Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  “Hi. I’m here to see about Mr. Moto’s bath.” She held up her train case.

  The man bowed slightly and motioned for her to enter. Then he pointed to her shoes. Guess they didn’t teach this one to talk. She bent down and slipped off her shoes and noticed a big hole in her right sock. She shrugged at the man, who was frowning down at the toe poking out. He reached up to a shelf and handed her a pair of house slippers. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said as she put on the slippers and followed him into the room.

  Chapter Fifty

  East 81st Street

  New York City

  It was 10:07 a.m., and Aaron was conferring with his team in the front room of the house across the street from Moto’s apartment at the Stanfield. Two of his detectives, Larry Waxman and Santo Fareri, had been watching the suspect all night and had noted the comings and goings of everyone who passed through the building.

  He was reviewing their written log and matching up the names of those whom the detectives had identified with printouts of digital shots they’d taken. There was also a time-coded videotape of the evening’s proceedings.

  As far as he could tell, everyone they’d filmed was a business associate, except for a few young, beautiful Asian women who had joined the party a little after eleven o’clock. Aaron figured they were from a high-priced escort service—probably one that Moto owned. Interestingly enough, none of the movers and shakers had left when the girls had shown up. So much for our upstanding pillars of the community, thought Aaron snidely.

  “Hey, boss.” Detective Judy Tassone entered the stakeout apartment with the junior member of the team, Detective Davey Jones. They were scheduled to take over surveillance for the next shift. Familiar with the process, the team operated smoothly. Each member nodded to each other and started to make the switch. Aaron asked Santo and Larry to hang out and grab some sleep in the back bedroom instead of going home. He wanted his team—all of them—ready and in place when it was time to move.

  “So, anything happening?” Judy jutted her chin toward the window and took the chair vacated by Larry Waxman.

  “Not at the moment,” said Aaron pensively. “But soon. I feel it.”

  “Oh, man, let me out of here now.” Santo gave up his place behind the video camera to the Monkee, as they called Detective Davey Jones in honor of the lead singer of the 60s pop rock group. “Aaron’s got one of his ‘feelings.’ That can only mean trouble’s on the way.”

  “Fuck off, Fareri. Just remember to get your butt in here on the double if I call you.”

  “Well, try not to. I plan to be spending some quality time with Jessica Alba.”

  “In your dreams,” replied Aaron.

  “Exactly.” Santo left the room.

  Aaron turned back to Judy, who was looking through the telephoto lens of a high-powered Nikon digital camera. “Looks like a couple of people are moving around behind the curtains in that second-floor window.” The long, narrow windows were covered with semi-opaque curtains, which made it difficult to see precisely what was happening.

  “Monkee, let me have those binoculars.” The young detective was reviewing the log and muttering in surprise over some of the names it contained.

  “Here you go, boss.” He passed Aaron the Zeiss Victory binoculars that the team used for surveillance. Aaron put them to his eyes and focused in on the window that Judy had pointed out. He’d had to push the brass to get the extremely expensive binoculars, but they were worth it. The Zeiss lenses offered state-of-the-art optics—sharp and precise—enabling him to see more than the camera could pick up. There was definitely some activity going on behind the curtain, which was moving back and forth as though someone were tugging on it. “Keep the camera focused on that window, Judy. If you see anyone, or even a part of someone, make sure you get a shot.”

  Aaron moved the binoculars down a few inches and swept the street from Fifth Avenue to Madison. A town car was just turning into the block. He tracked its movements and watched as it slowed, then stopped in front of number six. Its front door opened almost immediately, and a large, well-muscled Asian man stepped out. “Get a shot of that guy.” Aaron heard the camera’s shutter click several times. He gestured to the other detective. “Monkee, get that tape rolling now.”

  “On it.” He hit record.

  Aaron watched as the big man walked down the steps to the car and paused at the curb. The car’s driver, who was dressed in chauffeur’s livery complete with cap, stepped out and opened the back door for his passenger, whom Aaron recognized immediately. It was David Hammersmith. “Are we getting all of this?” Both detectives answered in the affirmative.

  Hammersmith started up the wide limestone steps that led to the entry, then hesitated and looked back over his shoulder at his driver. Davey boy looks nervous, noted Aaron, who continued to watch the action taking place across the street. The driver gestured to Hammersmith to wait, handed the car keys to Moto’s servant, then walked up the stairs to meet Hammersmith. A few moments later they entered the building together as Moto’s man drove the car around the corner.

  That was strange. It was almost as if Hammersmith were taking his cue from his chauffer. “Monkee, rewind that tape. I need to see those guys again.” The detective’s excitement was growing. The young detective complied immediately, and Aaron watched the action play out before him. “Stop it right there,” he said when Hammersmith turned back toward the street. “Zoom in and pan down to the driver.”

  “Shit.” Aaron recognized the second man. “Fareri, Waxman, dream time is over. Get in here, now,” he shouted to the detectives, who were resting.

