She’s going to destroy me, she thought. To hell with it.
“Sorry, Carl. I’ll take the meeting after all. I’ll see you in a bit.”
* * *
The building was an updated relic from the eighties.
Glass and steel. Marble in the foyer. A waterfall bubbling along the wall across from her. Updated artwork on the walls, but none of it was remarkable. The building might boast a swank Fifth Avenue address, but along the way, it obviously forgot its lineage.
Too many buildings of this era looked the same. They looked like what her Louis Ryan, Trump, and her uncle had built in the city back in the eighties, when they were at the beginning of their heydays.
But when Pepper had the chance to build her own building? It would be better than anything this city had seen. It would be fresh, unusual, cutting-edge, ultra modern. It would create a firestorm of press as the press itself weighed in on whether it was the architectural wave of the new New York or something that pressed too far against the edges to be taken seriously.
Pepper was willing to take that risk because Pepper was betting on the former, just as Frank Gehry, Philip Johnson and Frank Lloyd Wright had done before her. She especially liked Johnson’s iconic Lipstick Building on Third and, in totally different ways, the sheer daring of Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain and Wright’s own Guggenheim Museum in New York. That’s how Pepper wanted to leave her mark. She wasn’t an architect, but she had a vision, and she wanted to be known, at the very least, as an innovator who took risks.
With her uncle’s help, that’s what she planned to do.
Her heels clicked across the marble floor as she walked to the wide granite desk across from her. Her suit, she thought, fit perfectly. Her hair, done yesterday by Sebastian, was newly tinted red and curled up from her shoulders with a brightness she didn’t feel. Her decision made, she tried to walk with steadfast confidence, but it was all an act. Worse, it felt like one.
I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the only thing that will get me where I want to be.
Seated at the desk were three security guards, which she thought was overkill, until she remembered what she was there for. Then their presence made sense.
“I’m Pepper Redman,” she said to one of the men. “I have an appointment with—”
“We know, Miss Redman.” It was the man seated directly in front of her who spoke. “We’ve been expecting you. Behind us, take the first elevator to your right. It’s private and goes straight to his floor. You’ll be met by his assistant, who will take your briefcase and study its contents; and if all is a go, he’ll take you inside.”
The man nodded at her in polite dismissal, and Pepper thought, He knows my name; he knows why I’m here; he could testify against me; I’m probably on camera; they could send me to jail. What am I doing here?
The right thing.
She stepped into the elevator.
The doors whisked shut and she was boosted into the sky. She closed her eyes and took a breath. The elevator was moving so fast, it vibrated. And then, when it reached the sixty-eighth floor, it slowed until it stopped at the seventy-first floor. Her heart raced when the doors slid open. Standing beyond them was a muscular man in an immaculate gray business suit. He was tall and in his late thirties, with a cleft in his chin and blond hair cut in such a way that it was as stylish as the rest of him.
“Pepper Redman,” he said.
It wasn’t a question, but a warm greeting. He stepped aside so she could move past him into the room beyond. It was a warmly lit reception area furnished with lavish appointments—Stickley furniture, four original Arts and Crafts lamps on low wooden tables, what appeared to be original William Morris wallpaper in subtle shades of gold on the walls, what absolutely was Lincrusta wallpaper on the ceiling, and six paintings by two artists she recognized on sight—Marc Chagall and Gustav Klimt. As inviting and as unusual as this space was—and in what she initially considered a run-of-the-mill building—she still felt a chill. The design was meant to impress and to set a mood. Who was this man Parker designed for her to meet? Who were his clients? Obviously, important people. Obviously, influential people. People who would feel at home in such decadence.
The sort of people I want to become.
“If I could have the briefcase, I’ll be just a moment. Please have a seat. If you’d like coffee or tea, Esther will bring you some.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Relax and enjoy the paintings. I could look at them all day. Others are inside for you to enjoy.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be right back. Is this locked?”
“Is this what?”
“The briefcase. I assume it’s locked.”
“It isn’t.”
“You are daring,” he said, and he left the room, leaving her alone.
To distract herself, she went to one of the Chagall’s, which she was surprised to see here. It was a painting she had studied in college—“The Promenade,” in which Chagall’s wife, Bella, is tethered by his outstretched hand as she floats above him. She knew from her art history class that the painting was meant to reflect the love that binded them beyond the limits imposed by nature. The painting was meant to be transcendent—he walks the earth while she is an angel that hovers in the air. Pepper looked at Bella and thought that she was her opposite. In a matter of moments, she was about to float away into a darker place where there was no love and where no one would consider her an angel.
Time passed. She looked behind her at the elevator. It wasn’t too late. She could just say to hell with the money, leave it behind, and rise up through the ranks at Redman International the proper way. It was a set back, but she still was young, and with time, she’d leave her mark, even though she wanted to leave it now.
I’m not a murderer.
You could be.
There are other ways.
