by Cathi Stoler
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chelsea
New York City
Laurel had decided to take the direct approach. Instead of confronting David Hammersmith at his office, where he could hide behind his staff, she chose to wait for him outside his Chelsea loft on West Eighteenth Street.
She’d left her office at Woman Now in the late afternoon and stood across from his building for a little over an hour. There was no doorman, so her loitering hadn’t been noticed. The lack of anyone manning the door also meant that Hammersmith would have to let himself into the building. Laurel had planned it all out: she would slide up behind him as he opened the front door and slip in before it closed. She hadn’t gotten any further with her plan than making an entrance. Now, as she waited, there was time to think through what to say, just how far to go with her accusations.
A call to the offices of Hammersmith and Mann twenty-five minutes ago had confirmed David Hammersmith was gone for the day. And, with any luck, on his way home. Laurel glanced at her watch, as she had every ten minutes or so. She hoped that he wasn’t going out for drinks or dinner, or at least, if he was, he’d stop by his apartment first. If not, it was going to be a very long night.
Laurel was certain that Helen would have tried to talk her out of challenging Hammersmith and that Aaron would be ready to kill her if he knew what she was doing. Bad choice of words, she told herself, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat at the thought. But Caterina’s call had made her angrier and more determined than ever to find Jeff Sargasso. She couldn’t leave it alone. Rage tugged at her mind and bubbled up until she knew she had to act.
If, as it appeared, David Hammersmith had sponsored Sargasso’s membership into The Society of the Black Cross, then he must know that Sargasso was in New York and, more importantly, where he was staying.
She’d done her research on the younger Mr. Hammersmith earlier in the afternoon. Googling him turned up a slew of articles about the brokerage firm that he now ran alongside his brother. It was Gary who seemed to be the alpha male and driving force behind most of the major deals—the partner who was quoted in all the financial publications. From what she had read, Laurel felt as if David’s role in the company had been downplayed. Maybe that was the impression the brothers wanted to give, or maybe that’s just the way it was. The articles depicted David as more a mouse than a lion of industry—the position that his brother seemed to relish. Gary Hammersmith, in the forefront of each photo, was the main spokesperson, especially regarding the Hammersmith Collection.
Both brothers had continued to collect works of art on a grand scale after their father’s death. Laurel had quietly dug a little further into David Hammersmith’s background through sources she’d used for Women Now articles. They had all come back with basically the same information: David Hammersmith didn’t indulge in drugs, frequent the club scene or spend time in the company of prostitutes. He paid his bills on time and had never been in any type of trouble with the law. Caterina’s information notwithstanding, Laurel didn’t think that David Hammersmith really had what it took to be a member of The Society of the Black Cross. For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a wussy wealthy man living a fairly low-key existence in New York City.
Regardless, she was determined to do whatever was necessary to persuade him to tell her what he knew about Sargasso. If she couldn’t accomplish this task by floating the information she already had, she’d conjure up Aaron, the NYPD, and specter of the FBI, to add pressure.
Laurel glanced up at the taxi that had just pulled up across from her. David Hammersmith exited and walked toward his building, his eyes focused on the sidewalk, his mouth set in a scowl. Her heart skipped a beat as she hurried across the road, timing it so that she was right behind him as he unlocked the building’s outer door. Laurel moved inside. He barely noticed her until she grabbed his shoulder. “Mr. Hammersmith,” she said, her anger commanding his attention, “my name is Laurel Imperiole, and we need to talk about Jeff Sargasso.”
* * *
This confrontation was not going at all how Laurel imagined it would. She was seated on a long, white sofa facing a huge picture window that offered views of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond. Her focus, however, was on David Hammersmith, who was at the bar across the room. She’d refused his offer of wine several times but finally acquiesced to a glass of sparkling water, which he was now pouring along with a glass of wine for himself. When she’d waylaid him in his lobby, he’d been taken aback for a moment and then recovered quickly.
“Excuse me?” he raised one eyebrow. “Who the hell are you?” He looked at her with disdain. “I have no idea what you want with me. I’d like you to leave right now.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Hammersmith.” Laurel reached out again and grabbed his sleeve, forcing him to listen. “I knew Jeff Sargasso and so did you.”
“Get your hands off of me and get out. I had nothing to do with Jeff Sargasso.” He shook her off.
“Oh but you did and still do,” Laurel spat at him, “I think …”
He cut her off, pulling her away from the front door as two other tenants entered the building, glancing at them curiously. “Ms …?” he spoke more quietly now.
“Imperiole, Laurel Imperiole, from Woman Now magazine.”
“Ms. Imperiole, keep your voice down.” The couple, who had entered the elevator, was still staring at them.
Laurel stared back defiantly. “I’ll scream if I have to. I’m not going anywhere. Not until I get some answers.”
