by Cathi Stoler
“And, he doesn’t know we’re onto his Ian Annand alias, which could work to our advantage. If he uses any credit cards, or accesses an ATM with that ID, we’ll know right away.”
Helen meekly held up a finger, hating to interrupt Aaron while he was on such a roll. “He might not go that route. He’s smart, and I think that by now he realizes that we know he skipped from Florence under a name other than DeLuca. He could have another alias, as well.”
“That’s true,” Aaron nodded. “But he has no reason to suspect that we’re on to the fact that he’s here. He wasn’t stopped at the airport.” He shot Laurel a brief, nasty look. “And, Delrusse doesn’t know that we found out about that shipment DeLuca sent to the gallery from Italy. So he has no reason to warn him, either.”
Laurel cleared her throat to get their attention. “What about Moto? If Jeff is still working on his behalf, wouldn’t Moto know that he’s here in the States?”
Aaron stopped pacing and moved around to lean against the front of his desk. Still ignoring Laurel, he leaned close to Helen. “Yes, he would.” His gray eyes sparkled with excitement. “We also got a tip from Interpol. Moto is on the move. He left Kyoto yesterday on his private jet from Chubu Centair International Airport on Nagoya. The captain filed a flight plan for London and landed outside the city at Stansted Airport.”
“I’ve never heard of either of those airports,” said Helen.
“Neither one is as busy as their more well-known counterparts. They both have private airstrips for corporate clients, and for someone like Moto, ‘private’ equals less scrutiny. Plus, there’s no problem getting in and out quickly.”
Helen raised an eyebrow “No, I don’t suppose there would be.”
“Does this mean that Moto is moving the painting?” Laurel asked.
Aaron finally turned to her, nodding his assent, voice cool. “Interpol has been watching him for years. They’re positive only something really big could get him off his Kyoto estate, let alone out of the country.”
“Do you think he has a buyer?” Laurel continued.
“The couple at Delrusse’s gallery?” Helen asked.
“Not a chance. Mickey Buonarroti ran the photo I sent him, and they’re Israeli Mossad. They were scoping things out, just like I was.”
Aaron’s statement surprised the two women. “What?” Laurel had asked. “Mossad?”
“Holy shit,” Helen said. “What the hell do they want?”
“Don’t know yet, but whatever it is, if Israel is involved, it can’t be good for Delrusse or Moto.”
“So why stop in London?” Helen steered the conversation back to Moto’s whereabouts. “Why not come directly to the States?
“Maybe that’s where the painting is now,” Aaron suggested. “Moto’s other jet flew into the U.K. from Kuala Lumpur. We don’t know who or what was on it.”
“Other jet?” Helen shook her head in amazement. “As in more than one?”
“So he could send one plane to America and one somewhere else, and the painting could be on either one?” Laurel asked. “Are there people watching him to see what he does?”
Oh, oh, Helen thought. Here we go again.
“No, we’re just going to let him roam around the countryside like an English Lord.” Anger had tugged down the corners of his mouth. “Make no mistake about it,” Aaron said, bringing his face inches from her own. “He’ll be bringing that painting here to Sargasso and Delrusse. Everything points to it.”
“How do you know?” Laurel shot back at him. “He could …”
Before the conversation turned into another boxing match, Helen interrupted. “Any idea where he’ll stay while he’s in New York?”
“His corporation has a suite of rooms it maintains for its executives at the Kitano, but Moto’s never stayed there when he visited.”
“So, he’s been to New York before?” Helen asked.
“Twice, as far as we know.” Aaron picked up a notepad on his desk and read from it. “Once, in nineteen ninety-nine for a special event for the Japanese Emperor. Probably a command performance. Then again in December of two thousand one.”
“What for?” Laurel asked, more meekly, apparently edging her way back into the flow of conversation.
Aaron tossed the pad back on his desk. “We’re not sure. It was all hush-hush. He was in and out in a few days.”
“Bet he spent some quality time with Alexandra Hammersmith,” Helen ventured.
“Yeah, trying to squeeze her for the missing fifteen million hubby promised him.”
Helen snorted. “The money she thought he already had? He would have had better luck facing a squad of Ninjas than trying to convince her that he never got it.”
Helen rose and began to wander around Aaron’s office, thinking aloud. “You know, I don’t believe that Moto is sure who has that money. Gary Hammersmith is certain that Sargasso copped it. But I’ll bet that Moto is still trying to figure it out. Maybe that’s why he’s keeping Sargasso close.”
“Until he can prove it,” Aaron said, “and get it back.”
“Uh-huh,” Helen nodded. “That could be the wasabi on the sushi for him this visit. He’s got to have somewhere quiet and discreet lined up to meet with Sargasso. No over-the-top hotels or fanfare. I think I might know how I can find out. Okay with you?”
Aaron raised his hands “Go for it. But, be careful. He’s very powerful and very dangerous.”
