Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series)

by Smith, Christopher

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After leaving together, with Pepper hot on their tracks to see them out, Leana thanked Zack on the sidewalk and offered to take him to the hotel to show him around.

  “It’s a bit of a mess right now, but it’s close to being finished. It’ll give you a good enough idea to start thinking about how we can go forward, especially with opening night. I’m anxious to hear what you suggest and what you think of the hotel in general.”

  “How about tomorrow morning?” he said. “I need a shower after that scene.”

  “I feel the same. She’s a piece of work. I loved that you compared her to the Gestapo.”

  “I could have said worse.”

  “I think she got the picture when you told her she was lipstick on a pig and that we’re going to boil her ham hocks.”

  “She’s probably in there right now trying to pray my gay away.”

  They smiled at each other. Behind them, cars rushed down Fifth. Horns blared. Crowds of people brushed past them, all moving with an urgency that was a product of life in the city.

  “I can’t thank you enough for the job, Leana.”

  “You know,” she said, “you said something in there that was so telling that I’m now more certain than ever that I made the right decision in calling you. You said that Pepper didn’t care about the hotel. You said she had no love for the hotel business, which you found offensive. That’s all I needed to hear. For anyone to be successful, they have to love what they do. In your voice, I heard your love and respect for the business. You’re the real thing, Zack, which is why I took the chance to see if you were interested. I’m the one who is grateful. I’m so sorry we got off to a rough start. I regret all of it. I was in a different space then. Completely insecure. But maybe things happen for a reason. Here we are now. I think we’re going to make one hell of a team.”

  “Who knew?” he said.

  * * *

  When Leana grabbed a cab to go home, she checked her cell for messages and was surprised to find dozens. Most were from someone called “Deadman1.” When she read through a few of them, her heart quickened as fear took hold. Over and over, the same statement: “We’re going to cut off your limbs, shove them up your ass and murder you.”

  She turned off the phone and leaned toward the driver. She gave him the The Park’s address.

  * * *

  Inside the hotel, she found Sean Scott, head of security, and showed him the messages.

  “Can you find out who sent them?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I have contacts at the FBI who might be able to help. Do me a favor first and do it as soon as possible. Get another phone with a new number and transfer your contacts. If the agency needs this phone, I might have to give it to them so we can find out who’s sending you the messages. It won’t be easy. I’ll warn you upfront that tracking them will take time.”

  “It doesn’t appear from those messages that I have much time.”

  “That’s why you need someone with you at all times. It can be me or one of my men. I’m recommending that you take my advice for your own protection. This Deadman1 person is likely the one who wrote on your tarp. He or she might also be responsible for the deaths on Mr. Fondaras’ ship. Would you like me to start accompanying you?”

  The last thing she wanted was a bodyguard. “Let me talk to my fiancé first. I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow.”

  A look of concern crossed his face. “Tomorrow might be too late, Miss Redman.”

  “I understand that. And I appreciate the heads up, but I need to discuss this with him. There’s one other thing,” she said. “I’ve hired a general manager. His name is Zack Anderson. He’ll be here tomorrow. He’s of medium-height, in shape, silver hair, forties, dresses impeccably, and he pays his toxes.”

  “He pays his what?”

  “He’s botoxed to the hilt. If it wasn’t for his hair, you’d think he was thirty-five and prematurely gray. Seriously. You won’t be able to miss him. Would you let your team know that he’s coming? Introduce him to the group? Make him feel welcomed?”

  “Of course. But I’ll need to ID him when he arrives and run a background check.”

  “Just make sure he understands why you’re doing what you’re doing. He’ll get it. Be personable with him. That’s important to me. After the showdown that happened about an hour ago, the details of which I won’t bore you with, this is one man I can’t afford to lose. He has the talent, drive and love of the hotel industry that can make all the difference when we open next month.”

  * * *

  When Leana left the hotel to return home, a car parked across the street cut into traffic and started to follow her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  James Cullen said good-bye to Spocatti, hung up the phone and walked across his office at Manhattan Enterprises to look out at the late-afternoon skyline. His bum leg slowed him down, but he was used to that. When he reached one of the windows, he looked down at the traffic on Fifth. As usual at this time of day, nothing was moving, though presumably it was rush hour. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

  Spocatti had called to ask him to contact Piggy French, who was one of the people Ryan wanted eliminated. Cullen had known Piggy since they graduated from college—he from Yale, she from Vassar. Piggy later married one of Cullen’s best friends, Dick French. But he left her after sixteen years of marriage because she’d become an unseemly, pill-popping drunk.

  When Dick left her, he did so at a swank dinner party thrown by Maisie Van Prout at her mansion on Park. James was in attendance with his former wife, Flat. So was a sloshed Piggy whom Dick called a cunt before storming out of the room, leaving her in shame in front of the famous Broadway actress, Eve Darling, who gasped in the face of such language, and a popular sheik Maisie had come to adore, who suppressed a smile when he heard the word delivered with such verve. Dick French, who had his own money but nothing that came close to Piggy’s inherited money, walked away with a divorce settlement worth millions.

