by Cathi Stoler
Lior smiled and checked the clock on the dash. Time to get this party started, as the Americans would say. Ready. Set. Click.
Chapter Sixteen
Kips Bay
New York City
“I’m disappointed in you, Aaron.” Helen joked, rolling up the sleeves of her black silk shirt before clearing away their plates from the large kitchen table. “You hardly touched your tagliatelle, after I slaved all afternoon making that veal ragu.” She wagged a finger in his direction.
“Please. Give me a break. My stomach …”
“I know.” She cut him off mid-sentence, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Aaron has a stomach ache. Is he a little hung over?” She’d noticed the signs the minute he’d walked into the house—the way he looked, it would have been hard to miss. She’d steered him right toward the kitchen, thinking some food might help before they got down to business.
“Well, looks like you made up for my lack of appetite,” he replied snidely as she placed her empty plate under his full one. He’d dined with Helen before and knew how much she enjoyed a good meal.
“Okay, smart mouth, I have something that will settle your stomach, not that you deserve it. Why don’t you divide up the file and I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, Helen returned with two brandy snifters of Sambucca Romano, garnished with three coffee beans each. “Guaranteed to make anything feel better, even the prospect of looking through that FBI file.” She handed Aaron a glass of the clear, tangy liquid. “And before you ask, the odd number of coffee beans are for good luck. So, let’s hope we have some.” They clinked glasses.
Helen grabbed her notebook and rummaged for a pen from the holder on the side counter. She clicked it open and settled down in front of her stack of papers. They spoke for a few minutes about her visit to Hammersmith’s widow. Then they dived into the FBI’s file on Hammersmith and Sargasso’s business deal and all that had been discovered since that fateful September day.
As the two detectives scanned page after page of the file, the kitchen became still, the only sounds Aaron’s soft breathing and Helen’s pen scratching questions and comments in her notebook.
They switched stacks and continued reading. Finally, after about an hour, they were done. “Not that much more in here than we already knew, is there?”
“Not really.” Aaron, ticked off facts on his fingers. “Hammersmith is dead. The fifteen million is missing, or gone. And, Moto’s still got one hell of a painting to unload, although no one has any idea what it is.”
“And, Sargasso? Is he alive?”
“I’d bet on it. I think he made it out in time.” Aaron’s gray eyes hardened. “With the codes to the money. It looks like Laurel was right; the son of a bitch probably is in Florence.” Aaron slapped his hand on the table. “Dammit, we’ve got to get her out of there.”
For once Helen agreed with him. “If Sargasso knows she’s got people asking about him, it could be bad.” She swallowed, remembering her warning to Laurel to be careful. In spite of the danger, getting her to agree to come home could be tricky.
“So, now Sargasso’s what?” Helen tried steering the conversation back to the art dealer. “You think he’s laying low? You know, doing a little selling, lining up the right customer and maybe trying to move that painting for Moto. Could Moto know he walked away with the fifteen mil …?” Helen broke off in the middle of her thought and jumped up from the table.
“Jesus! What is it?”
“Wait. Wait,” she said over her shoulder, rushing into the hall and picking up the Post from the side table. “There was an item on Page Six this morning about a gallery uptown.” She moved back into the kitchen. “Listen.”
What reclusive, multi-gazillionaire mogul and art lover has finally decided to show his true colors and make the leap from collecting to exhibiting? Our sources say it’s only a matter of weeks before this Asian art aficionado comes down from Mount Fuji to take over the Drake Delrusse Gallery on Madison Avenue and fill it with fabulous (read sure-to-be-pricey) finds. So far, Mr. Delrusse isn’t talking!
“It’s gotta be Moto.” She waved the paper in front of him. “Do you think he’s actually coming to New York?”
“I don’t know. It’s the Post.” Aaron let his skepticism fill in the blanks. “They could be making it up. It’s been known to happen.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If Sargasso has been working for Moto, acquiring art in Europe, this Drake Delrusse might be in contact with him.” She paced the kitchen. “Sargasso could be buying for the gallery on Moto’s behalf. You know, to have things ready for when he arrives from Japan. It’s worth looking into.” Her voice revealed her eagerness. “Your FBI friend might be able to check with customs to see if the Delrusse gallery has recently received any shipments from Florence and who sent them.” She stopped talking abruptly and stood still, her thoughts coming together suddenly. “Oh my god, Aaron. We might actually find out what name Sargasso is using and nail the bastard!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Aaron held up a hand to slow her down. “Delrusse could be getting shipments from several people in Florence. Or none. What?” he paused, noticing her dark expression. “Okay, calm yourself. I’ll ask Mickey to call Customs, and we’ll take it from there. In the meantime, I’ll head up to the Delrusse gallery tomorrow and see what’s going on.”
“Good. Okay.” Helen nodded, her excitement under control.
“How about you? Want to come with me?”
