Telling Lies (17 page)

As he drove, he wondered what could have happened to make Laurel Imperiole so fired up tonight. Her father had been interrogating her like a seasoned Mossad operative working over a Hamas terrorist. Lior could tell that he was determined to find out what was going on.

They passed the turnoff for Helen’s house on Thirtieth Street and the cab eased over to the right lane. When it turned right onto Twenty-first Street, he realized that the women were meeting Gerrard at the 13th Precinct. “Shit.” He banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. He couldn’t follow them inside or loiter in front of the station. One look was all Gerrard would need and he’d make him as the rich art collector he’d seen at Delrusse’s gallery.
Rebecca was right, I should never have let him see us. It was a stupid move, and I only have myself to blame. Too much chutzpah.
Getting in Gerrard’s face could have put the mission in serious jeopardy.

Lior drove slowly past the station’s entrance, turning his head to watch the women enter, the green lights bracketing its doorway reflecting briefly on their somber faces.

No, I’m not going to get anything more tonight.
He cruised to the corner and signaled a turn. He’d figure out what prompted this emergency visit by McCorkendale and Laurel Imperiole to Gerrard. He could be sure of that.

Kips Bay

New York City

Helen was tired, annoyed, and starving. Stomach-rumbling starving. She yanked open the refrigerator door and surveyed its contents, which were meager. A little leftover pasta from last night’s dinner with Aaron, a piece of pecorino Romano, some mesculin greens, and not much else. She sighed and thought about food shopping,
You remember food shopping? You leave the house, walk into a supermarket, and put yummy-tasting things in a cart. Maybe you can go between bouts as a referee for Aaron and Laurel.
Helen shuddered at the argument she was having with the inner Helen, turned her off, and started assembling her makeshift dinner.

While the microwave hummed quietly and the pasta spun around inside, Helen grated some pecorino on top of the greens, added a few drops of virgin olive oil, and waited for dinner to heat. She sat at the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of Chianti. “To sanity.” She lifted the glass in a mock toast. “We sure could have used some of that tonight.”

Aaron had known something was wrong the moment she and Laurel had walked into his office. Helen could read the “What now?” look of disgust that flashed from his eyes to hers like a laser pointer homing in on a pie chart. Putting her anger at Laurel aside, she had sat calmly and listened as Laurel stridently reiterated her concerns for Monica and Brianna’s safety. And, let’s not forget, the need to find Jeff Sargasso as soon as possible.

Aaron had sat listening and nodding, rather agreeable for a guy who for all intents and purposes had, a few short hours ago, had his balls put in a vise by the woman in front of him. Helen hadn’t liked this new, gentler Aaron. She hadn’t trusted him. She needn’t have worried. The old, harder Aaron had come roaring back the second Laurel finished.

“
Let me ask you something.” He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Do you think I’m a complete fool? An idiot? A total incompetent?”

“
No, of course not.” Laurel appeared startled. “I just wanted to make sure we were all caught up with everything.” An edge had crept into her voice. Aaron just stared. “You know …” She waved her hand ineffectually in a gesture that encompassed the three of them.

Helen had begun to enjoy this. With all the attitude she’d been spouting, Laurel deserved a touch of the treatment Aaron usually reserved for the perps.

“
Here’s what’s going to happen.” Aaron turned his attention to Helen and virtually dismissed Laurel.

Rising and pacing behind his desk, he ticked off his points in rapid succession, like a time bomb counting down to a blast.

“
We’ve got men watching Monica and Brianna twenty-four seven, so if Sargasso goes anywhere near them, we’ll have him.

“
We’ve posted his photo and vitals in every precinct, along with the aliases he’s been using. The FBI has this info, too, and asked Immigration to issue a warrant for illegal entry into the U.S. So, once we get him, we can hold him.

“
My own guys, Detectives Waxman and Fareri, are watching Delrusse’s gallery, so ditto if he shows up there.

“
And, he doesn’t know we’re onto his Ian Annand alias, which could work to our advantage. If he uses any credit cards, or accesses an ATM with that ID, we’ll know right away.”

Helen meekly held up a finger, hating to interrupt Aaron while he was on such a roll. “He might not go that route. He’s smart, and I think that by now he realizes that we know he skipped from Florence under a name other than DeLuca. He could have another alias, as well.”

“
That’s true,” Aaron nodded. “But he has no reason to suspect that we’re on to the fact that he’s
here
. He wasn’t stopped at the airport.” He shot Laurel a brief, nasty look. “And, Delrusse doesn’t know that we found out about that shipment DeLuca sent to the gallery from Italy. So he has no reason to warn him, either.”

Laurel cleared her throat to get their attention. “What about Moto? If Jeff is still working on his behalf, wouldn’t Moto know that he’s here in the States?”

Aaron stopped pacing and moved around to lean against the front of his desk. Still ignoring Laurel, he leaned close to Helen. “Yes, he would.” His gray eyes sparkled with excitement. “We also got a tip from Interpol. Moto is on the move. He left Kyoto yesterday on his private jet from Chubu Centair International Airport on Nagoya. The captain filed a flight plan for London and landed outside the city at Stansted Airport.”

“
I’ve never heard of either of those airports,” said Helen.

“
Neither one is as busy as their more well-known counterparts. They both have private airstrips for corporate clients, and for someone like Moto, ‘private’ equals less scrutiny. Plus, there’s no problem getting in and out quickly.”

