by Cathi Stoler
“Do you really think so? That would be …”
Caterina cut her off before she could finish. “Perhaps. But I have to warn you. Many of these Florentine clubs are populated with closed and secretive people.” She laughed derisively. “You know, a leftover from our Medici heritage.” Caterina shook her head of rich auburn hair from side to side. “If Sargasso is a member of such a group, his comrades will not appreciate a stranger prying into their affairs.” Signore Mariotti stood up and put his hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Caterina is right. If we can identify the pin, we will have to be very careful about how we proceed with our inquiries.”
The atmosphere had become heavy and filled with a sense of foreboding. Caterina smiled reassuringly as if trying to lighten the mood. “Let me see what I can find out. Contrary to what Walter has told you,” she nodded her head toward her friend, “I don’t know every single person in the city. But I will speak to those I do know and we’ll see.”
Laurel took the woman’s hand. “Thank you for getting involved.” She noticed that the other woman’s eyes had become solemn. “I can’t tell you what it would mean if we found him.”
“You should thank Walter.” Caterina gestured toward her old friend. “I still owe him a few favors, and it appears he thinks that it’s time I pay up.”
* * *
The bell over the door chimed again, signaling the departure of her visitors. Once more, Caterina sat behind her desk and reflected on what had just happened. My God, I wonder if Laurel realizes how dangerous the art world can be when theft and deceit are involved. She will need to be very careful in pursuing this.
Caterina instinctively believed that Laurel had actually seen the man she once knew as Jeff Sargasso in Florence. Her language, her account, and most of all, her eyes confirmed her certainty. Her description didn’t fit any art dealer Caterina could think of. Not at the moment, anyway.
She picked up a jewel-encrusted, golden letter opener shaped like a sword that had once belonged to Lorenzo di Medici and twirled it point to end between her index fingers. This Sargasso must be smart to be passing as a native Italian, especially if he were a member of one of the city’s exclusive clubs. They didn’t suffer fools or foreigners gladly. If he were working as an art dealer, he’d have had to invent a past that was believable and be able to back it up with impeccable credentials, in case anyone checked. You couldn’t just arrive in Florence and jump into the art world without anyone noticing—unless, of course, there were other forces at work.
Caterina placed the letter opener down and thought about the Medicis and the myriad of devious paths they’d employed in amassing enormous wealth and influence.
Perhaps Sargasso was just as nefarious. If he had fifteen million dollars at his disposal, or a backer like the Japanese billionaire businessman, Moto, he could quietly buy up select items and offer them for sale just as quietly. Many collectors were pathologically secretive and didn’t even display the works they owned, preferring to keep them locked away in storerooms or cellars. Florence was home to many people like this, and they would make ideal customers for someone who preferred to conduct business outside the usual channels.
Caterina shook her head. She could never understand this hiding away of beautiful art that was meant to be appreciated and shared. Unless, of course, it was stolen or obtained in some other illegal way; then, of course, you couldn’t show it to anyone. Well, you could if you wanted to go to jail. Over the years, she’d been approached to participate in schemes of this nature but had always refused. It wasn’t her way to be dishonest. It was better to be a not-so-rich art dealer than a serpente nell’erba, or snake in the grass, as the Americans would say. She spun the letter opener on her desk, like a needle on a game of chance.
Just then her assistant, who’d been working in the tiny back room, entered the main gallery.
“Ciao. I heard your visitors leave a few minutes ago. Do you have time to look at these papers now?” She placed a neat stack of invoices in front of her boss.
“Yes, Fredericka, thank you. Now’s fine.”
“Bene. Then I’m going to call Massimo to ask when the repairs to that frame he’s working on will be done.” She moved quickly back toward her small office. “He’s taking forever to fix it. Perhaps I’ll just go check on him myself.”
“Wait just a moment, will you?” Caterina wondered why this usually calm girl seemed as nervous as a caged tiger. She had an idea, and perhaps Fredericka could help. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you something.”
The young woman stopped abruptly and looked startled. “Ummm, of course.” She recovered her composure.
A native of Siena, Fredericka Bellabocca was tall and curvy with long black hair, mysterious black eyes, and a beautiful mouth as her name implied. A modern day strega, a striking witch with captivating powers.
Caterina had not failed to notice how men flocked around Fredericka, intrigued by her innate sensuality. Of course, Caterina realized that the girl was aware of her own power and usually had several men vying for her attention at once. Caterina smiled to herself. Traveling on behalf of the gallery, Fredericka dealt with private clients, museums, galleries, and craftsmen and knew many of the people in the business, especially the younger ones who so often fell prey to her charms. Her English was flawless, as were her French and Japanese, a definite plus in the international art world.
