by Cathi Stoler
“I’m tired of your bullshit,” Aaron said. “If I’d known about Matt Kuhn, I would have put it together when I saw his name on the bottom of that letter to David Adams. Laurel told you about the letter, didn’t she, Helen?” The scorn was back, his voice accenting her name snidely. “I didn’t know, did I, because you and Laurel decided not to tell me.”
Aaron took a breath and Helen attempted to speak. He ignored her and ranted on. “There you were, acting all concerned and involved. Inviting me to your place to deal with Laurel and try to prevent her from going to Pennsylvania.” Recognition dawned in his voice. “You knew I’d go with her, didn’t you? You were probably counting on it. Left you free to cook up whatever it is you’ve got in mind, didn’t it?”
“Stop it!” she yelled into the phone. “None of that is true. I can’t undo what happened. What do you want me to say?”
“How about the truth for a change?” He hung up.
Helen set her phone down and put her head in her hands, covering her face. Breathe. Just breathe. She’d known Aaron for years and had only seen him this angry once before. Unfortunately, that involved Laurel as well. Thank God he didn’t mention the dinner. If he caught her in one more lie, it’d be the end of their friendship for sure. She looked up toward the ceiling. Please, God, let the DVD return go as planned.
Tilting Joe’s kitchen chair back on its legs, Helen sighed. No, it hadn’t been a good morning at all. There was one last task to do to prevent it from turning into a terrible afternoon as well.
Helen put her plate in the sink, swept the crumbs from the table into her hand and tossed them into the garbage. She picked up the phone again and punched in Joe’s cell number.
“Hey, big fella. I’m sorry I was so cranky before. Please come home now. I’ve got some information you’re going to want to hear about a man and his banker.”
Chapter 40
Friday, 4:30 p.m.
“Va fa’nculo!” Vic winced as Sal slammed his cards down so hard it made the table jump. Vic and Bennie, Sal’s two captains, were at the Three Aces playing pinochle with their boss and a few of the lackeys who hung out at the social club. Unfortunately for all of them, Sal hadn’t won a hand in the last hour. Not only was Sal upset, he was also in the hole for a few hundred bucks, a combination that did little for his disposition.
Vic looked anywhere but at Sal. He’d been down this road many times before and could tell his boss was right on the edge—just looking for a reason to go crazy. He also knew from firsthand experience anything could happen when Sal was in a patzo mood, and he didn’t want it to happen to him.
One of the younger soldiers at the table, Louie, wasn’t so savvy. “Too bad.” He smiled smugly at the boss as he counted up the points. “Losing’s no big deal. It can happen to anyone. Hang in there. Your luck will change.”
Vic shot Bennie a look, waiting for Sal to react, maybe take out a gun and shoot the kid. To his surprise, Sal ignored the jibe and pushed his chair away from the table. “Deal me out,” Sal said. “I’m going to the office. There are some things I gotta do.” He moved toward his office at the back of the club and called over his shoulder to Angelo, the Three Aces’ waiter, “Bring me a double espresso and a shot of Sambuca. Ange, make it hot and make it fast.”
As soon as Sal was out of the room, Vic let out a sigh and turned toward Louie, shaking his head at the young punk who gave Sal the business.
“What?” Louie looked up from the cards he shuffled. “What’d I do?”
Vic stared at him and shook his head in wonder. “Let me ask you something: are you just stupid, or do you maybe have a death wish?” Vic paused to let his words sink in. “Either way, you ain’t gonna be around too much longer you keep acting like that in front of the boss.”
“I didn’t say nothing. I was just breaking his balls.” Louie turned a sickly shade of white. “I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
“Breakin’ balls ain’t such a good idea when the boss is losing. I think you better take off now and reflect on how you should be handling yourself if you want to get ahead in this crew.”
When Louie was gone, Vic looked at Bennie and jutted his chin sharply toward the club’s office. “He tell you what’s going on?”
“No. You?” Bennie said.
