Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  Helen had arrived at the Chrysler Building a few minutes early and waited in the lobby. She brushed the lapel of her gray Calvin Klein jacket, ran her fingers through her hair, and spent the remaining minutes admiring the elegant art deco details that marked the building as one of New York’s finest and most elegant. Its midtown location was not the usual choice for a financial firm, she noted as she rode a beautiful wood-paneled and silver-edged elevator up to the Hammersmith and Mann offices on the 60th floor, precisely at the stroke of 10 a.m. Of course, the Hammersmiths had to find new offices after 9/11. For some reason they decided to stay here instead of moving back downtown. Maybe they wanted to put some distance between themselves and memories of their late father, or maybe they just got a great deal on the rent.

  Now, after nearly an hour, she didn’t particularly care. The politely offered coffee was long finished, today’s Wall Street Journal tossed back on the chrome and glass coffee table, the receptionist’s reassuring smile more and more forced, and still no sign of either Gary or David Hammersmith.

  Why am I doing this? Helen wondered, thinking again of Maxine’s favorite phrase. She knew it wasn’t just to help Laurel find Jeff Sargasso. It was a puzzle that needed solving. The thrill of the hunt. The rush that accompanied uncovering the truth and outing the bad guys. Admit it, Helen, you’re a thrill-seeking, disguise-wearing, catch-’em-anyway-you-can, P.I. She laughed out loud at the image of herself this presented and caught the receptionist glancing at her sideways.

  She thinks I’m an idiot, sitting here all this time waiting for the phantom brothers to make an appearance. She’s right. I’ll give it five more minutes, and then I’m out of here.

  Just as Helen was about to vacate the brushed suede couch, which she was sure would have a permanent impression of her butt imprinted on it, a young man appeared in front of her and glanced at his watch. “Mr. Hammersmith will see you now,” he said brusquely, as though she were the one who’d kept the big man waiting.

  Helen bit back the nasty retort that threatened to jump out of her mouth and followed him down a long corridor toward a heavy, mahogany door. The brass nameplate on it said Gary Hammersmith. The assistant knocked lightly and opened the door for Helen, revealing a huge, expensively furnished corner office with a breathtaking view of the city. Power certainly had its perks, especially power inherited

  Gary Hammersmith sat with his back to a large, modern desk, reading through a sheaf of papers. A man who looked very much like him, but was perhaps a few years younger, sat on a sofa to the left of the desk. The other Mr. Hammersmith. David.

  Gary Hammersmith turned as Helen walked toward him and carelessly tossed the papers he’d been reading on its burnished surface. Not bothering to stand or introduce himself or his brother, he gestured for Helen to take a chair across from him.

  The son of a scion is a real son of a bitch. Helen sat down with a straight back and a deliberate calmness. Gary was a handsome man with a lot of hard edges on a lean, tan face and a mouth that seemed incapable of smiling. In his mid-forties, he was just beginning to gray around the temples. Helen wondered if he would start coloring his hair in an attempt to look youthful. She took in the perfectly tailored suit, the expensive gold Rolex and the dark, brooding eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage. “I have exactly five minutes, Ms. McCorkendale. What is it that you want?”

  To smack you across your insolent mouth, Helen almost blurted out. Instead, clearing her throat, she faced him with a steely gaze of her own. “As you know, I’m here on behalf of New York Fidelity Insurance. I’ve been retained to ascertain the status of a Mr. Jeff Sargasso regarding his employment at Hammersmith and Mann, so that a life insurance policy, which has come to light since his death on Nine Eleven, can be paid out to his beneficiaries.” She used her most business-like tone. And, by the way, screw you, too, she added mentally.

  Gary Hammersmith steepled his fingers and stared off into a middle distance, considering his reply.

