Keeping Secrets Page 5

  “All right.” The strain and fear in Anne’s voice almost stopped Laurel. She wanted to reassure her, but the only reassurance that mattered was to convince Anne what she was saying was right.

  “There are several things you have to do before you leave.” Laurel consulted the list she’d made and worked her way down the page. “First, you have to create a false trail. Buy a ticket with your credit card to somewhere other than where you’re planning to go. If you have a joint email with David, leave it as a contact, so he will see the airline confirm the flight. If you don’t have a joint email account, then put in both your email and his, as though you accidentally did it by habit. That way, when he begins to look for you, he’ll waste time going there first. In the meantime, look for a city where you’ve never been, maybe Pittsburgh or Philadelphia. Don’t tell anyone your true destination.

  “The next thing to do is withdraw what money you can. Close your bank account and cancel your credit cards. Using them for your real travel will leave a trail that’s easy to follow. You have to get rid of your cellphone, which is easy to trace, as well. Toss it in a garbage truck or on the side of a road. Buy a pre-paid one with cash and use that for now.

  “When you’re ready to leave, you shouldn’t drive. Instead, leave your car in the parking lot at the mall where it will blend in and take a train or the bus. When you get to the city you’ve chosen, look in the phone book for Community Services and ask them to direct you to a women’s shelter or a safe house where you can find help.” Laurel paused, trying to find the right words to communicate the last and most difficult piece of information. “You also have to change your name so, once you’re settled, you can establish a new identity.”

  Anne became so quiet Laurel was afraid she’d hung up the phone. “I don’t know what to say,” Anne finally said. “Run away. Change my name. This makes me feel like I’m a criminal, when I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know it’s overwhelming. That’s the way you’ve got to think. You have to be on the defensive and protect yourself by keeping David away from you. This is a good plan and a way to keep you safe until the police can sort it all out.”

  They spoke for a little while longer, and Anne agreed to do what Laurel suggested. She promised she’d go to the police then leave as soon as possible and call once she was settled at a shelter.

  “You can reach me anytime. If I’m not here at home, call my cell and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” Laurel reassured her. “You won’t be alone.”

  Laurel was exhausted. It was a difficult conversation. She certainly wasn’t an expert on how to disappear without leaving a trace or how to hide from an abusive boyfriend. She hoped giving this advice was the right thing to do. A lot was at stake.

  She noticed three text message notifications on her cellphone. Jenna wanted to meet for a drink and some juicy gossip. Dad reminded her to be careful once again. John asked politely what was going on and where the hell she was she?

  Everyone would just have to wait, except John. She sent a quick text telling him she was working at home. She still needed to finish her notes for her meeting with Helen and do some more research online. She also wanted to try and reach Matt. She was upset about the way their last conversation had ended. Something was definitely off with him and she was determined get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, 12:12 p.m.

  Helen grabbed her purse, fished out her keys and walked to the street. She checked her watch and figured there’d be enough time for a really quick look around one of the many thrift shops in the area. She loved having so many to choose from between Twenty-third Street and Thirtieth Street, and checked them out on a regular basis. She also often stopped in at the New York Works Thrift Shop and Yesterday, both close to her Twenty-third Street office. They’re a great source for my disguise closet. Best of all, it never costs me a fortune.

  At Yesterday, there was a gently worn navy blue uniform jacket. It had great possibilities. She could add a Verizon or Time Warner Cable TV logo on the front pocket and pass for one of their workers. With a clipboard or utility bag in hand, Helen could instantly gain access to almost any building in the city. After scooping up a few scarves and a big straw hat, she was on her way.

  I’m starving. It must be all this poking around to find new disguises. Enough shopping, I need food. Her stomach rumbled in noisy agreement. She walked the few blocks uptown, toward Leonardo, her favorite gourmet shop in the neighborhood. As she entered the shop, the wonderful smells of cheese, bread, pasta and fruit made her mouth water.

  “Ciao, Franco,” she said.

