“Shit,” Leana said. “I forgot you were in that movie.”
“They’re going to photograph the hell out of us,” Michael said. “So, you know, don’t step on my toes, or we’ll wind up on Page Six.”
“We’re going to be there anyway.”
“Then let’s try not to look like a couple of fools.”
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
In his office at Manhattan Enterprises, James Cullen sat sloshed and unsteady at his desk, so much so that he was almost numb to today’s ruthless interrogations by the police.
He was too drunk to remember everything they asked him, which was probably fine, because what bothered him went deeper than that. The questions he dodged like a pro, but there was an intensity behind those questions that hadn’t been there the first time he was questioned. This time, the main detective on the case and those who were with him kept hammering at him, which put him on edge and riddled him now with a sense of impending doom.
He shook the last drop of vodka into his martini glass and knocked it back. He thought of Louis and their friendship, and wondered if it indeed had been a friendship, but decided it didn’t matter. What mattered is where his relationship with Ryan was about to lead him.
Straight to prison.
He was convinced of that now. It was only a matter of time. They came here today for a reason. They had something on him, though he wasn’t sure what it could be. He’d been so careful. But he knew. He could feel it in his gut. The police knew something and they were hovering. Circling. They were going to make it so his life ended in shame in some airless prison cell of no return.
Voices from his past slipped in and out of his clouded mind. Cullen listened to them, and mused over them. They were correct, of course—he never should have agreed to any of this. He never should have done it, never should have even fancied it. Even if the idea of cashing in on one hundred million dollars was too much for him to ignore. He still had all the prestige that came with the Cullen name, but his money wasn’t what it used to be. He had a few million of his own left, plus the millions that came from Ryan’s stock in Manhattan Enterprises, but like so many, he’d never fully recovered from the stock market crash. And really, when it came to money, did anyone ever have enough?
Greed got the best of him. Greed would take him down, just as it had taken down so many before him.
With an effort, he rose from his seat, but fell back into it because he was dizzy from drink. He then planted his hands on the table so he could steady himself as he stood.
He wanted to watch it again.
With his ruined leg holding him back, he stumbled over to the sofa that faced the large-screen television, sank into it, fumbled to grasp the remote on the table beside him, and looked hard at it before finding the damned buttons to turn on the television and DVD player.
He found them and pushed them. Then he stared at the remote control again in an effort to find the button marked “play.” Where was it? Everything was out of focus. He pushed a button, but it was the wrong one. It was the “pause” button. Frustrated, he looked again, found the “play” button, pushed it, and sighed as he leaned back on the sofa.
Louis Ryan filled the screen.
He was wearing a dark suit and his crown of silvery hair was neatly groomed. And while his expression appeared neutral, Cullen knew better. Cullen knew to look into Ryan’s eyes. That’s where the fury was. That’s where the man’s fire burned.
Cullen had watched this so many times over the past month, but he now had to force himself to focus on what Ryan was saying, some of which he’d missed at the start. But not this section. This was the part that pulled him in from the start when the DVD was anonymously delivered to him after Ryan’s death.
“You now know what George Redman did to my wife. You understand why I’m doing this now. It’s almost over. Celina is dead. Leana Redman is now in my employ. Soon, The Hotel Fifth opens, and that’s where it ends for all of them. But I’m not stupid, James. You know that. I know things can go wrong. If I fail and my life ends, which it very well might, that doesn’t mean that this ends also. It means that I need you, my best and oldest friend, to finish it for me. Not right away. We’ll give it three years so people will have enough time to drop their guards. Then we act again. If you agree to my terms, I’ll pay you handsomely—a third party who will remain anonymous will take care of all of it. I know what you lost in the market. We’ve talked about it. But you can have it all back, and so much more. My plan for revenge against Redman and his family must not die even if things don’t go as I planned when my hotel opens and I die. This is a possibility. I’m aware of that. I’m prepared for that. I’m fully aware of the risk I’m taking. I’m reaching out to you now through this video in case that happens. Help me, and I’ll see to it that you not only have the Cullen name, but all the money that name deserves.”