Are there?
I wasn’t raised to be this. How did I even get here?
Because you had no choice. Because she’ll ruin you. You know that. You can see it in how she treats you. Poor Penelope from Arkansas. Not fit to run the Redman empire, or even a portion of it. Not solid enough to make a name for herself. Your uncle has essentially said the same thing. Have you forgotten his phone call? He took you off one project, and he’ll take you off others because he has her to lean on. But with her out of the picture, he’ll have no choice but to turn to you. Now is your chance.
No, it isn’t.
This was a mistake. She went to the elevator, pushed the down button, but nothing happened. She looked up at the dial, and saw that the elevator was still on the seventy-first floor.
Why won’t the door open?
Beneath the button was a keyhole. To operate the elevator at this level, you needed a key. There was no way out. Essentially, she was a prisoner until he returned.
When he did, he looked at her with concern.
“Did you want to leave, Miss Redman?”
How did he know? There are cameras on me.
“Actually, I do. I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“But everything is in order. Mr. Elling is ready to see you now.”
“I’d really rather go.”
“Many people have second thoughts. We understand that this is an unnatural situation for many people. We’re sensitive to that. But something drove you to us, Miss Redman, and we’re here to help in any way that we can. It doesn’t have to be what you’re imagining. It doesn’t have to be that, though it can be that if you want it to be. But if it isn’t, then we can creatively handle whatever situation you’re in. Why don’t you come with me and meet Mr. Elling? I think you’ll find that once you meet him and talk with him—and you realize the options that are available to you—that your fears will recede.”
He stepped to the side and opened the door wider so she could walk through. “A talk isn’t going to hurt anyone. But I have to tell you, Miss Redman, we can’t have you walk out on us now. We were clear w
ith you before we gave you our address. You made a verbal commitment over the phone. You now know who we are and where our office is. For all we know, you could go to the police after this and then where would we be? Or, frankly, where would you be? We expect you to honor your commitment and be part of the process. Because being part of the process makes you as guilty as any of us would be and that lessens the chances of you making a stupid mistake and calling us out. You now are part of what will happen to Leana Redman. Everything is being filmed and it will continue to be filmed. It’s just our way of protecting ourselves should you have second thoughts later on. So, come. Follow me. Let’s talk over the options. Whatever you decide is the right way to go, I think you’ll find the process painless. For Leana Redman, however, it will be anything but.”
* * *
Two hours later, when a shaken Pepper Redman emerged from the building and stepped into her car, she was too distracted and unnerved to see the man in the vehicle parked on the opposite side of the street. She didn’t see the powerful camera he held in his hands, and she wasn’t aware that he was taking photographs of her leaving the building.
Just as he had when she entered it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
On Chamber’s Street, Marty Spellman left the Surrogate’s Court with a manila envelope that contained a copy of Louis Ryan’s last will and testament. He hailed a cab, gave the driver his address at Sixty-Third and Fifth, and started uptown.
In the cab’s backseat, he opened the envelope, removed the will, flipped through it, and checked for names. The executor was James Cullen, which sounded familiar to him, though he wasn’t sure why. There were several beneficiaries, two of which stopped him cold—Florence Holt and Charles Stout. Each had been left five million dollars, as had the other beneficiaries. These names he didn’t recognize—Piggy French, the Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Rowena Clark and Peter Horrigan.
Marty put the will in his lap and looked out the window. As his stomach sank, the city sped by in colorful vignettes. He reached into his pocket for his iPhone and brought up the browser. He went to Google News and typed in Piggy French’s name.
And Marty closed his eyes.
The top link was her obituary in the Times. Date of death? Nearly two weeks ago. He searched for the others and felt a chill when he saw that all were now recently dead. A murder/suicide for the baron and baroness. A fall down the stairs for Rowena Clark. A hit-and-run for Peter Horrigan.
Florence Holt was murdered.
Charles Stout was murdered.
Though it wasn’t revealed how Piggy French died, the other deaths either were accidental or, in the case of the baroness, murder at the hands of her husband.
Somehow, Marty didn’t quite believe that the baron pulled the trigger. He didn’t believe that at all. Had anyone else made these connections? Unlikely, with the exception of James Cullen, who must have made them. Had he said anything to the police? Certainly, he must have. At the very least, he’d not only be concerned for his own life, but also have to wonder why, in such a short period of time, all of Ryan’s beneficiaries had died.
But why were they dead? They obviously were friends of Ryan’s—he left them millions. He looked down at the will and wondered.
What’s the bridge that ties their deaths to what’s happening to Leana Redman and her brother now?
It didn’t make any logical sense that there should be one, but Marty knew there had to be. Obviously, Ryan was key, but how? At some point, Marty knew that George Redman would be targeted. It was just a matter of time, and then the circle would be complete.
But why this circle? Why target Ryan’s enemies and those who were his friends?
