Hum-phrey-Bo-gart-Wid-mark-is-tough-er.” Laurel never knew what it meant, just that it made her smile. Only, she wasn’t smiling now. She was in the hallway, standing halfway between her room and Aaron’s like a scared rabbit sensing danger but unable to move in any direction. She heard the phone’s music continue playing through her hotel room door.
Should she run back and answer it? What if it was another call like the one she just received? Should she continue on to Aaron’s room and let him know the phones were back? Her mind was a maze, pulling her in every direction like Silly Putty in the hands of a two-year-old.
Laurel leaned back against the corridor’s gold-flocked wallpaper and slid down to the floor. I’ll just sit here in my T-shirt and boxer shorts and act like I’m part of the décor. If anyone passes, I’ll pretend I got tired looking for the ice machine. Of course, there are no other guests and no ice since there’s no power, but who cares?
The inn was quiet. Because of the storm and power outage, she and Aaron were the only people registered. Detective Schnall had persuaded the Doylestown Manor’s proprietor to accommodate them on short notice. Mrs. Hortensia Clair, or so the sign at the front desk proclaimed, didn’t really want to open for guests, especially with the storm. Laurel figured she owed the detective a favor for some service rendered in the past; otherwise, why accept a guest who had cancelled a reservation the day before?