by Cathi Stoler
Finally, she was free. That bastard Hammersmith had done a good job tying her up. Must have been a Tzofim when he was a kid—what the American’s called a Boy Scout.
“Can you walk?” He watched as Laurel stumbled as she took a few steps forward.
“Yes, I … I’m all right,” she nodded, regaining her balance. “But please, tell me who you are.”
“Later. We have to go. Now,” he added in a tone that brooked no argument. He took her arm firmly and led her through the labyrinth that was the basement of David Hammersmith’s building.
Like many of New York’s older loft buildings, the basement had been left as it was when the apartments had been renovated: it was dark and dingy with poor lighting. The corridors were narrow and went off in several directions. Each apartment seemed to have a storage space assigned to it, and Lior had had no trouble finding Hammersmith’s. It was a convenient place for him to stash Laurel Imperiole, and chances were that if Lior hadn’t decided to follow Hammersmith, no one would have found her.
Lior had received a call from his American contact in the Bureau cluing him in to the latest information regarding David Hammersmith and his Family Repatriation Group’s beneficence to Monica Sargasso. He’d been told the information had just come in and been passed on to Mickey Buonarroti. Lior had intuitively sensed it was important.
He had continued to monitor the Hammersmith’s phone and knew that the stepmother, Alexandra, and the elder brother, Gary, had no inkling of David’s little side endeavor. He’d decided to investigate David Hammersmith—the man behind Monica Sargasso’s loan—a little more closely.
His suspicion had paid off. He had been out front watching from his truck when Laurel Imperiole had accosted Hammersmith in the lobby of his building. Lior was surprised when she accompanied him up to his apartment. Americans can be so stupid … so sure that nothing bad would ever happen to them. Hadn’t her police detective boyfriend taught her anything? Later, when Hammersmith had left the building and she hadn’t, his senses had gone on high alert and he’d moved in.
The absence of a doorman made the job easy. Lior picked the lock on the building’s inner door, checked the directory, and headed up to Hammersmith’s apartment. That door proved to be no problem, either. Once inside, he noted the two glasses on the bar, one half-filled with wine, the other with what appeared to be sparkling water. He left them as they were and moved into the living area. A quick search through the open loft space brought him to Laurel’s handbag partially sticking out from behind the bed. There was no other sign of her in the apartment.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. Since only Hammersmith had left the building, Laurel—or her body—had to be there somewhere. Grim faced, Lior wrapped her handbag in a towel and shoved it under his leather jacket. If he found her body, he’d place the bag next to it and make sure the evidence pointed to Hammersmith.
Lior left the apartment and took the stairs to the roof. Moving silently, he was sure no one would hear or see him. He explored the roof and air conditioning vents first. When nothing turned up there, he moved to the basement. Walking along the dim, damp corridors, he found the storage space assigned to Hammersmith. Lior stood outside for a few moments, breathing shallowly and letting the ambient sounds of the building’s old bricks, water pipes, and creaky machinery become part of his consciousness. He heard a sound from the other side of the door and began to work on the padlock securing it.
Inside, Laurel Imperiole was backed against a wall, nearly immobile with fear.
Her pleading voice brought him back to the present. “Please,” she said again as he led her to the basement’s service entrance. “Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Where are you taking me?”
He looked at her without answering and led her out into the moonlit night.
I’ve found her. Now, the question is, what am I going to do with her?
Chapter Forty-Three
The Stanfield Hotel
New York City
Helen had never felt better. She’d soaked for an hour, drunk her champagne, and eaten her chocolates, all the while thinking through her plan to sneak into Moto’s private apartment.
All it takes is balls, she reminded herself, smiling. And I’ve got them, figuratively if not literally, or so I’ve been told.
Helen who had just finished dressing, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling gilt-edged mirror in the suite’s master bedroom. She checked her watch. Joe should be here any minute with her new Louis Vuitton “bath case,” and she’d be good to go.
Helen had tried to be subtle in pumping Vicki Simon for information about the other guests, but the woman was as tight-lipped as she was nice. It would have been easier getting the Sphinx to talk. Although, under the pretext of scheduling another appointment, she did manage to find out that Vicki was fully booked for tomorrow. She had several clients in the morning, and a V.I.P. client had reserved her time from two o’clock through the early evening.
Helen had remembered to act annoyed at this “terrible imposition” and wondered aloud, “Who would be so selfish?” That ploy didn’t work either. She hoped Moto would prune up from all those hours in the bath.
Now, staring in the mirror and running her fingers through her short blond hair, she debated timing. From what she’d learned so far, Moto would be arriving at the hotel sometime this afternoon. Tomorrow morning would be the best time to act. Vicki would be busy and unaware that she was posing as her assistant, which was the way Helen had decided to play it. She’d just dress in her black suit, pin on her name plate, grab her case, walk on over …
The doorbell interrupted her musing and she strode through the living room to answer it.