The perfect assistant. Caterina thought about how to phrase her question. She didn’t want to tell her assistant more than she had to or set her speculating. “I wonder if you’ve heard anything about a new dealer I may have missed who’s set up shop in Florence in the last year or two.” Caterina was assuming Sargasso had needed time to change his appearance and acquire the appropriate credentials. “He’s young, perhaps a bit older than you. If anyone might know him,” she added teasingly, “I thought it would be you, especially since I hear he’s tall and very nice looking …”
Caterina stopped abruptly. Fredericka had gone white as a ghost and was swaying on her feet. “Fredericka! What is it? What’s wrong? Here, sit down,” she gestured toward a chair.
Placing her hand on the edge of Caterina’s desk, the woman waved her off. “Nothing. It’s nothing. My stomach. I think the provolone I ate at lunch didn’t agree with me.” She forced a smile, which looked more like a grimace. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go sit at my desk for a few minutes. Then I’ll go to Massimo’s on my way home.” With that, she’d moved to the back room and closed the door behind her.
Caterina’s brow was pinched with worry as she picked up the stack of invoices the young woman had placed on her desk and began looking through them. Maybe she should have offered to go to the pharmacy for her. She hoped it was nothing too serious.
Caterina had gotten about halfway through her task when she suddenly realized that Fredericka had never answered the question she’d posed about Sargasso. She started for the back room and realized Fredericka had gone, probably to Massimo’s and then on home. Caterina looked at her watch and realized it was time to close up. The answer to her question would have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
Lugarno
Florence, Italy
Ten minutes after her conversation with her boss, Fredericka was walking briskly along the shaded path beside the Arno River, her excuse about seeing their art restorer long forgotten.
When she reached a secluded spot a few streets below the Ponte Vecchio, she sat down on a bench and took her cell phone from her bag. Her hands were trembling, and her stomach was aching, this time for real.
Proud of her ability to handle any situation, Fredericka was suddenly at a loss as to what to do next. She’d heard and understood the entire conversation that Caterina had had with Walter Mariotti and the American woman. It had frightened her, especially since the American didn’t seem like the type to give up once she had an idea in her head.
Fredericka had known from the beginning that there was something un po stran
o about Giacomo DeLuca. When they first met at a local trattoria, she’d been immediately attracted. He was handsome, well dressed, and extremely sexy, a potent combination that she just couldn’t pass up.
After their first date, when he’d asked her to keep their relationship a secret, she’d thought he might be married but had agreed. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been wined and dined by a married man, or the last. After a while, as the relationship blossomed, she’d realized that he wasn’t married; he was just very, very secretive.
Whenever they saw each other, they went to out of the way ristoranti in small hill towns where no one would know them. Or they stayed at home at either his apartment or hers. Just as she was becoming bored with all this skulking around and was thinking of breaking things off, the relationship had changed.
Giacomo knew she loved beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry, which were hard to afford on her assistant’s pay. So he’d offered her a way to increase her salary. It was simple really. He was looking for a specific kind of collector. One not too fussy about provenance or former ownership. All she had to do was keep her eyes and ears open as she went about her business for Caterina and, if she should encounter anyone like that, pass along his or her name to Giacomo.
At first it had seemed like a lark, a small diversion that was filling her pockets with extra Euros and wasn’t harming anyone. But after a while the stakes became higher. When Giacomo sold a stolen Tiepolo drawing to a collector she’d found, she realized the diversion could be dangerous. If it were ever revealed that she’d been involved in underhanded dealings, she’d not only lose her job but also be banned from working at any of the city’s galleries. She might even be prosecuted. Her instincts had told her it was time to stop, and tonight she had planned to inform Giacomo.
She shifted on the bench and looked at the muddy water rushing by below her. Then the American woman had shown up. What was her name? Laura. Laurel something. The story she’d overheard had filled her with dread. At first she’d tried to convince herself that they were talking about someone else. But when the American mentioned the pin, she knew it was Giacomo.
A chill passed over her, and she shuddered. Who was this man who could start a whole new life just like that? She knew she should probably go to the police, or at least talk to Caterina. There was so much at stake, including her own future and perhaps her freedom. She had to talk to him first before she made a choice that could ruin it all.
Hand still shaking, Fredericka raised the phone to her face and hit the send key. As soon as the voice on the other end answered, her words tumbled out. “It’s me, Freddy. I have to see you now. It’s urgent. Meet me at our usual place along the river.”
She hung up and stared out at the water, her dark eyes clouded and unseeing, her thoughts moving silently and swiftly away like the sliver of water below.
Chapter Thirteen
13th Precinct
New York City
Aaron sat with his feet up on his battered desk, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The noise from the 13th Precinct’s busy squad room swirled around him, but he mentally batted it away, focusing instead on his impending appointment at FBI headquarters.
Without moving, he squinted his clear gray eyes and shifted his gaze down a few inches to check the clock on the opposite wall as he’d done every few minutes for the last hour. He was due at FBI headquarters at 26 Federal Plaza in forty-five minutes, and he still wasn’t certain how much information he was prepared to share with Special Agent Mickey Buonarroti, his old buddy who’d agreed to help him.