  Not long thereafter, he mysteriously was found dead as a result of a freak accident.

  A year after Dick’s death, Piggy married Peter Waxman, only to divorce him after six years when he also called her a cunt, this time in private. Though just hearing the word again stung her enough to send her into a deep depression.

  Their divorce was finalized a year ago and Piggy, for the most part, had since dropped out of the circuit. Where Cullen used to see her at dinner parties, she no longer was a fixture. It was said that she was in and out of facilities armed to assist her with her issues, which everyone knew was code for what was really happening in Piggy’s life. At the behest of her friends and family, she was making an effort to sober up, but was failing spectacularly at it.

  And now Spocatti needed his help to bring her in. Fair enough. These days, getting close to Piggy was like getting close to Louis Ryan. Spocatti gave him an idea. Cullen thought it through, agreed that it might work and walked over to his desk to call her. As he dialed, he knew he was about to set events into motion that would end her life, but he didn’t care because he himself had seen over the years how Piggy had slighted Louis time and again. She wasn’t a kind person. There was a bit of evil about her that came from her awareness of her social standing.

  She answered on the fourth ring.

  “What is it?”

  “Piggy?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s James Cullen, Piggy.”

  “James,” she sighed. “James, James, James. Out of the blue comes James. Falling from the heavens comes James. James, James...like a feather...falling...here comes James.”

  “Piggy, are you all right?”

  “Peter left me, I divorced him, then I got a disease.”

  She was slurring her words. “Are you drinking?”

  “Little bit.”

  “Little bit of what?”

  “Little bit of everything. It helps. It numbs. Sometimes, I pass out and I don’t have to deal w
ith any of it until I wake up, usually in the bathroom. That’s between us. It’s a vicious circle. Cycle. Whatever. I just begin it again because being passed out on my bathroom floor is a hell of a lot better than dealing with this.”

  “Dealing with what?”

  He heard ice clinking against the side of a glass. She giggled, but didn’t answer.

  “You don’t sound well. And what’s this about a disease?”

  “Disease,” she said. “Disease, disease, disease.”

  “That’s right. What’s that about?”

  Unexpectedly, she moaned in a grotesquely sensual manner.

  “Piggy?”

  “I got this thing,” she said after a moment. “It’s hell. I’ve got—what do they call it? PGAD. That’s it. I’ve got PGAD.”

  “Egad?”

  “No. PGAD.”

  “What’s PGAD?”

  “Too embarrassing. Can’t talk about it. Google it.”

  “I don’t Google, Piggy. Ever. People Google for me. What is it?”

  “Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder. That’s the long version. What it means for me is that I can’t stop having these, uh, little rushes.”

  “Little what?’

  “Little rushes.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Piggy.”

  “Orgasms,” she whispered, as if the word was filthy to her. “They just come and they come. No pun intended, just the facts. That’s why you haven’t seen me for a while. Can you imagine? Me at one of Bit Pobworth’s dinner parties? My eyes rolling back in my head? Food all over me as I grip the table? I’m a mess, James. A mess. I’ve lost weight. My hair is nearly white because I can’t get to Percy to have him do it. He misses me and sends me little notes and flowers, and...”

  She trailed off. Again she moaned, and he knew she was in the throes of another orgasm.

  “Are there pills you can take for this?”

  After a moment, when she had caught her breath, she said, “Yes.”

  “Do you take them?”

  “Of course, I take them. Do you think I want this?”

  “Some would.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “I’m assuming the pills don’t work?”

  “The Chantrix works for a few hours or so. But that’s it. Then I’m back in hell and waiting for the moment when I can take more pills to stop, uh, what did the doctor call it? ‘An irritation of the clitoral sensory nerves’. Something like that. I’m on the verge of tears, James. Can you hear it in my voice? Tears!”

  “I don’t hear the tears, but I can smell the booze, even from here. Piggy, you need to focus.”

  “Focus? Are you joking? Have you heard nothing I’ve said? The only thing I can focus on is wondering when the next one is going to hit.”

  “I’m glad the pills help at least somewhat.”

  “Yes, but not for nearly long enough.”

  When Spocatti called earlier, he came with a plan of his own. But now, understanding that Piggy was cornered by orgasmic desperation, Cullen came up with his own idea, knew it was right, and went with it.

  “Piggy, have you considered Eastern medicine?”

  “If you think I should smoke a joint, James, I’m way ahead of you. I’ve smoked dozens of them throughout this ordeal. Pot doesn’t work. Pot only enhances the little rushes. Same with coke. Coke is the worst. Coke sends me to the moon when they hit. I’ve tried it all. This is worse than what Dick and Peter did to me.”

