Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  Trust, Helen believed, was like a fragile piece of china. Once cracks started to appear on its surface, they would spread until that’s all the eye could see.

  If Mickey Buonarroti had been angry before, he was apoplectic when he’d learned the provenance of the painting. A work of art executed and signed by both Michelangelo and Botticelli made this picture absolutely unique. With its recovery, he would finally have had the evidence he needed to go after Moto for possessing stolen and looted art. It was a career making—or breaking—case, and Laurel had put his position in severe jeopardy. One more thing that Aaron hadn’t been able to forgive her for.

  When the CSI team had finally released Sargasso’s body and Hammersmith had been taken to the precinct, and they’d all finished with the police and FBI reports, Aaron had walked out alone without saying goodbye, never once looking back.

  Helen could see that Laurel had finally realized the consequences of her secrets and lies. Her determination to get Sargasso and avenge Fredericka Bellabocca’s death had consumed her. She was truly sorry for what she’d done. But, as Helen’s mother used to tell her when she was a little girl, “Sometimes sorry’s not enough.”

  “You know,” Helen began, “maybe …” and was interrupted by the doorbell. “Be right back,” she said to the forlorn figure slumped on her couch as she went to the front door.

  “So, what’s so important that I had to come over right now?” Aaron strode into the hall and confronted Helen. “Jesus, my desk sergeant said you told him it was a matter of life and death. What the hell’s going on? What are you up to?”

  Helen looked up at the anxious man before her. Under the bluster, she could read the sadness in his eyes. He looked older, the frown lines curving down from his mouth deeper and more pronounced. The business with Laurel was taking its toll. When she’d called the precinct, she’d hoped maybe she could do something to help.

  Helen smiled enigmatically at her guest. “Aaron, why don’t you come into the living room,” she took his arm, “and find out.”

  Epilogue

  T

  he day was beautiful. A brilliant sun warmed the lush hillside of the cemetery, with its view of the city. Cypress trees swayed in the soft breeze that wafted inland from the sea several miles away. Lior Stern stood quietly, letting the calm and peace of this resting place soothe his troubled soul.

  When the sun had moved well across the sky and his shadow had grown long, he bent down and chose a small round stone from those lying nearby. Gently he placed it on his grandfather’s gravestone to mark his visit. A moment later he took a photo from his pocket and slid it beneath the stone to anchor it in place. With a last look at the image, he spoke: “Zeyde, it is home.”

  Lior bowed his head and prayed, for the man buried in this hallowed ground and for all the departed.

  Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba …

  May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed …