by Cathi Stoler
“Grazie, signorina, I’ll get that.” The Ispettore placed his hand under hers and swiftly scooped up the bag.
The small group stood and said their goodbyes. Once outside in the soft light of the late afternoon, Laurel turned toward her companions, words tumbling out in a troubled stream. “Ispettore Lucchese lied to us.” Emotion filled her voice. “The police do have a clue.” She looked into their troubled faces. “That small bag I was about to pick up? I recognized what was in it before the Ispettore made it disappear. It was the same pin that Jeff Sargasso was wearing in his lapel when I bumped into him in the museum.”
“Are you sure?” Walter spread his hands in resignation. “If you’re right, and if the Ispettore was hiding the pin from us, he is a member of the same society as Sargasso.”
Caterina snapped her fingers. “He can make that pin disappear just like that. Madonna mia! It will be very hard to get to him.”
“Think carefully,” said Walter. “Was it the same pin?”
“I’m positive.” Laurel’s eyes were blazing. “Fredericka knew Sargasso. And he killed her.”
* * *
His hands had finally stopped shaking. It had taken two days for him to regain some semblance of normalcy. When he’d come home from the park, he’d locked himself in the tiny flat above his workspace and thought about what he had just done. That’s when the spasms began. Not even the two shots of grappa he’d downed had helped to quell the tremors.
He had closed the heavy wooden shutters that framed his windows and sat in the dark, giving himself over to the shadowed, velvety texture that gathered under the apartment’s ancient wood beamed ceiling and floated down to engulf him. He could hear people passing by outside, their steps echoing on Via de Sassetti’s cobblestones, their conversations floating up, seeping through and around the shutter’s slats. But he’d shut the sounds from his mind and relived the last moments of Freddy’s life. At the very last instant, when he’d embraced her and pulled back for a second, he’s sensed that she’d known what he was going to do. He’d seen it in her eyes. First the disbelief and then the shock.
It was surprising, really. He didn’t think that killing her would have affected him this way. Over the last several years, he’d done what he had to do and never looked back. This wasn’t any different. Or shouldn’t be. He told himself that it was inevitable; there was nothing else he could have done. Freddy was scared. She’d overheard that bitch, Laurel Imperiole, talking about him, and she’d put the pieces together. Freddy was a good girl at heart and would have eventually told someone about their relationship. She would have ruined it all, and he could never let that happen. Especially now.
Giacomo DeLuca pushed back a piece of hair from his forehead and sighed. It was time to focus on what to do next.
Today, when he’d gotten the call that they’d found her body with his spillo clutched in her hand, he had nearly panicked. A code number engraved on the back identified it as his. Fear welled up in his belly, and he’d immediately begun to deny it. But the voice on the phone had cut him off quickly and assured him it would be taken care of.
He hoped the voice was right. The incident couldn’t have come at a worse time, just days before he was scheduled to leave for New York. It was not a trip he could cancel. Too much was at stake—everything he’d worked for. He’d have to be careful. Maybe even do something about that fucking Laurel Imperiole once he got back to the city.
He closed his eyes for a moment and, when he opened them, saw clearly what needed to be done. Rising, he walked to the window and opened the shutters, letting the soft Florentine light pour into the room. Turning, he moved toward the table that held the bottle of grappa, poured a glass of the fiery liquid and tossed it back.
He stared down at his hands, then picked up the cork from the bottle and slowly pushed it into the top. His hands were steady now. He was in control and ready to move on.
Chapter Eighteen
Drake Delrusse Gallery
New York City
The couple burst through the door like rock stars storming the stage at a sold-out concert to take their place in front of thousands of adoring fans. The air seemed to vibrate with electricity as it whooshed in behind the pair’s kinetic figures, glimmering around them in a neon haze.
Aaron had just begun questioning Drake Delrusse when he heard the commotion at the front of the gallery. He turned instinctively as the scene unfolded.
Wow, that’s some entrance. Aaron’s attention was now totally focused on the couple. Both were dressed entirely in black, very expensive designer black. They were hot and knew it. The woman, chattering away in Russian, was a striking blond with icy blue eyes, high Slavic cheekbones, and a super-model strut. She worked it to the max as she strode across the floor in a lace mini skirt and thigh-high platform boots that put her well over six feet. Her companion, a lanky, dark-haired man with a chiseled jaw and three days worth of stubble, followed a pace behind, gazing in a desultory way at the merchandise on display. Their brawny chauffeur remained standing just inside the door, feet apart, hands clasped in front, the slight bulge under his jacket indicating there might be more to his job than driving.
Drake Delrusse’s nose twitched at the sight of the pair, like a hound catching a whiff of its prey. Rail thin, with slicked-back black hair and nearly black eyes, he had that smooth New York look that passes for style. He smells money, thought Aaron, lots of money, which is what it would take to buy even one of the paintings here.
“Would you mind?” Delrusse’s slight Russian accent bubbled up over thin lips. “I’d like to attend to my clients.”
