Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (65 page)

She reached for the phone just as it rang.
 
Diana answered it.
 
“It’s Billy, Ms. Crane.
 
A Mr. Timothy Parker is here to see you.
 
Shall I show him up?”

*
 
*
 
*

 
Jack followed Diana out of the room and down the winding staircase.

“You know Eric’s younger brother?” he asked.

Diana nodded.
 
“He’s studying law at Yale.
 
This summer he’s taking a course on constitutional law and I’ve been helping him over the phone with his dissents.
 
Eric’s parents are in their 80s and Tim probably came in their place to tend to Eric.”

They moved toward the foyer.

“Why would he be coming to you?”

Diana shrugged.
 
“Tim knows Eric and I were seeing each other.
 
I’m sure he knows what happened to Celina and thought that here was the logical place to come before going to the morgue.”
 
She sensed what Jack was thinking, and said, “Don’t worry--he won’t stay long.
 
The moment he leaves, we’re calling George.”

There was a tap at the door.
 
Diana wondered how she would comfort Eric’s younger brother when she herself hadn’t dealt with Eric’s death.
 
Deciding there was no best way, she turned the handle--and stumbled back when the door was kicked open.

Diana tipped over a side table and went down like a ten pin.
 
Her head cracked against the slate floor.
 
Her arm twisted painfully behind her.

The man who stormed inside was not Timothy Parker.
 
This man was tall and dark, his features chiseled, black hair gleaming.

As Jack rushed forward to help Diana, the intruder shut the door behind him and removed a gun from his inside jacket pocket.
 
He pressed it against Jack’s forehead.

As cool steel met flesh, their eyes met.

Vincent Spocatti cocked the trigger.

Recognition flashed across Jack Douglas' face.
 

This man was Celina’s murderer.
 

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The secretary tried, but couldn’t stop Leana as she sailed past the woman’s desk and stepped into Louis Ryan’s office.
 
Her hair and clothes were wet from the rain now beating the streets.

Startled, Ryan turned from the windows he was standing at, faced Leana and waved away the secretary as she rushed inside.
 
“It’s all right, Judy,” he said.
 
“Leana’s always welcome.”

The secretary looked with annoyance at Leana, then closed the door on her way out.

Louis began moving across the room, toward his private bath that was behind one of the doors to his left.
 
“You’re soaking wet”” he said.
 
“Let me get you a towel so you can dry off.”

Leana ran a hand through her hair as she watched him go.
 
She was still trying to forget the argument she had with her father, but it was impossible.
 
She had gone to see her parents with the best intentions and in spite of her mother’s surprising embrace, she left with them shattered.

We’ll never be close
, she kept thinking.
 
He hates me.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t help find Celina’s murderer.

She knew her father had exhausted his huge network of contacts, applied pressure to where it would be most effective, but he didn’t have the kind of contacts she had.
 
He didn’t have access to the enormous underworld of power that was available to her.
 
Her contacts were among the most powerful men in New York.

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” she called.
 
“But I need to talk to you.”

Ryan emerged from the bathroom with a thick, pale blue towel draped over his arm. With a sympathetic face, he came over to where she was standing and handed it to her. “I’ve been trying to reach you since I learned the news,” he said.
 
“There’s been no answer at your apartment or on your cell.
 
I’m sorry for what happened to your sister, Leana.”

Leana patted her face with the towel.
 
Later, she would tell him that he couldn’t reach her because had been in Monte Carlo, marrying Michael Archer.
 
Now, there was something more important she had to discuss with him.

“Celina is why I’m here,” she said.
 
“I want you to help me find the man who murdered her.
 
You’ve got power, Louis.
 
You’ve got contacts.
 
Together, with my father, we’ll find out who did this.”

Ryan looked at her, but made no move to speak.

“I need you,” Leana said.
 
“Please help me.”

Louis sighed.
 
“You’re asking me to help George Redman.”

She expected resistance and was prepared for it.
 
“In a way, I am,” she said.
 
“But I’m really asking you to help me and to help my sister.
 
If you won’t, Louis, then I’m afraid I can’t work for you.
 
I won’t be at the opening of The Hotel Fifth.”