  Helen glanced to her right at David Hammersmith, who hadn’t moved so much as an eyebrow on his unreadable face. Then she looked down at Gary Hammersmith’s desk, noticing the papers he’d tossed on it when she’d entered. Even upside down, she could read her name at the top of the page. Shit. Am I busted? She knew Alexandra Hammersmith had called New York Fidelity to express her extreme disapproval and consternation at Helen’s visit and inquiries. But Joe had confirmed her cover story and smoothed the waters. It was nice to have friends who proved how much they cared for you by lying through their teeth.

  Gary Hammersmith finally snapped back into focus and nailed her with a laser-like stare. “Ms. McCorkendale, Jeff Sargasso is not dead. He’s just an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, a criminal, and a thief. He has fifteen million dollars, which he stole from my father and which belongs to my family.” He paused and cut his eyes toward his brother. “I intend to find him and do whatever it takes to get our money back. If you want to know anything else about him, I suggest you speak with Miayamu Moto,” he spat at her, nearly losing control.

  Helen could feel his outrage and fury slam into her like a wave from a tsunami. Without realizing it, she’d moved as far back into her chair as possible and could feel its frame biting into her back. She shivered inwardly. Raw hatred, pure and simple.

  “Now, please get out of my office,” he muttered at her in a barely civil tone. He turned his back to her, sure that she’d comply with his order.

  She rose and passed in front of his brother as she made for the door. What she saw in his eyes surprised her nearly enough to make her stumble. It was a look of smug self-satisfaction, directed not at her, but at the broad back of Gary Hammersmith, silhouetted in the light from the window he faced.

  * * *

  Outside, Helen gulped in big lungfuls of air, struggling to compose herself and steady her racing pulse. “It’s alive. It’s alive.” The bit of dialogue from Frankenstein popped into her head, making her grin with its absurdity.

  Well, at least Gary Hammersmith and baby brother think so. But why would they believe that Jeff Sargasso is alive and well? Was it a hunch, or did they have hard facts, too?

  I wonder what the Hammersmiths would do if they knew that Sargasso was posing as the Florentine art dealer Giacomo DeLuca and was coming to New York? Gary Hammersmith also seemed certain that Moto knew Sargasso had the fifteen million that was supposed to go to the billionaire just for the opportunity to look at the painting.

  Our boy Jeff is certainly piling up an impressive list of enemies: the Italian police, the FBI Art Crimes Team, the Hammersmiths, and Moto, not to mention Laurel, Aaron, and myself.

  The thought of her partners in crime caused a wicked smile to spread across her face as she walked home.

  So engrossed was Helen in contacting one or the other of her buddies that she didn’t notice the other pedestrians giving her a wide berth as she flipped open her cell phone and practically danced her way along Forty-second Street.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fiesole, Italy

  “Giacomo DeLuca.” Laurel tried out the name to feel the weight of it in her mouth. It was hard and unyielding, like a big, rough pit that would choke you if you tried to swallow it.

  “Giacomo DeLuca,” she said again, this time to Walter Mariotti. “At least now we know who the bastard is, not that it seems to make a difference to the police.”

  “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry.” Walter placed his hand on her shoulder. “When I checked this morning, Ispettore Lucchese informed me that he had questioned DeLuca last evening and that he had—he paused searching for the words—“an air-tight alibi, as you would say.”

  Laurel watched a line of clouds float by like mountains of meringue looking for a place to land as she and Walter discussed the latest developments in the murder of Fredericka Bellabocca. They’d returned to the peaceful setting of the Teatro Romano, where Walter had taken her when she’d arrived in Fiesole. Sitting on one of the ancient, smooth stone benches, she thought about what had happe
ned in the days since then and felt frustrated and powerless in the face of it all.

  “Perhaps there will be an opportunity to catch him in New York,” said Walter.

  She tried to put her feelings of anger and frustration aside. “It might not be that simple. First they’ll have to find him.”

