Telling Lies (21 page)

And Caterina did.

* * *

Laurel looked at the name she’d written on her notepad. The name Caterina had risked her safety to acquire. It didn’t make sense. How could
he
have sponsored Sargasso? It was crazy. What was going on and what did he hope to gain?

Laurel ached to share this information with Aaron but held herself back. Maybe it was anger, maybe pride, but she wanted to confront this Society member on her own and demand to know why he’d been helping a man he should have been hunting.

Was she being foolish? She knew that the Society’s members were ruthless, capable of anything, even murder. But she didn’t think this man would condone that level of violence. From what she’d heard, he was a follower, not a leader. She was sure she could handle him without being harmed.

No, she wouldn’t tell Aaron. Or Helen. Not yet, anyway. First, she’d go to the source and find out the truth. Then, like Salome, she’d present Aaron with his head on a silver platter.

Stanfield Hotel

New York City

The Stanfield was gorgeous. Helen and Joe entered the hotel’s newly refurbished lobby, and she turned in a circle to take it all in. The architect who’d done the renovation had completed the job with style and taste. He, or she, had known to leave the touches that made the property unique— like the highly polished black and white marble floor in the reception area—and to update the rest with softer shapes, bold splashes of color, and an eclectic mix of modern and period pieces that drew on the hotel’s heritage. Helen had read that the Stanfield had been one of the first New York City luxury hotels to command over two hundred dollars a night for a room.
Now, if the guest rooms looked anywhere near as good as the lobby, the prices would go through the stratosphere.

Joe took Helen’s arm and steered her toward the Garden L’Asia, the Stanfield’s new tearoom. His downcast eyes and schlumpy posture did not presage a good time. Helen took pity on him and changed course, moving to the bar instead. The surprise on his face was worth the detour.

They entered the room, softly lit with Dale Chihuly handblown glass lamps. Joe took Helen’s hand and headed right for the corner seats at the far end of the bar, where they could see the entrance and whole room, which they had to themselves. She knew he liked to sit facing the door so he could see who was coming and going.

Joe settled Helen into one of the comfortable looking high-back bar chairs. Then he plopped himself down at the sleek brushed steel and black lacquered wood bar with a satisfied sigh. With a wave of his hand and lift of his eyebrow, he signaled to the bartender, sat back, and smiled happily. “You are a goddess amongst women.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“
Yes, thank you. I know,” she replied haughtily. “And you are a prince. One who absolutely deserves something stronger than tea for all his good work.” Her expression turned serious. “Thanks, Joe. I mean it.”

He had been about to respond when the young, handsome bartender approached. He had the high cheekbones, square jaw, and sea-green eyes that transformed merely good-looking into model perfect. His uniform was an expertly tailored black suit, the same as all the hotel staff were wearing. He looked especially good in his, and Helen made him for a model or an actor working the bar to supplement his income. “What can I get for you folks?”

“
Give my friend a double shot of that lovely Louis the Fourteenth Cognac.” Helen gestured to the shimmering crystal bottle on the bar’s back shelf.

“
Of course.” The bartender’s smile widened. Probably thinking of the tip that would accompany that hefty tab. Helen laughed to herself. He didn’t know the half of it. “And for you?”

“
I’ll have a glass of your finest Chardonnay, with a little information on the side.” She slipped three one hundred dollar bills onto the bar.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the cash. “Right away.” He went to pour their drinks.

Joe bent toward her and whispered. “What the hell are you doing? That’s not very subtle. Even for you.” He shook his head.

“
Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask him about you know who. Just about the hotel renovation and the new services they offer.” She stopped talking as the bartender returned to their end of the bar with their drinks.

“
Chardonnay for the lady and a double Louis the fourteenth for you, sir.”

“
Thank you, Jean-Paul.” Helen read the young man’s name from the plaque he wore over his jacket pocket. She leaned in closer and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I didn’t mean to sound so dramatic before, but I’m on assignment for a well-known travel magazine. I’m doing a story on hotels that are pushing the limits on the luxury services they offer to their extra special VIP guests. And, I’m not talking about theater tickets for sold-out Broadway shows or terry robes and slippers.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Your manager, Mr. Bevacqua, has been less than cooperative, so I thought …” She raised her eyebrows and let the last of her words trail off, hoping to prompt a reply. She didn’t have to wait long.

“
Mr. Bevacqua is very circumspect. He would totally disapprove of us gossiping or talking to the press without his permission.” Jean-Paul glanced down at the money on the bar, obviously torn between discretion and making the rent.

“
He’d never have to know. I don’t reveal my sources.” She put her thumb and index fingers in front of her mouth and turned them as if locking it shut with a key. She managed not to wince as her hokey display prompted Joe to kick her in the shin.

“
I just want to know what the big guns can expect when they check in—aside from a thousand dollar per night tab.” She looked at him questioningly.

“
Are you sure Mr. Bevacqua won’t find out?”

“
Absolutely. You have my word.” Helen meant it. She’d never spoken with the hotel’s manager and never would. She’d found his name on the website.

“
Honestly?” Jean-Paul leaned in closer and deftly swept the bills off the bar and tucked them into his pocket. “There really isn’t much to tell. We have started a new service program since the hotel reopened, just for the elite, VIP guests. They have their own wing in the town houses attached to the hotel on Eighty-first Street. Most people don’t know that we own them.” He looked toward the back of the hotel and raised his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure that’s intentional. The hotel has six private residences there, one in each of the six houses. Our guests enter from the colonnade that borders the garden out back or from the front of each house, depending on how private they want to be.” Helen nodded, encouraging him to continue. “The hotel offers the option of having a celebrity chef come in and cook dinner every evening. You know, guys like Mario Batali or Bobby Flay or Keith McNally. The chefs prefer that we don’t publicize it.” He shrugged again. “I guess they’d rather that the VIPs went to their restaurants.”