Cullen switched off the television. With an effort, he rose from the sofa, walked over to the DVD player dragging his prosthetic leg behind him, and ejected the disc. He put it in its case and brought it over to his desk where he wrote “Love, Louis Ryan” on a sticky note. He attached the note to the case and placed it on his desk.
He went to the bar behind his desk, and removed another chilled bottle of Belvedere. He clicked a switch next to his desk, and the office was filled with his favorite aria, Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma,” from his great opera, “Turandot.” Cullen had listened to it several times already tonight as he readied himself for the inevitable.
“None shall sleep,” he said, as he reached into a drawer and removed a full bottle of Ambien. He opened the cap and smiled as he poured the sleeping pills into the palm of his hand. “The irony is staggering.”
He opened the bottle of Belvedere, swallowed as many of the pills as he could, went back to swallow more, and then he maneuvered his way over to the sofa and sank into it.
As he became drowsier and drowsier, and moved closer to the gray, unknown edges of death, he thought about his life. He remembered his first love, Carolyn, long since dead. He thought about the trauma of losing his leg to cancer, and how he thought—at least when that happened—that it was the worst moment of his life. He thought of his mother, who was kind to him in ways that his strict father wasn’t. He loved her for that. He saw her face now, and he felt a rush of love for her. He thought about the lavish lifestyle that had been handed to him, and all that it had provided him. He thought of vacations abroad, his love of Paris, the years he spent in England, and the position he held in Manhattan, which would be destroyed by morning due to that disc.
So, be it, he thought. So, be it. So, be it. So, be it. No one’s perfect. No one’s perfect. Least of all me. Least of all me.... Look at me. Not perfect. Not perfect, at all....
As he brushed against death’s cold rails, the one thing he didn’t think of was Louis Ryan. When Cullen closed his eyes a final time—his breathing barely there, the weight on his chest no longer as intense as it had been throughout the day—he wondered whether he would go to heaven or hell. For the most part, he’d lived a good, honest life. He’d made his share of mistakes, but they were nothing to be ashamed about, at least until now. Where did this past month leave him in the heavenly order of things? Would he go into the fires of hell, or would he ascend to the heavens and be forgiven by God?
Those were the thoughts that carried James Cullen out of this world. At first, he felt his body rise, he saw a bright spiral of light swirl his way. And then, confusing him in those last few moments before his mind winked out, that spiral turned to the darkest black he’d ever seen, and it consumed him.
In the absence of answers, his heart seized, his breathing stopped, his body jerked, and then James Cullen lay still on the sofa, dead.
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
There was only one way to do this—with urgency.
Spocatti slipped through the crowd. He watched George Redman’s security team turn to him as he approached, and probably because of the look of horror pla
nted on his face, they looked at him with wary concern.
Hands dipped into jackets, where there would be guns. One man stepped left and blocked Redman. Spocatti shook his head at them and held up his phone, which glowed into the room. He stopped so he wouldn’t start a panic, and waved for one of the men to come over to him.
“Has Mr. Redman seen this?” he asked. “The news just broke. It’s a tragedy.”
“What’s a tragedy?”
With shaking hands, Spocatti held out his phone. The man saw enough of what was on the screen that his eyes widened, then he turned and motioned to the other guard to get Redman.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Vicenzo Massara. I know Leana—”
“Mr. Massara, would you be willing to come with us? None of this can happen here. Mr. Redman needs to be told in private. He’s going to want to see your cell for himself while we get on the phone to confirm whether Ms. Redman is indeed dead. You’ll then be allowed to leave, but please keep this to yourself. Will you do that for Mr. Redman?”
“Of course, I will. But with the press here, it’s just a matter of time before everyone knows. They’re going to swarm him.”
“That’s why we need to get Mr. Redman alone, inform him, and then get him out of here. You did the right thing. Come with me. There is a suite of offices around that corner. That’s right. Cut to the left. Please keep your features neutral. Mr. Redman is behind us. That’s the door there. Let me unlock it.”
“What’s this about?” he heard Redman say in a low voice behind him.
Spocatti kept his phone in his left hand, and pressed his belt buckle twice with his other. Two darts fell into his hand, the tips of which would release a concentrated dose of cyanide once they punctured skin.