  He picked up his cell and punched in Mickey Buonarotti’s number. “It’s happening now. Hammersmith is in the building. And guess who just delivered him.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  East 80th Street

  New York City

  Laurel hesitated on the top step, toes right at the edge, curled inside her shoes like a diver on the high board preparing to take the plunge. She took a deep breath, willing herself to step down out of the clear, bright sunlight and into the dark recess of the stairway below her. It didn’t help that Lior Stern had detailed exactly what they would encounter before they left the Grand Street apartment. Visualizing a frightening situation was one thing. Facing it was another. The abrupt switch from light to dark, the seemingly endless blackness of the stairway—she couldn’t talk herself out of her primal responses. Her fear took over and immobilized her completely.

  “Go,” Lior whispered harshly, his mouth close to her ear, his words urgent. “Now. We can’t stay here.” He looked back, scanning the alley and buildings around it for signs of activity. She saw him flick his eyes to his watch and frown. “We mustn’t be seen. You understand?”

  She nodded her head slowly, but still her legs wouldn’t move.

  “Quickly.” He placed his hand firmly on the middle of her back. “We’ll be down the stairs, through the utility room, and into the town house in a minute.”

  Lior had easily picked the lock on the gate that enclosed the alleyway. Walking between two buildings on Eightieth Street, they’d arrived at a square metal grating sunk into the ground.

  Another lock was snapped open, and the grating lifted up to reveal a metal staircase. It led to a passage that ended in the utility and machinery room next to the private pool. Laurel’s problem was that the passage ran under the hotel’s garden, and the idea of being underground, even momentarily, terrified her. It would put them directly behind the Stanfield’s town house residences.

  Laurel had probably passed alleys like this hundreds of times and never given them a moment’s thought. They were part of the landscape of the city’s residential skyscrapers, fenced off and used mostly by service people and deliverymen.

  The blueprints Lior had acquired showed the passage marked clearly. It would take them just seconds to traverse it and enter the pool. “Hurry.” He propelled her downwards, turning on a flashlight to illuminate each s
tep.

  Laurel gulped, filling her lungs, and took a step. Momentum and Lior’s hand thrust her forward. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. The transition from the daylight above was not nearly as terrifying as she had imagined, and her breathing began to steady. The passage in front of her looked like the hallway in her apartment building—well-lit and empty of anything menacing. She gave Lior a weak smile, “Let’s go.”

  Seconds later, they were through it and at the door that opened onto the pool. Ear to the door, Lior listened for sounds from within. He nodded to her that it was okay to proceed and slid the door open a crack. No one was inside, and all Laurel could hear was the gently lapping water and the hum of machinery. Moving quickly, he took her arm, and they slid through.

  To Laurel, the iridescent light of the ever-moving water created a slow and dreamy, otherworldly atmosphere that totally conflicted with their movements. In the space of a heartbeat, they had moved past the pool and were at the door that led to the town houses.

  Again, Lior paused to listen. This time, however, before he moved, he slid a gun from beneath his jacket. Laurel’s eyes widened in surprise at the large weapon and the long silencer attached to its barrel. Gasping, she pulled away slightly. Lior shook his head and brought the silencer up to his lips, as if he were lifting a finger, reminding her to be quiet. He gestured for her to get behind him. Seconds later they were in the common corridor for the private residences and, moments after that, at Moto’s back door, which had been marked on the blueprints.

  With a swiftness that nearly knocked her off her feet, Lior picked the lock and thrust them into the kitchen, gun first. It was quiet. The door leading to the rest of the apartment was closed, and the room’s only occupant was a large Japanese man in a black suit, sitting at a table and reading a newspaper.

  Still behind Lior, Laurel watched in horror as he rose from his chair in one fluid movement, unhesitatingly reaching into his jacket for what she was sure was his own gun.

  Lior shook his head no and fired his silenced gun. It made a soft “pfffttt” as the bullet passed through the man’s jacket right below his neck, leaving a small hole in the fabric before embedding itself in a kitchen cabinet. Then Lior pointed the gun directly at his heart. “Use your left hand and take your weapon out slowly. Put in the sink. Do exactly what I tell you, or you’ll die where you stand.”

  The big man hesitated for a second, considering his options, never taking his eyes off Lior. Laurel stood perfectly still, praying that the bodyguard would do as he was told. Finally, he complied.

  “Now, move back toward the table and keep your hands in front of you,” Lior directed.

  “Laurel, step to my right, go to the sink, and turn on the water. Then get back behind me.”

  Biting her lip and struggling to maintain her composure, Laurel did as Lior told her.

  When she was back behind him, he spoke to the wounded man. “Now, we’re going to take a walk and find Mr. Moto.” He kept his gun trained on the man. “I think we should let him know he has guests.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Miayamu Moto’s Town House

  The Stanfield Hotel

  New York City

  Swallowing her fear, Helen padded behind the burly Japanese through the apartment to her destination, trying to fully inhabit her role as a hotel staff member familiar with her surroundings.

