by Cathi Stoler
Sargasso ran over the information in his mind, trying to determine if there were any potential problems or obstacles that might get in the way. There were none that he could foresee. He could relax a little, now that the end was in sight.
If all goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow I’ll be out of the country and beginning my new life.
He lay back on the squeaky bed—one of three beat-up pieces of furniture in the cheap West Broadway SRO room he had rented. The space was disgusting—shabby and filthy, with a rust-stained sink in the corner that dripped incessantly. If he had wanted to sleep, it would have been impossible. The paint was peeling off the walls in long, ragged strips, and wooden slats showed through where big chunks of plaster were missing. Even if he squinted, he couldn’t imagine any ruin in Florence looking this bad. But this was no Italian historic sight, he sneered derisively, just a falling down dump. A necessity, he reminded himself, but thankfully one that was merely temporary.
He suddenly thought of an old song his mother had been fond of, “What a Difference a Day Makes,” and laughed out loud.
That day was tomorrow, and what a day it would be. Moto was certain to be taken aback at the identity of the buyer. David Hammersmith was counting on that. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to ensure his anonymity. Even paid Sargasso a two million dollar fee to act as the go-between and set up the meeting to purchase the painting without revealing that he was the buyer.
Moto had balked at the terms at first but was greedy enough finally to acquiesce. He’d paid Jeff a hefty finder’s fee as well, deposited in a Swiss bank account that couldn’t be accessed by anyone else. There is a certain irony in that, Sargasso grinned. Along with the fifteen million he’d already walked away with on 9/11, he’d be set for life. The trick was to make sure he had a life.
Jeff Sargasso was no fool. He knew that Moto always suspected that he had the fifteen million, which the billionaire rightfully believed should have gone to him as per his agreement with Alfred Hammersmith. He’d kept an eye on Jeff all these years by using him from time to time to buy and sell pieces for his vast collection. With Moto always watching, Jeff had been careful not to live above the means of a moderately well-off art dealer. So far it had worked. Now, if Moto sensed Sargasso had set up a double-cross, he’d do whatever it took to track him down, squeeze him dry for both the finder’s fee and Hammersmith’s money, then eliminate him for good.
The same was true of Alexandra Hammersmith and her stepson Gary. They were vocal about their certainty that he was still alive and reviled him as a cunning scam artist and a thief. They’d off him in a heartbeat if they could get away with it.
Jeff stared up at the water-stained ceiling and snorted. Amateurs. They should only know some of the things he’d done to get this far and what he was planning to do before he disappeared. What they thought and believed was of little consequence to him.
David Hammersmith was the only one who didn’t seem to care—about the missing money, about what it cost to hook him up with Moto, or about Jeff’s life over the last nine years—which was just fine with him. Alfred Hammersmith’s younger son had his own agenda. He suspected that David Hammersmith would probably try to steal the painting and kill Moto in some twisted attempt at revenge or proving himself to his family.
Hey, let him go for it. Revenge could be sweet, couldn’t it? Sargasso envisioned Laurel Imperiole bumping into him at the Uffizi Gallery. He hadn’t forgotten about her and all the trouble that chance encounter had caused him. Not for one minute. He might be leaving tomorrow, but not before he said goodbye to that bitch Laurel. And what a sweet farewell it would be, at least for him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Grand Street
New York City
The scream died in her throat as Laurel fully awoke. For one horrifying moment she thought she was back in Hammersmith’s basement, and the awfulness of what had happened washed over her. Gasping, she opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill out at the memory.
It was the sun that had awakened her, a thin slice of butter-yellow light slanting through the side of the shabby shade, a sliver like the one she’d seen when the door in that dark, disgusting basement prison had been opened by Lior Stern.
Laurel shivered, even though the room was warm—too warm in fact. She threw off the blanket that had covered her while she slept.
She could hear the Mossad agent in the other room, moving about quietly. A few soft footfalls on the worn linoleum, running water, then the soft clank as the kettle met a burner on the stove and the hiss of the gas being turned on. Sounds that told her he was probably making tea. Tea strong enough, she hoped, to get her through the next few hours.
Last night, Lior had explained his involvement in the case.
As she watched him pace, he told her that the Mossad had been after Moto for many years as a buyer of art looted by the Nazis from Jews who had perished in the Holocaust. His department, The Asset Recovery Unit, had kept tabs on the billionaire who was one of the driving forces behind these sales by constantly monitoring his activities. Until now, their work had been an exercise in futility. Every lead they had received seemed to evaporate into thin air. Every deal they had heard about appeared never to happen. It had been a pattern they couldn’t break.
