Fifth Avenue

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Leana moved swiftly across the busy lobby, checking each table as she passed it, Zack Anderson at her side. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Why haven’t the flowers been delivered?”

“Good question,” Anderson said. “I called the florist an hour ago, gave them hell and was told that they’re on their way.”

“On their way?” Leana said. “Where is this florist located?”

“On Third and Forty-fifth.”

Leana shook her head. “That’s a ten-minute drive from here. Give them a call and tell them if they want our account, they’ll have those flowers here within those ten minutes. No excuses.”

“Right.”

“What about security?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“They are here,” he said. “They arrived shortly after you.”

Leana looked around the lobby. At first she noticed only the staff of decorators who had been there for days, fussing over details she herself would never have considered. The lobby now held three hundred tables for six, four ornate bars flown in from Hong Kong, a sophisticated sound system that would amplify her voice to hundreds of people.

And then, to her right, she noted a tall, rugged man in a black dinner jacket. He was speaking into his lapel as he stepped behind the waterfall. High above on the third level, she noticed another man inspecting one of the alarm systems. And behind her, the wait staff was listening closely to a group of five identically dressed men.

“How many are they?”

“Thirty,” Zack said.

“Not enough. Talk to whoever’s in charge and tell them I want at least twenty more brought in. In a few hours, this place is going to be filled with some of the most influential people in the world. I want them safe.”

Anderson nodded and as Leana watched him walk away, she wondered if their scene the other day had worked. He was a different person now-not judgmental, willing to take direction, polite. Without his help, she knew none of this would be going so smoothly.

With a last look around, she took an elevator to her office and phoned Louis Ryan at Manhattan Enterprises.

“It’s Leana,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course you’re not disturbing me,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Did you receive my flowers?”

Leana admired the enormous spray of roses on her desk. “Of course, I did,” she said. “How could I miss them? They’re take up the room-and they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You know,” she said. “I might have to use them in the lobby.”

“Having trouble with the florist?”

“You could say that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Something always goes wrong at the last minute and then it rights itself. The florist will show and things will be fine. Are you having trouble with anything else?”

“No,” she said. “Everything is going smoothly.”

“Then what can I do for you? Need a Xanax?”

Leana smiled. “Actually, I’m not nervous at all. I was calling to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding the man who murdered my sister.”

“That’s one of the reasons I was about to call you.”

Leana was suddenly alert. “Have you found him?”

“No,” Louis said. “But I’ve hired a man who will. His name is Vincent Spocatti, he’s one of the world’s best private investigators and he’s certain he can find the man who killed Celina. Tonight, after the party, I want you to meet him.”

She thought fleetingly of her dinner date with Michael. He’d understand. This was important.

“Of course, I will,” she said. “And thank you, Louis. This means a lot to me-more than you know.”

She replaced the receiver and went to the windows behind her-she would bring Michael to the meeting and they could have dinner later. She had a sudden impulse to call Harold, to tell him the good news, but then she realized-once again-that he was gone. Why? she wondered. You could have come to me. Didn’t you trust me enough to know that I wouldn’t care if you were gay or straight, fat or thin?

It occurred to her that maybe he hadn’t known and that maybe she should have approached him about what she knew. The idea that he might be alive now if she had intervened was too overwhelming for her to consider.

She reached for the note cards on her desk. Neatly typed on them was the speech she’d rewritten and memorized that morning. As Leana flipped through them, reading aloud as she paced before the windows, she noticed a tiny pinpoint of red light dart across her sleeve and spiral across her hand before slipping from sight.

She stopped before the windows.

She looked across 53rd Street to the neighboring building, saw nothing unusual, then heard the faint sound of an engine and looked up at the helicopter that was soaring above the city. Sunlight struck its glinting blades and cast rainbows of light across her face and body. She winced from the sudden light and lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

The helicopter seemed to be circling the hotel. Its door was open and she saw someone leaning out-there was a video camera on his shoulder. Obviously, the news was going to cover the event by air. Leana wondered about that pinpoint of red light, looked at the helicopter and decided it must have been the source.

She stepped away from the windows and returned to her notes.

The afternoon sun slid through the canted blinds and striped the narrow hospital bed where Mario De Cicco lay. His body was sheathed in perspiration.

Antonio looked away from the monitors that surrounded the bed and turned to face his two youngest sons, Miko and Tony. “Tonight,” he said, “while she’s on camera, we take her for the world to see.”

The two brothers came to the bed.

