Telling Lies (9 page)

Still, he reminded himself, there was no real proof that Laurel had seen Sargasso in Florence. And, even if it had been that lowlife scumbag, there was even less hard proof that he’d run off with Hammersmith’s fifteen million. As far as everyone connected with the case was concerned, the money was MIA, missing in action, probably still snugly tucked away in a Swiss bank collecting interest in perpetuity and totally untouchable.

The 13
^th
had had nothing to do with the Hammersmith case, so Aaron had reached out to other precincts in the department before calling Mickey. He’d spoken to two detectives from the 19
^th
in the Upper East Side neighborhood where Hammersmith had maintained a New York apartment. They’d been assigned to check discreetly into the case, and after talking to them, Aaron hadn’t yielded anything new. Interestingly enough, he’d learned that the request to follow up on the missing money after Hammersmith’s death had come down from the Commissioner’s office. To Aaron, it sounded like a political payback for someone who had an interest in the outcome. Maybe Alexandra Hammersmith, or Moto reaching out from Japan and trying to get his hands on the cash he felt was rightly his.

The two detectives, Jennings and Wilson, didn’t know which civilian had initiated the request, and neither did their Loo, but he made sure they were on it big time.

The Ds had briefed Aaron fully. They had spent days reviewing the initial reports relating to Hammersmith and his death on 9/11. Then they interviewed everyone connected with Hammersmith & Mann—the bereaved families of deceased employees, clients and former clients, Hammersmith’s art world connections, the widow and the sons—and had come up empty. Aaron learned that they had talked to Monica Sargasso and Jeff Sargasso’s associates, and the story was the same. No one knew anything about the whereabouts of the fifteen million or the painting. No surprise there.

Aaron re-knotted his red power tie, slipped on his dark blue pinstriped Ralph Lauren suit jacket and admired his appearance in the small mirror on his office wall. He and Mickey had a game of one-upmanship going on when it came to their sartorial splendor. He was sure that Laurel would laugh if she’d seen how much care he’d taken with his appearance for this meeting with his old friend. God, he missed her, the feel of her, the taste of her. He knew he was caught, hook, line, and sinker; he just hadn’t counted on the barb going in this deep.

He’d spoken to Laurel a few hours ago, and she’d filled him in on her meeting with Caterina Toscana.

“
I’m going to stay in Florence a few more days. Caterina promised to make some inquires, and we’ll take it from there.” Her voice was full of confidence. “We’ll find him.”

Aaron, who knew how time-consuming and futile these kinds of inquiries could be, didn’t want her to lose sight of the reality of the situation. “Don’t get your hopes up. Even if Sargasso is living in Florence, it might be impossible to flush him out.”

Some of the assurance had slipped from her voice. “I understand what you’re saying, but we’ve got to try.”

At least she was making good on to her promise to keep him up to speed on everything that was happening on her end. He wondered if Helen would do the same. “She’d better,” he muttered threateningly under his voice, as he picked up his file and left his office.

* * *

Aaron had to show his creds and stow his gun in a locker before proceeding through the metal detector at FBI headquarters. The FBI crest—with its Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity motto—dominated the lobby and stood as a silent sentry to the eleven hundred special agents who populated the building. Twenty-six Federal Plaza was the largest field office in the country. It was an intimidating space and meant to be so.

Aaron signed in and waited to be escorted to Mickey’s office on the 15
^th
floor, where the New York division of the Art Crimes Team was based. After a few minutes, a tall, attractive young woman stepped off the elevator and greeted him. “I’m Special Agent Lisa LoBianco. I work with Mickey.” She extended her hand and gave him a wry smile. “You must be Detective Gerrard.”

Before he could reply or ask what her grin was about, she turned. “Please, follow me,” she said over her shoulder.

Great
. Aaron felt his face start to heat up with embarrassment, Agent LoBianco’s barely suppressed amusement obvious.
I can only imagine what Mickey said about me to get a reaction like that. I’m going to kill the bastard.

They rode the elevator up to fifteen, the only two passengers on board.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the agent stealing looks at him every few seconds and biting her lip in an effort not to smile. Finally the elevator arrived at fifteen, and they exited.

Mickey was waiting as the doors slid open. Dressed in a charcoal gray designer suit tailored to fit his large frame, he presented an imposing figure. Mickey was taller than Aaron and about twenty pounds heavier, with the dark eyes and dark hair that often came with a southern Italian heritage. But his good humor belied his bulk. “Aaron, my man. How the hell are you?” He slapped Aaron on the back and started walking down the hall toward his office. “Thanks, Lise.” His chocolate brown eyes twinkled. “I’ll take it from here.”

“
My pleasure.” She gave Aaron a long, appraising glance before moving away.

“
Jesus,” Aaron sputtered as soon as she was out of earshot. “What the fuck did you say to her about me?”

Mickey laughed. A big rumble that started in his stomach and worked its way up to his throat before spilling out. “Man, you don’t want to know.”

Aaron looked at his friend and let it go. They’d always played practical jokes on one another. Next time, it would be his turn, and he’d be sure to make it good. By now, they were in Mickey’s spacious office and settled at the small conference table in the corner of the room.

“
Coffee? Tea? I could ask Agent LoBianco …” Mickey jutted his chin toward the door.

Aaron didn’t answer. Just gave him a look that said it all.

“
Okay, okay.” Mickey smirked and held up his hands in mock surrender. Then he became serious. “So, tell me, what’s with you and this Hammersmith business?”

For the next twenty minutes, Aaron filled him in on the details, starting with his and Laurel’s trip to Florence and ending with her phone call from Italy earlier today.

