Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  He stole a glance at the barroom’s door to make sure no other staff was within earshot. “There’s also a private swimming pool that goes across the basement level of the property and a private gym on the top floor of each building. Each gym has state-of-the-art equipment.” Helen noticed the wistful look that came into his eyes. “And a staff of exclusive trainers who live at the hotel and are on-call twenty-four seven. None of the other guests have access to this pool, these gyms, or these trainers. The staff gets to the pool through a basement corridor.”

  It must be nice to be very rich. Helen glanced at Joe, whose look of disgust was hard to miss.

  “Then,” Jean-Paul leaned in even closer, “there are other high-end amenities like the Armani Casa furniture, Frette linen, and a collection of authentic artwork. You know, like at the Met.” He gestured toward the museum, which was directly across the street. “Plus, only staff members who’ve been selected and trained by Mr. Bevacqua are allowed to work in the private residences. No one who works there—not even the maids, our personal shopper, or our bath concierge—wear uniforms. They all wear custom designed black suits, like mine.”

  “What did you say?” interrupted Helen excitedly. “Bath concierge?”

  “Yeah,” Jean-Paul smiled. “It’s something new here. Our bath concierge, Vicki Simon, will prepare any kind of bath a VIP client wants. She’ll make sure the water temperature is just right and add oils or rose petals and place scented candles around the room for atmosphere.” He made quote marks in the air. “All a VIP guest has to do is schedule an appointment, and then Vicki gets their bath ready.”

  Apparently this was too much for Joe. “Does she scrub their backs, too?” he barked.

  “Don’t mind my friend; he’s not as cultured as the rest of us. Is this a popular service?” Helen tried to at least sound like a reporter.

  “I’ll say. Vicki is very busy, especially right now. I think some extra special VIP is arriving from Japan tomorrow, and he’s very into this bath thing.” He raised his hand in a “what can you do” gesture. “She had to find this particular exotic oil that his people requested. It was something with lavender and real emerald dust to blend calmness with clarity, or so she said.”

  “Would that be like fairy dust?” Joe shook his head in revulsion.

  Jean-Paul smiled. “I believe she mentioned something about it also detoxifying the heart chakra, but you’d have to ask her. Anyway, I think only one store in the city carries it. So she was pretty stressed until she found some.”

  Helen knew this was it. All the pieces fit. They were preparing for Moto. “Wow, all that trouble for just one person. No other hotel I’ve been to has gone this far. He must be a pretty important guy. Any idea who he is?” she asked innocently.

  Jean-Paul gave her a weird look, like he was beginning to wonder, money or not, if he’d made a mistake talking to her. Guess I overdid it a bit. It’s time to move along. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.”

  Helen touched Joe’s arm. “Drink up. We should go.”

  Joe lifted the snifter, tipped his head back and drank the last drops of the smoky cognac, looking at her suspiciously over the rim of his glass. He took her arm as he rose, and they walked into the lobby and out into the bright afternoon.

  “So what do you think, Ms. Magazine Reporter?” Joe shook his head at her over-the-top acting, then became serious. “It’s got to be Moto, right? Who else would make someone run all over the city looking for some freaking bath oil with real emeralds in it?” His voice was filled with derision. “He’s really a piece of work.”

  Helen smiled at Joe’s ire. “Billionaires usually are. That’s how they get to be billionaires.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just not right. And it really pisses me off.”

  “I can see that. You know what? Me, too. That and everything else Moto’s been up to.” She gave Joe a look he’d seen before.

  “What?” His voice held a warning note. “What are you planning, now?”

  She smiled mischievously. “Oh, I don’t know.” She took his arm again, turned him around, and started steering him back toward the hotel. “I thought I’d go see a man about a room. Like to come along?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  FBI Headquarters

  New York City

  Aaron was waiting in Mickey Buonarroti’s office at FBI headquarters while the agent went off to grab them some coffee. Fidgeting, shaking his leg, and cracking his knuckles, he looked at the door every few seconds, thankful that Agent LoBianco was nowhere to be seen. Instead of being relieved at the agent’s absence, he became even antsier. Jeez, what the hell is wrong with me, he asked himself, trying to settle down but not succeeding. His head almost began to pound at the recollection of his night on the town with Mickey and Fibbies, especially the lovely Lisa. What did the fitness people call it? Muscle memory. Oh yeah, that was just about right. He’d sure acted like a muscle head that evening.

  Mickey entered the office with an FBI mug in each hand and a file tucked under his arm. “What’s up, A? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Anyone I know?” He lifted an eyebrow and handed over a mug.

  “What’s with the file?” Aaron ignored the jibe and jutted his chin toward Mickey.

  “You’re not going to like it.” Mickey settled himself behind his desk and paused to take a sip of his coffee. “It’s about Laurel’s friend Monica and her gallery.”