“Honey, you’re here.” She threw open the door with a flourish and stopped dead in her tracks. Instead of Joe, Aaron was standing there with a beefy, stony-eyed Denzel Washington look-alike dressed in the hotel’s ubiquitous black suit.
Shit. Helen looked at the two men. I’m in it now.
* * *
“You told him what?” Helen exploded. She picked up a pillow and threw it at Aaron who, expressionless, was observing her reaction at being labeled a high-priced hooker.
“I can’t believe you’d do that to me. No wonder the house dick looked like he was ready to toss me out on my butt.”
“Hotel head of security, Helen. Not dick.” Aaron sat back on an overstuffed sofa, cutting into her tirade with just the right amount of sarcasm coloring his tone. “And it wasn’t easy to square it with him, either. I had to lie.”
“What a surprise.” Helen shrugged her shoulders in mock astonishment.
“I told him that you were an undercover operative and that I needed to contact you without anyone catching on. So, I had to make you a hooker.”
“What? You exhausted all your other options?” Helen looked around the room for something else to throw at Aaron.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Even if he did think I was full of shit.”
“It sure did. Did you notice how he checked me out from head to toe? He’s going to remember my face for a good, long time.”
Pacing back and forth, Helen continued ranting about her reputation, her clients, and the indignity of it all, when the absurdity of the situation hit her. She stopped dead in her tracks and burst out laughing. “So, now I’m the Mayflower Madam? And are you supposed to be one of my big shot clients?”
“Enough. This is serious and you know it.” Aaron leaned forward and glared at her. “You’re lucky Mickey Buonarroti let me come in to get you, otherwise one of his agents would be leading you out in handcuffs right about now.”
“What for?” Helen’s tone was condescending. “For renting a room in a hotel?” She stopped in front of him and threw out her arm to indicate the suite they were in. “Is that a crime, now?” she taunted. “See where that Patriot Act has gotten us. A person can’t even take a mini vacation without being hounded by the po-lice.” She drew out this last word, making it sound as sinist
er as possible.
“Are you done? You know why. You’re interfering in an investigation, an important one.”
“Oh please. Yesterday, you and Laurel and I were working together; now I’m interfering? What happened to change that?” She glared at him. “Is this a pissing contest between you and the FBI? Who’s in charge here? You or Mickey?” Aaron just stared at her, and the look on his face told her she’d hit the mark.
Aaron rose from the couch and walked toward the room’s floor-to-ceiling window, with its magnificent view of the park. He took in the view below then turned back to face Helen. “What are you planning? And, don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ Is Laurel in on this with you?” he spat at her. “And, who’s the ‘honey’ you were expecting?” She knew he was referring to the way she’d answered the door.
“First of all, I haven’t spoken to Laurel since yesterday. She doesn’t know anything about this, as I’m sure she told you when you interrogated her.”
Aaron sighed. “I didn’t ‘interrogate’ Laurel, as you so charmingly put it, because I haven’t spoken to her either.”
Helen snorted and continued. “Yeah, right. Secondly, I was expecting Joe Santangelo. He’s meeting me here, and he’s late.” Helen punctuated her words by tapping her foot impatiently on the Aubusson carpet, whose thickness blunted the desired effect.
Aaron shook his head in disgust. “Did you drag him into this, as well?”
Helen stared down at the pattern on the rug, thinking about how to reply. “Look.” She turned her face to his. “I had it all set up so I could get close to Moto. You know, see what he’s up to without him twigging to it.”
“And just how were you planning to do that?” he spat at her derisively. Helen sensed his patience was nearly exhausted.
His tone might be nasty, but Helen could see that she’d piqued his curiosity. She started pacing again as she explained about Vicki Simon and her duties as a bath concierge. She relayed what she’d learned about Moto booking a bath with Vicki for most of tomorrow afternoon and how she thought she could get into the apartment early under the pretext of setting it all up.
Aaron listened attentively, thankfully saving his objections until she finished. “What if Moto or one of his staff makes you? What happens then?”
He’d asked his questions but hadn’t told her it was out of the question. She knew he was wavering. Helen shook her head. “I’d be just another hotel employee. Practically a nonentity to someone like Moto. He wouldn’t even notice me. I’d slip in and speak to his assistant—if I actually had to speak with anyone.” Helen shrugged. “With my black suit and bath case, I could go in like I belonged there, check the bathroom, and nose around a bit.”
She stopped and waited for a reaction. Aaron stood there, his expression neutral.
“C’mon. You’ve got to admit, it could work.”
He focused his gray eyes on hers. “I don’t know. It’s dangerous. You know that these people, especially Moto and Sargasso, are ruthless. Are you willing to risk it?”
Helen nodded yes. “We’ve come this far. I want to see it through.”