“Nah. Madonna, I think it’s serious.” Vic shook his hand up and down to emphasize his point. “He’s been in some mood all day.”
Bennie nodded in agreement. “You got that right. It’s got something to do with that damn woman detective. He should have clipped her when we paid her a visit the other day.”
Vic shrugged in an I-don’t-get-it-either gesture. “I think he’s meeting her later today. I heard him telling Ralphie he needs him to drive him.”
“Ralphie, huh? That kid’s been sticking his nose up the boss’ ass every chance he gets the last few days. I don’t like it. I think we should keep an eye on him.”
“All right. Whatever. You want an espresso and a shot?”
“Might as well.” Bennie picked up the cards, then glanced toward the back room. “Who knows how long we’re gonna be here.”
* * *
Suave Sal sipped his espresso slowly, savoring its nutty aroma and the sharp licorice taste the Sambuca added. It took all his self-control not to smack that kid Louie from here to Mott Street. He was way out of line. But, today was not the day to teach him a lesson. The little punk would have to wait.
Sal drummed his fingers on the table. Today he had more important things to take care of. He had to stay focused and in control. He was busy tying up all the loose ends on the ATM banking deal his nephew let uncoil. Getting that DVD back was the most important item on the list. If the star of the DVD, who prided himself on being a very recognizable, media-friendly member of the New York Banking Commission, found out he was recorded, he’d panic. They only filmed him as a safety measure, a little insurance against him becoming too greedy. Sal never meant for him to know about the DVD and so far he didn’t.
Sal also didn’t want him ready with a cover-his-ass excuse if it leaked. Sal smiled grimly at the thought. He’d make the guy disappear before he let that happen. They’d find him months from now, floating in Sheepshead Bay. Of course, that’d mean delaying the deal until they could entice someone else in the Consumer Services Division office, and the consortium wouldn’t like that. Not with the profits they’d lose in the meantime. Sal hoped there were no other important details his nephew had let drop.
Sal raised the tiny espresso cup to his lips and took another sip. Much as he hated the idea, he might have to do something about his nephew, too. This deal was the most important one he was in on and the kid just wasn’t handling it right. What was wrong with him, letting some girl get over on him that way and bringing in a private detective to investigate him, Sal Santucci’s nephew? There was no excuse for it, putting himself at risk after all Sal did to protect him and keep their connection concealed. Mateo should be controlling the relationship, not letting this woman walk all over him.
Sal put his fist to the middle of his chest and pushed against his sternum. Thinking about it is giving me agita. Basta. I gotta stop. He swirled the last bit of the espresso around and tossed it back. It slid down his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He put the empty espresso cup down on its saucer. Then there is Helen McCorkendale. Women like her infuriated him. Who did she think she was, looking into his affairs? She already knew too much and what she didn’t know, she’d make it her business to find out. Once he got the DVD back, he’d deal with her, too.
Sal hunched over his desk. He checked his watch, then reached for the phone. It was time to start gathering up those loose ends and tying them up nice and tight.
Chapter 41
Friday, 6:30 p.m.
“How do I look?” Joe turned around so Helen could check him out from every angle. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom for a full ten minutes, examining himself from head to toe. He wa
s outfitted for the evening in a black chauffeur’s uniform, complete with visored cap. “You can’t see my gun, can you?” He turned sideways and patted down the front of his jacket.
Helen smiled at him. “Oh, Joseph, my man, you look like a proper English chauffeur right out of a Masterpiece Theatre production.” She reached up and kissed his cheek lightly. “Very handsome and very efficient.”
They had discussed over and over every detail of the plan for the evening, and both thought it would be a good idea to have Joe as nearby as possible. It would be plausible for Helen to have a car and driver—there were always half a dozen parked in front of the restaurant. Acting as her chauffeur was a perfect cover for Joe, and it gave Helen some protection should she need it. It would also provide a means of getting the Imperioles out of harm’s way if necessary.
Helen told Joe about the Matt Kuhn and David Adams connection Laurel and Aaron discovered in Pennsylvania and Adams’ scheme for the mob to finance the fake ATMs.
