“Leana, you’ve got nothing to prove to him.”
“I think I do.”
“Not after your hotel, you don’t.”
“It goes deeper than that.”
“Is it worth it?”
“Oh, it’s worth it.”
“Do you think you can handle her?”
“Are you kidding? By the time I’m on site and we butt heads, which should be within the first five minutes, my immune system will kick into overdrive, my eye will fully heal on the spot and whatever is left over will take out the bacteria that is Pepper Redman.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Later, when Michael left the hospital and stepped forward to sign autographs, Vincent Spocatti was among the crowd of reporters and the curious. He watched him smile, pose for photos and engage in conversation with some of his fans, but he sensed even from his position at the back of that crowd that Michael Archer was uncomfortable doing any of it. It was a good twenty minutes before he was able to slip into the limousine waiting for him curbside and drive away.
Spocatti removed his cell and called Carmen. “Are you following him?
“I am.”
“Good. Let me know where he goes.”
“Are we acting tonight? Or am I just out for a leisurely drive following him again? I told you there’s a chance that he caught a glimpse of me the other night.”
“At this point, I don’t think it matters if he saw you—you could just be another fan. He obviously has his share of them.”
“What about tonight?”
“I’m not sure what we’re doing tonight. But if I can get away from here, I want to be prepared for anything.”
“I can take him out myself, Vincent.”
“I know you can. But I was involved in this last time―you weren’t. I spent time with Michael, including when he saw George, Louis and Leana get shot. If we take him out tonight, I’m going to be there and I’ll be the one who kills him. It’s nothing against you, Carmen. It’s just that I want this one. I want to be the one who kills the movie star. I want to know that I’m the one who ruined―or, hell, maybe even made―the opening of what will be his last film. Does that make sense?”
“In our world it does.”
He surveyed the crowds of reporters and turned away from them. He wasn’t sure when Leana Redman would be released, but he needed to be here when she was. He was curious to see what she looked like. He also wanted to see what kind of security she had around her. After what happened, he was certain she’d have something in place. Spocatti wanted to see what he was dealing with.
“It likely won’t be tonight, but it will be soon. I want to know his routine— where he goes, what he does, where he eats, who he’s sleeping with, or if he even leaves his apartment. The more we know about his life now will only help us when we decide to move forward and take him off Louis’ list.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In the limousine, Michael Archer leaned against the black leather seat, turned on the air conditioner and positioned the duct so the rush of cool air would evaporate the sweat along his forehead and hairline. Then he turned to watch the crowd gather around the car as it started to pull away. On their faces, he saw a range of emotions—disappointment that he was leaving, elation that they had seen him in person.
He leaned toward the driver.
“Go slow,” he said. “Give them a moment. It’s important.”
Though the windows were tinted and they probably couldn’t see him, he pressed his palm against the window just in case. Several hands pressed against it to meet his. He smiled and waved to them with his free hand, and he heard their screams of farewell as the limo pulled away.
Regardless of how long he’d been in this business, he still wasn’t used to that kind of attention. It was unreal to him that his presence could cause that kind of excitement. And if he was being honest with himself, more often than not, he wished that it didn’t.
No one ever gave him a blueprint for how to navigate that kind of chaos. He loved the art of making movies. He loved writing thrillers. But this side of his job? He often was too shy to handle it well, so when he did go out in public, he went as far under the radar as possible, usually with the help of dark glasses and a cap. When he had the opportunity to stay home, he took it and leaned on the help of his assistant, whom he valued more than she knew.
In his youth, he sought fame as a way of getting back at the one man who said he’d never amount to anything—Louis Ryan. Michael had thought Ryan was his father until it was revealed that his father was, in fact, George Redman, who refused to accept it to this day.
Regardless of how grateful he was for the financial security his work provided him, fame now came with mixed emotions.
At thirty-seven, in spite of a three-year absence from making movies that could kill his career if the new film didn’t hit big, he remained among the most powerful men in Hollywood. His movies made hundreds of millions at the box office, his seven novels were blockbusters, and he had adapted four of them for the screen—all of which he had starred in and produced.
To the public, he not only was a fine actor and writer, but also a respected businessman. Through his novels and movies, he led his fans into another world and gave them the escape they desired. He was their king, their shining star. His life looked like a fairytale to them.
It was anything but.
The public knew only what Michael Archer allowed them to know. Few knew of his beginnings in Hollywood—a time when money was so scarce, he was lucky to eat a meal a day. Then, he hadn’t owned a villa in Italy, a brownstone in Boston, an estate in Beverly Hills and an apartment in New York. Then, Michael had known nothing but the struggle of day-to-day life and his seedy apartment in West L.A.
