Fifth Avenue

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Jack Douglas kept himself in check, but his anger was rising, becoming paramount, consuming him in waves.

He was on a sofa. Diana was at his side. He looked at the man seated opposite them. He had murdered Celina and now he would probably murder them. Jack wished, just wished that he could have the chance to show this son of a bitch what real fear was.

“It’s remarkable, really,” the man said. Earlier, he had introduced himself as Spocatti, merely Spocatti, and now he was sipping a drink he had Diana fix for him at the bar. In his other hand was a gun. It was pointed at Jack. “I mean, the way you pieced everything together.” He cocked his head at Diana. “If I hadn’t wired your apartment, I wouldn’t have known what you two were up to today. Louis Ryan and I probably would be in jail.”

He lifted his glass of Scotch. His eyes flashed. “To technology,” he said, and drank.

Jack sensed the storm building within Diana. Although she hurt her head and arm when she fell, he saw no pain on her face, only a mixture of anger, hatred and disgust. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t.”

Diana released her hand and glared at Spocatti. “Why are you here?”

The sun came from behind a cloud and Spocatti’s face burst into brilliant bloom. He was still for a moment, the light refracting in his eyes, before he rose and went to the bar, where he put down his glass and turned to Jack. “Celina put up quite a struggle,” he said, ignoring Diana’s question. “She was hitting me so hard with her fists, I thought I’d never get that damned rope tied around her legs.” He paused, as if in thought. “When I was swimming away, I heard her scream. Did you?”

The sound of Celina’s muffled cry echoed hollowly in Jack’s mind. He had a sudden image of her sightless eyes, her slack jaw and realized once again that he had been only moments too late to save her.

“At the time,” Spocatti said, “I thought how ridiculous that was-to scream and release all the air from her lungs.” He shook his head, as if her actions had been inappropriate. “What she did was ridiculous. But, then, she never was as bright as the press led us to believe, was she, Mr. Douglas? Just another dumb blonde who happened to hit it big thanks to pappy.”

Jack looked at the gun clutched in the man’s hand and knew that if he made a sudden move, he would be shot and killed-leaving him unable to help the Redmans and powerless to help Diana. He bit down hard on his anger and bided his time. Something would give. It had to.

Spocatti returned to his seat. “Your parents live in Florida, don’t they, Jack? West Palm?”

Jack lifted his eyes to him.

“I’ve got a friend of my own in that area and gave him a call before I visited you. Nice place, West Palm. Your parents must have saved their nickels over the years and tucked away a little money for the future.” He smiled. “If you’ve spent your life sweating at a Pittsburgh steel mill, like your father did, you don’t move to West Palm unless you’ve been careful with your money.”

His voice lowered a notch. “My friend paid them a visit, Jack. He says their home is beautiful-wide open and airy. He thought your mother was particularly nice. My friend was seeking directions and she was happy to help him. Gotta love the blue-collar elderly.”

The anger Jack felt was like a pain in his chest. A thousand thoughts spun through his mind-but only one mattered and that was his parents’ safety. “Have you hurt them?” he asked.

Spocatti looked affronted. “Hurt them?” he said. “That’s the very last thing I want to do.” He glanced at his watch, then at the phone that was on the table beside Jack. “Why don’t you give them a call?” he said. “See for yourself if they’re all right.”

And in that moment, Jack knew they wouldn’t be all right. He reached for the phone and dialed. The line rang several times before his mother answered. “Yes?” she said. Her voice was strained.

“Mom, it’s Jack. Is everything all right?”

She burst into tears.

Jack closed his eyes and saw himself tearing Spocatti apart. “Listen to me, Mom. You’re going to have to calm down. Do you hear me? Tell me what’s wrong.”

She spoke through sobs. “A man broke into our house.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know!” Her voice was shrill. “We thought you’d know. He’s sitting beside your father. He has a gun. He said if you don’t do what he wants, he’ll kill us.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Jack said. “You and Dad will be safe. Do you understand me? You’ll be safe. I promise.”

“He’s hurt your father,” she said. “He punched him in the face. He’s going to kill us. You have to do whatever he wants.” Before Jack could respond, he heard a sharp, frightened cry-and the line went dead.

He stared at the receiver. He felt helpless, inept. His parents were at the opposite end of the country. He could do nothing.

Diana took the phone from his hand and replaced it. They looked at Spocatti.

“This is what you’re going to do,” he said. “Both of you will attend Celina Redman’s funeral tomorrow morning. Then, you’ll board Redman’s private Lear and fly to London, then on to Iran-just as planned. You will tell no one-not Redman, not the police-what you learned here today. You’ll act as though nothing happened. If you don’t, I’ll kill your parents, Jack. That’s a promise.”

He looked at Diana and could sense a murderous rage rising from her like flames from a bonfire. “Your mother,” he said. “She lives in Maine, right? Bangor, I believe. Why don’t you give her a call and see if she’s all right?”

A wild chorus of horns trumpeted behind the cab as it darted into the far right lane and jerked to a stop in front of The Hotel Fifth.

Stepping out, the sun hitting her hard in the face, Leana slipped between two parked cars and moved up the red-carpeted steps that led to the hotel’s gilded entrance.

Almost immediately, she spotted Zack Anderson. Dressed immaculately in a slick navy blue silk suit, he was standing in the center of the busy lobby, his hands braced on either side of an intricately carved podium, the waterfall casting resilient waves of light through his thick, silvery gray hair.

He seemed oblivious to the steady stream of activity surrounding him. As workers prepared for the opening night party, Anderson’s lips moved silently, almost as if he were rehearsing something.

Leana approached him, thinking this was not the first time he would see her looking her worst. After the rain that fell earlier, she knew she was a mess. “Zack,” she said, smiling as he looked up. “Got a minute?”