“I did some callin’ around,” Antonio said. “Sal’s boy, Rubio, knows a couple guys tending bar at the opening. As a favor to me, he said he could get you two into that party, promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”

One of the monitors beeped and Antonio swung around to look at Mario, who was lying pale and motionless in the bed. His breathing was deep and measured. Antonio looked at the monitor, then down again at his son, hoping to see some flicker of life in his face. There was none and Antonio wondered if Mario would never wake.

He turned back to Miko and Tony, for the first time looking every one of his sixty-nine years. “All you have to do is clean a few glasses and wait for her to take the stage,” he said. “When she’s in the middle of her speech, while everyone’s watching her, that’s when you make your move and blow her to hell. If you move fast and if you stay near the rear doors, you shouldn’t have a problem getting out of there.”

“What about security?” Miko said. “That place will be crawling with cops-not to mention the press. Some might recognize us. What’s the back-up plan?”

Antonio leveled his son with a look. “Since when do you give a shit about security?” he said. “Or about the press? If somebody gets in your way, blow their fuckin’ head off. Once you fire that first shot, there’s going to be so much goddamned commotion, nobody is going to get in your way. Then you seek out Leana Redman, snuff her and get out of there.”

He nodded toward Nicky Corrao, who was sitting across the room in the blue vinyl chair, listening to their plans. “Nicky’s driving,” he said. “He’ll be at the 53rd Street entrance, ready to bolt when you two come out.”

He looked over at Mario. “I want her out of his life,” he said. “When he wakes, I want her obituary to be the first thing he sees. If it isn’t, if any of you let me down, I’ll never forget it. Is that understood?”

Perfectly.

“Then I suggest you get moving,” Antonio said. “Call Rubio now and find out what he wants you to wear and where he wants you to meet him. Nicky, you stay here. When Pauly comes, tell him to keep an eye on Mario. If he wakes, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Nicky,” Antonio said, a slight edge to his voice. “You make sure you’re parked at that entrance tonight. If you’re not, if Miko and Tony don’t get out safe, you’ll wind up as cold as Leana Redman.”

Nicky watched the men step out of the room. He was thinking what a bastard De Cicco could be when one of the monitors beeped again.

He looked at Mario, then up at the monitor-a green jagged line was racing across the screen. Curious, he stepped to Mario’s side and looked down with naked wonderment at the web of tubes and wires that netted his body.

He had always respected Mario-the man was fair, had class. When Nicky earned his bones, it was Mario who was first to congratulate him, Mario who took him out that night and got them both drunk. Nicky wanted him to live. He squeezed Mario’s shoulder, and was about to say his name when Mario’s eyes snapped open.

They stared at one another. Mario’s eyes crinkled and he managed a tentative smile. “Are they gone?” he asked.

Nicky’s lips parted. He looked quickly toward the door and was about to speak when Mario grasped his hand. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to them. I only want to talk to you. Now, come here. Come closer. And just listen to me, Nicky. I’m about to make you a very wealthy man.”

Spocatti pushed through the revolving brass doors of The Manhattan Enterprises Building and left the searing heat of midtown behind.

He moved quickly across the crowded lobby, took the last hit off his cigarette and tossed it still burning onto the floor. He stopped at a bank of elevators, pressed the already glowing button and smiled at the woman who had moved beside him. She was beautiful, her long, dark hair tumbling down her back in thick waves.

The doors slid open.

The woman stepped inside and Spocatti followed. Again he looked at her. She was wearing dark sunglasses, faded jeans and a white T-shirt. Her lips were full and painted deep red. He nodded at her, smiled when she nodded back.

The door closed and they were alone. Spocatti pressed a button and the car lurched into motion. The woman continued staring straight ahead.

He glanced sideways at her. “Have you found him?” he asked.

“Of course. We nailed him at a travel agency on 40th Street. He’s now at your apartment.”

If Spocatti was relieved, it didn’t show on his face. He looked up at the elevator’s lighted dial and watched the floors tick by. “And where was our friend hoping to go?”

The woman opened her black leather handbag and removed the receipt for the airline tickets. She handed it to Spocatti. “He bought two first-class tickets to Milan. The flight leaves this evening from JFK. My guess is that he was planning to take Leana on a trip.”

Spocatti pocketed the envelope and studied her reflection in the elevator’s brass doors. She was stunning in her arrogance. Her name was Amparo Gragera, she weighed less than 110 pounds-and he had once seen her kill a man twice her size with her bare hands. She was an important member of his organization, had complete weapons training, a solid knowledge of computers and once had been the love of his life. He knew she could be just as deadly as he.

“Is everything set for tonight?” he asked.

“Terry took care of everything this morning.”