  Aaron had asked Mickey for this meeting to discuss where they were on locating Jeff Sargasso—which, so far, was nowhere—and to review the steps that each department was taking to apprehend him. The last thing he expected was to see a new file on Monica Sargasso. His head began to pound for real now—none of that muscle memory shit.

  He scrubbed his hand across his forehead. “I thought we agreed she’s clean. Nothing she’s done in the last few years indicates that she’s had any contact with her husband, or that she knew he was alive.” Laurel had been right about that; Monica Sargasso had been devastated by the news that Jeff was still alive and horrified at the crimes he’d committed.

  “We did clear her on that. This isn’t about contact with the disappeared hubby. It’s about being in bed with the Hammersmiths.” Mickey let this tidbit float in the air, then waited for Aaron’s reaction like a kid watching a balloon being filled until it was ready to pop.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Aaron heatedly. “Alexandra Hammersmith and her stepsons would tear Monica Sargasso apart if they could. Remember? They think her not-really-dead husband and his buddy Moto have their fifteen million bucks and that she somehow figures in it.”

  Mickey opened the file and extracted a single sheet of paper. “Well, evidently not all of them feel that way.” He handed over the paper and waited as Aaron read it.

  Aaron had trouble believing what he was seeing. It was as if a light blinked on and off behind his eyes and distorted his vision. When the flare cleared, he rose to his feet and began to pace a path between Mickey’s desk and the door.

  From what Laurel had told him about their conversation at lunch yesterday, Monica had been about to close the gallery when a near miracle occurred. She’d been working as hard as she could, but she just didn’t have the knowledge or the contacts that Jeff had had. Over the last few years, she’d applied to several of the 9/11 victims’ relief funds. The problem was that she didn’t have any real proof that Jeff had died that day in the north tower. His journal, which would have shown his appointment with Hammersmith, had been on his person, so there was no proof that he’d actually gone to, or even been in the World Trade Center when it was attacked. No one had seen him there that morning. And no records from Hammersmith and Mann survived to corroborate the appointment. For all intents and purposes, he was simply a missing person. Although many of the various funds’ officials believed her, they couldn’t add her to the list of victims’ families or release any money. Their hands were tied.

  Monica couldn’t have Jeff declared legally dead for
seven years, so she wasn’t able to collect any insurance, either. In the meantime, she’d inherited the gallery, and along with all its assets, all of its debts.

  She’d been trying to make a go of it and had just about given up. Then, about six months ago, a letter arrived from an organization specifically created to help people like her, those in that gray zone. Named the 9/11 Family Repatriation Group, the organization had been set up to help those families who had no other recourse. The FRG, according to the letter, was funded anonymously by several philanthropists who had an interest in helping these families get back on their feet. This included businesses that needed an influx of capital to continue. The letter was accompanied by an application for a very, very low interest loan.

  Monica was skeptical but applied. To her surprise, she was approved for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. It was just what she needed to give her a fighting chance.

  Aaron finished his pacing and handed the paper back to Mickey. “And?”

  “Want to guess who one of those mysterious benefactors was?” The agent had a self-satisfied smirk.

  Aaron shook his head. “What? And steal your thunder?” He could see that Mickey was bursting to tell him.

  “None other than David Hammersmith.” Mickey slapped the file against his thigh.

  “David Hammersmith? Why would he help Sargasso’s “widow?” Do you think that Alexandra and brother Gary know about this?” asked Aaron.

  “I seriously doubt it.” Mickey shook his head. “He obviously has an agenda of his own. And not one he’s made anyone else privy to.”

  Mickey pulled out another sheet from the file. “As soon as we got this information, we did a little digging into the Family Repatriation Group. It was set up a year ago, well after all the other Nine Eleven funds and organizations were underway. And, surprise, surprise, it only has one client benefiting from its philanthropy …”

  Aaron interrupted, “Monica Sargasso.”

  Mickey nodded and continued. “And only one millionaire funding it, David Hammersmith.”

  Aaron sat back down in front of Mickey’s desk. “He set it up just so he could help Monica Sargasso? I still don’t get it. What’s he got to gain from that?”

  “Maybe he was in cahoots with her hubby. Maybe he wants to screw his brother and his stepmother—if not literally, then figuratively. Or, maybe he thinks it’s the best way to keep an eye on things and get close to Moto.” The agent raised his hands to the sky in a “who-knows?” gesture.

  “Yeah, and maybe he’s hoping to get the mysterious painting all for himself,” suggested Aaron. “It could be a ballsy move. All those years as the junior member of the team, standing in his father and brother’s shadow. Now he sees an opportunity to make his move.”

  Mickey took a sip of coffee and seemed to be considering what Aaron had said. “Could be. But I doubt that’s going to happen. I think Moto is way above this guy’s pay level.” He raised one hand a foot above the other to illustrate his point.

  Aaron snorted. “What? A billionaire versus a multi-millionaire?”

  “Yeah. And a brilliant cutthroat big man versus a wannabe.”