“Santucci’s been pretty clever about keeping his nephew out of things until now, but if that DVD gets leaked, he’ll blow the deal and his nephew’s cover as well,” Joe said.
“Are you sure everyone’s ready?” Helen asked.
“Absolutely. We’ve got it covered. The OCU guys are already in a van on Crosby Street a little way down from the restaurant. There’s a big crowd around today, some new department store opening or something. They had no trouble pretending to be workers checking the electrical connections of each business on the street. They installed a camera in the restaurant’s downstairs lounge and a high-powered mike to catch the action when Sal arrives. Plus, a couple of my guys will be inside, just like we planned—one at the bar and one having dinner with his ‘girlfriend,’ a female operative he’s worked with before.” He looked at Helen carefully. “We’re all set. How about you? Sure you want to go through with this?” Joe shook his head. “The Kuhn kid makes it personal for Santucci. He’s desperate to get the DVD back and that makes the whole operation much more dangerous.”
Helen listened to Joe, but in her mind’s eye, she saw Sal Santucci’s cold face smiling at her tauntingly as if to say you’ll never get me. She brought herself back to the present and shrugged. “I’m as sure as I’ll ever be.”
He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ll be right outside, just a few yards away.” Joe handed her a small Beretta to slip into her evening purse. “You’ll have this, too.”
“I know.” Helen felt the cold surface of the small but powerful gun. “It’s gonna be a piece of cake.” She believed it, really she did. She’d just keep telling herself that again and again until it was true.
Chapter 42
Friday, 7:00 p.m.
The phone rang six times before Laurel answered with a breathless, “Hello?”
“It’s me, Aaron.”
“Hi. What’s up?” She took a deep breath and tried to keep her tone neutral.
“You seem rushed. You okay?” Aaron said.
Oh, yeah. Visions of the evening ahead played through her mind. Just wonderful. “Shouldn’t I be?” There was a hint of sarcasm underlying her words. “Or is there something else you forgot to tell me not to do?”
“Don’t. I thought we were okay about things. I just wanted to check in with you.” He hesitated a moment. “I wanted to make sure there were no problems with canceling tonight’s dinner.”
Irritated, Laurel rose from the arm of the couch and started prowling around the room. So that’s why he’s calling. “None at all. No problems. Anything else on your mind?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Well, that’s good because I have to go now.”
Laurel hung up the phone. That was stupid. You shouldn’t have gotten off so quickly. Now he’ll wonder why.
Anxiety, mixed with hostility, began to bubble up inside her. She took a deep gulp of air but couldn’t let go of the brief conversation or the feeling of panic it raised. How dare he call to check up on me? I told him I’d cancel the dinner. Her inner voice was in turmoil. I thought he believed me. What will he do when he finds out I didn’t tell the truth?
“C’mon, Laurel,” she said to her own image in the mirror over her couch. “Just finish getting dressed and get on with it.”
Laurel’s attitude during their brief conversation didn’t fool Aaron. He spent more years than he cared to remember around devious people who tried every trick in the book to outsmart the cops with a little misdirection. Most of them failed miserably. Aaron recognized the signs and knew right off when that happened.
In his cluttered office in the Thirteenth Precinct, Aaron sat back in his chair and put his feet up on his battered desk. He had a lot to think about and a short time in which to act. Protocol demanded he share the information he had uncovered about Sal Santucci and the ATM scam with the OCU detectives who had been on the mobster’s case for years. Aaron put his career on the line by holding back. Because of the twists and turns the case took, and Laurel’s involvement, he wanted to solve it. Even though they butted heads at every turn, he knew her motives were heartfelt. He believed he owed it to her to personally get David Adams and bring closure to Anne Ellsworth’s death.
Her subterfuge was transparent. Understanding that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Laurel was lying to him again and it hurt.