“And you know what’s expected of you?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Just personally,” he said. “But no, not professionally.”

“What a relief.”

“This is our last night in New York. How about dinner once the job is done?”

The elevator stopped. The doors slid open and several people began stepping inside, reaching in front of them and pressing buttons on the elevator’s control panel. Spocatti left the elevator and turned back for a response.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m fucking somebody else now. She’s actually more your style than mine-her ass is as hard as stone-but she does give good head. When I’m through with her, I’ll give her your number. I think she does men, too.”

Spocatti couldn’t help a smile. The elevator doors slid shut.

Louis tossed the airline tickets onto his desk. “Where is Michael now?”

Spocatti was at the bar. He dropped ice into two glasses. He reached for a bottle and poured. “He’s at my apartment, being watched by one of my men.”

“What about Jack Douglas and Diana Crane? You’ve been following them. Where are they?”

Spocatti came across the room and handed Louis his drink. He thought the man looked older. Cheeks a bit hollow. Eyes set deeper into his face. “They should be arriving at Heathrow within the next few minutes. They’ll refuel and fly back to New York.”

“And they’ve telephoned no one?”

Spocatti sipped his drink. “They’ve phoned their parents from the plane,” he said. “But no one else. They’re won’t try anything, Louis. They know what’s at risk. They know the plane is wired. They know somebody will be at Heathrow watching to make sure they don’t get off. By the time they reach New York, it’ll be over.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Louis said. “We’re cutting it close. What are your plans when they arrive?”

Spocatti raised an eyebrow. “What do you think my plans are? They know too much. When they arrive at JFK, they’ll be assassinated. So will their parents.”

Satisfied, Louis stepped to the windows and looked out over the city. It was still hours before the sun would set, but anticipation was building. He listened to the quiet. The only sound was the clicking of ice against glass as he lifted the drink to his mouth.

Spocatti watched him tap the glass against the side of his thigh and sensed a disturbance in the air. He wondered again what kind of woman Anne Ryan had been.

“So, this is it,” Louis said. “The envelope’s on my desk. See to it that Redman gets it by nine o’clock tonight.”

Spocatti lifted the envelope, tucked it in his jacket pocket. “You’re sure he’ll meet me?”

Louis turned away from the windows. “He’ll meet you. Once he reads that journal entry and realizes what I’ve done to his daughter, he’ll be there. You can count on it.”

“What about the police? He might call them.”

“No, he won’t,” Louis said. “Redman is a lot of things, but he’s no fool. He won’t call the police-not if he wants his wife to live. Just bring Michael and him to Leana’s office. Don’t let anyone see you. Use one of the side entrances. Make sure they’re both there by ten. Leana and I will meet you as planned.”

The Learjet glided through darkness and clouds and rain. It trembled in the turbulence and then dropped through the sky as it hurtled toward the lights of London and Heathrow Airport. The captain’s voice came over the speakers: “Should be about ten minutes, folks,” he said to Diana and Jack. “Sorry about the bumps, but it’s pretty wild out there. If you’d keep your safety belts fastened, we’ll land, refuel and begin the trip to New York.”

Diana looked across the desk at Jack. He was writing on a yellow legal pad, stopping from time to time to glance out the windows, his face set, determined.

She was frightened. What they were proposing could backfire-yet they had no choice. If they didn’t act, the consequences would be equally severe.

The plane banked right, slipped below the cloud line and London burst into sudden, glowing bloom. Diana looked down at the brilliant, intricate web of lights shining beneath them and thought of Louis Ryan. He murdered Celina. He may have destroyed Redman International. In a matter of hours, Leana would open his new hotel. Was she next on his list? Was it George? Elizabeth?

Jack finished writing and slid the legal pad across the desk. Diana picked up the pad of paper. Twice she read what he’d written before laying the pad back onto the table. Her heart was racing when she closed her eyes. This won’t work, she thought. It’s too risky. If he’s caught, my mother dies-and so do his parents. Who are we to jeopardize their lives?

Jack must have sensed what she was thinking, because he reached across the desk and took her hand in his. He looked hard at her and if this compartment wasn’t wired, he would have said what his eyes already conveyed: We have no choice. You know that. Pull yourself together. I need you.

She released her hand and nodded briskly. She had been put in difficult situations before and she would handle this. She turned back to the window and watched the rain beat against the glass. Outside, it seemed as though the world was melting.

The plane was about to land.

Diana gripped the sides of her seat and braced herself, wincing as the wheels struck the wet tarmac. The engines and the brakes screamed. Jack was out of his seat the moment they stopped beside Terminal Four.