The small space suddenly become overly quiet, the soft breathing of its three inhabitants the only sound. Helen stole a glance at Aaron, who was watching Laurel, who actually seemed to be thinking before speaking for a change. Taking in the edgy atmosphere, Helen scooped up her jacket and bag. “That’s it for me. I’ll let you know when I get something.” She slipped out before either of them could stop her.
The bell on the microwave rang, bringing her back to the present. As she ate, she mulled over her plan to find Moto’s hidey-hole. It was a long shot, but it might work, and she’d need to get on it very quickly.
The doorbell rang just as she was swallowing her last bite of pasta.
She smiled to herself, walked to her front door, put her eye to the peephole and opened it.
“Hey there,” she said to a still worried looking Mike Imperiole. “I thought you just might show up on my doorstep tonight.”
* * *
When Helen left the station, Laurel felt the tension between her and Aaron crackle like fire devouring kindling.
She looked up at Aaron, who was still in front of his desk, eyes down and face pensive. “I’m sorry. I know Sargasso slipping out of the airport wasn’t your fault.”
He held up his hand to cut her off. “Don’t.”
She gazed back down at her lap. “I overreacted as usual, didn’t I?”
Aaron bent down and lifted her face toward his. “Yeah, you did.” He let go and stepped back to his desk, putting a little distance between them. “I’m not the enemy.”
“I know. And neither is my dad.” She shook her head. “I was horrible to him. Helen was right to call me on it. I owe everyone an apology.” She lifted her eyes to his.
“Yes, you do.” forgetting his resolve to keep space between them, Aaron moved in closer. Laurel was surprised to see forgiveness in his eyes and something more. He was letting her off easy and she knew it.
Aaron leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You do owe everyone an apology. You can start with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kips Bay
New York City
Helen was on the phone in her study, holding for Joe Santangelo. She smiled at the sunlight streaming in from the windows that faced her garden, the trees in its path creating an ebb and flow of lacy patterns on her desk’s surface. Her thoughts were as free-flowing as the dust motes that followed in the sun’s wake.
Last night could have been a total disaster. But when Mike Imperiole had shown up, she had decided to answer as many of his questions as she could and to dir
ect those that she couldn’t to Laurel. By the time she’d finished talking, they had had a few glasses of wine and were snuggled up in front of the living room fireplace. When Mike had left in the early hours of the morning, both of them were feeling better about the current situation and about each other.
A curt “Santangelo” jolted Helen back to the here and now.
“Hey, big fella, it’s me, Helen.” She sat up straight, lingering thoughts of Mike adding a twinkle to her words.
“Well, don’t we sound chipper this morning. What’s going on?”
Feeling herself begin to flush, Helen picked up the pen and notepad that lay on her desk. “I need your help again, Joe.” She ignored his baited barb.
“Please, just tell me it doesn’t have anything to do with that bitch, Alexandra Hammersmith. Madonne, she practically had my balls for breakfast over that Sargasso insurance policy you made up. I had to do some fancy footwork to cover for you on that.”
Helen ignored the accusation in his voice and laughed. “Balls and feet? Any body parts she didn’t try to remove?”
“Jeez, don’t remind me.” His sigh made its way through the phone.
“Poor baby. Well, this doesn’t have anything to do with the charming Mrs. Hammersmith. Not directly anyway. But I’m not sure it’s going to be any easier.”
“Okaaay.” Joe drew out the word. “Let me have it.”
“I need some information on Miayamu Moto’s MMJapan Corporation. Specifically, their real estate holdings in New York City. I figured that since New York Fidelity insured a lot of big corporate holdings for foreign investors, they might be a client.”
Helen waited several beats for Joe’s response. “Hello? Hey, Santangelo, are you still there?”
“How come you never just want the name of a good restaurant or tickets to a playoff game? You know, like a normal person?”
“Aw, come on, what fun would that be? What I really need to know is if MMJapan owns or has an interest in any apartments, buildings, or small, private hotels in the city.” She clicked the pen she was holding on and off, her voice matching its quick rhythm, excited by the thrill of the hunt. “It’s common knowledge that they have a part of the Kitano, but I’m thinking something less conspicuous.”
“What gives? It does have to do with Hammersmith, doesn’t it? Wasn’t Moto the one selling him the painting?” Joe’s voice was laced with suspicion. “Why do you need to know about his buildings? Isn’t he a recluse or something? Never leaves Japan from what I’ve heard. C’mon, what are you up to?” Helen could hear the exasperation in his voice.
She paused and reflected on how much more to tell Joe. “Moto might be coming to New York. I can’t explain all of it right now, but I really need to find out where he’d be staying.” And, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.
“I don’t know if I can do this. If Fidelity insures any of the Corporation’s property, it’s proprietary information. If there’s no claim of fraud associated with the business, I have no reason to be looking into their records.”
