Telling Lies (32 page)

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 …”

Moto nodded his head at the bodyguard, who was on her in a flash, unceremoniously yanking her to her feet by her jacket. Helen hung there for a moment, an inch off the floor, her legs flopping around like a rag doll’s.

“
Now, that wasn’t very smart, was it?” Moto nodded again at the bodyguard, who lowered her until her feet touched the ground. “Check her for weapons—the case, too. I’m a little pressed for time right now, but we’ll get together later for a longer chat.” His words set her heart racing again.

“
Bring her downstairs when you’re done,” he ordered his man as he left the bedroom.

The man nodded his assent. “Up against the wall and spread your legs.” He patted her down roughly, seeming to enjoy her discomfort, pressing the gun hard into the back of her neck to remind her who was in charge.

Helen felt the chill of the cold steel as he prodded her body. She closed her eyes, wanting to pound her hands against the wall, yet knowing it was futile to protest.

“
Stand up straight and don’t move.” He finally finished with her and moved on to the bath case. Just as he pressed the catch, his pager went off. His frown told Helen that something was going on. Snapping the lid closed, he shoved the case at her. “We’ll get to that downstairs. Carry it and don’t try anything.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. “I will not hesitate to shoot you.” Helen had no doubt he meant it.

With one beefy hand clamped to her shoulder and the other holding his gun, he steered her down the staircase and into the living room.

Helen went along meekly, grateful that she was still breathing.

That was the good news. The bad news was that her chances of escaping right now were virtually nonexistent. If only she could signal Aaron. She knew that he and the FBI were out there beyond the window, watching Moto’s every move. If they saw her, they might bust in. The Sumo-guy here was the real problem. She needed to distract him.

Helen started to cough. Big, deep coughs that wracked her body, brought tears to her eyes, and shook her chair enough to inch it closer to the window. “Water.” She grabbed her throat and gasped dramatically. Sumo-guy came nearer, peering at her through eyes that were mere slits in mounds of meaty flesh.

“
I need water.” She mimed drinking as a new round of coughing overtook her.

Sumo-guy turned away from her and elephant-walked toward the room’s doorway, which had remained ajar. He started to shout out something in Japanese. Helen coughed louder and scooted the chair farther back. She reached behind her, grabbed the window curtain, and shook it like crazy.
Please, God, let Aaron see that
, she prayed. While her watcher’s back was turned, she scooted her chair to where it had been and kicked the case under it. She continued coughing and gasping. When a maid finally scurried into the room with a glass of water, Helen actually needed it.

Miayamu Moto’s Town House

The Stanfield Hotel

New York City

Laurel and Lior followed the bodyguard from the kitchen up a staircase to the town house’s main floor. There seemed to be a commotion of some sort going on at the other end of the hall. One of Moto’s people was standing in a doorway shouting in Japanese. Lior thought he heard a woman calling for water.

“
Lior,” Laurel said in a puzzled tone, “I think that’s …”

“
Later,” he replied brusquely.

The bodyguard they’d captured stopped short and turned in the direction of the noise. “Don’t try it.” Lior pushed his gun deeper into the man’s back. “Just take us to Moto and don’t say a word.”

Quietly, they entered a large, wood-paneled study. The three men in the room were in the midst of a heated argument. Two were seated at an enormous ebony desk, while the third paced back and forth, stabbing the air with his hand as he spoke. The men were so focused on their dispute that it took several moments before they were aware that they were no longer alone, the realization changing the atmosphere like quicksilver.

Lior could feel the fury coming from the Japanese man seated behind the desk. Although his voice was low, it whipped through the room like a tsunami bent on destroying everything in its path. Abruptly, Moto stopped talking and turned to the trio who had entered, his face contorted with pure venom for one brief second.

Lior took advantage of the surprise their intrusion created. Slowly, he gazed at each man. David Hammersmith, Jeff Sargasso, and Miayamu Moto. They could not fail to see the threat in his eyes.

Lior sensed that Laurel, who was still behind him, was about to move. Seeing Hammersmith and Sargasso together might make it hard to keep her in check. “Not yet, Laurel. There’ll be time for them later.”

“
Who are you?” Moto demanded and rose from behind his desk, taking in Lior’s gun pressed into his bodyguard’s back. “What do you want here?”

“
My name is Lior Stern, and this is Laurel Imperiole,” he replied as if making introductions at a cocktail party. “I’m here for the painting, and Ms. Imperiole is here for Mr. Sargasso.” He dipped his head in Sargasso’s direction.

“
As far as Mr. Hammersmith is concerned, we’ll leave him to the police to face charges of kidnapping.”

As furious as he was, Moto’s composure never deserted him. He scrutinized Lior and Laurel and attempted to take charge. “Mr. Stern,” he emphasized the agent’s name, “you’ve interrupted a very important business meeting. Possibly—”

Laurel cut him off. “Who’s in the room at the end of the hall?” She pointed in its direction.

He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, assessing the situation immediately. “Perhaps it’s someone you know. Why don’t we find out?”

Lior noticed Laurel move to his side and turn toward him hopefully. He knew she’d recognized the voice they’d heard. Without taking his eyes from Moto or his gun from the bodyguard’s back, he nodded his assent.

Moto barked an order in Japanese. A few moments later, her watcher thrust Helen, clutching her bath case, into the room.

“
Helen?” Laurel gasped, “What are you—”

Moto answered for her. “This woman claims to be the hotel’s assistant bath concierge.” He gestured at Helen. “As you can see, she also seems to think that her costume and her accoutrements,” his glance took in her now rumpled black suit and the bath case clasped to her chest like armor, “will convince me. What do you think, Ms. Imperiole?”

Lior didn’t give Laurel time to answer. “This woman is of no interest to me.” He shrugged. “I’m here for the painting. As the Americans are fond of saying, we can do this the hard way,” he pointed his gun at Moto briefly, “or the easy way. It’s up to you.”

“
Forgive me,” Moto said, glancing between the two women, “but she does seem to be of interest to your friend.”

Lior noticed that Laurel had locked eyes with Helen, each desperately trying to communicate with the other.

“
I thought perhaps you’d like to save her life,” Moto nodded toward Helen. “Maybe I’ll let you have it in lieu of the painting. Or not.” At these last words the man guarding her placed one huge hand around Helen’s throat and began to squeeze.

Lior could see the fear in Helen’s eyes. The man was squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp. A little more pressure and it would be fatal. “That’s not an option.” Lior’s eyes were dark and ominous. “I’m taking the painting. Right now.”

“
Stop it,” Laurel screamed at Helen’s torturer and started toward them.

“
Stay back.” Lior knew there were too many people in the room for him to control them all.

Laurel’s movement spurred Jeff Sargasso into action. He leapt up from the desk. “You’re not getting that painting.” Rage contorted his face. He reached for a black portfolio case that had been resting on the floor next to the desk and screamed at Laurel. “You fucking bitch, this is all your fault. You and your fucking snooping. You’ve screwed up everything.” He grabbed the case with both hands, wielding it like a shield, and strode forward aiming it at Laurel’s head.

“
No, Jeff, no.” Hammersmith had until now remained silent throughout the encounter. “The painting! Don’t, you’ll destroy it!” His words came in a jumble as he tackled Sargasso.

As Hammersmith lunged for Sargasso, Lior shoved Moto’s bodyguard out of the way and grabbed for Laurel, who was watching the scene in horror, not realizing the danger she was in.