The captain alighted from the cockpit, his smile fading when he saw Jack standing in the middle of the aisle, a finger to his lips, legal pad in hand. The man looked past Jack and toward Diana, who also was standing, her face as pale and as watchful as a ghost. “What’s the matter?” he asked, unsure how to read the situation. “Was the trip that bad?”

Jack’s face darkened.

“No,” he said. “The trip was fine-it was the weather that was a little scary. At one point, I think Diana wasn’t going to make it.”

Before the man could speak, Jack approached him, handed him the legal pad and motioned for him to read it. The man’s brow furrowed, he moved to speak, but Jack shook his head firmly and pointed to the pad of paper.

The captain read. When he was finished, he lifted his eyes to Jack’s. On his face was a look of cold understanding. “We’ll be on the ground for about thirty minutes,” he said. “Meantime, if either of you wants to go inside the terminal and browse around, there’s plenty of time.”

“No,” Diana said. “We’ll stay here. Thank for getting us here in one piece.”

The man managed what might have been a smile under different circumstances and removed his cap. He tossed it to Jack. “No problem,” he said. “But if you two would excuse me, I have to go inside. I promised my daughter a souvenir from the trip.”

And he started to remove his flight uniform.

Five minutes later, Jack Douglas was wearing the pilot’s charcoal-gray uniform and his oversized trench coat. He left the plane and hurried down the Lear’s slick, narrow steps, his head bowed as he moved through the wind and the driving rain.

Diana sat at a window and watched him go, not looking away until he had reached the glowing terminal and slipped behind one of its lighted doors. She knew they were being watched, could sense it just as she had sensed Jack’s fear before he left. Whether they were being watched by a member of the ground crew or by someone looking down at them from Terminal Four’s great expanse of windows, she couldn’t be sure.

She turned away from the window.

The pilot had removed his carry-on bag from a small closet and was quickly changing into a pare of khaki pants, a white cotton shirt and a blue baseball cap. He didn’t look at Diana as he dressed, but instead looked past her and watched his co-pilot, the young man who was standing at the Lear’s open door, squinting in the damp breeze, motioning to a member of the ground crew.

The man bounded up the wet steps, his bright yellow slicker shining, his face flushed and wet and smiling. “What’s up, mate?” he asked, shaking the co-pilot’s hand. “Damn good to see you. How’s your wife-still cheating on you?”

The co-pilot laughed and led the man inside, moving him away from the open door and handing him the yellow legal pad. Diana watched him read. The co-pilot said, “You sorry bastard, it’s your wife who cheats. When are you going to stop lying to yourself and admit it?”

The man finished reading. The humor left his face and he looked down the aisle toward the pilot, who had closed his suitcase and was waiting at the rear of the plane, where there were no windows.

“I’ve got the happiest lass in London,” he said. “She’d never cheat on me.”

And he removed his yellow slicker.

The rain was beating against the Lear when the pilot left Diana and his crew behind. He hurried down the steps and crossed the tarmac, the baseball cap shielding his lowered face, the rain and the wind pressing hard against his bright raincoat.

He had an impulse to glance up the terminal’s glowing windows, but stilled it and instead entered the building. He darted up a flight of stairs, opened a door and turned right, cutting through the streams of people hurrying to make their connections. He checked for inconsistencies in the crowd. If he was being followed, they were doing a damn good job of concealing it.

He went to the men’s room he and Jack agreed upon.

“Hurry,” Jack said, when the man stepped inside. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get my ass on that plane. Move!”

The washroom was large and clean and empty. They entered the last two stalls and started undressing.

“Did anyone follow you?” Jack asked.

The pilot tossed his clothes over the stall partition. “No,” he said. “No one followed me.” He paused to grasp the uniform Jack slipped under the gray metal wall and said, “Before you get on that plane, you should call Redman.”

“Can’t,” Jack said. “His phone might be bugged.”

“Then call ahead to the police. You won’t be there for another seven hours. Ryan might have done something by then.”

Jack left the stall and went to the full-length mirror. The clothes were loose, but not too loose. The baseball cap concealed his sandy hair.

“Forget it,” he said. “Louis Ryan probably owns the police.”

The pilot stepped out of the stall and stood beside Jack. Their eyes met. “Besides,” Jack said, “by the time we arrive, Ryan will be at the opening of his new hotel. The event will just be getting underway. We know he’s planned something significant, but it won’t happen at that party.”

“I disagree. That’s exactly when he’d plan it.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I’ve got a hunch.”

He moved toward the door, but stopped to shoot the pilot a look. “Buy your daughter a gift. They’ll be watching.”