“Not that I wouldn’t love to accompany you on such a worthwhile cultural expedition, but I can’t. I’ve got an appointment to meet with those darling Hammersmith boys, Gary and David. I’ll see if I can squeeze more out of them than I did from their dear stepmother.” She shivered at the memory of Alexandra Hammersmith, the ice queen, dripping with diamonds and venom.
* * *
Lior watched as Detective Gerrard exited the McCorkendale house and walked east toward First Avenue. He fired up the 4Runner’s motor, ready to follow. They believed that Sargasso was alive. More important, they thought Moto might be coming to America. Signaling, he pulled away from the curb and moved into the quiet street. Now, that would be an opportunity too good to pass up. He smiled and spoke a number into his hands-free phone.
Rebecca Weiss answered on the first ring. “Yes?”
“It’s me. I need to see you right away.” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”
Lior smiled to himself. Tall, blond, and blessed with sophisticated looks that screamed old money, Rebecca would be the perfect companion for an outing to a chic, Madison Avenue art emporium: arm candy on the outside, a stone cold killer underneath.
Chapter Seventeen
Questura Headquarters
Florence, Italy
Walter Mariotti’s hands flew up to the sky like pigeons ascending from a piazza. “Who could do this?” His voice rose in volume. “Who could kill una bella ragazza and leave her to rot like that in the dirt and bushes?”
Laurel and Caterina exchanged knowing looks.
Earlier this afternoon, Caterina had phoned Walter at the villa just as they were finishing lunch. “Walter, it’s Caterina. The police have just called to tell me that Fredericka, my assistant, is dead. They found her body in Piazzale Michelangelo. A business card with the gallery’s name was in her bag. I told them she has no family here in Florence, so they asked me to go to Questura Headquarters to make a positive identification. Allora,” she paused to catch her breath. “Do you think it would be possible for you to join me there?” Walter Mariotti had agreed immediately. He walked back outside to the terrace where his family and guests were chatting leisurely over wine and fruit and explained about Caterina’s call and the tragedy that had just occurred.
Laurel had listened intently as he told them about the young woman’s death.
“My God,” said Tony. “I know her. She dated il mio amico, my friend, Marco, for a while. What happened?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t
let Caterina face this alone. She needs my help. The Florence polizia—they can often be unaccommodating,” he explained for the benefit of Laurel and Jenna.
“Go then.” Franca reached up and took her husband’s hand. “Don’t keep Caterina waiting. But please, let us know what is going on as soon as you can.”
A cold feeling of dread swept over Laurel as her mind processed what had happened. “Walter, wait a moment, please.” She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Was Caterina’s assistant at the gallery the day we were there?”
“She might have been. Caterina has a tiny office in the back where Fredericka worked. Why do you ask?”
A frown spread across her face. “It’s just a feeling. I don’t know, but maybe she overheard us talking about Sargasso and knew him.” She looked up at Walter before continuing. “I want to come with you.” She rose quickly from the table, her instincts on full alert.
Jenna’s eyes flashed a warning. “Maybe you should stay here and let Walter and the police handle this.”
“I think that would be best …” The words died on Walter’s lips as Laurel held up a hand in protest. “All right. Presto. Quickly. Let’s go.”
Hours later, Laurel and Caterina, tired and irritated, were silently watching as Walter paced up and down the narrow corridor of Questura Headquarters, waiting for the detective assigned to the case, Ispettore Donato Lucchese, to make an appearance. Hands curling into fists, anger replacing anxiety in his expression, Walter Mariotti strode over to the officer who manned the front desk and demanded to see the Ispettore immediately. He wanted answers and was tired of waiting for them.
* * *
Caterina, who was dressed in somber black, looked at Laurel through eyes reddened from crying. She had identified Fredericka Bellabocca’s body a short while ago and was visibly distraught. Sitting on a bench in an alcove off the main entranceway, Laurel followed Caterina’s gaze as it moved toward Walter.
Caterina shook her head remorsefully. “I should have realized that something was wrong and asked her about it.”
Laurel reached over and took her hand. “How could you know something like this would happen? What could you have done?”
“It was the day you and Walter stopped by the gallery. She came into the showroom right after you left. We talked about business, and then I began to ask her about any new dealers she may have heard about, you know, to see if she might have run into Sargasso. All of a sudden, she became pale and ill.” Tears threatened to spill from Caterina’s eyes, and emotion clogged her throat. “Fredericka said her stomach was upset from the lunch she’d eaten, and she left the shop before I had a chance to speak with her again.” Caterina shuddered. “Later, I realized that she never answered my question about the dealers. That was the last time I saw her.”
Taking a deep breath, Caterina put her head in her hands, trying to compose herself. “When she didn’t arrive for work yesterday, I wasn’t too worried.” She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I thought perhaps that her stomach was still bothering her. But this morning, when the Questura contacted me and told me they found her body and that she’d been murdered …” Her words trailed off, and her eyes focused on something only she could see.
