Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  He looked at Mickey. “Moto doesn’t know Helen. He’d have no reason to. Neither of us ever mentioned her in any official capacity, so her name isn’t listed anywhere he’d have access to.” Aaron started to open the car’s door. “She did interview Alexandra Hammersmith and the Hammersmith sons, but they’d have no reason to give her up to him. She’ll be okay. Anyway, there’s no way she could get close to him, not with all his security.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to take any chances of Moto recognizing anyone and pulling out before we get a crack at him and Sargasso.” Mickey pulled out his phone and began to punch in a number. “I’m going to get one of my guys to go in and find her and pull her out.”

  Aaron placed his hand on Mickey’s to stop him from sending the call. “Hold up. I’ll go get her. I haven’t been in the hotel yet, so no one will make me.” A cunning smile crept across his face.

  “What?” Mickey noticed the evil grin.

  “I’ll flash my badge quietly and say I’m from the vice squad. Tell them I’m looking for a well-dressed, good-looking woman with short blond hair named Helen McCorkendale, who might be trying to set up business. Tell them she’s probably using an alias, which she’s been known to do. Hey,” he shrugged, “these very good friends of the mayor certainly wouldn’t want a prostitute to sully the reputation of their tony hotel, now would they?”

  Mickey nodded as Aaron stepped out of the car. He made his way across to the Stanfield’s elegant entrance and smiled inwardly at the operation he was about to execute. He’d find Helen. And she might even appreciate the irony.

  Chapter Forty

  New York City

  Laurel heard pounding. It seemed to be coming from far in the distance and close by at the same time. She tried to ignore the annoying sound. She didn’t want to make the effort to find out what was causing it. Maybe it will just stop.

  The pounding got louder. It’s not going to go away. She decided to go deal with it. That’s when she discovered she couldn’t move. What? What’s this? Her eyes flew open and all she could see was—nothing. Nothing but overwhelming darkness.

  Everything came rushing back in a gut-wrenching instant—the meeting with David Hammersmith, the drink, passing out. Laurel closed her eyes tight, as if shutting out the memory could prevent the event in retrospect. When she opened them again, the horror was still with her. So was the pounding. It was coming from inside her head—a thumping, insistent beat, moving in sync with her racing pulse.

  Laurel tried to reach up and swat it away, but her arm wouldn’t move.

  Panic edged its way into her mind as she realized she was bound—her hands behind her, her ankles tied tightly together—and lying on her right side on a hard surface, her face pushed against it. Total blackness enveloped her, and she screamed, but the sound died in her throat, muffled by the tape that was covering her mouth.

  Oh God, I’m going to die. Panic dug in and held on tight. Her body began to shake, and tears poured down her face. She couldn’t breathe. If you keep crying, your nose will close up and you’ll suffocate, said a voice from somewhere deep in her mind. Just breathe, pump air into your lungs. Do it! Slowly, her body registered her brain’s advice and calmed enough for her to stop crying and take in the air it needed. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes wide and tried to look around. Her vision and her senses were slowly becoming adjusted to the inky darkness surrounding her. She could see the thinnest sliver of light somewhere on the horizon and feel a stifling stillness around her. She shuddered and bit back another scream. Concentrate. Think.

  Ignoring the thumping behind her eyes, Laurel tried to move again, this time inching sideways, crablike on her right side, her right eye, closest to the floor, in line with the miniscule edge of light in front of her. After a few seconds, her head encountered something solid to the right. A wall? Now she crept backward and soon encountered another firm obstacle. Two walls and the light on the floor? Her mind tried to process the information. Was there a door? A way out?

  Laurel thought that she must be in a small space of some kind. She attempted to extend her legs but couldn’t straighten them all the way. A fourth mass defined the space that held her. A very small space, she realized, gulping in air and fighting off claustrophobia. She tried to concentrate on figuring out where she was being held. I’m in a tiny room of some sort. There’s air, so it’s not underground. Chest heaving at the thought of being buried in an airless chamber, she pulled her legs back up into the fetal position, making herself as small as possible. Think, Laurel, think, she commanded her brain.

  The floor she was lying on was cold and rough, some sort of concrete. She tried to recall the layout of David Hammersmith’s loft. It was entirely open—the living room, bedroom, and kitchen areas defined only by their furniture. It was all sleek and modern with highly polished wood floors. They wouldn’t feel anything like this. It’s not his apartment. He moved me while I was unconscious. She swallowed the bile that was rising in her throat. He put me here, but where is here, and where is he?

  Laurel made her shaking body even smaller. Is he out there somewhere nearby, waiting for me to wake up? Waiting to finish me off? No, if he wanted to kill me, he would already have done it. He just wanted me out of the way. But why? Her stomach turned over with fear. What does he want with me? How stupid I am. She gulped back her emotions. Why didn’t I tell Aaron what I was going to do? Or even Helen? No one knows where I am, and Hammersmith could come back at any moment.

