by Cathi Stoler
* * *
Lior had left the kitchen to give Laurel time to reflect. Now, in his bedroom, he assessed her behavior. She had gulped at his last statement but not backed down. She was still scared. But not too frightened to demand that he answer her questions. Her reporter’s instincts were surfacing. Maybe, just maybe, he could use that to his advantage. Rescuing her had been foolhardy, bringing her here even more so.
He’d broken every rule, rules he expected his team to follow without question. Had any one of them acted this impulsively, he’d rip them to shreds and send them back to Israel. Rebecca and Yuri were still at the embassy and wouldn’t return to the apartment until tomorrow. If they knew what he was doing, they’d have no choice but to report it to Elan, the Asset Recovery Department head, and inform him that the mission had been compromised. Lior couldn’t allow that. Not now. Not after all he’d been through to get this far.
He walked back into the kitchen and startled Laurel, who stood up at his approach. He’d reached a turning point, and she was at its center. The plan he’d quickly formulated was based on her presence. I’m sorry I have to do this to you. He looked at Laurel, but I have no choice.
“Ms. Imperiole, sit down. I have something to tell you. When I’m through, I think that perhaps you’ll want to stay.”
Chapter Forty-Five
East 82nd Street
New York City
“Hi, Aaron. It’s me,” Laurel’s voice reached out from his cell phone’s voice mail. “I got your messages, but it’s just been crazy all day … and I’m … exhausted. I need to get some sleep, so I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Promise. ’Bye.”
Aaron flipped the phone closed and took a swallow of the vodka he’d poured thirty seconds after entering his apartment. He pulled off his tie and plopped down on the soft, plush couch that was his favorite place to relax.
Today’s stakeout at the Stanfield Hotel had been a long one, and it had taken its toll. He hadn’t left until well after midnight and walked the few blocks home, using the time to clear his head. He had waited to check his messages until he was ensconced in his living room.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself as he downed the rest of his drink. Worry about Laurel combined with anxiety about Moto and the operation had taken its toll.
He recognized the tone Laurel used in her message—the too bright, too casual, I’m lying to you tone. Where the hell was she, he wondered, and what the hell was she up to? Was this typical Laurel, or should he be worried?
Laurel had ignored all of the messages he’d left throughout the day and evening, and he’d slowly started to get ticked off.
The stakeout, and selling Helen’s plan to Mickey, had occupied most of his time and attention, but every once in a while he thought about Laurel. He believed that they were okay after the fight they’d had, then settled, at the precinct, but maybe he was wrong. If it wasn’t anger keeping her from speaking to him, it had to be something else, something she didn’t want him to know about.
“Shit.” He heaved himself off the couch and poured another shot of vodka from the bottle he’d left open on the kitchen counter, knowing that he would want more. Some detective. Can’t even figure out what’s going on with your girlfriend. Good thing Moto had made it easier. Although, at one point it appeared that the operation was going to be anything but easy.
Since Moto had left the Islip Airport, the FBI had been tracking his whereabouts with a team following the billionaire’s entourage as it made its way west on the Long Island Expressway toward the city. The traffic had been creeping along at its usual snail pace, and all had gone well until a tractor trailer overturned, causing a massive pile-up.
The problem was that Moto’s limo and the two SUVs accompanying it had passed the tractor trailer seconds before the accident, but his FBI tail had not. Mickey had nearly gone berserk. Without anyone watching, Moto could take a detour and move the painting before coming into the city, offloading it anywhere and totally screwing the operation.
Mickey, who had put a chopper in the air for a flyover to survey the expressway and the routes adjacent to it, had been waiting for a report.
The thought of Moto on the loose gave Aaron major concerns of his own. He was sure Sargasso was planning to meet with the billionaire. It was the perfect chance to nab the murdering prick. In Aaron’s mind, no painting equaled no Sargasso. If he lost him now, he might never get another chance at him. Aaron couldn’t let that happen. It had been a tense few hours.
Ten minutes after taking off, the chopper pilot had reported in. He’d spotted Moto’s stretch limo and the SUVs flanking it, still en route to Manhattan. Unfortunately, the FBI tail would be stuck for hours, inching along with the rest of the frustrated motorists.
Mickey had ordered another team to patch into the chopper’s communications and pick up and follow the limo until it arrived at the Stanfield. He had been relieved that the billionaire was still in his sights.
The hours after Moto’s arrival proved to be a real eye-opener for Aaron, who’d never had the opportunity to see the fabulously wealthy in action.
First, a truckload of provisions arrived from Agata & Valentina, one of the city’s priciest uptown grocers. None other than the hotel’s General Manager signed for the delivery. No service entrance or busboys for these guys.
Next came celebrity chef Mario Batali in his signature orange clogs, trailed by two assistants loaded down with bags of equipment. Dinner was going to be spectacular, Aaron thought, recalling the one time he’d eaten at Del Posto, the chef’s newest hot restaurant.