Aaron nodded in acquiescence. “Go ahead. I can wait.” He took the visitor’s seat opposite Delrusse’s desk. This should be interesting.
“Thank you, detective.” Delrusse’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “I’ll be back with you shortly. Andre,” he called to his assistant, who’d been staring at the pair, “please get Detective Gerrard coffee.”
Aaron watched him walk toward the couple, who had stopped in front of a Klimt. Must be one that Ronald Lauder didn’t like. Or maybe couldn’t afford.
When he’d arrived, Aaron had spent a few minutes checking out the gallery while he was waiting for Delrusse to finish a phone conversation. Located a few steps off Madison Avenue on Seventy-fourth Street, its simple façade offered no inkling of what Aaron had encountered beyond its front door.
Holy shit. He’d almost blurted it aloud as he took in the merchandise. Every painting, drawing, and sculpture appeared to be museum quality. As he’d walked through the expansive space, he’d noted several Matisses and a Hopper hanging inches apart from Tintoretto, Rubens, Vermeer, and Monet. And the Klimt. One section contained an exhibition of paintings with religious depictions of Madonnas and martyrs by the Italian artists De’ Fraceschi, Veneziano, and Siognorelli. Aaron was sure that Laurel would know and appreciate these gilded masterworks in a more meaningful way than he did. What he did appreciate, however, was their value. These were not paintings you chose to fill the space over the living room couch. This was art, and it was worth a bundle.
Sipping his coffee at Delrusse’s desk, he turned his attention back to the gallery owner, who was hanging on to every syllable spoken by the high-profile couple. They were a little too obvious, even for nouveau riche types. Usually people with real money who invested in art spent it a little more quietly, even real rock stars like Bowie and Paul McCartney, or so he’d heard.
Aaron slipped out his cell phone and flipped it open. Maybe some reverse profiling of the rich and famous is in order. Pretending to make a call, he aimed the phone in the couple’s direction and snapped a quick shot. He’d e-mail it to Mickey and have him run it through the Interpol database. Never know what might turn up, he told himself. He caught the man’s gaze sliding his way and quickly put the phone to his ear. Seemingly intent on privacy, he turned his back to him and pretended to speak for a few moments.
When he closed the phone, Delrusse w
as saying his goodbyes, escorting the couple to the door and bowing obsequiously. Way too oily, Aaron observed as Delrusse made his way back to him.
His hands fluttered up in front of him as he approached. “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Detective, but you know, business.”
“No problem. Did they decide on the Klimt?”
Delrusse raised his eyebrows at Aaron’s knowledge of the painting. “Not today, I’m afraid.” The hands fluttered up again. “They had something specific in mind.” He shrugged, as if to say, what can one do?
“Such as?” Aaron’s bullshit meter was now on full alert.
“They, the clients, are collectors of Italian Renaissance masters.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You said they had a specific work in mind. Which one? Will you be able to obtain it for them?”
“Well, it’s in a private collection. I’m sure you understand,” he smiled tightly. “I’ll certainly inquire. But, detective, I’ve kept you waiting long enough. What is it that I can do for you?” Aaron took a last sip of coffee then slowly replaced the cup and saucer on the desk before replying. Let him sweat a bit.
“I’m investigating an art fraud case that involves several works smuggled in from Italy, most likely from Florence.” He watched Delrusse’s eyes as they widened in surprise, then quickly became guarded. Aaron had chosen to go this route, forgoing the questions regarding Moto’s supposed involvement with the gallery and concentrating on the Italian connection instead. Delrusse’s statement that the rock star couple was interested in Italian Renaissance art was sending a signal to his brain that he couldn’t ignore. Plus, something about the guy had felt hinky to him. He’d seemed to be trying a bit too hard to be unimpressed and uninterested, yet his eyes never stopped moving, taking it all in. Just like I’d do, if I were working the room.
“We’re talking to galleries who traffic in works of art from Florence,” continued Aaron. He had used the word “traffic” intentionally, letting its more sinister meaning slide into play as he gestured to the paintings surrounding them.
Delrusse put his hand on his chest. “I assure you, detective, each of our paintings is thoroughly investigated before we purchase it. Each one has a provenance that is beyond—”
Aaron cut him off. “Yes, I’m sure you do everything by the book. I was wondering if you’d ever dealt with a dealer named Giacomo DeLuca?”
Surprise flashed across Delrusse’s face once again. Trying to mask it, he swallowed hard and shifted his gaze away before replying. “No, the name is not familiar to me,” he squeaked out. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never heard of him. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“No problem, Mr. Delrusse.” Aaron rose. He removed one of his cards from his breast pocket and handed it to the gallery owner. “If you should happen to hear about him, or from him, please give me a call.” Then Aaron turned and exited the gallery at a slow, steady pace.
Once outside, he walked east to Lexington Avenue, putting some distance between himself and the gallery. Then he reached for his cell phone and punched in Mickey’s number.