  Laurel had been elated when she’d spoken with Aaron and Helen early yesterday afternoon. She had told Walter how Helen had remembered the gossip item in the newspaper that tied Moto to the Delrusse gallery and how Aaron’s friend at the FBI had discovered the connection between Delrusse and DeLuca, who they now were certain was Sargasso, and who they’d learned would be leaving for New York in a few days. When Walter told her that DeLuca had already fled Florence, her elation soon turned to disappointment and then fury.

  As soon as Laurel had gotten off the phone with Aaron and Helen, Walter made several calls. The first was to Caterina to tell her they had discovered the art dealer’s name, the next was to Ispettore Lucchese to offer DeLuca as a suspect, and the last was to a discreet private investigator in Florence.

  Walter had asked the man to quietly look into the life of Giacomo DeLuca and report back as soon as possible. “Giacomo” wasn’t hard to find; both his business and home numbers were listed in the Florence directory. Laurel had laughed bitterly at that piece of news. She imagined that his monumental ego made him feel that it was impossible he’d ever be found out.

  By the time the investigator visited both DeLuca’s business and home, it was too late. The shop, a tiny space on the ground floor of an old villa not far from the Uffizi Museum, had had a “chiuso” sign tacked to the window. “Closed,” with no explanation.

  At his apartment, his landlady told the investigator that Signore DeLuca had left on a very long holiday. He’d paid her six months’ rent in advance and said that he would be in touch. “Allora.” She lifted her eyebrows heavenward, as if that was that. After all, she had the Euros in her bank account.

  DeLuca had already left Florence. Laurel was sure that he’d changed his name and appearance once more and headed to New York as a completely different person.

  “Ispettore Lucchese lied to us again. He didn’t bring him in for questioning. He warned him. He helped DeLuca disappear as quickly as he made that pin in Fredericka’s file disappear from under my hand.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have called the Ispettore, but I wanted to do something, anything to help.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself. This is not over. We— Aaron and the FBI—will find him. DeLuca will make a mistake, and they’ll get him.”

  “But look at what he has done already.” Walter’s hand curled into a fist and angrily stabbed the air around them. “He stole that money. He left his family and disappeared. It was of no consequence to him. Now he has killed a woman. And, it seems like he will get away with that, as well.”

  Her voice sliced through the air like steel, hard, cold, and unbending. “No, he won’t. I promise you. He won’t escape, no matter what it takes.”

  “When they find him,” he demanded, “will your Aaron have the proof he needs to arrest him?”

  Laurel shuddered at the thought of DeLuca roaming free. Yet that was how it would be for the moment. She endeavored to explain, as much for herself as for Walter. “There are no warrants out on DeLuca in America because there’s no evidence, or even a witness, to verify that he’s actually committed a crime.” She leaned across the stone bench and gently took his hand. “But Aaron will find something. I know he will.”

  “And the murder of Fredericka Bellabocca? What will he be able to do about that?” Walter’s anger brought him to his feet.

  Laurel turned her dark, brown eyes up toward his, fire sparking beneath their surface. “I won’t let her death go unpunished,” she said simply.

  “I know you won’t.” He offered her his hand. With a sad sigh, Walter let some of his anger go. “Come. It’s time we got back.”

  Quietly, they walked toward the villa, each lost in thought. Laurel had wanted to be on DeLuca’s flight to New York, even though she knew it would have led to a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Now, it wouldn’t make a difference. DeLuca was already gone. But not for good. Laurel thought about her friend, Monica, and all she’d suffered. Another woman whose life he’d ruined. Another wrong to avenge.

  DeLuca might be gone. But she’d catch up with him if it was the last thing she did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kennedy Airport

  New York

  Giacomo DeLuca stepped off Alitalia Flight 1676 from Florence to Kennedy Airport a changed man. His United Kingdom passport identified him as Ian Annand, a sales representative for a London carpeting firm. A perfect forgery, it had gotten him through Immigration and Customs in Italy with no problems. He slid back the sleeve of his sweater and set his watch back five hours. The flight had arrived exactly on time, and he was ready to get started.