David Hammersmith pulled back and assessed her. “Really, I have nothing to say that could possibly be of interest to you.” His tone was slightly more conciliatory. He glanced nervously at the door, checking for other tenants who might be arriving. “But if it will make you feel any better, I could give you a few minutes. Why don’t we go up to my apartment?”He gestured toward the elevator.
Her first reaction had been to refuse. How many times had she warned her readers about staying safe and avoiding situations that could lead to trouble? She knew she was taking a chance. But this was different. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. She’d come this far without Aaron or Helen. If she could get Hammersmith to talk, she’d prove to them that she knew what she was doing.
Now, here she was, waiting for a drink that she didn’t want.
“Lime?” He held up the fruit. She shrugged in a non-committal way, anxious to get back to the reason she was here.
“Mr. Hammersmith.” He turned to the counter behind him to slice a wedge of the juicy green fruit for her drink, deciding for her. Her frustration was about to erupt in an angry tirade. Jumping off the couch, she strode across the room toward him. “Look, I’m not here for a social visit. I know you’re involved with Jeff Sargasso. I know he’s in New York. Have you been in contact with him?”
His expression was bemused as he handed her the sparkling water. “Okay,” he gestured for her to be seated on one of the stools at the counter, “I did know Mr. Sargasso. My father employed him as an art consultant and agent. I believe he was supposed to be leaving on a business trip to Japan on behalf of our company on the morning of September eleventh two thousand one.” He paused and sipped his wine, considering his next words. “But obviously he was killed along with my father and so many others on that tragic day.”
Laurel stared at him in disbelief. She was livid. She lifted her glass to her lips and took several gulps in an attempt to steady herself and alleviate the sudden dryness in her throat before she spoke. “You know that’s not true. Jeff Sargasso did not die on that day.”
“Ms. Imperiole, I’m sure you have a reason for this …” he gestured with his hand, “this ridiculous idea of yours about Jeff Sargasso, but it has nothing to do with me.”
She shook her head slowly. “You know that he’s alive. I … we … “ she paused, licking her lips, which seemed to be stinging, “have proof that he’s been in contact with you.” She stopped again to clear her thro
at. Her voice seemed to be deserting her, as well.
David Hammersmith shrugged. “You’re such a silly girl. It’s too bad you haven’t learned to leave well enough alone.”
“What ...? How dare … Laurel looked at him. He seemed to be coming in and out of focus as she spoke. She shook her head again. ‘Please … don’t … lie … you know … about … Moto … murder … I … mean … the painting.” She was feeling very dizzy, her thoughts, floating like bubbles in the air, were breaking apart just as they left her mind. “He … Jeff … killed a girl … in Floor ...”
“Ms. Imperiole? Laurel?” he took her chin in his hands, turning her face from side to side, staring at her intently.
Laurel looked up at the man standing just inches away. His lips were moving, tongue going up and down, teeth flashing. So close, yet, she could barely hear what he was saying. The glass she was holding started to tip and its contents dripped on to the floor. He took it from her and placed it on the bar, smiling at her sweetly. Why was he looking at her like that? She didn’t like it. Not at all.
For a moment her mind cleared. He’d put something in her drink, she realized with a start. Move, she told herself. Leave. His face was just inches away as he bent and lifted her slim body into his arms. She wanted to struggle, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. It was too hard, too hard even to think anymore. Easier to close her eyes and rest.
“Tsk, tsk,” she heard him say through a soft haze, “A crackerjack reporter like you. You really should know better than to drink something you haven’t poured yourself, especially from a stranger you hardly know.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grand Street
New York City
Lior had swung by the McCorkendale house to check the bugs he’d left there, but all was silent. The P.I. was out doing God knows what. From what he’d overheard when he’d listened in over the last few weeks, she was always busy on one case or another. He smiled. A real firecracker, if that was the right expression. Maybe I should try to recruit her. He could just imagine the higher-ups in Tel Aviv checking her out and thinking he’d gone crazy.
Pulling away from the curb, he drove the few short blocks to The East River Drive and headed south to the safe house on Grand Street. Rebecca and Yuri were at the Israeli embassy minding a diplomat from Jerusalem. Just as well. He and Rebecca could use a little distance between them right now.
The apartment had a deserted feel to it, as if it had been unoccupied for months. Lior glanced around the nearly empty rooms. Maybe spaces were like people, with the ability to sense what was going on around them. If that was true, we must seem like a pack of unstable spirits passing through on our way to hell. He noticed the dust motes floating in the light from the front windows. Even they seemed to scatter and flee as he moved, almost as if they were trying to avoid him.
It was no wonder the apartment felt empty. It held nothing more than a few pieces of furniture. The agents had brought just the necessities with them—the usual procedure when they were on a mission. Photos or personal items could be used to identify operatives if they were caught or interrogated, so the rules were to leave those items back home along with any memories of family and friends. It was safer for everyone that way.