What he considered earlier—that someone was fulfilling Ryan’s plans to murder all of the Redmans out of some sort of twisted loyalty to him—now made no sense. The fact that each of his beneficiaries was dead ruled that out. There had to be a third party behind this. But who? And why? Worse, his other theory—that to deflect attention from themselves, someone was merely using Ryan’s well-publicized plot against the Redmans in their favor—also was in the toilet. Killing Holt and Stout was enough to throw someone off. It created the smoke-and-mirror effect they might have been seeking. But killing all of these people? No way. It was too risky. This smacked of a revenge plot that stretched beyond the Redmans to also include Ryan’s friends. Why? Did someone have a grudge against Ryan and Redman?
Think.
But Marty realized that until he met James Cullen and questioned him, he’d have no idea why.
* * *
When he arrived home, he called his ex-wife, Gloria, who lived on the West Side with their daughters and her new husband, Jack.
“Got a minute?”
“I’m just about to run out. Katie wants a new book. Beth wants to look at the boys at the bookstore.”
“Of course she does.”
“We’re at that age. But I’ve got a minute. What’s going on?”
“Why do I know of a James Cullen?”
“Because we met him years ago at a dinner party. He’s old money, so you wouldn’t have paid much attention. Naturally, I did, because I just wanted to sell him and everyone else in that room my paintings. It took a while, but it worked.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s his lineage and his gigantic trust fund. New York money that bloomed in Philadelphia. Great-grandfather was a banker. Grandfather was in politics at a high level. I think maybe a senator, but you’d need to check into that. Father was a serious and successful investor. All went to good schools. All are in the book. James reaped the benefits.”
“Was he friends with Louis Ryan?”
“No idea, but that’s hard to imagine. Ryan was new money and new money doesn’t mix well with old money, unless there’s something in it for them. You know that. So, maybe there’s a connection there. A business deal would make sense. I can see that happening.”
“I think it runs deeper than that,” Marty said.
“How so?”
“He was the executor of Ryan’s will.”
“You’re joking?”
“I’m not. They must have been friends on some level.”
“Apparently. But who knew? I assume this is about Leana?”
“It is.”
“I’m glad you took the job—she’s a good friend. What’s happening to her?”
“This morning was our first meeting, and already my head is spinning. This one’s going to be difficult.”
“You’ll do it. You always come through.”
He smiled at that. Gloria had been his college sweetheart. They had married twice and divorced twice. And now, after several years of having a strained relationship, he was pleased that they were talking again. She had Jack. He had his wife, Jennifer. For the moment, all seemed to be well between the two families, especially considering what had happened to them a year ago. He was grateful for that.
“Give the girls my love,” he said.
“I will. And Marty?”
“What?”
“Find out who’s doing this before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Anastassios Fondaras put his hand on Leana’s shoulder and walked with her through the lobby of 157 Columbus Circle, which was alive with activity as workers put the finishing touches on the massive space.
“You’ve got to give it to your father,” he said. “George knows what he’s doing. Even in this economy, he’s got a winner. It’s beautiful, Leana.” He let a beat of silence pass. “I do have to say I’m surprised that you’re working for him.”
Leana turned to him with a smile. “It took you ten minutes to bring that up,” she said. “You’ve got restraint.”
“Apparently, you don’t.”
“You know I’ve always wanted this.”
“But that was then. You’ve got your own thing going on now. You’ve got The Park. And then something else after that. I don’t understand.”
“Few do.”
“You’re referring to Mario?”
“How did you guess?”
“Greek intuition.”
“That’s a new one.”
“What do you think Harold would say?”
How many times am I going to hear this? “He’d be disappointed. I seem to generate disappointment. I’d manufacture it and sell it if I could, but I hear it isn’t popular.”
“I didn’t say you disappointed me, just that you surprised me.”
“There’s a fine line there.”
“Maybe. But look—if doing this will get it out of your system, maybe it’s a positive thing. You want him to see what you’re capable of. I get it. What concerns me is the potential loss of your own momentum if he ropes you in.”
“Who says he will?”
“I know your father.”
“Even if he does, it will be on my terms.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“It is.”
“Leana, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. But if you pull this off for him and clean up Pepper’s mess—which you will—George will throw diamonds at you. You’ll have your pick of high-profile projects. Those will be difficult to turn down. And don’t think for a moment that your father won’t be running the show. It’s who he is. As tense as my relationship with him is, I still admire him, even if I don’t exactly trust him. Neither should you.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Relax. I’m just offering friendly advice. What I want for you is probably immaterial, but working for him will consume more and more of your time, which could be spent on your own projects.”
“I understand that. I’ve promised nothing, Anastassios. I’ve given this plenty of thought. When I’ve cleaned up what Pepper couldn’t finish, part of me just wants to rub it in his face, and then go forward with my own work. Another part of me wants the relationship Celina had with him. It’s complicated.”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 27