At around seven o’clock, things really picked up. It was a virtual traffic jam of town cars and parade of two-thousand dollar suits, as men with names like Trump, Zeckendorf, and Tisch alighted in front of the town house, shot their cuffs, and were whisked inside by the hotel’s Head of Security. He was the same man Aaron had met earlier and now wanted to avoid at all costs. If he saw Aaron skulking around the hotel, he’d be all over him like a drunk on a pole dancer.
It had been strictly business tonight, thought Aaron as he’d watched these men, who controlled a large chunk of the world’s real estate, move with an assurance few people could carry off. They expected doors to open before them and people to be waiting to serve them. Men this powerful didn’t take kindly to being under surveillance, no matter what the circumstances. In fact, he was sure everyone from the mayor, to the head of the FBI, and maybe even the President, would suffer the equivalent of the wrath of God if the stakeout came to light.
Watching the parade, he and Mickey had discussed their options and come to the conclusion that while the dinner Moto was hosting was obviously important, it didn’t rule out the possibility that he might still be planning to do a deal with the painting.
“With all these big shots in the house, Moto has the perfect cover. He could step away for a few minutes on the pretext of a business call or urgent message and do his thing,” said Mickey. “No one would have the slightest idea of what was going on.”
“Yeah, but he’s been so cautious up to now. He’d have to get the buyer inside, plus Sargasso and maybe Delrusse. The deal could take a while, and his other guests might begin to wonder where he was.” Aaron shrugged. “With his intelligence network, he might even know that we’re onto Sargasso. I don’t think the deal is going down tonight.”
In the end, they had decided to leave the team in place and on a yellow alert status.
“We sound like the fucking Department of Homeland Security,” said Mickey after he had relayed his orders to his agents.
Aaron had done the same with his crew, and the two men had made a plan to take alternate breaks of a few hours.
Aaron checked his watch. He’d like to get an hour’s power nap and have a shower before heading back. Maybe even consume something a little more nourishing than vodka.
He sighed as he bent over and put his glass on the coffee table next to his cell phone. His hand went to it, automatically acting on an
irresistible impulse from his brain. He wanted to call Laurel, to tell her, what? That he knew she was lying to him? To say that he missed her? Reluctantly, he let the phone go. Whatever he had to say to Laurel would have to wait until the morning. Maybe by then he would even figure it out.
Chapter Forty-Six
The Stanfield Hotel
New York City
“This is Ms. Stratton. Have room service send up breakfast for two—cheese omelets, bacon, croissants and coffee.” It is so hard to keep up this rich bitch attitude. Helen smiled to herself as she replaced the receiver without waiting for a reply. Those socialites must be exhausted by the end of the day.
She lay back and stretched luxuriously in the huge king-size bed. It was nice to have someone else do her bidding, even if she were piling it on a little thick.
Five more minutes, she told herself, pulling up the 600-thread-count Frette sheets that she recognized from one of her favorite stores on Madison Avenue. Then she would get up and face what lay ahead. Her stomach did a flip at the thought of what that might be.
Helen wasn’t a fool. Carry on as she might with Aaron, she knew that snaring Moto in his own den was not going to be a simple task. It would require as much stealth and ingenuity as it would take to stalk a ferocious lion. And if, God forbid, she became the hunted instead of the hunter, well, she didn’t even want to think about the consequences.
A discreet knock on the bedroom door brought her out of her reverie. “Enter.” She feigned hauteur and rolled her eyes at her own behavior.
A young waitress poked her head around the doorframe. “Your breakfast is here, ma’am.” She bit her lip nervously.
“Just set it up in the sitting room and leave.” No please. No thank you. No tip. I hate to have to behave this way. She paused, conjuring up an image of how Alexandra Hammersmith might operate. Well, I’ll make it up to her with a large gratuity when I check out, or the hotel will add it to the bill automatically. But right now, I’d better go wake up Joe.
Joe had arrived last evening shortly after Aaron’s departure. He’d brought Helen the Louis Vuitton train case and the nametag that she’d requested. He’d insisted on staying the night to protect her.
“I don’t care what Gerrard told you. I’m not leaving. You begged me to stay, and I rearranged my plans to be here. Besides, you’ll be safer with me in the next room.”
“Begged? Safer?” Helen had raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh really,” her inflection had intimated just the slightest nod to their former romantic relationship. Helen had known that Joe would do whatever it took to protect her from harm, but she had also suspected his motives just a teensy bit. He’d been awed at the sight of the sumptuous suite and its view of the city below.
Not to mention the 60-inch flat screen TV that rose like a phoenix from a hidden space in an antique console. Last night he’d kept her company, sharing dinner and conversation—as he’d watched the Mets get clobbered—and had made her feel safe and cared for. But now, Helen had to tell him that it was time to go.
“Hey, big fella.” She knocked, then entered his bedroom. “Time for breakfast.”
Five minutes later they were facing each other at a table under the sitting room’s giant picture window, eating fluffy omelets and drinking piping hot coffee.
