Telling Lies (19 page)

* * *

Sometimes luck is on your side and sometimes you have to make your own.
Jeff Sargasso sat down on the steps of the brownstone on East Seventy-fourth Street and took a long swig from his water bottle.

He’d known that Monica had kept the gallery—
his gallery
—open. He’d checked the website every so often once he was settled in Florence, even going so far as to send a query or two about a painting.
Just keeping tabs on things
, he liked to think. Of course, she never had any idea that the queries were from him. Why would she? He’d used an untraceable Internet screen name and global provider.

If Monica still kept the same schedule, she worked there most days. So all he had to do was stay close by, and he’d see her.

Coming back to New York had touched something he’d thought was long gone. Not regret or desire. Something more basic, a connection to the core of who he’d been. Monica was part of that. He hoped that seeing her would allow him to bury that man forever. The problem was, that bitch Laurel Imperiole had most likely told her all about finding him in Florence, and maybe even about Freddy. Monica might be on her guard, maybe even looking for him. Well, she’d never recognize him now. He smiled to himself and bent over, pretending to adjust the buckle on his skate, sneaking a glance across the way at the gallery’s entrance. It was twelve thirty; Monica’s preferred lunchtime. It’s funny, he mused, the things you remember even after so long. We are creatures of habit, he reminded himself, sneaking a glance at the gallery’s entrance. Well, most of us.

The thought dissolved as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and started walking directly toward him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Nausea gripped his stomach.
No, no
, his brain screamed almost in a fury,
she can’t have recognized me
. Then as quickly as it had overtaken him, the anxiety was gone. She passed not two feet in front of him. He might as well have been a ghost. He almost laughed at that idea. He
was
a ghost to her. But not today. Today he was alive and well, a rollerblader in helmet, goggles, and pads taking a rest on someone’s stoop before skating through the park.

His hand jumped away from his side. He could have reached out and touched her if he’d wanted to. She looked thinner, and he could see a web of fine lines tracing its way around her eyes and mouth. Her expression was somber, almost sad, a look he’d rarely seen on her face when they were together. He watched as she crossed Fifth Avenue and stepped through the gateway into the park. He noticed the two men following a few yards behind her. Casual but alert. Cops for sure. Scanning the area as they walked, heads slowly swiveling this way and that. Watching everything from behind their dark glasses.
So she did know about him and that he was alive.

Well, let’s just see how good they are, he grinned, as he pushed off the stairs and glided down the street after his wife. He watched her disappear from view just as he had disappeared all those years ago.

* * *

Aaron hadn’t really lied to Laurel, but he hadn’t told her the whole truth, either. Monica and Brianna Sargasso were as safe as he could make them. Several teams of detectives were watching them around the clock, and Aaron was certain that no one could get to them. But he was hoping that Sargasso would try.

When Monica Sargasso had suggested lunch in the park, Aaron’s first reaction was to say no. It was too open and too public with too many people to contend with. But the more he considered it, the more appealing it became. It was a perfect opportunity. If Sargasso were watching his wife, he would eventually check out the gallery. Aaron was sure now that he was in New York Sargasso wouldn’t be able to resist seeing how the business he had started was doing. And, if he were after Laurel? Aaron hated the idea that he might be following her, too. But either way, the bastard just might show today.

Okay, bringing the two women together so blatantly could be dangerous, but Aaron wouldn’t let anything happen to either of them. He had called in to the precinct for reinforcements—plainclothes cops who he positioned around the café—and had several assigned to observe the gallery. He’d detailed himself to Laurel, a fact he kept from her, as well. If Sargasso showed his face, he’d get him.

Seated on a bench a few yards from the café’s entrance, Aaron set himself up as an office worker enjoying an al fresco lunch and a good book, shaded from the sun by a baseball cap and dark glasses. Every few seconds he surreptitiously scanned the path that led to the café’s patio. So far, nothing but the usual lunchtime strollers, bike riders, and rollerbladers, like the guy who’d been standing there a while sipping from a water bottle. Aaron observed that the detectives following Monica were being seated at a table a few yards from the women.
We’re locked and loaded
, he said to himself.
Now we just need that son of a bitch to turn up
.

Until this morning, Aaron hadn’t realized that Sargasso’s gallery and Delrusse’s were both on East Seventy-fourth Street, located diagonally across from each other on opposite sides of Madison Avenue. It was quite a coincidence. Except that Aaron didn’t believe in coincidences, especially when murder was involved. He speculated on whether the men had known each other before Sargasso fled and if they had done any deals together. Aaron unobtrusively pulled out his notebook and made an entry to follow up with Mickey and ask him to run it through the FBI’s files.

Aaron scanned the crowd once more. The blader was still there, staring off toward the café.
Not very anxious to get moving is he?
Aaron watched for another moment before focusing back on the gallery. He definitely wanted to find out who’d come to Monica Sargasso’s rescue with that timely investment. Was it another coincidence? Or was it something else?

When Aaron glanced up again, the blader still hadn’t moved. His antenna went up. Just as he rose from his bench, the guy took off.
Good
. He nodded, one problem solved. Settling back down, he focused on the café and the two women seated lakeside whom he’d sworn to protect.

Kips Bay

New York City

“
You’re the man!” said Helen as she held up her hand to high-five Joe who was seated across from her at the kitchen table.

All she got for her trouble was a snide remark. “Oh please, is that supposed to make me feel all big and macho inside? You need some new material.”

