Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  Aaron checked his watch and moved to the outer edge of the arrivals space. It was a little after two, and Laurel’s plane wouldn’t be landing for at least three more hours. He couldn’t wait to see her and flashed on the bouquet that he’d left in the car. He’d deliberately arrived at the airport early so that he could check in with a buddy in Customs and Border Patrol. Showing up with an armful of flowers for a conversation with Mark Smith just wasn’t going to cut it.

  Skirting the crowds, he walked over to the CBP office, quietly flashed his badge against the bulletproof glass, and asked for Inspector Smith through the microphone.

  After a few minutes, Mark ambled out of the office, adjusting the Glock he wore holstered on his right hip. His bow-legged gait made Aaron smile. “Hey, pardner. How’s it going, cowboy?”

  “Aaron. Long time. What the hell brings you here?” Mark cocked his finger at the detective in a parody of a quick-draw sheriff. Some things never change. Aaron remembered how the former 13th Precinct patrolman had always imagined himself as a hard riding lawman rounding up the bad guys in the wild west. He’d worked out of East Twenty-first Street and had rarely even made it to the west side of Manhattan, never mind the real west.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could pick your brain about a case I’m working on. Let’s grab a coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

  Mark gestured to the Customs Duty Officer that he was taking a break, and he and Aaron made their way over to the terminal’s food court.

  At JFK, one of the busiest airports in the country, the CBP was always operating on full alert. Working under the Department of Homeland Security, CBP officers were responsible for overseeing Customs and Immigration for the more than 120,000 international flights that landed at JFK every year. As those who were at its center would tell you, it was a daunting task, demanding and intense. Many of the inspectors were former cops. Mark, sharp and savvy, had put in his twenty years and then moved on. Aaron remembered when Mark retired and how he’d quickly become bored with the lack of activity. Aaron hadn’t been surprised when he heard that Mark had joined the CBP. It was a good use of the skills he’d honed while on the force. We need people like him watching our backs. Aaron began to tell Mark what had occurred over the last few weeks.

  “So this Sargasso bastard got out of Italy with no trouble?” asked Mark, after Aaron had finished.

  “It appears so. And Laurel is convinced that one of the Italian detectives working the murder case gave him a heads-up.”

  The inspector hunched over the plastic table they’d commandeered and leaned in close. “You think he’s back here already, trying to hook up with that Delrusse character?” Aaron nodded. “Think he’d be dumb enough to use his real name? Come in as a returning resident?”

  “No. He’d have to know that would set off a red flag. The guy’s stayed hidden for over nine years. I doubt that he’d slip up on a detail like that, or be using any kind of American passport at all. He got out quick, too. Probably from Florence, or maybe Rome.” Aaron tapped his fingers on the table. “I’d bet my shield that he had everything ready to go.”

  “Got any aliases we could check?” Mark took out a notepad and pen.

  “Just one. Giacomo DeLuca, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have a whole bag of them to pick from. Like I said, there’s big money involved in all of this.”

  Aaron stared down at the dregs of his coffee, then looked up at his former patrolman. “I was hoping you could get me into the secure area and that we could check the computer for passengers coming from Italy in the last few days.”

  “Why not ask me to do something easy,” laughed Mark, “like evacuate the entire airport?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, no civilians allowed. But I’m not exactly a civilian now, am I?”

  “Naw, you’re a brother soldier in the war on terror.” Mark lifted his right eyebrow. “Or, at least that’s what I’m going to tell my Field Office Supervisor. Give me five and I’ll come get you.”

  Aaron watched Mark amble off, hitching up the Glock again. Then, as he sat back and waited, he began to peruse the crowd passing in and around the food court. He figured that most of them who stopped for a coffee or bite to eat were waiting to board a flight out. I mean, you didn’t get off a long flight from who knows where and head right for a McDonald’s, did you? Well, maybe some did. The same ones who’d eat in a fast-food place in Paris or Rome, dumb jerks.

  As he looked at the people coming and going, his detective’s instincts took over and he began to do some profiling. He noticed a well-put-together older woman walking with a much younger man. The way she touched his arm told him the man was not her son. He chuckled under his breath. She probably had a son older than the boyfriend.

  Now, what’s that guy looking for, wondered Aaron as he spied a very nervous hip-hop guy in a hoodie, who kept touching the pocket of his jeans. Maybe he doesn’t want to lose his passport, or the drugs he’s hoping to get past security.

  Great imagination, he said to himself. You’ve got them pegged, tried and convicted in five seconds flat. He stretched and shifted in his seat, which left him facing the hallway leading toward the exit. As he watched the quickly moving crowd heading in the direction of the revolving doors and the taxis and cars waiting beyond, he noticed the businessman in a tailored jacket and tie just leaving the men’s room, holding a small carryall. Now there’s a guy who travels light, not even a briefcase to weigh him down, noted Aaron as the guy walked away at a measured pace. He certainly didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Aaron watched as the guy shot his cuffs and absentmindedly brushed his hair back from his forehead. Aaron was still trailing the guy with his eyes when Mark returned and distracted him.