She was strong willed and determined … a combination that often added up to trouble. “Damn!” He smacked his hand on the desk. He was certain she hadn’t canceled her dad’s birthday dinner as promised. She was going ahead with her plan to confront Matt. It was stupid and dangerous. He had explained all that to her, but obviously it didn’t mean enough. Maybe their lovemaking didn’t, either.
Pushing that notion away, Aaron channeled his frustration into formulating a plan. He leaned back farther in his chair, until the springs howled in protest. He wouldn’t be able to stop her, but he’d do his damndest to protect her. If that bothered her, well screw her, too.
Chapter 43
Friday, 8:00 p.m.
Gordon’s Department Store was killing Helen. The “some new department store opening or something,” Joe had mentioned was in fact the pre-opening party for Gordon’s new SoHo store, and they pulled out all the stops. It was like a street fair gone wild. Employees were handing out posters and pins. There were mobs and mobs of people everywhere, waiting in line all along Broadway, spilling back toward Spring and Crosby Street—all just to get into the store. The noise level was deafening, and even in the relatively soundproofed interior of their car, Joe and Helen heard the din from several blocks away, which is where they came to a standstill.
Traffic wasn’t moving, not even inching along. It was backed up to Houston Street with cabs and limousines filled with first-night partygoers leaning on their horns and adding to the bedlam. Helen wanted to scream. If she spotted Michael Benedict, the store’s CEO, she’d jump out and strangle him. She definitely planned to write him a note about the problems the opening caused her.
Helen and Joe sat at the same traffic light for ten minutes. It was frustrating as hell and it didn’t even help that they traveled in an extremely plush, comfortable, and large Mercedes limousine, which Joe had borrowed from an old friend. The police, on hand to oversee the event, were letting the celebrity-filled cars through first—never mind about the rest of the well-heeled crowd, or the poor dumb schmucks just trying to get downtown to the tunnel and home to New Jersey. They’d just have to wait to get moving, even if it took all night.
“Dammit.” Helen spotted the mayor exiting his car a few blocks down, waving to the crowd as he moved into the store, which elicited a loud round of mixed cheers and jeers. “Forget about getting to the restaurant early. I just hope I make it there before Suave Sal so I can stow the DVD.”
Joe checked his watch. “Let’s give it a little more time. If we’re not at Spring Street in the next five minutes, you can get out and walk. I’ll bring the car around and wait outside with the other cars
and drivers, just like we planned.”
Helen sat back against the rich interior of the Mercedes, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Under any other circumstances, she’d love being in this car, having Joe drive her all around town, like Mrs. Adela Bradley, Gladys Mitchell’s famous fictional English sleuth whose chauffeur, George Moody, it was implied, was also her protector and lover. Not tonight. She was nervous enough as it was and this waiting only made it worse. She told Sal Santucci she’d leave the DVD tucked under the worn leather club chair next to the phone outside the men’s room and that it’d be in place by 8:30 p.m. Figuring he’d make her sweat a little and arrive late, she thought she had plenty of time. Helen and Joe hadn’t counted on this madness. If the DVD wasn’t under that chair when Sal looked for it, Helen didn’t want to imagine what would happen to her.
“That’s it. I’m out of here.” Helen gathered up her stole, which she artfully draped over one arm to conceal the DVD case in her hand, and picked up her evening bag, its weight a reassuring reminder of the small caliber Beretta inside.
Joe put the car in park, jumped out, and opened the door for her. “Just make sure you’re there if I need you,” she whispered in his ear as he helped her from the car.
“Yes, madam.” He tipped his cap. Helen made her way halfway down the street, looked over her shoulder and gave him a backward wave before being swallowed up by the crowd.
* * *
Joe slid back behind the wheel and edged the powerful machine forward a few feet before coming to a dead stop once again. More high-wattage celebrities arrived and made an entrance, which caused a flurry of popping flashbulbs and cheering from the crowd. Twenty minutes later, he made it to Spring Street and was about to turn into the block. A beefy NYPD patrolman planted himself in front of the car, then moved around to the side as Joe slid the window open. “Sorry, buddy, street’s closed right now. Keep going.”