Lior crossed to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge for a McCabe. The beer was the exception to the rule—the one reminder of home that he insisted on having, and safe enough since it could be purchased at many of the neighborhood delis. He flipped the top and took a long swig, then placed the bottle on a counter and watched as beads of moisture slid down its side, creating a puddle around it.
A few moments later he walked into the small bedroom he’d claimed for himself and toward the safe it contained. He’d picked up the old safe at a sidewalk store on Canal Street, a few blocks uptown. The Chinese merchant barely spoke English, and Lior had paid cash. To anyone who might have noticed, he was just another New Yorker looking for a bargain and a cab to carry it home in.
He took a deep breath and gazed at its scarred and dented, dull black surface. Faded gold lettering on the front spelled out the name of the manufacturer, and the dial was bare to the metal from the many hands that had gripped it. Lior bent down low enough that his eyes were level with the dial and let his fingers spin the combination. The door clicked open, and he reached inside. It was time to get everything ready for the next stage of the operation.
The other two agents were aware of the safe but had no idea of what it contained. Lior was certain they simply took for granted that it was filled with the usual objects associated with any mission: weapons and bugging devices, missives from Tel Aviv, identity documents, and a stack of cash for miscellaneous expenses. Because he was the only one with the combination, he was also the only one who knew that it held something much more important. Something he’d placed there for himself.
Lior gently removed the envelope, as if it were so fragile that mere contact with the air would cause it to dissolve. He realized that its fragility was an illusion, one he had perpetrated to smooth the path this relic of the past had set him on. The envelope itself was well over seventy years old, as were the pages it contained. These pages were yellowed from the passage of time and stained from the touch of many hands, marks that bore witness to its long history.
Lior stared hard before opening the flap and removing the pages inside, knowing that it was more important than ever to be the cool, skilled professional he’d been trained to be.
He unfolded the papers carefully, smoothing out each one and creating a small pile next to him on the bare wood floor. Although he knew the contents by heart, he began to read the words his grandfather had set down in a bold, loopy German all those years ago. He could imagine him as a young boy of nearly thirteen. A boy who loved to write and draw, recording his secrets in the notebook that was always with him.
September 1937
Mama and Papa have been arguing again tonight after supper. Their voices are low but harsh and angry sounding. I am worried that Papa will storm out of the house like last time and that Mama, the girls, and I will be left alone. Papa insists that we must leave Berlin, that it’s no longer safe for us. Mama cries and shakes her head and says no, she will not leave her family, her parents and sisters. We will stay. Things will get better. Surely someone will make Herr Hitler listen to reason. Papa says she is being foolish. Nothing will get better for the Jews. It never does. He has heard the rumors just as she has. People are disappearing. Work camps, some say, but Papa thinks it is worse, much worse. Mama looks nervously toward the heavy wooden parlor doors that Papa has pulled closed. The children, her look seems to say, and Papa lowers his voice even more, but the anger remains.
I shrink away from the transom over the door where I have been watching and listening and almost tumble from the chair I am standing on. They think that Elsie, Anna, and I are in bed asleep. But how can I sleep? I, too, have heard things at school, and I am afraid. Instead, I listen harder, quietly, hardly daring to breathe.
Hitler is a madman. He won’t stop until he gets rid of all of us, Papa says. We must take what we can and go to Palestine where we will be safe with our own kind. He says he is going tonight to the place where “it” is hidden. He will bring “it” back with him, and tomorrow it is arranged for us to leave Berlin, to begin our journey.
I know that “it” is the painting that we children are not permitted to know about. I have heard them speaking of it often, but only when they thought we were not listening. It must be a great painting, I think, if Papa wants to hide it from everyone, even us.
Once, a long while ago, when I was feeling brave and Mama was in a good mood singing and making soup, I asked her about it. At first she was angry and said I was never to speak of it again. But I asked and asked and she finally told me.
It is, she said, a very special painting, a portrait of a very famous Italian nobleman from Italy, Signore Emilio Fontana, a duke from Florence and a friend of the Medici family who ruled the city. You
remember, Isaac, she said, when I took you to the Nationalgalerie to look at the paintings from the Renaissance? It is a painting from that time.
How did we come to have this painting? I asked. We are German, I said, not Italian. Mama told me that the duke lived long ago and that because of some things that he did, his family, the Medicis, took away all his land and his money.
Like Papa says Herr Hitler will do to the Jews in Berlin? I asked.
Mama bit her lip, drew me toward her and continued her story. The man, Signore Fontini, was forced to sell everything he had just to live, even his beautiful portrait. But though his fortune was gone, he knew he would rather starve than sell it to someone who would only look at it and see how much money it could bring. Mama rubbed her first two fingers and thumb together to show me what she meant. You understand? she asked.