“Okay.” His terse answer surprised her. But before she could reply, he held up a hand in warning. “I have to clear this with Mickey. I told him I was going to bring you out. Like it or not, it’s a federal case.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “What? Is the FBI calling the shots now? This has been your case from the beginning, since you and Laurel came back from Italy. You can break it, and I can help.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes until they were slits and tipped his head down toward her. “You do have a point.”
She beamed at his words, knowing she’d gotten her way.
“Even if you are full of bull,” he added as he left the suite.
Chapter Forty-Four
Grand Street
New York City
Laurel had her hands wrapped around a glass of sweet tea, its warmth soothing her bruised and swollen hands. The steam wafted up, and she inhaled deeply. Its aroma brought back memories of her childhood and afternoons spent with her half-Italian, half-Jewish grandmother. Nana Rose had also served tea in a glass. But it was usually accompanied by one of the rich, creamy, homemade cannolis that Laurel wolfed down with delight.
The man who’d saved her didn’t look as though he was all that familiar with Italian pastry. Laurel studied him surreptitiously. Although he had an olive-toned Mediterranean complexion, his heavy-lidded, almost black eyes and the cadence of his speech marked him as an Israeli transplant.
The man had handed her the tea and told her to drink it down. Laurel knew that just as chicken soup was the traditional Jewish panacea for illness, tea was the remedy of choice for nearly every stressful occasion. Her recent kidnapping, rescue, and whatever was going on now, certainly topped the list as stressful.
The tremors she’d experienced as she was being led from David Hammersmith’s building had finally stopped. Once her body realized it was out of danger, her mind caught up, and she was able to think more clearly. She still didn’t know who this man was, but his decisive actions gave her enough information to make an educated guess.
Laurel believed that he was one of the Mossad agents Aaron had seen at the Delrusse gallery. She knew from her meeting with Aaron and Helen that the agents were interested in Moto and the painting, but not why. If he were Mossad, she wondered, what was he planning? Laurel took in the nearly empty kitchen and shuddered. With its bare walls and battered, used furniture, the room screamed of impermanence. Would he tie her up and leave her here to rot like Hammersmith had planned to do? Or did he have something else in mind?
A new knot of fear worked its way around the sweet tea in Laurel’s stomach. No, she told herself, don’t go there. So far he’d been nothing but kind. He’d put her in his car, returned her handbag, and driven downtown to the shabby apartment they were now occupying. She had huddled against the car’s door, trembling every time another vehicle came close, sure that David Hammersmith’s face would leer out at her from its window. Laurel had been too traumatized to speak, let alone voice the questions flooding through her mind. Her rescuer hadn’t volunteered any information, either. Yet, despite his kindness, underneath the surface he couldn’t conceal a dangerous hardness. Laurel had instinctively known that if she tried to use her cell phone to call or text Aaron—which she was desperate to do—or to leave, he’d stop her. By force, if necessary.
She didn’t want to test her theory. Not yet anyway. Playing for time as she considered her options, she toyed with her glass, turning it around and around on the kitchen table’s scarred wooden surface, the dim overhead fixture casting a wavering shadow all around it. Finally, downing the last of the tea and gathering her courage, she sought him out where he’d been standing across the room, watching her every move. “Who are you?”
The man stared back, eyes unblinking. Finally, after a few moments, he spoke. “My name is Lior. Lior Stern.”
“Mr. Stern,” she paused. “Lior,” she shook her head. “I don’t mean just your name. I mean, who are you? What were you doing at David Hammersmith’s building? How did you know I was there?” Her voice rose in frustration. “Please, you have to tell me what’s going on.”
Lior continued to watch her. He lifted a brow at her words. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Is this,” Laurel gestured toward him, “about Moto and that mysterious painting?”
“This,” he bounded across the room so quickly Laurel barely saw him move, “does not concern you. Be happy that you’re safe and not still locked up in Hammersmith’s basement,” he spat out, reminding her of where her stupidity had led her.
Placing his hands on the table, he stared down at her, letting his words sink in. Tension gripped him, and Laurel knew she was pushing him further than she should, but she couldn’t stop.
Slowly, not taking her eyes from his, she rose from the table. “I’d like to leave now.” She kept her voice calm and steady.
; “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Am I your prisoner?” She glared at him. “Is that how the Mossad operates? Holding a harmless woman against her will?”
He nearly succeeded in hiding his surprise at her knowledge that he was an agent, but a small tightening around the mouth gave him away. “I’d prefer you thought of yourself as my guest,” he smiled tightly. “I’ll take you to your boyfriend, Detective Gerrard, in the morning.” His words let her know that he knew all about her, as well. “But for tonight, it would be best if you remained here.”
“And if I refuse and just walk out the door?”
“That would be the second unfortunate decision you’ve made this evening.”
Lior had spoken calmly, yet there was no mistaking his meaning.