  Ian Annand smiled as he thanked the pretty, dark-haired Alitalia stewardess in halting Italian that bore just the slightest hint of an English accent. He was rewarded for his trouble with a seductive smile from her full, inviting lips. No time for that now, he cautioned himself. Too bad.

  When he had finally come to his senses after Freddy’s death, he’d changed his appearance, his identification, and his flight to New York—booking the first one available. He knew from experience that anyone with money could buy a fake passport, purchase a plane ticket, and disappear. Now was not the time to take chances.

  A call from a friend proved that he’d been right to be cautious. He shook his head at the naiveté of Laurel Imperiole and her friends. They’d thought they had him cornered, but he was too resourceful for that. His confidence had come flooding back in waves, stronger and surer than ever, and he’d been determined to make the most of it.

  Once through Immigration and Customs, Ian Annand moved quickly toward the men’s room near the terminal’s exit. He’d dressed carefully but casually for the flight in khakis, a button-down shirt, and a pullover sweater—the kind of outfit a harried, mid-level executive might wear if he were going to spend seven hours on a plane.

  Now he stepped into a stall, slipped open his small carryall—his only luggage—and began to transform himself once again. He removed a silk tie and replaced the sweater with a well-tailored, soft wool jacket. He added a slim leather belt to the pants and removed the metal frame glasses he’d worn on the flight. He placed the sweater and glasses in the carryall and, waiting until the men’s room was empty, exited the stall and checked his appearance in the mirror. It reflected back a perfect transformation. He stepped slowly out into the stream of people heading for the airport exit. He was Jeff Sargasso again, ready for the most important meeting of his life.

  Straightening his tie and clearing his throat, he hailed a taxi and, in the long unused voice of the native New Yorker that he was, gave the driver an address on the upper east side of Manhattan. As the cab made its way over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, he took in the city’s skyline. It had been more than nine years since he’d seen this view, a panorama that flooded his senses. His eyes were drawn to the spot where the Twin Towers had once stood, and he stared without blinking, his memory filling in the empty space.

  For one fleeting moment, it hit him as hard as the planes had crashed into the towers. He could literally hear the screams and the sirens, feel the heat and the soot, smell the smoke and burning flesh. A gasp escaped his lips, and he swallowed hard.

  “Hey, pal, you okay? You don’t look so good.” The driver was eyeing him with concern in the rearview mirror.

  He wiped away the tacky coating of sweat from his face. “No problem. I’m fine.” He took out a handkerchief and touched it to his forehead. He thought of his wife, Monica— beautiful, sexy and unwaveringly honest. Then he put her out of his mind. It was time to finally lay the past to rest, to focus on what was to come—on eliminating the one obstacle that stood in his way, Laurel Imperiole.

  Chapte
r Twenty-Two

  Kennedy Airport

  New York

  Aaron pushed through the swinging doors into the arrivals hall at JFK’s Terminal One and stood stock-still. The number of people who immediately surrounded him made it almost impossible to move. A quick glance at the arrivals board showed that Lufthansa, Air France, and Alitalia Airlines all had flights disembarking at this precise moment. “Jesus.” Aaron had encountered a nearly empty terminal on his return from Italy. “They must be running some great deals this week.”

  The overstuffed baggage that each and every person was tugging, pulling, or wheeling behind—as if he or she were the only traveler in the airport—compounded the congestion. Whatever happened to the idea of packing light? Aaron tripped over his own feet in an attempt to sidestep a young woman maneuvering two large suitcases, an overstuffed duffle bag, and numerous shopping bags emblazoned with the Prada logo. Too bad Laurel had been so preoccupied. If things had been different, she would have spent half her time shopping in Florence’s elegant stores. He knew that Laurel had been devastated by everything that had happened in Italy, especially the death of the young art assistant, Fredericka Bellabocca. He shook his head. Thank God she was coming home.