  The thought of him returning galvanized her mind, wariness spurring her on. Laurel listened intently. She couldn’t hear anything outside the space she was confined in. Not a sound.

  Do something, her brain screamed. Move. Make a plan. Escape before it’s too late.

  With her feet bound and her hands tied behind her, it was difficult to move. Laurel drew her knees closer to her chest and began to rock from side to side. Finally, using momentum, she flipped onto her back, hands underneath her sacrum. Winded from the exertion, she rested for a few minutes, thinking things through, trying to visualize what to do next. Finally, she inched backwards until her head touched the surface behind her, which she discovered had a metal grating over its surface. Bending her knees, she planted her feet on the floor in front of her. Using the little movement her hands allowed for leverage and digging her fingers into the grating’s holes, she pushed her feet hard into the floor and slowly slid her head, then shoulders, then back up its surface until she was sitting. She was sweating profusely, moisture dripping into her eyes, thigh and calf muscles screaming. She shrugged her shoulder up toward her cheek to wipe away the perspiration from her face.

  Okay, she told herself, now what? Breathing deeply, she braced herself again with her feet and hooked her fingers into the grating, inch by inch pulling her upper body up. She nearly toppled over as something brushed the top of her head.

  She screamed behind her taped mouth and crashed back down to the floor, scuttling forward on her butt in a mindless panic. God, oh God. She shivered as she waited for the thing, whatever it was, to attack. After a few minutes, Laurel realized that nothing was going to happen. Steadying herself, she repeated the painful process of moving back to the grating and worked her way up its surface toward whatever had touched her. Prepared this time, she let her head move into it and realized it was soft fabric, the sleeve of a woolen jacket or sweater. The realization nearly made her giddy with relief, but she sobered quickly. This must be a storage closet, probably in the building’s basement.

  By now, her legs were ready to give out again. With superhuman effort, she dragged her bound feet closer and closer to the grating, pushing her fingers into it to steady herself, moving upward until she was standing next to the clothing hanging above.

  If only I could see what’s in here, maybe I could find something to use to untie myself.

  Laurel leaned into the grating and slowly started to inch her way sideways between it and the hanging clothing. Toes and heels, toes and heels, move
your hands, hook your fingers for balance. It was like some macabre dance step that she was being forced to learn. Every few inches she’d stop and try to feel what was around her with her face. So far it was just jackets and shirts hanging from overhead. If she could get one down, maybe she could use its hanger to free her feet. Maybe. She shook her head. This could take hours. How much time did she have? When would David Hammersmith return? Stop it, she told herself. Just keep moving. You’ll find some way to get out of here.

  She cleared her mind and focused on moving. A sound stopped her cold. A scraping noise, coming from the other side of where she was standing. Laurel stopped breathing. Was it her imagination? Laurel tried to move farther past the hanging clothes to conceal herself. They wouldn’t do much good, since they barely came down to her shoulders.

  Laurel’s eyes widened as the sound grew louder, the rasp giving way to a snap and the creak of hinges. The door was opening, letting in an ever-widening slice of light. Laurel gasped as she could see the path it made into the closet. Then she waited, holding her breath and imagining the devil behind it.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Stanfield Hotel

  New York City

  Vicki Simon was the nicest person Helen had ever met. Really, Helen was truly impressed at the sweet, caring, and genuine way Vicki approached her job. She was sure that for a Bath Concierge, an outgoing personality was a key requirement, especially if you had to deal with people like Miayamu Moto, who demanded the virtually impossible. This pretty, upbeat blond woman had that in spades. A bath treatment enhanced with real emeralds? Helen snorted. Give me a break. But Vicki Simon had come up with the goods, and, as far as Helen could see, had accommodated Moto with a smile.

  Too bad I have to screw her over.

  When Vicki arrived at the suite, Helen answered the door clad in one of the hotel’s thick, luxurious, Egyptian-cotton terry robes. The two women sat together in the living room and discussed the details of Helen’s upcoming bath.

  Vicki had come prepared with a small, square Louis Vuitton travel case, the kind elegant women had once used on coast-to-coast train journeys or around-the-world cruises. . Vicki’s had been specially adapted to accommodate the tools of her trade. She unclasped its two gold locks, flipped open the top and pulled down the hinged front. Inside was a treasure trove of aroma-therapeutic goodies. A top tray with a grid of compartments held small apothecary vials of different colored essences. Below were drawers that contained incense sticks and holders, powders, candles, matches, droppers, a thermometer, and silver measuring spoons.

  Vicki retrieved a gold pen and small black leather notebook from her suit pocket and consulted it. Helen could see that she’d written down her requests in a neat and precise script.

  “Ms. Stratton,” Vicki leaned forward and spoke intently, “I know that we discussed a refreshing and energizing basil, rosemary, and lime-intense soak, which I can easily prepare, but I think you might enjoy it more if we add a few teaspoons of dried ginseng for an extra boost of vitality.”

