by Cathi Stoler
TELLING LIES
Cathi Stoler
Seattle, WA
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information contact: www.Camelpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Copyright © 2011 by Cathi Stoler
ISBN: 978-1-60381-844-5 (ePub)
For my husband, Paul, and my daughter, Lauren,
I love you. You are the best family anyone could have.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my publisher, Catherine Treadgold for taking a chance on an unknown author.
Great big thanks to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, for all her hard work, patience and encouragement over the last few years, and for working with me to make this book as good as possible. Since we share a birthday and our daughters have the same name, I think this relationship was meant to be.
Special thanks to all the family and friends whose names I appropriated for characters in this story. For those of you who might feel left out, don’t worry, your turn will come.
Thanks to my good friend, Larry Waxman, speech coach and director extraordinaire who has made reading in public almost seem like fun.
I would never have been able to write this book without the help and support of my two writing group partners, Terry Jennings and Kathy Wilson.
Thank you for being such good friends, for your incredible support and for reading and re-reading every chapter. Your insights and comments made it all so much better.
Last, but not least, I’d like to thank my family—my daughter, Lauren, for believing in me, encouraging me and lending me a variation on her lovely name for my heroine—and my husband, Paul, for his love and support every step of the way and for putting up with me even when I hogged the computer.
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.”
T. S. Eliot
Prologue
On February 23, 2006, the New York City Medical Examiner’s office announced that it had exhausted all possible means of identifying the remains of the victims of the World Trade Center attack. Of the 2,751 men and women who perished on September 11, 2001, 1,161 would remain unaccounted for.
Or perhaps not.
Chapter One
The Uffizi Museum
Florence, Italy
Aaron’s gray eyes held a touch of mischief as he crossed the Botticelli room in Laurel’s direction. “What are you up to?” she laughed, catching the mischief in his expression. “Planning to put the cuffs on and haul me away? You won’t have to. I’m ready to leave. I’ve had my Botticelli fix for the day.”
“Cuffs, huh? Now, there’s a thought.” He grinned then pointed at his watch. “Have to save that for later. We should go now. We have to pack, and I want to grab pizza at Trattoria Pino before we catch the train to Venice.”
“Okay.” She held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll come quietly.” As they moved toward the graceful arch at the gallery’s exit, Laurel turned her head to take one last look at The Birth of Venus, the painting she had come to the Uffizi to see. She’d gone just a few feet when she walked into a man coming from the other direction. Embarrassed, she apologized immediately, looking at the well-dressed man and assuming he was a native. “Mi dispiace, signore. I’m so sorry.”
The tallish, dark-haired man bowed his head slightly, hand reaching toward his forehead. “Non c‘ è nessun problema, signorina.” He continued on his way.
Aaron took her arm and firmly led her away. “Enough art. Let’s go eat.”
As they walked along the museum’s wide corridor with its impressive Roman and Greek sculptures on one side and its long-windowed views of Florence peeking through like picture-perfect postcards on the other, Laurel felt disconcerted. She glanced back in the direction of the Botticelli room several times, eyes narrowing, as if looking for something she’d left behind, yet not knowing what.
Soon they were outside in the brilliant sunshine headed for the Ponte Vecchio Bridge and Trattoria Pino. But Laurel’s bubbly mood, inspired by the visit to the museum, was broken. She stared at Aaron, who was focusing on the sights around them rather than on her. Finally, he looked at her and realized that something was wrong.
“Are you okay?” Concern crept into Aaron’s voice.
“Did that man I bumped into look familiar?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Are you sure?” Laurel stopped in the middle of the street, forcing other pedestrians to move around them.
“I haven’t seen him before,” Aaron answered thoughtfully. “Maybe he works in one of the shops here.” He gestured toward the riverfront street they were on and the crowded Ponte Vecchio Bridge beyond. The area was a tightly packed mix of jewelry, clothing and gift stores, stalls, and street vendors that was always teeming with people. “Or maybe you noticed him at one of the tourist attractions. Does it matter?”
Laurel ignored his question. Instead, as they continued along the crowded thoroughfare, she frowned and bit her lower lip, mentally recalling the quick glimpse she’d gotten of the man. Well dressed, in a fitted navy blue suit. Dark eyes under heavy brows. Black hair worn a bit long. A purposeful stride, shoulders hunched forward as he walked away. “I was wrong,” she murmured more to herself than to Aaron. “He’s not an Italian. He’s an American, even though the few words of Italian he spoke were flawless.” She nodded, as if agreeing with her own assessment.
“Laurel,” Aaron began in a questioning tone, “what difference does it make? He was just some stranger you bumped into.”