“Buonarroti.” He answered on the first ring.
“Your intel was right on the money, Mickey, my man.”
Mickey had checked with Customs last night and found a shipment being held in their warehouse at Kennedy from one Giacomo DeLuca in Florence. It was going to the Drake Delrusse Gallery in Manhattan as soon as it cleared.
“It’s all in the details and in who you know. I owe my Custom’s friend a big favor for coming through so fast.”
Introduce him to Agent LoBianco then, Aaron was tempted to say. Instead, he filled Mickey in about the couple who had come into the gallery. “I’ll e-mail you the photo as soon as we’re done. Run it through the Interpol database for me, will you? With your juice, you’ll probably get the results faster than I would.”
“Don’t try to stroke me. It won’t work. If you piss me off, I won’t tell you what else I found out.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. What?”
“It seems that art isn’t the only thing that DeLuca’s sending to New York. He’ll be sending himself, as well. Albeit, first class on Alitalia, two days from now.”
Aaron was elated. This could be the break he was looking for. “And just how do you know this?”
“Please. You know what they say. If you have to ask the question, you can’t have the answer.”
“That is not the expression.”
“It’s close enough. And, it’s all you’re going to get from me right now.” He hung up.
Aaron typed in Mickey’s e-mail address and studied the photo he was about to send. They were something, all right. What that was remained to be seen. He hit the send button, and it was on its way. Done with the couple for the moment, he walked toward his car, parked on Lexington and Seventy-third Street. With DeLuca/Sargasso in New York and Moto on the way here, he might actually have a shot at getting Sargasso and recovering Hammersmith’s fifteen million, or some of it. Best of all, if DeLuca were here and not in Florence, he’d bet a year’s salary that Laurel would be on the next plane home.
* * *
“Shit,” said Rebecca, leaning back against the limo’s soft leather interior, “that guy in the back of the gallery was a cop.”
“Yes,” said Lior easily. “He’s Detective Aaron Gerrard, head of the NYPD Identity Theft Squad.”
Rebecca shot him a look. “Dammit. You knew he’d be there, didn’t you?” He nodded. “You set this up?” She shook her head. “Why?”
“He’s the detective who’s looking into the Hammersmith affair with that P.I. I bugged, Helen McCorkendale.” Lior shrugged. “I wanted to see how much he’s figured out.”
“And?”
“He’s smarter than I thought.” Lior smiled.
“This isn’t the time for one of your games,” she warned. “We’ve finally had a break in the case, and you put us square in the sights of the NYPD. Her icy blue eyes bored into him. “Did he make us?”
“It doesn’t matter if he did. We’ll be done before he can do anything about it.”
She was quiet for a moment then leaned forward. “What about Delrusse? Think he got the message about what we were after?”
“The intel I received suggests that the only message Delrusse seems to get is money. And, I think that came through loud and clear.” He gestured to the luxurious automobile and the extremely expensive clothes they were wearing. “Don’t you? If Moto gave him the commission to move the painting, he must have taken one look at us and thought that he’d hit the jackpot. Unless, of course he’s a total idiot.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Maybe not a complete idiot, but definitely a fraud! He barely understood the Russian I spoke to him. You heard how he kept replying in English. And I kept the Russian simple on purpose.”
“He probably picked up what little he does know from listening to the émigrés in Brighton Beach, where he’s from, not from any trips to Mother Russia.” The edge of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Then he became serious again, his voice hardening into something low and mean. “Delrusse is too greedy to check us out thoroughly.” He lifted his eyebrows. “He wants us to be who we say we are. So, he’ll do a cursory search. We’ll come back as legitimate: an idle rich couple with lots of money to blow on art. But Moto, now he’s another story.”
Lior sat back and lit a cigarette, cracking the limo’s window and exhaling a curl of smoke in a small stream. “He didn’t get where he is by taking things on trust.” He watched the downtown traffic moving steadily and recalled the copious file the division had collected on the billionaire industrialist. He shook his head. “Moto prides himself on the fact that nothing gets by him and that he knows even the smallest details of every business deal. He’ll be much more suspicious and cautious. If he’s using Delrusse to move the painting, we have to be ready for anything.”
“And if Detective Gerrard and his people get in
the way?”
Lior slowly let out another lungful of smoke. “Then we’ll just have to move them out of the way, won’t we?” He ground out his cigarette until it was in shreds.
Chapter Nineteen
The Chrysler Building
New York City
No good deed goes unpunished. As Helen sat and cooled her heels in the reception area of Hammersmith and Mann, she could almost see her assistant Maxine bending over her, shaking her finger in her face, and telling her this with smug satisfaction.
Maxine, who had been with Helen for over ten years, ran the office she kept on East Twenty-third Street. Ran was the operative word. Her savvy assistant made it her business to know the details of every one of Helen’s cases. She often offered her pithy insights, wanted or not. It’s no wonder Helen knew exactly what Max would say and do if she saw her sitting here today.