  They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking through what they’d just discussed. Aaron was about to speak when there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mick.” Agent LoBianco entered the room, giving Aaron a long look. “But I knew you’d want to see this as soon as possible. It just came in from our agent in cargo at Islip Airport.” She handed it over to him.

  Mickey scanned it quickly while Aaron and Agent LoBianco looked on, studiously ignoring each other. When he spoke, his face was filled with excitement. “Moto landed about an hour ago. We put a guy on the cargo crew unloading the jet. He says Moto has something very special with him—something that needs four security guys with heat watching over it. Something in a large packing crate. They cleared Customs so they must have declared it. Probably had the papers for a piece of art no one would question.

  Aaron could see the excitement building in Mickey as he continued.

  “Our man overheard them talking. They’re on their way to the city—to the Stanfield Hotel.”

  Aaron was rising before Mickey finished. “I need to get back to my team right now.” He moved toward the door.

  “Whoa! Hang on there, A.” Mickey put up a hand. “First, we need to get our people in place at the Stanfield, and do it quietly, not with NYPD guns blazing. It’s an FBI operation now.”

  “Are you crazy?” roared Aaron. “I brought you in on this. You know Sargasso figures in somewhere. He’s got to.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. You came to me for help. Don’t think now you get to say, ‘Gee, thanks, Mick, but I’ll take it from here.’ That’s not how it’s going to be. And what about Moto? And that Mossad agent from Delrusse’s gallery who we ID’d for you? That makes it FBI business.” Leaning forward, he placed his hands on his desk and locked eyes with Aaron.

  “This is my case.” Aaron jammed his face closer to the agent’s. “You better believe I’m going to be part of it.”

  “Guys?” interjected Agent LoBianco, trying to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you …”

  “Thanks, Lisa, you can go now.” Mickey cut her off, eyes fixed on Aaron.

  “But …”

  Mickey’s tone left no doubt. “I said you can go.”

  The agent looked from one man to the other as she began to walk away. Then she stopped for a moment and turned. “Assholes.” She slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  West 79th Street

  New York City

  Jeff Sargasso was as ready as he’d ever be.

  He’d bought a throwaway cell phone from a no name electronics store on upper Broadway, then called Moto’s assistant and gave him the number. Now all he could do was wait until he got the signal to move. Once that happened, he was supposed to contact his buyer and finalize the time and place of the meeting.

  He was occupying a bench across from the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin, watching the small schooners and houseboats bobbing up and down at the edge of the Hudson in the soft afternoon light. He was just killing time, cell phone in his pocket.

  That he’d been able to keep the buyer’s name confidential was nothing short of a miracle. Moto had pressed and pressed, but he’d insisted the buyer was determined to remain anonymous until the last moment. It was a deal breaker. The buyer would reveal himself when they met—then and only then. Jeff had assured the billionaire that his client was just being cautious—if Moto didn’t know who he was, the man reasoned, the billionaire wouldn’t be able to play one bidder against the other. Jeff had also reassured Moto that his client had the funds required to purchase the painting. That much at least was true. The buyer could afford the artwork, but he had no intention of actually paying for it, since he believed he already had.

  Jeff knew it was a dangerous game he was playing. But, he reminded himself, nothing would go wrong. It wasn’t even an option. He’d worked too hard, come too far, and sacrificed too much to allow that.

  He’d planned everything out to the very last detail. In fact, he knew he was staking his life on his plan being perfect. When it was over, he’d walk away like last time; only this time, he’d disappear forever. Moto wouldn’t be able to find him or touch him. He’d be safe. And very rich.

  The inactivity was starting to get to him, though, messing up his mind, raking up the past. Sitting around doing nothing was for losers. Acting swiftly and decisively was what had gotten him this far. He’d proved that over and over, hadn’t he? But his orders were specific. And he couldn’t disobey without causing suspicion. Sit tight until summoned. Even the way it had been phrased left no fucking room for maneuvering.

  Shit, I could have made a move yesterday when Monica was having lunch with that Imperiole bitch. It would have been easy to skate around for a while and mess her up when she was leaving the park. Whoever had set up their security had c
oncentrated their attention on Monica. It hadn’t seemed as if anyone were really paying attention to that other bitch. Well, not anyone he’d spotted. She would have been easy prey, a victim of a mugger on rollerblades, he mused, savoring the image. It would have been over before anyone even knew what happened.

  He closed his eyes, imagining the look on her face as he slipped the knife into her back and whispered his name in her ear. He laughed out loud, scattering the pigeons that were milling around his feet, scrounging for a few spare crumbs. The same filthy birds that plagued everyone in Florence. Freddy used to call them topi volanti, disgusting flying rats. Thinking of her wiped the smile from his lips. For just a moment, a cloud of doubt shaded his eyes. This is what being back in New York was doing to him. Too much time with nothing to do but think. It was time to act … to fucking take command. To do what he came here to do. Winner take all when the deal was done.