Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  “One and the same.” Laurel hunched forward, looking down at the table, unable to meet Aaron’s eyes, and twisted her hands together, a gesture that Aaron identified as a symptom of her anguish. “Jeff was meeting with Hammersmith about a painting he was planning to acquire from an even bigger corporate shark, Miayamu Moto, of the multi-billion dollar MMJapan Corporation.” Laurel looked up and took a breath before going on. “Obviously no slouch in the wheeling and dealing department, Moto had demanded some good faith money up front. A ten percent deposit to guarantee the painting’s safety while Hammersmith’s people examined it and authenticated its provenance.”

  “What kind of good faith money are we talking about?”

  “Moto asked for fifteen million dollars to be wired into a Swiss holding account set up by Hammersmith as insurance against any kind of malfeasance. The amount was ten percent of his asking price.” Laurel sat back in her chair and paused before dropping the real bombshell. “Plus, he added a codicil, a guarantee that the money would be his, if for any reason at all Hammersmith changed his mind.”

  “Holy shit,” Aaron pulled back from the table. “What a cocky bastard. A take it or leave it payment of fifteen million? That’s a pretty hefty number to fork over, just for the opportunity to get a peek at the goods. Hammersmith must have really wanted it bad. So, with fifteen million as the ten percent down, we’re talking one hundred fifty million.” Laurel nodded in agreement. “Jesus, what was Hammersmith buying, the Holy Grail?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. Jeff already had a relationship with Hammersmith. He’d purchased other paintings and sculptures for him in the past but, obviously, nothing of this value. When Hammersmith asked him to go to Japan to oversee the sale and turn over the access codes that would open the door to the holding account, he jumped at the chance.”

  Aaron’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You think? Imagine the commission from brokering a sale like that.”

  “I’m sure that was a major factor. So was the opportunity to meet Moto and establish an alliance with him. Buying and selling for Moto would definitely have put Jeff at the center of the art world.”

  “He’d never met him before?”

  “No, and he was dying to.” Laurel sighed, realizing her unfortunate choice of words. “Jeff was scheduled to leave for Japan on Hammersmith’s private jet immediately after their business had been concluded. In Tokyo, he was going to be met by a well-respected European art appraiser, also chosen by Hammersmith. The two were scheduled to travel by helicopter to Moto’s estate in the country, where the appraiser would authenticate the painting. After Jeff was satisfied with its provenance, he would turn over the codes that would allow Moto to access the fifteen million that had been transferred.”

  Aaron was shaking his head in disbelief. “Not only do they have to come to him on his turf but also pay him no matter what happens. No wonder the guy’s a billionaire.”

  “Well, obviously things didn’t go as planned.” The sadness slid back into her voice. “Jeff was with Hammersmith when the plane hit the tower. He called Monica on his cell right before all the phones went down.” Her voice had become so soft as she spoke these last words that Aaron had to lean forward to hear her. “He told her the building was on fire and that people were trapped, confused and trying desperately to get out. What little she could hear in the background sounded like bedlam, with people screaming and crying. Then,” her voice cracking, Laurel struggled to continue, “the phone went dead. That was the last time she spoke with him.”

  * * *

  Questions spun around in Aaron’s head. How did Laurel know all this? Had anyone else been in the meeting? If so, did they make it out of the tower? These were a few of the ones he wanted to ask, but the one uppermost on his mind was the one he’d already voiced. Everything had revolved around the painting. It was the key to all that followed. “Laurel, what was the artwork Hammersmith was buying from Moto that made it probably the most valuable painting in the world?” She shook her head. “A Picasso or a Van Gogh like the two that brought those record numbers at auction? Or, was it some other masterwork that Moto had under wraps?”

  “That’s just it, no one knows. Hammersmith had insisted on complete secrecy on that point. He and Jeff were meeting that morning to go over the final details, including the name of the painting and the procedure for releasing the funds.” Laurel stopped speaking while the waiter came to their table and cleared away their plates.

  “Signorina, che fá? Non le piacciono i nostri antipasti?” He looked at her with concern, seeing that she’d barely touched her food.

  Laurel smiled up at him, “No, no, it’s nothing. Il cibo è molto buono. The food is delicious. I’m just not hungry.”

  The waiter turned to Aaron, pointing a finger at him. “Perché, lei non mangia? È sempre cosí?” he demanded. “Why isn’t she eating? Is she always like this?” Shaking his head, he walked off in a huff, muttering to himself, “Americani.”

  Laurel rolled her eyes and turned back to Aaron. “From what I’ve heard about Hammersmith, he was just as ruthless in his personal life as he was in business. He was one of those private collectors who’d pay any price to have what he wanted and God help anyone who got in his way.” Laurel reached for her wine and twirled the glass by the stem. “I suspect he wasn’t too concerned about how Moto had acquired this particular painting, as long as it was the blockbuster he expected.”

  “And Jeff?” Aaron’s words held the hint of suspicion. “How particular was he? Would he also do whatever it took to make a sale like this and walk away with a huge commission?”

  “I don’t know.” Laurel continued to fiddle with her glass.