  “Ciao, Signorina, Helen. What can I get for you today?” Franco, the young man behind the cheese counter with a smile on his face, knife in hand, was ready to slice off a chunk of whatever struck her fancy.

  “I’ll take a piccolo piece of Pecorino Pienza,” Helen separated her thumb and index finger about two inches, to show him how much. It was her favorite: a delicate, flavorful cheese made in the tiny Italian town for which it was named. “I’ll also have some Prosciutto di Parma and a good loaf of your Tuscan semolina. Grazie.”

  Adding a bag of hazelnut biscotti for good measure, she checked out. I must have been Italian in my last life. All those Italiani living the good life in Tuscany, Lombardi, and Emilia Romagna had it made when it came to the food department.

  Then there are those Italian men; she shook her head, thinking of her last two relationships, and her burgeoning one with Mike Imperiole. The problem was that too many of them had a, “I must be treated like an Italian Prince” thing going on, thanks to mothers who doted on them from infancy into adulthood—or quasi-adulthood as it often turned out. Well, she couldn’t put Mike in that category. He seemed to be past all that and appreciated her for the smart, independent woman she was … except when he thought she was doing something he considered too dangerous, which was about fifty percent of the time. She loved spending time with him as long as they didn’t talk about her work.

  Laughing at the irony, Helen took in one last deep breath of the aroma of cheese, prosciutto and bread to sustain her for the short walk home, then ambled toward the corner. I’ll have a delicious lunch in my garden, do some Internet searches and phone work for my regular clients, then meet with Laurel, all before tailing Ralphie. What a life!

  Helen thought back to when she had decided to become a private investigator. She had attended a seminar on a lark while studying at NYU, doing post-graduate work in sociology. The guest speaker, a representative of the Holmes Detective Agency, made his job sound a lot more interesting than the dry, human behavior courses she was taking, or the counseling job she’d considered accepting while completing her master’s degree. Helen realized sociology and detective work had elements in common, such as understanding different personalities and modes of behavior, and she liked the idea of blending the two.

  After the detective’s presentation, she joined the laughing group that had gathered around him to ask more questions. He made it seem like detective work was fun and Helen took his card.

  As Helen could now tell anyone interested in the profession, it was a lot of things—exciting, intriguing, dangerous, exhausting and financially rewarding. But fun? Not exactly. Today, with everything going on, she felt like a top spinning out of control, its string wound tighter and tighter before being tossed to the ground with a really hard flip of the wrist.

  Breathe. Slow down. Everything will get done when it gets done. Good advice, especially on a beautiful day like today, but hard to follow when there’s so much to do. Helen neared the corner and was about to cross the avenue when a black Lincoln with tinted windows ran the light, flew across Thirtieth Street and headed straight for her. She tried to step back, but with her groceries and thrift shop purchases in her arms, her balance was off. As the car accelerated, she began to pinwheel forward.

  She had just managed to straighten up and move back a few inches when the car’s si
de mirror caught her arm and sent her packages flying. She landed hard on the sidewalk and struggled to catch her breath as the people around her stared. “Are you okay?” A young woman, clutching a large artist’s portfolio to her chest, looked stricken.

  “Did you see that?” A man in a denim jacket knelt beside her and reached for her arm, offering his help.

  “Yo, lady, you gotta be more careful!” A young boy whizzed by on his skateboard, tossing advice over his shoulder.

  Everyone talked to her in that excited mix of outrage and entitlement New Yorkers used for every unexpected occasion.

  Looking up from the ground, Helen felt she was bobbing back and forth in a sea of legs, arms, and faces. She peered through a gap in the limbs of the people surrounding her and caught a glimpse of the runaway car. It sped around the corner, right tail light blinking as it took the turn with tires screeching. Helen’s arm throbbed, and her carefully chosen lunch was scattered all over the sidewalk. The people around her helped her stand, but she struggled to feel steady on the concrete. A cold chill ran down her spine. She was sure there were Jersey tags on the big Lincoln.