  Helen was enthralled. All this over a bath. She’d never had such royal treatment, even when her mom created Princess Leah shampoo sculpture hairdos in the bath when she was a kid. She had to remind herself to act like a rich bitch used to having people do her bidding, not a giddy, easily impressed airhead.

  She nodded coolly. “That will do nicely,” she replied as Vicki explained that ginseng would be added to water exactly 100.4 degrees, the ideal temperature for a bath.

  “I can’t wait to get started, but there is one more thing I’d like you to do for me.” Helen smiled imperiously. “I’d really love a glass of Dom Perignon and some Godiva chocolates to nibble while I soak. Would you get them for me before we begin?”

  Vicki agreed readily. If she noticed that Helen didn’t say please, or wondered why she didn’t call room service, she didn’t let on. Vicki left her case on the coffee table and went off to do Helen’s bidding.

  As soon as the door closed, Helen sprang into action. She whipped out her cell phone and used its camera to photograph the case and its contents. Then, she e-mailed the photos to Maxine at the office and followed up with a call.

  “Max, it’s me.” Helen said in a rush. “Listen up. I need you to go to Louis Vuitton on Fifty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue and pick up a case like the one in the photos I just e-mailed.”

  Helen could hear her assistant clicking away at the computer, downloading the images. “Louis Vuitton, huh? The real thing, not a knockoff, right? The Stanfield must be getting to you.”

  “I can do without the sarcasm. Besides, we’ll return it in a few days.” Helen tried not to think about how much money the little case was going to cost. She continued with her list of instructions. “After you buy the case, go to my house and put in some of the small perfume bottles from the top of my dresser.”

  Max knew that Helen had a weakness for fragrances and had at least fifty different scents. “Okay, anything else?”

  “Yes. Go up to my disguise closet and take the gold name pin from my Delta Airline stewardess jacket and put it in the case, as well.” She’d pin it on her black suit when she went on her mission. As Jean Paul had told her, every employee at the hotel had one, and it would help her blend in. Helen checked the suite’s golden ormolu mantle clock. Five minutes had already gone by.

  “I’ll ask Joe to meet you at the house in an hour or so to pick up everything, so please get going. And Max, thanks.”

  “No worries.” Max hung up.

  Helen knew she had only minutes before Vicki returned, so she had to hustle. She called Joe, who was less than delighted about her latest request.

  “Do I look like a fucking errand boy to you? Meet Max. Pick up a case. Come to the Stanfield. What else? I have a life, you know.”

  “C’mon. I need you here. I told them my personal assistant would be joining me, and it would look bad for my cover if you didn’t show.” She made her voice as sweet as honey. “The suite is gorgeous. You get to have your own king-size bed. And, you can order anything you want from room service.”

  “Oh shut up. You’re going to owe me more than room service for this, and I intend to collect.”

  Before Helen could think of a snappy comeback, the bell chimed softly. “Got to go. See you later.”

  “Come in.” Helen drew herself up to her full five foot five and noted the effect in the antique floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her chin was up and her shoulders back. This pretending to be rich thing is okay. Helen suppressed a giggle.

  Vicki Simon entered with a silver tray holding a glass of champagne and a porcelain dish artfully arranged with rich, dark chocolates. “I think we’re all set now.” She placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Let me get everything set up, and then you can enjoy your bath. I’ll be just a few minutes.”

  Helen lifted the flute of champagne and took a sip, its bubbles bittersweet against her tongue. Let’s hope the ginseng works, she thought, flashing on her plan. She picked up a chocolate and bit into it. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  New York City

  The slice of light slowly expanded. Laurel could taste the strong, metallic bite of fear as it surged through her again. She shrank back against the metal grating, trying to become invisible. It was no use. David Hammersmith had put her here; he knew exactly where to find her.

  The light grew brighter, and a figure stepped into it, silhouetted from behind. A man. He walked toward her as slowly and steadily as someone out for a Sunday stroll.

  Laurel was riveted on his approach. She curled her raw and bleeding fingers into the holes of the grating anchoring her body. He’ll have to drag me away. Her anger was finally overcoming her fear.

  His features were obscured by the light behind him, and he moved closer and closer until she could feel his breath on her face.

  Her own breath caught in her throat as his features were finally revealed. Confusion clouded her m
ind. It wasn’t Hammersmith. Laurel stared into the man’s dark, unreadable eyes, her own silently pleading. He ignored her imploring look and reached out to her.

  Oh God, he’s sent someone to kill me. An image of herself broken and bloody roared through her mind like a runaway train. Her body tensed in silent protest, and the tears she’d been holding back spilled from her eyes.

  His hand wavered in front of her, then abruptly pulled the tape from her mouth.

  “Please,” she whispered imploringly, but the man put a finger to his lips.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to save you.”

  * * *

  “Who are you?” stammered Laurel as the man freed her from her bonds. “How did you find me?”

  Lior ignored her questions as he completed the task of cutting away the ropes. She’d blanched at the sight of his knife.

  He looked at her, eyes hard. “I told you I wasn’t here to hurt you.” His words were flat and matter-of-fact.