  Cutting her eyes left and right, she peeked into the rooms they passed, unsuccessfully searching for Moto. Finally, after climbing two sets of stairs, they arrived in a spacious hallway on the town house’s top floor. Only two doors led from it.

  Quasimodo, as she’d named her escort, headed for the one farther away from the stairs and gestured for her to enter. “This is Mr. Moto’s bath.” His perfect, non-accented American English surprised her. “I’ll be back for you in ten minutes. Do not leave the room until I return.” He instructed her slowly, as if speaking to a dimwitted foreigner.

  Touché. Helen looked a bit sheepish as she realized he’d twigged to her assessment of his origins. As soon as he’d gone, she smiled.

  Helen couldn’t believe her luck. She hadn’t known if Moto’s man would leave her on her own. He must have believed that she was one of the hotel’s vetted employees, someone trustworthy and loyal who wouldn’t walk off with any of a guest’s jewelry or valuables. A nervous giggle escaped her lips. I could easily have blown it if he’d stayed behind to keep an eye on me, especially since my bath case isn’t exactly bursting with bath gear.

  Now that he’d gone, she’d give him a minute to get back downstairs, then start looking around. In most homes, the master bath was adjacent to the bedroom. She figured the inner sanctum was just beyond the doorway on her left. She checked her watch; her ten minutes were ticking away. Please, she prayed, as she finally turned the knob, let it be unlocked so I don’t have to go back through the hall to enter.

  The door opened with a resounding click, and Helen stiffened in place, waiting to hear the thud of heavy footsteps running through the hall, followed by Quasi bursting in on her. Okay, she told herself when nothing happened, so far, so good.

  Moto’s bedroom was striking, the space huge. An enormous teak bed set on a pristine ivory carpet dominated the room, and Helen was glad for the house slippers, which wouldn’t leave any telltale footprints. Works of art lined the walls, and ivory raw silk curtains with embroidered gold dragons covered the windows. She took it all in as she carefully looked around the room, searching for a space where he might have hidden the painting.

  A magnificent red lacquer chest sat at the foot of the bed. A ferocious, fire-breathing, black-and-gold dragon painted on its top caught her eye. To Helen, the dragon appeared to be an aggressive guardian meant to scare off would-be intruders. It just might do the job, she imagined, unable to look away from the beady eyes that seemed to track her progress as she moved closer. Get a grip, she told herself. You don’t have much time before that big guy comes back.

  She seemed to remember Aaron saying something about a chest being loaded into Moto’s SUV at Islip Airport. Could this be it? Helen bent down and placed the bath case on the floor next to her. She ran her fingers lightly around the top edges of the chest where they met the sides to feel for any wires or triggers that might set off an alarm. There were none that she could see or feel, or any lock for that matter. Taking a deep breath, she began to inch open the top, when she heard a sound she’d know anywhere. It was the click of a hammer being cocked on a gun being readied to fire. And, it was coming from right behind her.

  * * *

  Helen was sitting in front of a curtained window in the town house’s second floor living room where she’d been brought after they caught her snooping. Quasi had prodded her down the stairs, into the room, and across a vast expanse of carpet, then shoved her into a straight-backed Louis XIV chair and left her in the care of another huge guard.

  She was as frightened as she’d ever been. It wasn’t getting nabbed that inspired the fear. It was the casualness about her that Moto’s men exhibited that filled her stomach with ice—this woman they’d discovered so easily was hardly worth bothering about and definitely dispensable. They’d searched her but hadn’t even tied her up—just told her to sit there and not move. The bath case with her nice, compact Derringer was on the floor a few feet away, but it might as well be on another planet. She’d never get to it. Not with one of Moto’s minions watching her. This Sumo-type had a sneer on his face that said, “Go ahead, move, so I can crush you to death.”

  Helen had turned around in the bedroom to find a gun pointing directly at her head. Paralyzed, all she could do was stare at the weapon looming large above her as she knelt on the floor.

  Finally, she looked up and surprise took over. She was astonished that the man himself, Moto, was there. Though she’d never seen him, there was no mistaking who he was. His attitude and his appearance told the story. For one thing, he was younger than she expected—fiftyish and good-looking with a full head of
slightly graying black hair. At over six feet, he had a solid frame that attested to time in the gym or dojo. And he was dressed to kill in a hand-tailored black suit. Not a good metaphor, she told herself as her heart slammed against her ribs in an uncontrollable bouncing that became worse once her gaze reached his eyes. Black ice was the image that came to mind—invisible but deadly as hell.

  “Who are you?” Moto asked evenly, not even the slightest hint of annoyance coloring his voice.

  “I’m Helen.” She attempted a smile that never made it past her lower lip. “I work with Vicki Simon, the bath concierge.” She barely croaked out the words.

  Moto shook his head slowly from side-to-side. “No, that’s not true.” He took a step closer, forcing her to shrink back. “I canceled my bath appointment with Ms. Simon, so there’s no reason for you to be here.”

  “Are you sure? Helen’s brain finally switched on, as she reached for the case on the floor next to her and the gun it held. “Because I’ve got a memo here from Vicki …”