Laurel’s mind was whirling. Fredericka had been a very popular young woman. And, if she were involved with Jeff Sargasso, it would explain her reaction to Caterina’s questions.
The police had discovered Fredericka’s body hidden haphazardly behind a stand of bushes in Piazzale Michelangelo. On mild evenings, tourists and locals alike thronged through the park, and it became a mad house. High above the city, its sweeping vistas of Florence were only part of the attraction. The dance bands, carnival rides, and gelato sellers all did their best to compete for the attention of the crowds that swarmed over its paths like bees in a hive. It would be easy, reflected Laurel, to entice someone to a quiet spot away from the noise and kill her. Certainly no one would pay any attention to a man strolling through the park on a lovely spring evening.
Startled by raised voices coming from the vestibule, Laurel turned her thoughts to the grim reality of the present. Walter Mariotti was towering over a small, beefy man with a dark, bushy mustache, their faces mere inches apart. He’d backed him into a wall, and the man seemed to be doing his best to put breathing room between them. So much for the Italian concept of personal space, thought Laurel, as Walter moved closer and closer, his voice becoming louder and louder with each step, until the other man threw up his hands in defeat.
Backing off just the slightest bit, Walter gestured to Laurel and Caterina to join him. “Signorine, this is Ispettore Donato Lucchese, the detective assigned to our case,” he emphasized the last few words to leave no doubt about his intentions.
“Piacere.” The Ispettore nodded to acknowledge Caterina and Laurel. “Please, come this way. We will be more comfortable speaking in my office.”
I’ll bet. Laurel noticed the small knot of police officers, who had been watching their little drama with amusement.
Ispettore Lucchese led the way to a small, dark, sparsely furnished room off the main corridor and, once everyone was seated, turned to Caterina. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your colleague, Signorina Toscana. Please believe me, we will do everything in our power to find out who committed this terrible crime.”
Caterina, now entirely composed, was once again the calm, confident woman Laurel had met several days ago. Laurel noticed that Caterina had raised an eyebrow at the Ispettore’s words. She knows he’s giving her the party line, and she’s not buying it.
When she replied, Caterina’s demeanor gave away nothing. “I have no doubt that you will, Ispettore. My good friend and client Vice Questore Verdi has told me many times that he believes Florence’s Questura is the finest police force in Italy. I’ve never had a reason to doubt him.”
Laurel could see by the Ispettore’s guarded expression that her words had struck home. Walter shot an admiring glance at Caterina and, smart man that he was, let her take the lead.
“Now, tell me Ispettore, just what do you know about Fredericka’s death?” She nailed him with an unblinking stare.
Clearing his throat, he reached across his desk to a large, rectangular cardboard box with Fredericka’s name scrawled on the side and removed a file from within. Leafing through it, he selected a sheet of paper and began to summarize the information it contained. “The coroner places the time of death between ten p.m. Tuesday and four a.m. Wednesday. Signorina Bellabocca was shot once above her left shoulder blade. The bullet traveled downward and passed through her heart. She was killed instantly.”
He stopped for a moment, then took out another piece of paper from the file. “There were fragments of fabric in the wound, indicating that the gun was placed directly against her body when it was fired. The angle of the bullet’s entry suggests that the killer placed his hands around her from the front and then fired.”
That son of a bitch embraced her before he shot her. Laurel shuddered.
Ispettore Lucchese looked at Caterina, who was still watching him intently. “Then the killer or killers placed her body under the bushes on the outskirts of the park, where some children playing ball discovered it.” He slid the sheets back into the folder and looked at the group.
“Did you find the murder weapon?” asked Walter.
The Ispettore shook his head. “We have the area sealed off and are doing a thorough search. We are confident we will find it.”
Not if the murderer took it with him, Laurel almost replied.
“What about witnesses?” asked Caterina. “In such a busy place, surely someone saw her and whomever she was with.”
“We are questioning all the vendors who were in that part of the park late Tuesday evening or early Wednesday morning. But so far, no one we’ve spoken to remembers seeing the victim or hearing a shot.”
“Ispettore Lucchese, did you find anything else at the crime scene?” asked Laurel. “Anything that would help to identify who
did this?”
“Unfortunately not, signorina. I’m sorry, but that is all I have for the moment. Of course,” he swept his hand in a wide, encompassing gesture, “I am confident that will change. Then I will contact you.”
As he did so, his right hand knocked into the evidence box on his desk and sent it flying to the floor. Startled, Laurel, who was seated closest, bent down to help gather up the contents, which included several files plus Fredericka’s handbag, jewelry, clothing, and shoes—all sealed in plastic evidence bags. Suddenly, her hand came to a stop over a smaller bag that had landed near her feet. Suppressing a gasp, Laurel hesitated before reaching for it. Oh my God.