Helen knew what Joe left unsaid—that he could lose his job over something like this. Alexandra Hammersmith might have complained, but a big gun like Moto might do much worse.
Helen rocked back in her chair as Joe remained silent. “You know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important, and I’ll really owe you big time.”
“Is that supposed to be an incentive?” Joe snorted. “I don’t think owing me is gonna work this time.”
Helen heard the change in his voice and knew he was wavering. Don’t push too hard, she reminded herself. “Well okay, if you can’t, you can’t.” Disappointment dripped from her voice. “I’ll have to find out some other way.”
“Oh, shut up.” He wasn’t buying her poor-little-me act. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks. You won’t be sorry.”
“I already am,” he growled and hung up.
“Yes!” Helen clicked her pen furiously. “Find Moto, and Sargasso won’t be far behind.” She tingled with excitement, adrenaline kicking in. “I’ll get that murdering piece of scum and make him wish he never was born.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kips Bay
New York City
Lior couldn’t believe his luck. He was sitting in the truck across from Helen’s town house and had recorded every word of her side of the conversation with Joe Santangelo. “Yes,” he said aloud, mimicking the eagerness he’d heard in Helen’s voice and beat a little rhythm on the dashboard for emphasis.
What is it those “New Age” people like to say? It’s karma. Well, mine was good today. He shook his head in amazement.
Lior had driven over to Helen’s planning to retrieve the pens he’d planted the other night. They couldn’t be detected in a sweep for bugs—they would only go live when his receiver was on—but he didn’t want to take any chances on the devices being found. Especially now that he knew how involved Aaron Gerrard was in this Moto/Sargasso business.
He’d turned on the receiver in the truck to see if McCorkendale was home—if there were any sounds in the house, the pens would pick them up. He’d heard a radio playing softly somewhere inside and was just about to fire up the 4Runner and leave when she made her phone call. He couldn’t believe what he heard. Moto might be coming to New York. At least McCorkendale, and probably Laurel Imperiole and Aaron Gerrard, believed he was. Could he finally be trying to move the painting? Did he think that Delrusse had found a buyer?
Lior’s expression hardened. This was his shot, and he knew he’d only get one.
Lior was about to push the button that would beam this latest information up to the satellite and on to Tel Aviv. His finger hovered over the send button. No, he hesitated, then moved his hand away. This is for me to take care of. Only me. He could right the wrong that had been perpetrated more that seventy years ago. He’d tail McCorkendale and get Rebecca to run a search on Joe Santangelo and any New York Fidelity connection to Moto.
He’d be ready and waiting. Then, he’d strike like a blitzkrieg.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Central Park
New York City
Laurel was enjoying the view from a lakeside table at the Boathouse Café. A pair of swans slid gracefully across the water, oblivious to the boaters rowing around them. It was lunchtime on a gorgeous New York City day. Happy, laughing people were reveling in every moment of their time in the sun. Wine and conversation flowed freely. Laurel sipped her iced tea as she took in the other diners. She wondered what she was going to say to her friend when she finally arrived.
Today had been Laurel’s first day back in the office, and things hadn’t gotten off to a great start. John had been more than generous about her taking the time off—he’d understood how important it was to her—but piles of work were stacked on her desk. Stories that needed editing, pitches from freelance writers, and nearly two weeks worth of messages and e-mails vied for her attention. Plus, her damn phone hadn’t stopped ringing.
First, it was Jenna from Fiesole. “Are you alright? Good,” she answered not waiting for Laurel to reply, “I told the Mariottis you would be just fine once you were back in New York. Tony and I are going to Milan for business then we’ll be back in the city in a few days. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid,” she added in a rush and was gone. Good thing Jenna was her best friend and always showed how much she cared. Laurel smiled at her friend’s bossiness.
Next, it was her father. She’d tried reaching him last night but only got his voice mail. She apologized at length to his machine, telling him how sorry she was for her awful behavior. This morning, she had to do it all over again, voice-to-voice as it were. “Baby girl,” he’d said in a rather sprightly tone, “I accept your apology. I know you didn’t mean to be so rude and insensitive. Don’t get into any trouble today, okay?” He’d left her with his regular daily adviso. Well, that was interesting. She stared at her phone, wondering why he didn’t press her for more information.
After five or six more calls from other friends and urgent requests from the staff, John Dimitri rang, summoning her to a quick meeting in his office. Can’t say no when the boss calls, she sighed, although she suspected his request had more to do with his role as her friend rather than her publisher.
John greeted her with his version of open arms: a peck on each cheek and a slightly raised eyebrow. “How are you, darling?” She related the events of the past two weeks as if she were pitching him a story—one filled with deceit, lies, intrigue, and murder, which it actually was.
He listened patiently, one knife-creased trouser leg crossed over the other, silently examining his pristine nails. But when he looked up, his dark brown eyes were dead serious. “I want you to be careful. Leave this to Aaron and the police. Your father feels the same way. Do you understand me?”