He was startled to see her. “Leana,” he said, shuffling a small stack of note cards. “I wasn’t expecting you. Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t know I needed an appointment.”

“Of course, you don’t,” he said. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you after what happened to your sister.” His face softened. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, tucking the note cards into his jacket pocket. “You must be devastated.”

Leana didn’t answer. Instead, she looked around the cavernous lobby, surprised to see how much it had changed in the short time since she’d been here. Everything appeared to be up and running-the stores and the restaurants and bars all seemed to be ready to open. There was no doubt in her mind that Zack Anderson was responsible for this smooth transition and she supposed she owed him a debt of gratitude. Obviously, the man put in the long hours she herself should have put in.

Still, she was guarded. Hadn’t he once told her that he wanted her job?

He unbuttoned his jacket and stepped away from the podium, appraising her with a sweeping glance. “Get caught in the rain?” he asked.

Leana gave him a cool, leveling look. She tapped a finger beneath her right eye. “Your mascara is smudged, Zack. I need you to check that before tonight’s event.”

His face flushed.

“Louis said you’d written me a speech for opening night. I’d like to see it.” She nodded towards his jacket pocket. “Do you have it on you?”

“Just on note cards.”

“So, I noted.” She held out an open palm. “I’ll want to make changes. Let me see the speech.”

He removed the cards from his pocket and handed them to her. As Leana began reading through them, Anderson said, “I read about your wedding in this morning’s paper. Congratulations. Michael Archer is quite a catch.”

“So, am I. But you’ll figure that out if you last long enough, Zack.”

Her words had no affect on him. “This must be difficult for you,” he said. “I can’t imagine having to prepare for opening night when your sister’s funeral will be the morning before.”

He let a beat of silence pass. Leana could almost hear his mind working, could almost feel the precise movement of gears as he tried to find ways to tear her down.

“I want you to know that if you’re not up to it, that if things become too much, I’d be more than happy and willing to deliver this speech for you.” He held out his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. I was practicing it when you came in.”

Leana finished reading the speech, not surprised to find that it was eloquent and well written. She handed him the cards. “I did notice,” she said. “But that won’t be necessary.”

“But the press will be here,” he said. “They’ll be expecting you to be at your best.”

“And I will be,” Leana said. “Don’t concern yourself with it.”

For an instant, the compassion in his eyes dissolved into something darker, and then they became carefully neutral. “With all due respect, I don’t see how you could be at your best. You’ve gone through a terrible shock. The entire staff and Louis Ryan are concerned about you. I don’t think it would be wise of you to face our guests and the press when I could do the job just as well.”

Leana lifted her head. In him she saw a man who would cut his own mother if he thought it would get him this position. “Mr. Anderson, I’m going to be frank with you. I was hired by Louis Ryan to manage this hotel. You weren't. Instead, you were hired to be my assistant. If you continue questioning my authority, if you continue to lecture me, you’ll be looking elsewhere for work. Is that understood?”

“I was just trying-”

“Shut up. Please, just shut the fuck up.”

Leana looked at her watch and wondered if Mario had returned to the restaurant.

“My office,” she said. “I assume I have one somewhere in this building. Take me to it.”

Her office was enormous.

It was located on the hotel’s fortieth floor and it faced downtown, toward The Redman International Building.

As Leana stepped inside, she noted with interest the illumined Sisley paintings on the forest-green walls, the cream damask sofas and elegant red velvet chairs-each arranged in a way that suggested a designer’s precision-before moving across the faded Persian carpet to her desk.

Anderson remained in the doorway. “Does this suit?”

Leana sensed by the terse sound of his voice that his ideas, his tastes and his sweat went into the design of this office. She had a sudden image of him standing in the center of this room, an artist using his mind as a palette, working tirelessly with a team of professionals until his vision was realized.

She knew, knew that he hoped this office would one day be his and she couldn’t help feeling a little pissed off because of it. “It’s a bit much,” she said. “I mean, look at it-it’s overkill. It’s unbalanced. It lacks imagination. It suggests that whoever did this is trying to impress instead of trying to get their work done. Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t.”

“That’s understandable,” Leana said. “I grew up surrounded by this sort of shit. My father’s a billionaire, my mother likes to spend money. A lot of it. It’s obvious you came from something more pedestrian than I did, so I get that being surrounded by all these little treasures might be meaningful to you. Still, for me? Boring.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I’m sorry, too. But it doesn’t work. It’s kind of awful. It’ll do for now, but only until I can get my own team of designers in here and gut the place.”

She saw the steely hardness in his eyes, the slight change in the set of his jaw and sighed. “I mean, honestly,” she said. “We’re a hotel, not a museum. Whose idea was it to hang all of these fucking Sisley paintings?”

When she was alone, she sat in the leather wingback behind her desk and found it nothing like the leather wingback of her childhood days, the comfortable leather chair that had been in her father’s office and smelled so distinctively of his cologne.

She felt a sudden pang of regret and wished they hadn’t argued earlier. She should call him now and apologize, she thought. She should swallow her pride and tell him that she was sorry, that she loved him and wanted his support and his friendship.

Still, when she reached for the phone, it was not her father she dialed. It was Mario’s restaurant.

Oddly, there was no answer there and it was the lunch hour. As she leaned back in her chair and looked across at her father’s building, it occurred to her that Tuesday would not only be her day, but her father’s as WestTex became Redman International’s. She wondered how that would feel, wondered if the realization of her dream would be as sweet as she always thought it would be.

Somehow, she thought, without her sister here and without her parents approval, it would be quite different. And she wondered again if she’d made a mistake by accepting this job.

It wasn’t until later that evening, while at home and relaxing on the sofa with Michael, that she turned on the television to CNN and learned of the explosion that killed two members of the De Cicco crime Family.