Then, a few weeks ago, they’d received intelligence that Moto was about to come to New York to sell the painting Alfred Hammersmith had been scheduled to purchase on 9/11, the day Hammersmith had been killed. It was a painting of incalculable value—one they desperately wanted to recover in the name of the six million who had been slaughtered in the Holocaust. It had also been the first solid lead they’d had. Lior, who had been assigned to follow it up, had learned that Moto and the painting would be in the city this week. It was, he said, the way these things often happen.
Laurel listened intently. As he told his story, Lior’s eyes captured hers and drew her in deeper. The problem was, he explained, that if the authorities were to learn of his interest in Moto’s presence, it could lead to an international incident. He was in the United States as an unofficial emissary of Israel. (Laurel mentally substituted ‘undercover spy’ for “emissary.”) He hadn’t been able to approach the authorities on his own. He had been hoping that she could help him get around that bump in the plan by interceding with her friend, Detective Gerrard, on his behalf. He knew that the NYPD and the FBI were both on Moto’s trail. His hope was that they could work out something mutually beneficial.
Questions swarmed around in her mind as the agent spun his tale. But she wasn’t sure if asking them would be in her best interest. Mutually beneficial? To whom? Did he think she was that naïve? Or that Aaron would go for something as far-fetched as sharing a case with an Israeli agent?
She sensed that the heart of Lior Stern’s story was true, but that there was a lot more to it than he was willing to share.
She also knew that Aaron and Mickey were very much aware of the Israeli agent’s presence and that both were certain his objective in being here was related to Moto and the painting—knowledge she planned to keep to herself for the time being.
When Lior finished his explanation, Laurel considered her options. She could demand that he let her leave and go straight to Aaron. And if he refused, she could always try to escape. Or, she could agree to help and maybe, just maybe, achieve an objective of her own: catching Jeff Sargasso.
Laurel realized that Lior probably knew all about Jeff Sargasso, her ties to him, and the manhunt that he’d managed to elude. What he might not know was her deep, personal interest in Sargasso and her determination to bring him to justice. There might be a way, she reasoned, to use the agent, as she was sure he was planning to use her.
Sargasso would be wherever Moto was. She was sure of it. Aaron wouldn’t let her anywhere near Jeff, but Lior would have no such qualms. If she helped him, he could nab his quarry, and she could nab hers. For now, she’d go along with the agent’s plan.
&nbs
p; She rose from the bed and dressed in the clothes he’d given her last evening, a simple but expensive black suit and black tee shirt. They were well made but minus any designer or manufacturer’s label, she noticed. They probably belonged to the female agent Aaron had spotted Lior with at the Delrusse gallery. At least she had good taste. Laurel checked her appearance in the mirror attached to the back of the door and decided she looked fine.
Laurel entered the kitchen and watched as the agent turned from where the kettle was shrilly whistling. He was dressed in a black suit and black tee shirt that matched her own.
He nodded at her. “Good morning. Tea?”
“Morning.” She nodded yes to the glass he held out to her.
Her hand shook slightly as she took it from him, and she realized that he’d noticed the tremor. His eyes scanned her face. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” She took a swallow of the hot liquid. Or at least I will be, once this day is over and Jeff Sargasso is behind bars. “Fine.” She looked up into his searching dark brown eyes, keeping her own steady to try and mask the nervousness she was feeling.
It seemed to Laurel that time was suspended as the agent tilted his head and looked away from her to a spot visible only to him. Finally he nodded, and she could see that he’d reached a decision. “Good.” He gestured to the table. “Let’s go over our plan one more time.” He unrolled a set of architectural plans he’d left there. He pointed to a mark on the blueprints and began to speak.
A few minutes later, he was done. “Are you clear about everything?” he demanded.
“Perfectly clear.” She stared at his hard, determined face. If she said it to herself often enough, she might even begin to believe it.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Stanfield Hotel
New York City
The door to the suite closed behind Helen with a soft click at 9:53 a.m. It was time for the sleuthing to begin. She was a sleuth, after all, wasn’t she? Like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot. Okay, maybe more like Magnum P.I.
Well, whatever she was, she was ready to sniff out the truth about Moto and the infamous painting.
Helen headed for the service elevator, careful to avoid the maids and their cleaning carts lined up like sentinels at the other end of the floor. A loud laugh from one of them nearly made her jump. Dressed as she was in her black suit and carrying her train case, she didn’t want any of the staff to notice her and wonder who she was or where she was going.
She’d added a few items to the case since Joe delivered it yesterday afternoon—those must-haves that a sleuth hot on the trail couldn’t do without. It now held the trusty set of lock picks that had never let her down yet, a slim digital camera—the better to see you with, she thought, and her small Derringer—the better to be safe rather than sorry. You never knew when a gun might come in handy. The close call she’d had the last time she’d worked with Laurel and Aaron flitted through her mind.
She also had a hand-drawn map of the hotel’s basement tucked into her jacket pocket. The map was a contribution from Joe, who’d produced it under duress.