  “You’re in, but let’s keep it low key, okay? My Supe wasn’t overjoyed at having a ‘police presence,’ as he put it, in our midst.”

  “Yeah, I bet that’s exactly what he said.” Aaron got up to follow his friend, looked over his shoulder and saw the businessman step outside.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the homecoming he had planned. Laurel was sitting as far away from him as possible, leaning against the car’s door, her face stony and impassive. Aaron knew nothing he said would make a difference. He’d let Sargasso slip by him and he couldn’t change that.

  “But you saw him and didn’t stop him,” said Laurel for at least the fifth time.

  “I told you, I was just looking at people passing by while I was waiting for Mark.” An edge crept into his voice, coloring his words and adding a sting. “I didn’t know it was Sargasso. Not until hours later.”

  Aaron and Mark had been checking passenger lists of flights coming in from Italy over the last few days. They’d been looking for men who were traveling alone and who had embarked in Rome or Florence, the two most popular Italian gateways for direct flights to New York. Aaron didn’t think that Sargasso would have risked taking the time to fly to another city or country first, then on to New York. Not if he wanted out as quickly as possible.

  After they compiled a list of about forty passengers, Mark took over a computer at one of the Immigration booths and started running the names through their database, pulling up passport photos and personal information. They discounted anyone who was obviously too old or too young to be Sargasso, who was in his late thirties, and concentrated on the seven men who remained. None were American citizens. Three were Italian, two were British, one was Russian, and one was Czech.

  They printed out the photos and passport information, pulled the Immigration cards that all aliens were required to file, and began to sort through the facts before them.

  “Any of these guys look familiar?” Mark sifted the papers like a deck of cards.

  “Not really. I didn’t actually see him the day that Laurel bumped into him.” He tried to recall the fleeting presence of the man in the Uffizi’s gallery. “I mean, she didn’t even realize it was him until a few minutes later.”

  “Well, we’ve got the addresses where each of these g
uys is purportedly staying in New York.” Mark handed the stack to Aaron. “You could probably get a couple of your guys to check them out on the q-t.”

  “Yeah, I cou …” Aaron suddenly sat bolt upright. “Shit!”

  “What. What is it?”

  Aaron dug through the stack and removed one of the photos. “The reason Laurel finally realized it was Sargasso was because she recognized this habit he had of pushing his hair off his forehead.” He stabbed a finger at the photo he was holding. “While I was waiting for you to clear me, I was checking out people leaving the airport. This guy passed by on his way to the exit.”

  “And?” Mark nodded toward the stack of photos. “Most of them probably went out that way.”

  “I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something off about him. He didn’t have glasses on, like in this shot. But it was him. Not a lot of baggage, moving slow, you know, while everyone else was hurrying to leave the terminal and get home, or wherever they were going.” He looked up at Mark, who was listening attentively. “He was trying a little too hard to blend in, like he didn’t want to attract any attention. But behaving differently from everyone else made him stand out. And just before he walked out the door, he brushed his hair off his forehead, just like Laurel’s guy.”

  Aaron jumped up and started pacing. “I think it’s him! I think we found Sargasso!”

  Mark wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. A lot of guys mess with their hair. It’s just a gesture, a habit, not much to go on, you know?”

  Aaron sat back down, deflated. “Yeah, I know. But it’s all I’ve got, and I’ve got to work with it.” He picked up the picture of the man he’d recognized. “He’s using a UK passport in the name of Ian Annand.” Aaron looked over the Immigration form Annand had turned in. “This lists the Plaza Hotel on Fifty-ninth Street as his U.S. address. Shit, he didn’t know that the Plaza closed.” Aaron was up and moving again. “He picked it from memory. It’s been closed for months. Why didn’t your guys catch it?”

  Mark’s eyes hardened into slits. “Damn sure I’m going to find out.” He made a note to speak with the agent who’d passed Annand through.

  “Listen, I’m going to need this photo.” The agent nodded his assent. “I want to send it to the FBI and see what they can do. I’d like to send his Immigration form for prints, as well.”

  Mark slid the photo and card into an envelope and handed it to Aaron. “You know how many people have touched it? It probably won’t give us anything. Any paper out on this guy from before he split?”

  “No. Everyone thought he was dead. For now there’s no probable cause or proof of a crime that I can use to get a warrant.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “If we can tie him to the murder in Italy, we can work through Interpol and bring him in for questioning. In the meantime, once I find him, we’ll stay on him.” Aaron leaned on the table with his hands. “Sargasso’s involved with Delrusse, who’s Moto’s new gallery partner. He’s also connected to Moto through the Hammersmith deal. With Moto in the middle, it’s got to be big, and probably illegal.” Aaron looked at his watch. “Once I pick up Laurel, I’ll have to get back and see my captain. I don’t know how far I can take this without putting him in the loop.”