He stole a glance at the barroom’s door to make sure no other staff was within earshot. “There’s also a private swimming pool that goes across the basement level of the property and a private gym on the top floor of each building. Each gym has state-of-the-art equipment.” Helen noticed the wistful look that came into his eyes. “And a staff of exclusive trainers who live at the hotel and are on-call twenty-four seven. None of the other guests have access to this pool, these gyms, or these trainers. The staff gets to the pool through a basement corridor.”

It must be nice to be very rich
. Helen glanced at Joe, whose look of disgust was hard to miss.

“
Then,” Jean-Paul leaned in even closer, “there are other high-end amenities like the Armani Casa furniture, Frette linen, and a collection of authentic artwork. You know, like at the Met.” He gestured toward the museum, which was directly across the street. “Plus, only staff members who’ve been selected and trained by Mr. Bevacqua are allowed to work in the private residences. No one who works there—not even the maids, our personal shopper, or our bath concierge—wear uniforms. They all wear custom designed black suits, like mine.”

“
What did you say?” interrupted Helen excitedly. “Bath concierge?”

“
Yeah,” Jean-Paul smiled. “It’s something new here. Our bath concierge, Vicki Simon, will prepare any kind of bath a VIP client wants. She’ll make sure the water temperature is just right and add oils or rose petals and place scented candles around the room for
atmosphere
.” He made quote marks in the air. “All a VIP guest has to do is schedule an appointment, and then Vicki gets their bath ready.”

Apparently this was too much for Joe. “Does she scrub their backs, too?” he barked.

“
Don’t mind my friend; he’s not as cultured as the rest of us. Is this a popular service?” Helen tried to at least sound like a reporter.

“
I’ll say. Vicki is very busy, especially right now. I think some extra special VIP is arriving from Japan tomorrow, and he’s very into this bath thing.” He raised his hand in a “what can you do” gesture. “She had to find this particular exotic oil that his people requested. It was something with lavender and real emerald dust to blend calmness with clarity, or so she said.”

“
Would that be like fairy dust?” Joe shook his head in revulsion.

Jean-Paul smiled. “I believe she mentioned something about it also detoxifying the heart chakra, but you’d have to ask her. Anyway, I think only one store in the city carries it. So she was pretty stressed until she found some.”

Helen knew this was it. All the pieces fit. They were preparing for Moto. “Wow, all that trouble for just one person. No other hotel I’ve been to has gone this far. He must be a pretty important guy. Any idea who he is?” she asked innocently.

Jean-Paul gave her a weird look, like he was beginning to wonder, money or not, if he’d made a mistake talking to her.
Guess I overdid it a bit.
It’s time to move along.
“You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.”

Helen touched Joe’s arm. “Drink up. We should go.”

Joe lifted the snifter, tipped his head back and drank the last drops of the smoky cognac, looking at her suspiciously over the rim of his glass. He took her arm as he rose, and they walked into the lobby and out into the bright afternoon.

“
So what do you think,
Ms. Magazine Reporter
?” Joe shook his head at her over-the-top acting, then became serious. “It’s got to be Moto, right? Who else would make someone run all over the city looking for some freaking bath oil with real emeralds in it?” His voice was filled with derision. “He’s really a piece of work.”

Helen smiled at Joe’s ire. “Billionaires usually are. That’s how they get to be billionaires.”

“
Yeah, well, it’s just not right. And it really pisses me off.”

“
I can see that. You know what? Me, too. That and everything else Moto’s been up to.” She gave Joe a look he’d seen before.

“
What?” His voice held a warning note. “What are you planning, now?”

She smiled mischievously. “Oh, I don’t know.” She took his arm again, turned him around, and started steering him back toward the hotel. “I thought I’d go see a man about a room. Like to come along?”

FBI Headquarters

New York City

Aaron was waiting in Mickey Buonarroti’s office at FBI headquarters while the agent went off to grab them some coffee. Fidgeting, shaking his leg, and cracking his knuckles, he looked at the door every few seconds, thankful that Agent LoBianco was nowhere to be seen. Instead of being relieved at the agent’s absence, he became even antsier.
Jeez, what the hell is wrong with me
, he asked himself, trying to settle down but not succeeding. His head almost began to pound at the recollection of his night on the town with Mickey and Fibbies, especially the lovely Lisa. What did the fitness people call it? Muscle memory. Oh yeah, that was just about right. He’d sure acted like a muscle head that evening.

Mickey entered the office with an FBI mug in each hand and a file tucked under his arm. “What’s up, A? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Anyone I know?” He lifted an eyebrow and handed over a mug.

“
What’s with the file?” Aaron ignored the jibe and jutted his chin toward Mickey.

“
You’re not going to like it.” Mickey settled himself behind his desk and paused to take a sip of his coffee. “It’s about Laurel’s friend Monica and her gallery.”

Aaron had asked Mickey for this meeting to discuss where they were on locating Jeff Sargasso—which, so far, was nowhere—and to review the steps that each department was taking to apprehend him. The last thing he expected was to see a new file on Monica Sargasso. His head began to pound for real now—none of that muscle memory shit.