  He reached across the table to still her hand. “Laurel, did anyone but Jeff have the access codes to the holding account or could someone else have gotten hold of them? That’s a lot of money to be stashed away unaccounted for and untouched for the last eight years. What about his family? Did they know what bank Hammersmith was using?”

  Laurel shook her head. “No, they didn’t. His wife and sons tried everything they could to find out, but it was useless. They couldn’t determine which Swiss bank was holding the money. Even if they did, the bank would never have released it without the codes.”

  “So the Hammersmith family wasn’t privy to the deal.”

  “The way I understand it, Jeff and Alfred Hammersmith were the only two people who knew the codes, and that’s presupposing that the meeting had gotten that far. If the codes were in Hammersmith’s computer or written down anywhere in his office, they’d have been destroyed in the fire.

  “What about Monica?” asked Aaron. “Did Jeff tell her anything about the deal?”

  Laurel shook her head. “No. Nothing. She was questioned about it at great length by the police, the FBI, and Hammersmith’s people.” She shuddered at the memory of what her friend had gone through. “It was horrible for her. All that suspicion heaped on her, people impugning Jeff’s reputation. And of course, he was gone, vanished, with no one to defend him but Monica.” She looked directly at Aaron. “I’m sure she told them everything she knew about the deal. Why, what are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.” Aaron was absorbing the information Laurel had provided, contemplating possible ways this deal could have played out. He was trying to assess how his next question would affect her. “Was Jeff’s body ever identified?” he asked gently.

  “Hammersmith’s was, through DNA. But no, Jeff’s was among the one thousand one hundred sixty one that weren’t. We put up posters at bus stops, train stations, and in the parks. We asked for information online, like so many people, but I don’t think his body will ever be identified.” She looked at Aaron again, this time her eyes flashing with a hard spark of anger. He was sure she was recalling the man she’d seen earlier. “How could it be?” she spat out bitterly. “There can’t be a body to identify when the person is still alive.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself here. We don’t kno
w for sure that the man was Jeff Sargasso. We’d need a lot more evidence.” He removed his hand from hers. Laurel had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, but Aaron wasn’t sure he wanted to encourage her to pursue this matter. Maybe she had seen Sargasso. Let’s face it, if he’d gotten hold of the money, he had fifteen million really good reasons to do a runner. On the other hand, there really wasn’t anything concrete to go on.

  “Well, I have to find out.” Her voice evened out. “There’s Monica and all the real victims of that horrible day to think about. No one should get away with something like this.”

  “I understand that, but an investigation based on seeing some guy who looks familiar for two seconds isn’t going to happen.” He shrugged in resignation. “And with all that money involved, it’d be the Fed’s case anyway.” He lifted his hands skyward. “I can tell you, when they were asking all those questions, they were following the money. They must have thought about the possibility that Sargasso was out there somewhere. If the Feds gave up the chase, it means they didn’t have the smallest shred of a clue.” He shook his head with certainty. “If they did, they’d still be chasing Sargasso’s ghost. Believe me, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “You’re wrong.” Laurel was defiant. “There is something I can do.” She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. “I can call Helen. This is something she’d love to get her hands on, especially if it means outsmarting the Feds.”

  Chapter Five

  Saks Fifth Avenue

  New York City

  “Achoo! Achoo!” Helen couldn’t stop sneezing. It was all the damn perfume wafting around her head, annoying her sinuses. “Sorry,” she apologized to the woman she’d been spritzing with Adoreé Body Mist. “It’s just my allergies, not this lovely fragrance.” The woman gave her a strange look before moving off down the counter, feigning interest in several other fragrances, desperately searching for any non-sneezing salesperson to help her.

  Helen couldn’t blame the customer. Her skills as a Fragrance Consultant left much to be desired. She sprayed too much. She rubbed too hard. And she didn’t know a flaçon from a factice. Worst of all, the big-spending, haute couture clad women who plunked down hundreds and hundreds of dollars on the store’s myriad selections of fragrances, scented creams, lotions, and potions seemed to know instinctively that beauty wasn’t her business.

  Maybe selling isn’t my strong point. Helen suppressed another sneeze, but sleuthing is. When Helen, a freelance private investigator, had accepted this assignment from Saks Fifth Avenue’s Loss Prevention Director, she thought that it would be interesting as well as challenging, a welcome change of pace from the murder and deceit she’d encountered on her last case. What could be so bad? I’ll spend a few days in an elegant department store surreptitiously searching for signs of internal theft. She’d figured she’d have lunchtime to indulge her passion for shopping and probably spend the fee she was earning on the much too expensive designer clothes the store sold. But she’d figured wrong. First of all, the thief or thieves proved to be much cleverer than she’d counted on. She’d narrowed the field down to a few possibilities but as yet hadn’t been able to positively identify who might be responsible for the recent heavy losses the fragrance department had been experiencing. Second, her feet were killing her. She’d love to meet the guy who invented marble floors. Probably some Ancient Roman or Greek architect who figured it would be a great new way to spend his rich client’s money. Anyway, eight hours a day standing on the hard, unforgiving surface wasn’t doing her Manolo shod feet any favors.