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday, 2:02 p.m.

  Laurel finished the notes for her meeting with Helen and printed out two copies. As she enjoyed a late lunch of yogurt, fruit and Oreo cookies, she realized it was the first time in the day her body didn’t feel tense.

  Her bright, cheery kitchen faced Second Avenue. It’s such a nice day; I might as well walk downtown and use the time to clear my mind. She stuffed her papers and cellphone into her tote bag and put on a lightweight denim jacket.

  She stepped outside her building and slipped on her sunglasses. Sunlight streamed down to cover the sidewalk and its pedestrians with light like molten gold. As if not to be outdone, fluffy clouds floated overhead and created pools of dark shadows. It reminded Laurel of an oversized, dramatic chiaroscuro painting created in an impromptu moment by a sidewalk artist. Just like when she and Aaron were in Florence last year. How could something that started out so happy have gone so wrong? Don’t go there, she told herself. Being sorry about what you did won’t bring Aaron back. Thinking of Aaron took her by surprise, like stumbling into an unseen pothole. Fleeting as the thought was, it gave her a pang of guilt. What about Matt? He was in her life now. Aaron and their failed relationship was just a sorry memory.

  She shook her head to bring herself back to the present and fished out her cellphone to speed-dial her dad’s private number. His voicemail picked up. “Hi, Dad. I won’t have time to stop by. I’ve got a bunch of things to catch up on for work and I’ll call you as soon as I can. Love you. Bye.” This, too, wasn’t a lie. Meeting with Helen for her story was related to work. Her dad just wouldn’t see it that way.

  She walked south and thought of her troubling conversation with Matt. His cellphone never worked in Europe, and she’d been after him to purchase one that would. He hadn’t told her where he was staying, so she had tried a few of the bigger hotels in Siena, the Continental and the Garden Hotel, before she left the apartment. She thought he mentioned staying in both on past trips to Italy.

  “Mi dispiace, Signorina. Non abbiamo un cliente si chiama Signore Matt Kuhn. We have no one here by that name,” the receptionist at the Continental said. After a few more calls, Laurel gave up. Matt didn’t seem to be any place in Siena she tried. She’d have to wait for him to call her. Laurel decided it would be best to try and put Matt’s erratic behavior out of her mind or she’d think about it all afternoon.

  As she walked downtown, she enjoyed looking in the store windows along the way and stopped for a moment to admire one of the more intriguing displays at an antique shop on 48th Street. The front window was packed with gilt frame mirrors of every size, shape and period, topped off with a huge, lit crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The effect was dazzling. The afternoon sun hit the window at just the right angle to make light bounce off every surface. Refracted light flitted from one object to another like fireflies in a strange dance.

  A reflection in one of the mirrors caught her eye. A man in a dark suit moved quickly from the doorway of an office building across the avenue into the back of a waiting Lincoln Town Car. He seemed familiar. Confused, Laurel turned from the mirror toward the car, but as quickly as that, the man slid into the backseat, obscured with tinted windows. Laurel stared at the back of the car, taking in the details. Its rear signal light flashed red, on and off, illuminating its Jersey plates, as it moved away from the curb and into the flow of downtown traffic. She could have sworn the man getting into the car was Matt. That was impossible. It couldn’t be him. Matt was in Siena.

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday, 2:56 p.m.

  “Somebody ratted me out.” Helen was angry and Joe Santangelo heard all about it as she wrapped her hand in ice at her kitchen counter. “That Lincoln was out to get me.”

  “Jeez. Who could know about you and Ralphie? I just told the Organized Crime Unit a little while ago. It was probably just an accident, or maybe someone from another case you’re working.”

  “The only other job I’m working on is a hidden identity case and I haven’t really started poking around yet. It’s not something I’m worried about and the people involved couldn’t know I’m looking into them. I’m sure Suave Sal had something to do with my hit and run.” Helen winced as she tried to open and close her hand. “He’s going to be sorry he messed with me.”