“No, he’s not a stranger.” She grabbed his arm as she stopped dead in her tracks. “I know him,” She turned abruptly and started running back through the throngs toward the Uffizi.
“Wait! What are you doing?” Startled by her behavior, Aaron began to follow, trying to catch up.
“I know him. And he’s been dead for the last nine years,” she tossed over her shoulder as she turned a corner and disappeared from view.
Chapter Two
Office of the Director of Security
The Uffizi Museum
Florence, Italy
Laurel sat in front of Dottore Coppodello’s polished oak desk and watched him watching her. A good-looking man in his mid-fifties, he had slightly graying hair, a pointy Roman nose and warm brown eyes that looked as though they’d seen it all. Except perhaps for a crazy American woman chasing after a dead man.
When she’d reached the entrance to the Uffizi, she’d tried to run past the guard and back into the museum. “Signorina! Signorina. Basta! Basta! Dov’é il suo bigletto?” He wouldn’t let her pass without a ticket. Laurel searched through her purse, looking for the ticket she’d used earlier, but couldn’t find it. She explained quickly in Italian that she’d already paid and needed to reenter the museum to look for a friend—well, not exactly a friend, but someone she knew. By the time Laurel had finished her explanation and, in frustration had decided to buy another ticket, a crowd had formed—it was Italy after all—and Aaron had appeared by her side. The guard didn’t know what to make of this persistent American woman, so he did what any smart Italian functionary would do. He told her to wait and called his superior. Aaron, who didn’t understand the natives as well as Laurel, didn’t realize that the more things escalated, the higher up you had to go to fix them
.
Enter the good dottore, the Chief of Security for the Uffizi. Now, here they were in his office, and Laurel had already recounted her story several times. Aaron, off to the side, was pacing the office’s gleaming wide-plank floor, the slight scowl on his face telegraphing to Laurel that he was wondering where all this was leading.
Dottore Coppodello had just ordered coffee. “Per favore, please, signorina.” He lifted both hands in front of him in supplication and shrugged his shoulders. “As I explained already, there is nothing I can do. The man you saw … it is impossible to know where he went. There are forty-five rooms here.” He looked toward Aaron for help. “He could be in any one of them, or anywhere else by now.”
Laurel shook her head stubbornly. “You don’t understand. I’m positive it was my friend Monica’s husband, Jeff Sargasso. I have to find him.”
“But Signorina Imperiole,” Dottore Coppodello glanced toward Aaron again, trying to enlist his support in dealing with this crazy woman, “perhaps the man today, he just looked like him.” He lifted his eyebrows to the ceiling. “Your friend, you said he was killed in the attack on the World Trade Center, no? Then, it could not be him.” His hands fluttered up again, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.
Laurel knew that both Aaron and the dottore thought she’d gone off the deep end. She couldn’t blame them. Out on the street, it had been as if a snapshot she’d taken had suddenly developed in front of her eyes. When she realized that the man she’d bumped into at the museum was Jeff, everything else went flying out of her head. It was him. She was sure of it. His body language. His walk. The tilt of his head. She’d known Jeff for ten years, and she wasn’t mistaken, no matter what Aaron or the dottore believed. Yet, if it was Jeff, the situation was monstrous. Laurel remembered how devastated Monica had been when she realized Jeff was missing. She’d spent days checking the hospitals and shelters, talking to the police and the Red Cross, all to no avail. Laurel had been with Monica when she learned that Jeff was presumed dead. And, she’d shared her rage and pain when she realized his body had been lost forever, that she had nothing to bury of her husband but a memory. How could a man do this to the people who loved him? How could Jeff be alive and not let Monica or anyone know?
A discreet knock on the door brought Laurel out of her reverie. Dottore Coppodello’s secretary entered the office with coffee and placed the tray with its elegant silver espresso pot and china tazzine cups on the end of his desk. “Well, thank you for your time.” Laurel rose from her chair, mentally turning him off. “Perhaps you’re right, Dottore Coppodello,” his not so covert looks in Aaron’s direction convincing her she’d have to pursue this on her own. “I was probably mistaken. I’m sorry to have bothered you and taken up so much of your time.”
“It was no bother, signorina.” He rose, his relief apparent, the coffee forgotten. Coming around his desk, he shook her hand, then Aaron’s, indicating that their meeting was over. “I’m sure the loss of your friend was very difficult.” He walked them to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more help.”
Laurel remained silent as she and Aaron made their way through the spacious corridors of the museum for the second time that afternoon, their footsteps ringing softly on the ancient marble floor. “Well?” he asked when they were outside once again, touching her lightly on the arm. “Are you going to tell me what that was really all about?”