Joe leaned toward her, the steam from his cup rising around his mouth. “I still think I should go with you when you bust into Moto’s apartment.”
“First of all, I’m not busting in, I’m just … entering the premises and taking a look around.” Now it was Joe’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe it is busting in, but we talked about this last night. It’s going to be fine. Really.” Helen nodded her head. “I mean, why would Vicki Simon send two assistants to check out the bath? It could give the impression that she didn’t have a handle on what she was doing. In fact, for a client like Moto, that kind of overkill might seem suspicious.” Her eyes were drawn to the train case sitting on a coffee table across the room, as if confirming her thought process.. “It’s better if I go in alone. Honestly, I’m all set. Aaron and Mickey know the plan backwards and forwards. They’ll be keeping an eye on me,” she said with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.
Helen actually hoped they weren’t watching the suite right now. If Aaron knew that she’d let Joe stay over, he’d probably rant on and on about “compromising the operation” and all that other organizational bull. He might even be angry enough to get that nasty house dick to toss her out for real this time. She definitely had to get Joe out of the hotel soon, before the detective or the FBI agent showed up.
Just as Helen was about to hurry him along, her cell phone rang. She picked it up with a curt “Yes,” falling into bitch mode automatically without checking the caller ID. It was Mike Imperiole. Helen tried to cover her nasty tone with a sweet greeting.
“Hi, Mike. How are you?” she ignored the look of disdain that crossed Joe’s face at the mention of Mike’s name. The two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot when they first met. Well, a bit more than that actually, recalled Helen. Joe had been pointing a gun at Mike. And while, thankfully, no one had been shot, the two men were still extremely wary of each other and a little bit jealous. Mike would appreciate the fact that Joe had spent the night “guarding” Helen just about as much as Joe would relish the idea of Helen and Mike canoodling on her couch.
Men. Go figure. She stuck her tongue out at Joe then turned her attention back to Mike.
“I’m good. Good,” said Mike flatly.
Helen could hear the “but” in his voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Fine, Helen, but I was wondering if you’ve heard from Laurel?” She left me a message yesterday, but I haven’t been able to catch up with her since.”
Mike sounded more anxious than usual. His over-protectiveness toward Laurel was a behavior she had observed the very first time she met Mike and many times since. It had taken about five minutes to figure out how much the father and daughter cared for each other and got on each other’s nerves. Helen knew this time there might actually be reason to be concerned. She didn’t want to upset Mike further, but she didn’t want to lie to him either—especially after their late night heart-to-heart the other evening. “I haven’t spoken to her in a while. Maybe she’s just busy with work. I’m sure she’ll call you soon.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. So, what’s going on with you?” He was obviously trying to put his worries about Laurel aside.
“Well, I’m working today.” Helen used her most non-committal tone. So much for total honesty, but she couldn’t tell Mike what was on her agenda. He was aware of the Sargasso business and Moto’s involvement. Helen knew that Mike would go crazy if he found out that she was snooping around Moto on her own. “But I hope you’re ready for our trip to Las Vegas next week.”
This got Joe’s attention, and he shot her a pointed look as he mouthed the word “Vegas?”
Helen made a nasty face back and mouthed, “Go away.” She turned her back to him. “I got a call from Jimmy Scanlon, and everything’s arranged.”
“I’m really looking forward to this trip.” Mike couldn’t mask his excitement. “I’ve never been to the opening of a big-time casino hotel before, or any casino opening for that matter. We’re going to have a great time.”
“You bet we are.” Helen thought of her childhood friend, Scanlon, now a big wheel in Vegas. He was about to open “January,” the most lavish hotel and casino on the strip, and he’d invited Helen and a guest to attend the gala ceremony, comping everything and tossing in a ride on his private jet.
How could she say no to her oldest partner in crime, the fifth grader who’d accepted her dare to set off a fire cracker under Sister Mary Margaret’s desk just to see if the nun would utter a curse word?
“Jimmy’s giving us a deluxe cabana by the pool and tickets to all the hotel’s shows, so we’re all set.”
“Sounds great. Let’s hope everything
goes off without a hitch.”
“Yeah.” Helen turned back around toward Joe, only to realize that he’d left the suite, and she was alone. “It’s Vegas. What could go wrong?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
West Side
New York City
He’d finally gotten the call. “Be ready to go at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” The remainder of the directions had been precise. A car would pick him up on the corner of Seventy-seventh Street and West End Avenue. In the backseat he would find a change of clothes. Once he dressed, the driver would bring him to a different vehicle in which he would find the keys. Next he was to collect his buyer and bring him to the Stanfield Hotel.
At the hotel, Sargasso and the buyer were to drive up to private residence number six on Eighty-first Street. An escort who would show them in to the town house would meet them, and their car would be removed to the hotel’s underground garage. Everything was very specific. The most important directive of all was that the buyer was to come alone, or the deal was off.