  “I’m not talking about marijuana and cocaine. Listen,” he said. “I called for another reason—to invite you to dinner—but forget that. I think I can help you. A friend of mine is gifted in the use of alternative Eastern medicines. Crushed herbs, minerals, exotic plants, that sort of thing. He’s done wonders for me since I lost my leg, the stump of which no longer aches because of him. He’s also helped me to lose the sensation that my leg is still there, which is a side effect of amputation. He’s made my life tolerable. I think if you were open to meeting him, that he’d be able to give you something that would help you manage this disease. Or obliterate it all together. Would you like to meet him? See if he can help you through natural means?”

  “I’ll do anything, James.”

  “Good. When can he see you?”

  Before she could reply, Piggy started to moan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “She has what?” Spocatti said.

  “Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder. Or PGAD,” Cullen said. “She can’t stop having orgasms, which she calls ‘little rushes’ because in Piggy’s set, you don’t say the word ‘orgasm’ unless you’re forced to do so. I told her that you’re a doctor in Eastern medicine and can help. She’s willing to see you. In fact, after listening to her on the phone, I’ve decided this is the only way she’ll agree to see you. Is there an herb or a plant or something that looks medicinal, but that is toxic and can kill her?”

  “I generally use a gun.”

  “Not this time. Find an herb. Or a plant. Or a damned flower, for that matter. I don’t care what it is so long as it’s deadly. Crush it. Make a big show of it. Turn it into a tea of some sort, put it in some water and let the Pig drink.”

  “I can do that,” Spocatti said. “But obviously this isn’t happening tonight. When are we going forward?”

  “No,” Cullen said. “Piggy will see you tonight. I’ll call you back with details. Meanwhile, find an herb or a plant. Something toxic. Take photos for me. I want to see her dead. If you can manage it, video would be especially titillating.”

  “None of this is going to be easy, Edward. It’s late in the day.”

  “That’s not my problem, Spocatti,” Cullen said. “It’s yours. You’re the one charging me fifty million dollars for Christ’s sake. I could give a damn how difficult this is for you. Make it happen.”

  * * *

  “What you need is oleander,” Carmen said when Spocatti told her what Cullen expected from them. “I used it once before, on another job. Crush the leaves, stems and twigs, stew them in a nice medicinal tea, and serve it to Piggy when she’s between orgasms. Use a lot of it. It’s swift and it affects the heart, which is good because hers will be hammering after she’s coming down from one of her ‘little rushes.’ Her blood will be pulsing straight through to her heart. She’ll be dead before you know it. Just make sure you wear gloves when you’re preparing it for her.”

  “Where am I supposed to find oleander this late in the afternoon?”

  “Florists are still open, Vincent. Somebody will have it. It’s not that difficult. Let’s start calling around.”

  When they found the plant, it was at a florist down the street from them. Carmen went to retrieve it.

  “You’re certain this will work?” Spocatti asked, looking at the pretty, harmless-looking plant sitting on the kitchen counter.

  “Don’t judge a flower by its petals, Vincent.”

  * * *

  His appointment to send Piggy to the trough was set for seven p.m.

  “She’s had her pills,” Cullen said when he called. “They help to snuff the orgasms. Though there is some question about how long the pills last, so she’d like you there as soon as possible. She should be relatively stable, assuming, of course, that she isn’t too drunk, which she very well may be. That woman always is drunk. And rude. Be prepared for each.”

  “I’m hoping she doesn’t live in an apartment,” Vincent said. “Nothing with a doorman. I’d rather not be remembered when Piggy is found dead.”

  “She lives in a townhouse just off Park, so you’re mostly fine.”

  “What do you mean by mostly?”

  “Piggy has an assistant,” Cullen said. “If he’s there, you’ll need to kill him, too.”

  * * *

  When Spocatti was about to leave, Carmen handed him a baggie filled with the crushed leaves, stems and twigs of the now-destroyed oleander plant.

  “I don’t need you dropping dead on me now,” she said, removing a pair of black ru
bber gloves and throwing them away. “I prepared it for you. Just steep it in hot water for about five minutes, strain it, and serve it to her hot. If she has honey, add it to the cup to make sure she drinks all of it. It will help cut the bitterness. Don’t let any of it come into contact with you.”

  “What should I expect?”

  “If it spills on you?”

  “No, when she drinks it?”

  “Complete ruin,” Carmen said. “And probably some theatrical death throes.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ll see. In fact, you’ll probably never forget it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Spocatti arrived by cab at Piggy French’s townhouse on Sixty-Eighth Street and Park, he felt like he always did before a kill—charged, excited and acutely aware of his surroundings. It was as if last night hadn’t happened—murdering Charles Stout, diving into the Hudson and concealing himself beside a church, of all places. Although he lacked sleep, he felt alive. It never got old for him, especially something as odd and peculiar as this particular assignment had turned out to be.