When he turned eighteen, he left Louis behind and got on a bus headed for Hollywood. They had fought the night before and Michael decided that he knew in his gut, after years of trying to have a relationship with the man, for whatever reason, it wouldn’t happen. No matter how hard he tried, he and Louis never would get along.
And so he left.
Even now, all these years later, Michael could remember how the fight ended. Louis told Michael that he didn’t love him and never had. He said that he wished it was Michael who had died, not his mother.
Now, he knew why that was the case. George Redman had an affair with Michael’s mother, which resulted in his birth.
He thought about George now and couldn’t still his anger. How could he ignore what happened to Leana? How could he overlook what might have cost her her life? As it was, she might lose her sight in that eye. What happened to her was in the papers and on television. And yet he chose to dismiss it. No visit. No call. Nothing.
He reached into his pocket for his cell. He held it for a moment wondering if he should get involved, and then decided that someone should let the son of a bitch have it. It might as well be him. He looked up George’s personal line, and called him on his cell.
“This is George.”
“This is Michael.”
“I saw that on my screen.”
“So, you can see. That’s good. Some people can’t. One of them might be your daughter. Have you seen the papers and television? Don’t answer that. I know you have.”
“What’s this about, Michael?”
“Is that even a question?”
“You’re concerned that I haven’t visited Leana.”
“I’m pissed that you haven’t taken the time to see Leana.”
“What I do with my time is none of your business.”
“She’s my sister. When someone hurts her as you have, it becomes my business.”
“We don’t know if she’s your sister.”
“That’s because you refuse to take a paternity test.”
“I have no interest.”
“Why?”
“Because you just want your hands on my money.”
“I think you and I both know that I have more than enough money.”
; “You probably do well with your movies and books, Michael, and whatever else you’re into, but you’re no billionaire. If it makes you feel better, I’ve talked to her doctors. I’m keeping tabs on her health. I’ve meant to stop by, but something urgent always gets in the way. I have a lot going on right now. Certain projects are near completion and they demand my attention.”
“Your priority is in the hospital.”
“You know what’s interesting? When Louis Ryan shot me,—I believe you were there for the show—Leana never visited me in the hospital, even though we were only rooms apart. She healed faster than I did and was released sooner. She and her thug of a boyfriend left for Europe without stopping by to see me. I didn’t hear from her for years—had no idea where she was. How do you think that made me feel?”
“So, this is your retribution?”
“You really are an actor, aren’t you? It’s all about drama for you people.”
“How is this drama? You just spelled it out. It’s a petty fact.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss, Michael? I’ve given you more than enough of my time. I’ve answered your questions.”
“Go and see your daughter.”
“Lose my number.”
Before Michael could respond, George severed the connection.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
As the days passed and Leana continued her recovery, Mario returned home late one night to find a message from his father on the answering machine.
“She’s had a few days to rest now,” he said. “I want to see her. Call and let me know when you’re going to the hospital tomorrow. We’ll go together. I want to talk to her.”
Michael closed his eyes, listened to a few other messages, most of which were from reporters who somehow got their private number, and then went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.
So, his father wanted to see Leana. And talk to her. About what?
This could go one of two ways. He knew his father well enough to know that it probably wasn’t going to go the way he or Leana liked.
* * *
The next morning at Lenox Hill, Mario arrived by cab. His father arrived in a white Bentley. Mario was in jeans and a white shirt. His father was dressed in a blue business suit, a dark blue tie and brown shoes that gleamed as if they’d just been shined, which Mario knew was the case.
His father was one of the vainest men he knew, but Mario also knew his vanity came from being poor as a child. Nobody overcompensated like Antonio De Cicco. But Mario understood why.
He hid his skepticism about his father’s visit with a smile. Best not to engage him. “I’m glad you came,” he said, walking over and giving his father a hug. “This will mean a lot to her.”
“Think so? We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, Mario.”
“She and I have talked since then. She knows you’ve agreed to help her and she’s grateful.”
“She should be. The police aren’t going to catch this son of a bitch. We will. She know I’m here?”
“I was already home late last night when I got your message. She doesn’t know, but when she finds out, she’s going to want to brush her hair and freshen up for you. Maybe ten minutes?”
“She had a chunk of glass in her fuckin’ eye. I expect her to look like shit. I just want to say hello and ask her a few questions that might give us an idea of what we’re lookin’ at here.”
“You know women, Dad.”
“Fine. Women. Ten minutes.”
* * *
“Your father is here?” Leana said.
“He’s standing outside the door.”
“Why do I feel sick again?”
“Because of what happened between you two in the past. He’s come to ask you some questions. He wants to help.”
“What kind of questions?”
“I assume he wants to hear what’s happening from your perspective. He seems concerned. Obviously, the other day went better than I thought because the fact that he came here on his own speaks volumes. He just doesn’t do that. He’s making an effort. We should honor that.”