  “Hello. How are you today? May I treat you to a sample of our newest, Adoreé? It’s a light body mist that really captures the mood of this fresh, modern floral.” If she had to say that to one more person, she might actually throw up. As she smiled and spritzed, she tried to keep her eyes on the activity at the various cash registers, but it wasn’t easy. Saks had been renovated and modernized several times over the past eighty years. Yet, it retained the tasteful and elegant touches that had made it an instant success when it opened its doors in the 1920s. Among these details were beautiful wooden and glass counters that curved gracefully along the selling floor to unobtrusively yet pointedly control the flow of traffic. As charming as they were architecturally, their design made observation difficult. Mirrored back shelves were shimmering showcases for the store’s wares and concealed the registers, which were tucked behind in recessed alcoves. Helen was frustrated. Anything can be happening back there, and I can’t see it, she mused. She knew she couldn’t be too obvious about wandering over and checking out anyone else’s sales without arousing suspicion.

  As Helen moved around the counters and greeted customers, she remembered how amazed she’d been at some of the schemes the store’s Loss Prevention Team had briefed her on. Besides out-and-out stealing from the register, crooked employees could be remarkably inventive in devising ways to scam the store. One disgruntled employee stole the credit card number of any customer who was rude to her, then used it to purchase gift cards for her friends. Some even had outside accomplices to help pull off their devious schemes. In one scenario, an accomplice would pose as a customer and pay with cash to purchase a bottle of the most expensive perfume at the counter. Her partner, the salesperson, would slip an extra bottle into her package. The next day the “customer” would return both bottles, with a state-of the-art forged receipt she’d created on her home computer, and ask for a refund. Not only would she get back her money for the original bottle, but also for the second, stolen one. Since it was the store’s policy to process any refund accompanied by a receipt, the “customer” and dishonest employee walked away with a nice profit—often upward of two hundred dollars—for a few minute’s work. And that was only one way the store was losing money.

  Helen shook her head and snuck a peek at her watch. Ten more minutes to go until her break. Sighing inwardly, she let her mind jump ahead to the fifteen minutes when she’d be off her feet, sitting in the blissfully fragrance-free employee lounge relaxing over a cup of coffee.

  Spraying customers liberally, although sneeze inducing, helped her use up the fragrance she was demonstrating and provided a legitimate reason for moving behind the counter to fetch another sample bottle of Adoreé. While she was rummaging around in the drawers that held the fragrance, she was able to take a quick glance at the cash register. One of the people whose too friendly behavior had aroused her suspicion, Antonio Felippe, was ringing up a sale. Tall, slender, and dressed completely in black Armani, he appeared to be the quintessential salesperson. But the furtive looks he’d been giving Helen made the back of her neck tingle—a sign she couldn’t ignore. His customer looked familiar to her as well. Helen was sure she’d seen the woman at least twice over the last few days, shopping when Antonio was working. The woman had changed her appearance slightly each time. Today she was wearing an oversize pair of designer sunglasses and had her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Her roomy hobo shoulder bag, however, was the same one she’d used on the other two occasions—a dead giveaway as far as Helen, who was no slouch in the disguise department, was concerned.

  Helen dawdled behind the counter, opening and closing drawers, pretending to be unable to find what she needed. Antonio glanced her way, acknowledged her presence with a phony smile, and continued ringing up his sale. Helen tried to see what items were included in the purchase but had a hard time viewing the register’s screen from where she was standing. Edging closer to Antonio, she tried to glimpse the sales receipt over his shoulder as he was placing the woman’s purchases in a shopping bag. If she could determine that the receipt and the items didn’t match, she had him.

  Desperate to find a way to get close enough, she called to him sweetly, waving the bottle of Adoreé in front of her. “Antonio, sorry to bother you, but could you help me for a minute? I can’t seem to find the blotters I need.” She gestured to a shelf over the register. “I think they’re up there. Can you get them for me?” Unsuccessfully hiding
his annoyance, he reached overhead for a box marked Adoreé fragrance blotters. In the few seconds he had his back to her, Helen peeked over his shoulder and glanced at the receipt, still next to the register. She noted that he’d rung up one bottle of eau de parfum but had placed two in a small Saks shopping bag. Just as she was about to give the store’s security guard, who’d been briefed on Helen’s assignment, a high sign, pandemonium broke out.

  Another well-dressed customer who was in the midst of paying for her purchase at a counter across the aisle had placed the small Pomeranian dog she’d been carrying down on the floor next to her. While she was waiting for her credit card to go through, she glanced down and noticed the dog was gone. Noticing a woman striding toward the back of the store, she started screaming at the top of her lungs, “Stop that woman! She stole my dog.”

  Helen didn’t hesitate. In one continuous motion, she leapt out from behind the counter, sped across the aisle, and tackled the woman, who had started moving away as fast as she could. Tumbling to the floor between the handbag and cosmetic counters, Helen pinned her down and heard the high-pitched yelping coming from beneath her. It was the Pomeranian, a little white fluff of a dog that the thief had managed to conceal under her coat. “Jake, Jake. Come to Mommy.” The dog’s owner, scooped him up in her arms and kissed him as though he’d been adrift at sea for days and had just been rescued by the Coast Guard.