“If you’re going to stay here all night, you might as well make yourself useful. You’ll have to earn your gourmet supper and sixty-inch flat screen TV sports experience by doing one more favor for me.”
“You know, you have some ner—” Joe started to reply then noticed her lopsided grin.
“C’mon, where’s your sense of humor?” she teased, then added more seriously, “I do need your help with one more thing. But only if you really don’t mind.”
“Lay on the guilt, why don’t you?” He shook his head. “Jeez, you’re not even Jewish or Italian.”
She explained that she needed a more private way into Moto’s town house apartment. She didn’t think strolling across the lobby dressed like a staff member then taking the connecting passageway to the private residences would go unnoticed, especially if that head security guy was around. He’d make her in a New York minute.
Helen recalled what the hotel bartender told her about the pool area spanning all six residences and the basement corridor from the hotel’s main building that connected to the pool, which would put her exactly where she needed to be.
She asked Joe to go to the spa and gym complex, which was located on the “Health & Fitness” level, or “basement,” as the regular folks called it, and to find the connecting passage to the town houses. After about an hour, he returned still slightly damp from the steam room.
Not bothering to hide her impatience, Helen asked, “What the hell took you so long? I thought someone caught you snooping around.”
“Well, I wanted to make it look good, right? So I did a little cardio and took a steam.”
“Well, did you find it or not?” Helen was about ready to kill him when he smiled and handed her a piece of paper.
It was a simple map that he’d drawn on the back of the spa’s menu of services. It showed an alcove off to the right at the end of the corridor that ran alongside the spa. Joe had drawn two doors leading from it—one opened onto the service elevator and adjacent laundry room, the other led to a long, narrow room. Joe explained that this room seemed to serve as a storage area for various gym and spa equipment and pool supplies. At the other end of it there was another door that opened onto the private pool under the town houses. He looked around quickly and noted two doors in the pool area.
“Good thing the hotel guests are a bunch of rich slugs who prefer drinking to exercise. The lobby bar was packed, but except for the locker room attendant, I was alone the whole time. If you’re careful and quick, you can get in.”
Helen and Joe studied his map and determined only one of the doors could lead to the private residences—the one on the wall where the above-ground staff passageway was located, one flight above. Each town house must have a back door to that hallway to get to and from the pool. Most likely the pool door wasn’t locked—since no one else would have access—but she would have her lock picks with her just in case.
“Let’s do this,” she whispered to herself as she reached the service elevator and pressed the down button. The ping of a bell signaled its arrival, making Helen’s stomach clench with nerves. She was relieved to see that it was empty—no need to make up a story about being lost or confused.
Helen removed a key from her pocket, the type the fire department used to control an elevator during a fire or emergency. It was a gift from a former beau, a very cute NYFD Captain she’d dated for a while. She smiled as she slipped the key into the Fire Department slot on the control panel, turned it, and pressed “B” for basement. The elevator wouldn’t stop on any other floor.
Helen reached the basement level, restored the panel’s setting, removed her key, and stepped out. On her right was the laundry room. Laughter and Spanish-accented conversation floated in her direction along with the scent of soap and bleach. In front of her was the door Joe had marked on his map from the other side. Walking through, she found herself in the alcove he’d noted, the door to the storage room just to her left. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open, slipped inside and paused. It was dimly lit. An extra treadmill and stationary bike, and shelves full of boxes and dumbbells cast long shadows across the space. Sounds from the building’s machinery were amplified here, each one setting her heart racing. If anyone discovered her now, she’d have some pretty fancy explaining to do. She had a flash of Desi Arnaz asking Lucille Ball to “ ’Splain it to me, Lucy,” as she tried to wiggle her way out of some hare-brained scheme. Comic relief, she wondered, or just pure panic?
Gathering herself together, Helen moved quickly across the space. When she reached the door to the pool, she paused and listened. No sounds came from the other side. All she could sense was the faint smell of chlorine as she inched the door open. The water in the pool shimmered softly, little laps caused by the motion of the undulating cleaning tube on its bottom rippling into the sides. Wiping her sweaty palms on her suit pants, she opened the door just wide enough
to fit through. She slipped inside the room and placed her back flat against the wall. Furnished with just a few wooden benches, the room offered nowhere to hide should anyone come in. Helen moved swiftly across the room to the pool entry and up the short flight of stairs beyond it. A few seconds later she was in the staff passageway. She and Joe had gotten it right. Pausing to take a deep breath, she looked around.
The corridor spanned the length of the town houses, each with a number on a wall next to its entry. Now I just have to figure out which one Moto is in. She looked along the row.
A big smile spread over her face a moment later as she noticed a row of shoes neatly lined up outside of number six. She walked over and rang the bell.
A large Japanese man in a black tee shirt and form-fitting black jacket that barely contained his massive muscles opened the door and looked her up and down. Beyond him was another huge man sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.