She handed him the towel, which he tossed into the bathroom.
 
He shut the door.

“We both know that’s what you want,” she said.
 
“I’m not stupid.
 
I understand the situation.
 
You want my presence recorded by the press.
 
You want to make my father a laughingstock.
 
Right now, a part of me wants the same.
 
If you still want this to happen, then I’m asking you to help me.”

Louis’ eyes softened.
 
“Leana,” he said, “regardless of how I feel toward your father, I would never have wanted this to happen to him or to you.
 
What happened to your sister is a tragedy.
 
Whoever’s responsible should pay with his own life.”

He was sincere.
 
She could hear it in his voice, see it on his face and it surprised her. “Then you’ll help me?” she said.
 
“You’ll do what you can?”

Ryan raised his head as if to study her.
 
“Of course, I’ll help you.”

Leana thanked him and turned to leave.

“Before you leave, I’d like to talk to you about opening night.
 
It’s only two days from now and we haven’t discussed it yet.
 
I know this isn’t a good time, but can you give me a minute?”

Leana hesitated.
 
“Of course,” she said.

“The invitations were sent out last week,” Louis said.
 
“And we’ve had a tremendous response.
 
Everyone who matters in Manhattan and various parts of the world will be there--along with the press.
 
They’ll be expecting a speech of some sort.”

Leana balked.
 
“Louis, I’ll be frank with you.
 
I’ll go to the opening party, as promised, and I’ll mingle with the crowd as you want me to, but I really doubt I’ll have the time or the concentration to write a speech--let alone the energy to deliver one.
 
My sister is dead.
 
Someone is out to destroy my family.”

“The speech already is written,” Louis said.
 
“Zack Anderson wrote it.
 
It’s brief.
 
It stays on point.
 
People will sympathize with you.
 
It strikes just the right tone.
 
I’ve already approved it.
 
Zack is preparing a final copy for your inspection.”

Leana cringed at the idea of having to deal with her assistant, Zack Anderson.
 
One of her first duties as manager would be to fire him.
 
“And if I don’t like it?” she asked.

“Then make whatever changes you want.
 
You’re the manager of this hotel, Leana.
 
The floor is yours.”

“All right,” Leana said.
 
“I’ll do it.
 
But one other thing.
 
I’m going to need security.
 
Can you provide me with that?
 
There’s no telling who will be in that crowd, or who might slip in.
 
I want to be protected.”

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Louis said.
 
“The building will be covered in surveillance.
 
There will be men and women in evening wear who are there to trail you and protect you.
 
You’ll note guards around the room and at all entrances--and so will everyone else.”
 
He paused.
 
“But beyond that, one of my best men has been assigned to you.
  
He will be with you the entire night.”

*
 
*
 
*

When she left Ryan’s office, she stood beneath a canopy on 47th Street, removed her cell phone from her handbag and punched numbers.

Curtains of rain were billowing down the avenue, lashing the cars and the crowds on the sidewalk, striking the buildings with peppered force.
 
Finally, a man answered. “Mario’s,” the voice said.

“This is Leana Archer,” she said.
 
“I need to speak to Mario.”

“Who is this?”

He didn’t recognize her married name.
 
“Leana Redman,” she said, shouting above the howling wind.
 
“I need to speak to Mario.
 
Is he in?”

“Mario’s out,” the man said.
 
“You missed him.”

“This is important,” Leana said.
 
“Do you know where he went?”

But the man knew nothing.

*
 
*
 
*

As the limousine slowed in front of the brick warehouse, Harold Baines finished injecting the last bit of heroin into the exhausted flesh of his left forearm.
 
He removed the needle from the scarred, swollen vein, and noticed that not one drop of blood leaked to stain his wax-like skin.
 
Although the vein was plump, it was as though it had dried up, becoming nothing more than a purplish cord.

It was pouring, the rain literally beating against the roof of the car.
 
As the drug gradually began turning his world into the illusion in which he found peace, Harold looked through the side window and up at the decrepit warehouse.

Glimmering in the rain, it seemed to beckon to him, this building with its rotting bricks and broken facade.
 
Shining, it seemed to offer him some solace within its crumbling walls.