For all his busting his chops, when it came to business, Mickey was as straightforward as they came. He listened carefully, made copious notes, and asked several pertinent questions. A number of times Aaron stopped and referred to the file he’d brought with him, which included the NYPD’s summary, as well as his own notes and impressions on the case.

‘
This Laurel Imperiole, she’s the woman you met because of that murder, isn’t she?” He had a knowing look in his eye. “
Madonne
, almost getting killed wasn’t enough for you? Trying to impress her again, huh?”

Aaron decided to ignore this gibe and not rise to the bait his friend was tossing out. “I’m beginning to think she was right about seeing that creep, and that detective I mentioned, Helen McCorkendale, agrees with her. But, Sargasso aside, the whole thing feels much bigger than him.” Aaron shook his head. “I mean, what kind of a painting is worth one hundred fifty million dollars?”

“
None that I can think of right now, but it’s just a matter of time. You know from your own research that prices for artists like Picasso, Van Gogh, and Klimt are getting close to that. Take a look at these numbers.” Mickey handed Aaron a sheet with a list of recent auction figures from the sale of major works. They were all well in the fifty to one hundred million range. “And, how about that unknown guy who just waltzed in to Sotheby’s spring auction and picked up Picasso’s “Dora Maar With Cat” for just over ninety-five million? They’re still trying to figure out who he was, or who he was bidding for.” Mickey shrugged.

“
I spoke with the agents who were originally assigned to the Hammersmith case when the deal he’d made with Moto came to light.” Mickey leaned back in his chair, his bulk making it groan. “It might have never come out if his family weren’t determined to get their hands on the missing fifteen million. I mean, think about it. The two people who planned the deal, Hammersmith and Sargasso, were dead. Moto didn’t have the money. So where was it? The Widow Hammersmith was the one who tipped us and got things rolling.”

“
I figured she might have.” Aaron thought back to the detectives in the 19
^th
precinct. “The NYPD got some pressure from above to move on it as well. Probably from her. But, what about Moto? Did he send out any feelers?”

“
It’s more than likely. But none that we could substantiate as coming from him. Now, he really is a cagey bastard.” Aaron could tell Mickey was warming to his subject as he got up and began pacing the length of the room. “If the rumors about him are true, he’s got a treasure trove of art that makes the Met’s collection seem like paint by numbers.”

“
On the up and up?” asked Aaron.

“
Sure, he’s a regular Brother Teresa,” shot back Mickey. “Most of it is reputed to be black market, passed along by dealers and scouts he’s got stashed around the world.” Mickey threw up his hands. “We can’t prove it, and no one we know has seen the collection. But, I’d guarantee that some of it is stuff we’ve been looking for and would love to recover.”

“
What about working through Interpol or your legate office in Japan?” Aaron knew those were the usual FBI channels.

“
Working with Japan is tricky.” Mickey turned his hand from side to side. “They have their own way of looking at things like this. Besides, we’d have to have credible information to open an investigation. You know, be looking for a specific stolen work and establish where it is before we could petition Justice to seize it and get the process started.”

“
Does anyone have any idea what painting Hammersmith was buying?”

“
Not a clue,” replied Mickey,” but for the kind of price Moto was floating, it has to be something spectacular.”

“
Think it’s still out there?”

“
I do, and I bet Moto is biding his time, waiting for the right buyer, another
über
collector with deep pockets who isn’t too fussy about legalities.”

Aaron sat back for a moment, digesting the information his friend had just shared with him. He realized that there wasn’t much to go on, and he hated having to disappoint Laurel. “Could I borrow the file on Moto? Maybe I’ll find something—anything—you guys might have missed. A fresh eye. You never know what I might discover.”

“
No problem. You know, this is the new FBI. We’re here to serve the community, and we’re always willing to cooperate with other law enforcement agencies.” There was just the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I’ll have it copied and sent over to the precinct first thing in the morning. But now,” he shot his snowy white cuffs and straightened his lavender tie, “we have somewhere we need to be.”

Aaron rose from his chair. “This isn’t going to involve Agent LoBianco, is it?” His body took him where his brain didn’t want to go, reminding him how her hips had moved under her short black skirt.

“
Now why would you think that?” Mickey laughed as he led Aaron from his office like a lamb to the slaughter.

Kips Bay

New York City

Helen was on the third floor of her town house organizing her “costume closet,” as she called the place where she stored her many disguises, when she heard the phone ring in her bedroom below. Arms laden with a new supply of goodies, she walked to the top of the stairs and let the machine pick up. Aaron’s deep baritone barked out, “It’s me. Call back now.” She and Aaron had spent the early morning playing phone tag until she had finally given up and left for her undercover assignment. Well, she sighed, he’ll just have to wait another ten minutes.

Helen had been in Chinatown most of the morning, doing double duty—working and shopping. The Loss Prevention Team at Saks had been so pleased with the successful conclusion of their internal theft case—she’d finally nabbed Antonio Felippe—they’d recommended her to one of their vendors. Helen had met with the client, a high-end handbag manufacturer. Pirated designs of his bags were winding up on Canal Street, where dozens of tiny storefronts offered the knockoffs at discount prices. Savvy to the undercover investigators who normally roamed the street, Helen knew that the shopkeepers could make these items disappear into a truck faster than a bargain hunting New Yorker could say: “Whadda ya mean, counterfeit? I thought they were stolen!”

New to the scene and unknown to the shopkeepers, Helen had identified four stores for further investigation and reported her findings to her client. She’d also made time to stop at a giant surplus store on Broadway where she purchased a beat-up hard hat, carpenter’s tool belt, and steel-toed boots, which would come in handy if she ever had to blend in at a construction site. After a late lunch of crab soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai on Pell Street, she’d headed back to the town house.