Laurel looked up at Aaron’s concerned face, the joy they’d shared just a few hours blown away like a twig in the wind. “Yes, I will. But it’s a long story, so we’ll have to take the later train to Venice.”
Chapter Three
Lungarno
Florence, Italy
The man never faltered. He’d kept his composure and maintained a steady pace as he walked through the Botticelli Room and slipped into a back corridor and out a side exit of the museum.
Standing in the shadows under the museum’s colonnaded portico, he watched the river flow below him as he struggled to calm his mind and bring his anger under control.
To see Laurel Imperiole face-to-face after nearly eight years! Just when he was starting to feel safe. “Fuck,” he muttered aloud, slipping into English instead of the carefully cultivated Italian he always spoke. What was he going to do? He was almost certain that she hadn’t recognized him. Nothing in her eyes or her brief apology for nearly knocking him down indicated she had known it was him.
They’d been friends once. Well, she’d actually been friends with his wife from their days at Barnard. They’d had many dinners together. From time to time, late at night when he couldn’t stave off the guilt, he recalled some of those pleasant evenings from the past. Laurel had been interested in starting a small art collection and had asked his opinion about various works she was thinking of purchasing. He remembered that she’d done her homework and was up-to-date on the facts about each of the artists she was considering. He also remembered that she could be a nosy bitch, relentless when she was working on a story, checking and rechecking every fact. It was not a good sign that they’d crossed paths now.
Over the last nine years, he’d become someone new. He’d changed his appearance considerably, substituting colored contacts for glasses, darkening and restyling his hair, opting for more elegant European suits over the casual slacks and sports jackets he’d worn before. But more importantly, he’d changed his life, going from American to European step-by-step, slowly building a history and a business as a very discreet and exclusive art broker. If certain people found out that he was … No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let anyone jeopardize the existence he’d created. He had to think clearly, put his fury aside. He looked down at his hands, clenched around the envelope he’d been carrying, and flashed on how good it would feel right now to put them around Laurel Imperiole’s neck.
Don’t lose it, he told himself, flexing his fingers and bringing himself back to the present. There’s too much at stake. More than Laurel Imperiole could imagine.
He’d need to be absolutely certain she hadn’t recognized him. Smoothing down the front of his jacket, he stepped out of the shadows of the portico into the sunlight. Moving deliberately, he slipped back into his usual calm, cool, and collected persona, a plan already taking shape as he walked away from the museum. He was just an average man enjoying one more beautiful day in Italy.
Chapter Four
Trattoria Pino
Florence, Italy
Aaron was making short work of his pizza margherita. He and Laurel were seated at a small table in the outdoor café of Trattoria Pino. They’d left the museum and walked to the restaurant, arriving during the quiet time between lunch and the cocktail hour. On this warm and sunny afternoon, when the tourists were still touring and the natives were still working, the café was virtually deserted. Sheltered under a huge ombrellino quadrato, Aaron observed Laurel’s troubled expression, which changed from sad to sadder in the dappled light of the large umbrella’s shade.
As head of New York City’s Identity Theft Squad, he was happy to be in Italy with Laurel and away from his squad room with its high profile cases. When they’d met, it had been because of a murder. They’d come to Italy in hopes of putting the past behind them and to explore where their relationship was going. Today’s events had seemingly brought their fragile happiness crashing down around them.
Aaron had wanted Laurel to fill him in on the details of Jeff Sargasso’s death as soon as they arrived, but she’d insisted that they order and eat first. Watching her move the antipasto she’d chosen around and around her plate, he suspected that she was just buying time to collect her thoughts.
Picking up the bottle of Pinot Grigio that sat on the table between them and refilling their glasses, Aaron felt that he’d waited long enough. “Okay, why don’t you tell me about Jeff Sargasso and what he has to do with the man you saw today.”
* * *
Laurel took a large sip of the tangy white wine. Setting the glass down on the table, she looked directly a
t Aaron and began to speak in a precise and factual manner, as though presenting an important case. “The man I saw today is Jeff Sargasso, husband of Monica, and, unbeknownst to him, father of Brianna.” Laurel paused for another sip of wine, trying to keep the emotion that was rising inside her out of her voice. “On September eleventh, Jeff left their apartment on West Eighty-first Street at seven a.m. for an early morning meeting at the World Trade Center. Jeff owns, or owned, Sargasso Gallery, which bought and sold pricey works of art. He was scheduled to meet with Alfred Hammersmith, the Chairman of Hammersmith and Mann Brokerage, at their offices on the one hundred first floor in the north tower at eight a.m.”
Aaron held up a hand, interrupting her. “The Alfred Hammersmith? The Demon of Wall Street?”