Helen raised an eyebrow “No, I don’t suppose there would be.”

“
Does this mean that Moto is moving the painting?” Laurel asked.

Aaron finally turned to her, nodding his assent, voice cool. “Interpol has been watching him for years. They’re positive only something really big could get him off his Kyoto estate, let alone out of the country.”

“
Do you think he has a buyer?” Laurel continued.

“
The couple at Delrusse’s gallery?” Helen asked.

“
Not a chance. Mickey Buonarroti ran the photo I sent him, and they’re Israeli Mossad. They were scoping things out, just like I was.”

Aaron’s statement surprised the two women. “What?” Laurel had asked. “Mossad?”

“
Holy shit,” Helen said. “What the hell do they want?”

“
Don’t know yet, but whatever it is, if Israel is involved, it can’t be good for Delrusse or Moto.”

“
So why stop in London?” Helen steered the conversation back to Moto’s whereabouts. “Why not come directly to the States?

“
Maybe that’s where the painting is now,” Aaron suggested. “Moto’s other jet flew into the U.K. from Kuala Lumpur. We don’t know who or what was on it.”

“
Other jet?” Helen shook her head in amazement. “As in more than one?”

“
So he could send one plane to America and one somewhere else, and the painting could be on either one?” Laurel asked. “Are there people watching him to see what he does?”

Oh, oh, Helen thought. Here we go again.

“
No, we’re just going to let him roam around the countryside like an English Lord.” Anger had tugged down the corners of his mouth. “Make no mistake about it,” Aaron said, bringing his face inches from her own. “He’ll be bringing that painting here to Sargasso and Delrusse. Everything points to it.”

“
How do you know?” Laurel shot back at him. “He could …”

Before the conversation turned into another boxing match, Helen interrupted. “Any idea where he’ll stay while he’s in New York?”

“
His corporation has a suite of rooms it maintains for its executives at the Kitano, but Moto’s never stayed there when he visited.”

“
So, he’s been to New York before?” Helen asked.

“
Twice, as far as we know.” Aaron picked up a notepad on his desk and read from it. “Once, in nineteen ninety-nine for a special event for the Japanese Emperor. Probably a command performance. Then again in December of two thousand one.”

“
What for?” Laurel asked, more meekly, apparently edging her way back into the flow of conversation.

Aaron tossed the pad back on his desk. “We’re not sure. It was all hush-hush. He was in and out in a few days.”

“
Bet he spent some quality time with Alexandra Hammersmith,” Helen ventured.

“
Yeah, trying to squeeze her for the missing fifteen million hubby promised him.”

Helen snorted. “The money she thought he already had? He would have had better luck facing a squad of Ninjas than trying to convince her that he never got it.”

Helen rose and began to wander around Aaron’s office, thinking aloud. “You know, I don’t believe that Moto is sure who has that money. Gary Hammersmith is certain that Sargasso copped it. But I’ll bet that Moto is still trying to figure it out. Maybe that’s why he’s keeping Sargasso close.”

“
Until he can prove it,” Aaron said, “and get it back.”

“
Uh-huh,” Helen nodded. “That could be the wasabi on the sushi for him this visit. He’s got to have somewhere quiet and discreet lined up to meet with Sargasso. No over-the-top hotels or fanfare. I think I might know how I can find out. Okay with you?”

Aaron raised his hands “Go for it. But, be careful. He’s very powerful and very dangerous.”

The small space suddenly become overly quiet, the soft breathing of its three inhabitants the only sound. Helen stole a glance at Aaron, who was watching Laurel, who actually seemed to be thinking before speaking for a change. Taking in the edgy atmosphere, Helen scooped up her jacket and bag. “That’s it for me. I’ll let you know when I get something.” She slipped out before either of them could stop her.

The bell on the microwave rang, bringing her back to the present. As she ate, she mulled over her plan to find Moto’s hidey-hole. It was a long shot, but it might work, and she’d need to get on it very quickly.

The doorbell rang just as she was swallowing her last bite of pasta.

She smiled to herself, walked to her front door, put her eye to the peephole and opened it.

“
Hey there,” she said to a still worried looking Mike Imperiole. “I thought you just might show up on my doorstep tonight.”

* * *

When Helen left the station, Laurel felt the tension between her and Aaron crackle like fire devouring kindling.

She looked up at Aaron, who was still in front of his desk, eyes down and face pensive. “I’m sorry. I know Sargasso slipping out of the airport wasn’t your fault.”

He held up his hand to cut her off. “Don’t.”

She gazed back down at her lap. “I overreacted as usual, didn’t I?”

Aaron bent down and lifted her face toward his. “Yeah, you did.” He let go and stepped back to his desk, putting a little distance between them. “I’m not the enemy.”

“
I know. And neither is my dad.” She shook her head. “I was horrible to him. Helen was right to call me on it. I owe everyone an apology.” She lifted her eyes to his.

“
Yes, you do.” forgetting his resolve to keep space between them, Aaron moved in closer. Laurel was surprised to see forgiveness in his eyes and something more. He was letting her off easy and she knew it.

Aaron leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You do owe everyone an apology. You can start with me.”

Kips Bay

New York City

Helen was on the phone in her study, holding for Joe Santangelo. She smiled at the sunlight streaming in from the windows that faced her garden, the trees in its path creating an ebb and flow of lacy patterns on her desk’s surface. Her thoughts were as free-flowing as the dust motes that followed in the sun’s wake.