  “Calm down,” Joe said. “You sound like Clint Eastwood in a Dirty Harry movie. Don’t overreact. Let me look into this and get back to you.”

  “ ‘Don’t overreact?’ Don’t you dare,” Helen said, losing her temper. “Don’t tell me how I should feel. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll look into it myself. Maybe I’ll show up at the Three Aces tonight and ask Sal to buy me a cappuccino.” She slammed the phone down into its cradle.

  Talk about adding insult to injury. Her hand was still throbbing and she had to listen to Joe talk to her as if she were some hysterical woman. Well, okay, maybe she was just a little hysterical, but it was warranted.

  Just then her buzzer rang. It was Laurel, arriving at exactly 3:00. “Hi. Come on in,” she said into the intercom, then buzzed Laurel in. When Helen saw her friend at the door, she gave her a hug and kept her tone normal so the pain she felt wouldn’t creep into her voice.

  Laurel took in the Ace bandage on Helen’s hand. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  Helen wasn’t sure how to reply. She could hardly tell Laurel about her other case and her suspicions. Plus, she didn’t want to scare Laurel with tales of the Mafia. Instead, Helen decided on a simple version of the truth. “It was an accident.” She let it go at that. “How about coffee before we get into what you want to discuss.” She steered Laurel into her study. “I just made some.”

  They settled themselves into two of the soft and roomy easy chairs Helen kept opposite her desk. Helen looked at her friend and made a mental assessment: Laurel, with her pretty, open face framed by long, auburn hair was obviously shaken. It showed in the way her brown eyes darted about the room as she spoke. She was sure Laurel wouldn’t be this worked up over a story, unless it had hit on something personal.

  In the last few years, she and Laurel had realized they were kindred spirits and became friends. They’d met when Helen was hired to conduct an investigation for a Women Now story Laurel was working on. When the two of them pursued the art dealer and murderer, Jeff Sargasso, on their last case, and Aaron broke off his relationship with Laurel, Laurel had turned to Helen. While the younger woman may not have appeared vulnerable and heartbroken to the casual observer, Helen knew she was devastated. She saw signs of it then, and she thought she could see signs of it still.

  It was time to find out what was going on. “Okay, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind,” Helen said.

  Laurel took a deep breath and leaned forward in the chair, relating her story in a professional, business-like tone. “The readers of Women Now de
pend on the magazine to give them information they can trust. They expect our articles to be real and meaningful to their lives. That’s the way we want it, too. So when readers ask for help—no matter what it’s for—we try our best to give it to them. A few days ago, one of those readers asked for my help. Honestly, I think the problem is so much bigger than what it first seemed to be. I don’t know if I can handle it on my own.”

  She related the sequence of events—Helen Anne Ellsworth’s discovery about her fiancé David Adams, the threatening email Laurel received telling her to mind her own business, and Laurel’s suggestions to Anne as to how to hide from her fiancé. As Laurel relayed her suspicions about what David Adams might be up to, Helen could see her fears for Anne. Laurel then brought up the case Helen was interviewed about on Newsmakers and the other stories in the news about people committing crimes under false identities.

  “It’s an epidemic, and it isn’t getting the attention it deserves,” she said. “Women have to understand the problem, what they can do to protect themselves and how to avoid getting into the same predicament as Anne.”

  Then, abruptly, she stopped talking and stared at her hands, which she twisted together.

  “Laurel, what is it?” Helen asked. “Is there something else you want to tell me?” Laurel’s discomfort was a presence between them.

  Laurel looked up, “It’s about Matt.”

  Uh-oh, the other shoe drops, Helen thought. “What about him? How is he involved in this?” Helen had only met Matt once and he didn’t really make a great impression. There was something about his eyes that bothered her. He avoided looking into hers when she spoke to him. That wasn’t a good sign in her book. She remembered thinking he was a poor substitute for Laurel’s former heartthrob, Aaron.