Long before Johnnie Cochran and Richard Shapiro made history at the trial of the century, Aaron and Mickey had been nicknamed “The Dream Team” by their classmates at Columbia Law. Aaron shook his head at the memory. Did making law review and walking away with our class’s highest honors warrant the nickname? Or maybe it was our winning ways when we teamed up for mock trials and debates. Yeah, it’s a wonder no one tried to murder us. Yet, instead of resenting them, their classmates respected them. In the competitive atmosphere of law school, Aaron and Mickey stood out as all-around nice guys.
Aaron ran a hand through his short sandy hair and chuckled. We blew it when we didn’t go into law after graduation. Our practice would have brought in millions. It’s ironic that we both opted for law enforcement, though. Aaron shook his head as he remembered how Mickey had been wooed and snared by the FBI and how he had decided to cast his lot with the NYPD.
The two men enjoyed spending time together and tried to see each other as often as their schedules would allow. Mickey, who was assigned to the FBI’s Art Crimes Team, was usually traveling, chasing down stolen paintings and missing works of art. And Aaron, well, Identity Theft was flourishing, as the stacks of files on his desk served to remind him.
Aaron cut his eyes to the clock once again and slid his feet to the floor. “Time to get this show on the road.”
The elite Art Crimes Team had been pulled together five years ago. The team had its roots in the FBI’s Major Theft Squad, which had been set up in the late 80s and was comprised of eight experts stationed around the country. Aaron knew that in addition to recovering stolen works of art, they now had another mandate: to follow any money from major art thefts in the U.S. and internationally that might flow to terrorist groups.
These guys were good, and Mickey was one of the best. He was going to demand a full brief on why Aaron had been poking around in the Hammersmith case, which was closed. Even though they were friends, Mickey’s persistent curiosity and analytical mind wouldn’t take Aaron’s involvement on blind faith. Aaron knew he’d have to be as straight as possible. The problem was Laurel and how to explain her story. He’d been skeptical at first, humoring her to keep peace between them. But now, some of the pieces, although not many, were falling into place, and he was intrigued enough to see where it would all lead.
Still, he reminded himself, there was no real proof that Laurel had seen Sargasso in Florence. And, even if it had been that lowlife scumbag, there was even less hard proof that he’d run off with Hammersmith’s fifteen million. As far as everyone connected with the case was concerned, the money was MIA, missing in action, probably still snugly tucked away in a Swiss bank collecting interest in perpetuity and totally untouchable.
The 13th had had nothing to do with the Hammersmith case, so Aaron had reached out to other precincts in the department before calling Mickey. He’d spoken to two detectives from the 19th in the Upper East Side neighborhood where Hammersmith had maintained a New York apartment. They’d been assigned to check discreetly into the case, and after talking to them, Aaron hadn’t yielded anything new. Interestingly enough, he’d learned that the request to follow up on the missing money after Hammersmith’s death had come down from the Commissioner’s office. To Aaron, it sounded like a political payback for someone who had an interest in the outcome. Maybe Alexandra Hammersmith, or Moto reaching out from Japan and trying to get his hands on the cash he felt was rightly his.
The two detectives, Jennings and Wilson, didn’t know which civilian had initiated the request, and neither did their Loo, but he made sure they were on it big time.
The Ds had briefed Aaron fully. They had spent days reviewing the initial reports relating to Hammersmith and his death on 9/11. Then they interviewed everyone connected with Hammersmith & Mann—the bereaved families of deceased employees, clients and former clients, Hammersmith’s art world connections, the widow and the sons—and had come up empty. Aaron learned that they had talked to Monica Sargasso and Jeff Sargasso’s associates, and the story was the same. No one knew anything about the whereabouts of the fifteen million or the painting. No surprise there.
Aaron re-knotted his red power tie, slipped on his dark blue pinstriped Ralph Lauren suit jacket and admired his appearance in the small mirror on his office wall. He and Mickey had a game of one-upmanship going on when it came to their sartorial splendor. He was sure that Laurel would laugh if she’d s
een how much care he’d taken with his appearance for this meeting with his old friend. God, he missed her, the feel of her, the taste of her. He knew he was caught, hook, line, and sinker; he just hadn’t counted on the barb going in this deep.
He’d spoken to Laurel a few hours ago, and she’d filled him in on her meeting with Caterina Toscana.
“I’m going to stay in Florence a few more days. Caterina promised to make some inquires, and we’ll take it from there.” Her voice was full of confidence. “We’ll find him.”
Aaron, who knew how time-consuming and futile these kinds of inquiries could be, didn’t want her to lose sight of the reality of the situation. “Don’t get your hopes up. Even if Sargasso is living in Florence, it might be impossible to flush him out.”