“I look like shit,” she said.
“I told him you’d like a few minutes to freshen up.”
“No one can freshen up this face, Mario. Look at me. I look like a wounded pirate. But a brush wouldn’t hurt.” She pointed at the table beside her. “There’s one in the bottom drawer, I think.”
He found it, handed it to her and she started pulling her hair away from her face. “Is there a rubber band in there?”
He looked. “Yeah. Wait a minute. Here.” He handed it to her.
She tied her hair behind her head in a simple ponytail. There was nothing else she could do. This was as fresh as it got.
“I’m not even going to bother with a mirror,” she said. “I know what I look like. At least they allowed me to shower earlier.” She nodded at the door and took a breath. “Bring him in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
When Antonio De Cicco entered her room, Leana was reminded of how imposing he was, even at his age. Or especially at his age. She looked up at him and managed a smile, though she knew it was a nervous smile and probably came across as such. She was wary of him. She looked over at Sean, who was standing beside the door, and she knew by the way his focus narrowed on De Cicco that Sean knew who he was.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. De Cicco,” Leana said.
He stopped to look up at Sean, nodded at him, and then appraised Leana for a moment. He shook his head as if what he saw bothered him. “It’s Antonio, Leana. When you marry my son, it’ll be Uncle Tony.”
“Antonio, then. There’s a chair on this side of the bed if you’d like to sit down.”
“I’d like that. My knees are shit.”
He came around the bed and Leana thought, with his beautifully cut graying hair and tailored suit, that he could have passed for anyone of legitimate power in this city. Physically, there was nothing about him that suggested he was born to a family of gangsters.
“How are you?” he asked.
“One look should say it all.”
“You in pain?”
“A bit, but they’re treating it.”
“You need morphine or somethin’?”
“No,” she said. “The Tylenol they’re using is actually helping.”
“Because I can get you the morphine,” he said. “It’s not a problem.”
“I appreciate that, Antonio. But I think I can ride this out with Tylenol.”
“Whatever. Your choice. Leana, I want to deal with the past and smooth it over. OK?”
She didn’t want to go anywhere near their tumultuous past, but she had no choice so she nodded.
“The past is dead to me,” he said. “We move forward from here. My son came to visit me the other day, we talked it out and he told me of his intention to marry you. What I want to know is if you’re going to be a good mother to his and Lucia’s kids when they’re not away at school.”
“Of course, I will.”
“Because that’s important to me. That’s key. They’re still traumatized by what happened to their mother. Probably always will be. I need to know from you whether you can love them as if they’re yours.”
“I already do.”
He studied her face and scrutinized it, and then his own face softened. “Nobody bullshits me,” he said. “And you’re not now. I believe you.”
“I think the world of them.”
“That’s good to hear. They’re good kids. Now,” he said, “what’s happening to you? What’s with this bullshit? People writing crap about you on your hotel? People shooting at you at a Best Buy, of all fuckin’ places? And don’t tell me they weren’t targeting you, because we all know they were. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” She looked over at Mario. “Have you told him about the texts?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“What texts?” Antonio said.
She told him.
“Just what they said.”
“What did they say?”
“They plan to chop off my arms and my legs, and shove them up my ass.”
“You don’t say?”
“That pretty much sums up my fantastic week, Antonio.”
“Where’s the phone?”
She nodded over at Sean. “Antonio, this is Sean Scott, my head of security. Sean gave the phone to one of his contacts at the FBI to see if they could find out who sent the texts.”
“You didn’t think to give it to me?”
“That’s my fault, Dad,” Mario said. “Sean met us here when we arrived from the shooting. He took the phone then. My focus was on Leana.”
De Cicco looked over at Sean. “Your contacts coming through for you?”
“They’re working on it, sir.”
“If they don’t have anything in the next day, I’d like that phone.”
Sean looked at Leana. In his eyes, she could see his disapproval, but what he didn’t understand is the difficult situation she was in now. She had to keep the peace with Antonio, if only for the sake of Mario. She also knew that if Antonio took her phone, he’d have his own means to find out who sent her those texts. She’d talk to him later about it. She nodded at him.
“Of course, sir,” he said.
“How’s your eye?” Antonio asked her.
“We’ll know in two days. That’s when the bandages come off.”
“I’ll be here for that,” he said. “I want to be one of the first people you see. Do you want me to talk to your doctor?”
And tell her you’ll break her legs if I’m left with a bum eye? “I appreciate that. But I think she’s taken such a beating from me on this, that we probably should just leave her alone.”
“You went with a woman doctor?”
“We did.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
Why would it? “She’s considered one of the city’s best.”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 18