  Half an hour later, Aaron found himself glancing over at Laurel again. Why did their worst arguments always seem to happen when they were on the road, he wondered as he made the turn for the Midtown Tunnel.

  “I promise you, we’ll find him. He won’t get away again.”

  “And just how do you plan to do that?” She ticked off points on her fingers. “You don’t know what name he’s using. You don’t know where he’s staying. You don’t know why he’s here. You don’t know who he’s meeting.” She threw her hands up in frustration, just as she’d thrown the flowers he’d given her onto the backseat.

  “What the hell do you want from me?” Aaron was losing the battle to keep his own anger in check. “We’re positive it’s got something to do with Delrusse, the gallery, and Moto. It’s not a coincidence that Sargasso arrived in New York just when Moto was planning to take over the gallery. We’ll be watching. We’ll be there, and we’ll get him.”

  Aaron looked at Laurel, who stared through the windshield, her lips a tight, thin straight line expressive of her rage. He remembered how soft and yielding they had been just a little while ago when she’d run into his arms. His hands tightened on the wheel at the memory, now as cold and bitter as ashes.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Laurel’s Apartment

  New York City

  Laurel pushed her suitcase into her apartment, closed the door behind her, then turned and pounded on it with all the strength she could summon. It didn’t help. The anger was still there, threatening to burst out and take on all comers, including Aaron.

  Laurel was sure that Aaron was just as pissed at her as she was at him, and that when she thought about it later in a more rational moment, she wouldn’t blame him. Admit it, you’ve been a royal bitch, her inner voice hissed. She dismissed everything that Aaron had learned about Sargasso and focused instead on the fact that the bastard had managed to slip by him. Now they’d have to start the search all over again. Laurel kicked her bag, wanting to send it flying across the hardwood floor. Instead, she yelped in pain as her toe connected with the heavy suitcase, which tottered on its wheels and fell over. Can’t even get that right, can you? She slumped back against the door. Okay, enough self-pity. Time to get it together and get past what I can’t change.

  Laurel looked at her watch. Bucking the traffic on the way into the city from the airport had taken longer than expected. She was due to meet Helen and her dad for dinner and needed to move it if she were going to be on time. Her mail and phone messages would have to wait. I’ll barely have time to shower and change clothes, she realized.

  Laurel limped to her suitcase, righted it, and rolled it into her bedroom. Heaving it up onto her bed with both hands, she wished that Aaron were there to do the heavy lifting. Pride goeth before a heavy bag. She raised an eyebrow at the irony. Maybe my anger will, as well.

  Her shower washed away the grime of travel and the tension of her fight with Aaron. Stepping out of the shower into the steamy bathroom, Laurel felt renewed. With the heel of her hand, she wiped away a circle of condensation from the mirror and smiled at herself. Sometimes the simple things in life were really the best. Too bad they usually didn’t last more than five minutes.

  She sighed, mentally preparing for the next round— dinner with dad and Helen and the task of explaining to Mr. Overprotective Father of the Year—the doting and devoted Mike Imperiole—that everything was under control and that his baby girl was in no danger. “He won’t believe me.” She rolled her eyes and hoped she could count on Helen to help convince him. Of course, if her father ever found out about some of Helen’s escapades, he wouldn’t take her word for it either. In fact, he’d probably forbid Laurel to go within fifty feet of her.

  Toweling dry her hair, Laurel thought about how these two very different people had come together a few months ago. Laurel had hired Helen to do background checks for a story she was working on and had planned to meet her at the town house she owned in Kips Bay. Somehow, Mike had gotten it into his head that Laurel was meeting with a sketchy, hard-boiled detective type trying to lure her into God knows what and had followed her, bursting through Helen’s front door. Helen had handled the situation as deftly and expertly as a master chef creating a delicate soufflé. Mike had risen to Helen’s touch and hadn’t deflated yet.

  Sighing, Laurel let the towel slip from her hands. My story didn’t turn out as well, she reminded herself. Shaking her head, she gazed into the mirror. The one good thing that had come out of it was Aaron. Except now he’ll probably never speak to me again.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” she said to her reflection. “We have to find Sargasso. Why is he really here? Is it because of Moto and that mysterious painting?” Did he really think he�
�d gotten away with murdering Fredericka Bellabocca and that New York was safe? Did the bastard have another motive, as well?

  Laurel’s hand flew to her mouth, a crazy thought forming in her brain. Oh my God, Monica! What if he came back to tie up loose ends, to hurt or even kill Monica?

  When Laurel had first spotted Sargasso in Florence, Helen had asked her if Monica ever mentioned seeing someone who looked like him around the city. Laurel didn’t think so, but she didn’t really know. Monica had never talked about anything like that, and Laurel tried to mention Jeff as little as possible.