She smiled wickedly. “But, I mean it. Really, I do. You came through for me, big fella.” She laughed and started scanning down the New York Fidelity printout he’d just handed her. As she read, her mood went from frivolous to serious. “We are definitely giving it up to foreign interests, aren’t we?”

The list Helen was holding was almost two pages long. MMJapan Corporation either owned or held stock in over one hundred properties in New York City. Helen couldn’t believe the high profile addresses in front of her. They included some of the city’s most prominent buildings, both commercial and residential, as well as undeveloped sites along the Westside waterfront.

“
D’ya think Trump knows about all of this?” Helen waved the list in the air.

“
For sure. But he probably tries not to worry about it. If he spent too much time thinking about Moto’s empire versus his, the rest of his hair would fall out and there’d be nothing to comb over.”

“
I had no idea that MMJapan was tied into so much New York real estate.”

“
Me neither.” Joe rose and came around to read over her shoulder. “Anything stand out yet?”

Helen stabbed her finger at a listing about halfway down the second page.

“
I think this might be it.”

The notation was for the Stanfield Hotel on Fifth Avenue and an adjacent property on East Eighty-first
Street. MMJapan Corporation had a controlling interest in the 185-room hotel and the six-apartment complex of connected town houses directly behind it.

The hotel, a landmark building dating from 1928, was situated directly across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. An elegant and graceful building, the Stanfield had recently been refurbished with French and Asian touches so that its interior mirrored the look and feel of the era in which it had been built. “Do you remember when we stopped in for tea, right before the renovation began?”

“
Yeah, I remember that it cost a bundle and it wasn’t all that good. The bar would have been better.” He sat down again.

“
Okay, forget the tea. But stay with me. When we left, we walked around to Eighty-first Street and I noticed the covered colonnade behind the hotel. I remember thinking that it was a lovely touch, a nice way for guests to relax and enjoy the garden after a day of sightseeing. But looking at this list, I see that the walkway connects the hotel to the “adjacent property,” numbers two through twelve, East Eighty-first, the private wing of the Stanfield. I remember those buildings, too. Gorgeous, well-kept town houses. I’d bet anything that’s where Moto will stay. Even with all the people thronging the museum, the rest of the neighborhood is quiet and totally discreet. Now that I think about it, those town houses don’t even look connected from the outside. It’s a high-roller block and no one would pay any attention to one more limo pulling up in front of any of those houses anyway. Really, it’s perfect, and I’m sure that every one of those six apartments has access to all the hotel’s amenities, like room service, the Internet …”

Joe interrupted, “A mini bar?”

“
And a concierge,” Helen’s eyes gleamed.

Joe sat forward. “Don’t get any big ideas. You don’t even know if Moto is in New York, let alone staying in one of the Stanfield’s private town houses.”

Helen sighed deeply. “You’re right, I don’t know. But, I’m going to find out. C’mon, let’s go.” She stood up and grabbed her purse from the counter.

“
Go where?” Joe asked warily.

“
For a spot of tea, my dear.” She noticed the crestfallen expression on his face. “Okay, this time I’ll buy and throw in a shot of brandy.”

Grand Street

New York City

Lior sat as stone-like as the lions that stood guard in front of the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. The only tell-tale sign that he was flesh and blood and not a statue was the pulse beating rapidly at the base of his neck. Too rapidly, it seemed to Rebecca as she watched him listening to the recording.

She, Lior and Yuri were in the Asset Recovery Unit’s makeshift office, a safe house on Grand Street on the lower East Side of Manhattan that a “friend” had rented for them in one of the neighborhood’s older apartment buildings. “Hide in plain sight” had been the strategy in choosing the location. Rebecca took in her surroundings. The apartment was perfect for their purposes. Spacious but not fancy, it was part of a complex in an older, still mostly Jewish neighborhood that was slowly becoming gentrified. Men with Tallis strings peeking out from their suit jackets and Orthodox women with wigs covering their heads for modesty lived side by side with hip-looking professionals, stay-at-home moms, and young Hispanic families. Kosher butchers, bodegas, clubs, and ethnic restaurants of every persuasion gave the neighborhood a free-flowing, easy-to-live-there atmosphere. She, Yuri, and Lior looked like they belonged. The neighbors may have nodded hellos to them in passing but otherwise kept to themselves. The team’s presence or lack of it never registered on their radar.

Rebecca watched Lior closely as the recording ended. He moved, pouncing without warning like one of those library lions come to life. His hand slammed down on the table where they were sitting, making it, her, and Yuri jump. His eyes flashed with something Rebecca couldn’t identify, something she hadn’t seen in them before. An elite member of the Mossad, Rebecca had faced countless opponents without fear getting in the way. But what she saw in Lior’s eyes sent an ice-cold shard of terror directly to the pit of her stomach.

“
Play it again.” He pointed a finger at the digital recorder that Yuri had been manning, his eyes boring into those of the younger agent.

Yuri licked his lips and cast Rebecca a covert glance. She nodded silently that he should comply, and the sound of the recording filled the room once more.

“
Hammersmith residence,” said a disembodied voice.

“
Mrs. Hudson. It’s Gary. I’d like to speak with my stepmother, please.” Rebecca could hear the tension in the man’s voice that belied his polite words.

“
Of course, Mr. Hammersmith. Please hold on. I’ll see if she’s available.”

“
Mrs. Hudson. Get her now.” The voice had become strident, insistent. “Do you understand me?”