The first time he used them was on a job in Germany. They worked so well that he knew they were the best and fastest way to deal with the pressures of the night, particularly with the sheer amount of security he had to deal with.
The man opened the door.
Behind him, Spocatti heard what sounded like a woman scream. Though with the orchestra playing and with the buzz of the crowd, he couldn’t be sure if that’s what it was. He locked eyes with the guard, who also looked as if he had heard something unusual, and whose face bore the expression of a man determined to protect Redman from the fallout.
“Somebody might have just learned the news,” he said to the man.
“Come inside,” he said. “Quickly.”
Spocatti turned to George Redman as he was led past him into the room. Will he recognize me? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Redman,” he said.
“Sorry about what?”
“It’s your daughter.”
Alarm came over George’s face. “What about my daughter?”
Spocatti held up his cell, took a step forward, and gave the phone to Redman. Then, in one calculated motion, as Redman read the news of his daughter’s death and his two guards read over his shoulder, Spocatti took one dart in each hand, focused on the guards, and then lunged forward, burying the darts deep into their necks and taking all by surprise.
Redman dropped the phone.
Behind him, the men started to gasp.
Spocatti leaned back on his left leg and, with a swiftness that could only come from years of training, he lifted his right leg toward George Redman’s chest, savagely kicked him, and sent him and the two men behind him toppling to the floor.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Pepper Redman screamed as the man closed the distance between them, but it was a wasted effort. The orchestra below was too loud, not to mention the crowd, which was too festive and noisy for anyone to hear anything from this height. They were seven floors up, and right now, with this bald-headed beast cornering her, she saw no way to escape.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I work for Gordon Elling.”
“Then you work for me!” she shouted. “Do you get it? You work for me!” She looked over at the elevator, where Parker was lying dead inside. She still couldn’t process it. She was, at once, numb by his death and enraged by it. “Why?” she asked. “Why did you kill him? He was the best thing that ever happened to me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Miss Redman, your first mistake was threatening Mr. Elling.”
Pepper looked confused. “What are you talking about? I haven’t threatened him. I’m terrified of him.”
“Terrified enough to threaten him. He got your package. He received the photographs of you entering his building with the briefcase and exiting without it. He received the photographs of you getting into his limousine, including the photograph that showed him sitting inside of it. And he got your letter, which you signed. So, stop playing dumb. You wanted out of this at the last moment, which you were told never could happen. So, you tried this route. Unfortunately for you, that was a mistake. This is the end of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Why lie about it now? Either way, the result is going to be the same.”
“But in the elevator, you said you were going to hear my side of it. You said you were going to make a phone call. I assume now that it was to Mr. Elling.”
“That was just to shut you up. Are you really that stupid, girl? I killed your man. Do you really expect me to just let you go now? Really?” He laughed.
She forced herself to think. Her mind raced. How could this have happened? She saw a lapse in his logic, and went for it. “Why would I have photographs taken of me the first day we met? I didn’t know at that point that I couldn’t back out of the deal. I was only told how much money to bring. You’re not making sense.”
“I’ve made perfect sense. This backfired on you. This is where it begins and ends for me and for Mr. Elling. As smart and as cunning as you thought you were being, what you never understood is that no one ever threatens Mr. Elling and comes out of it alive.”
“You’re saying that you’re going to kill me?”
He took a step closer and tilted his head to the side. “Oh, come on, Penelope. After what happened to your friend in there? What do you think?”
“I’ll double whatever he’s paying you if you leave now. Just go away. Take the elevator, leave the building. My office is upstairs. I can cut you a check. Or get you cash. If you give me time, I can get you cash. You can tell Mr. Elling that I got away, and that money will be yours. No one needs to know. Please don’t do this.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Penelope? If I get in that elevator, you’ll signal someone from security, and you’ll have me detained by the time I reach the lobby.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I swear I wouldn’t. I want to live. I have too much to live for. You have no idea the life I have in front of me. You have no idea how hard I’ve worked for it. I’m telling you, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t or couldn’t? Either way, it doesn’t matter, because right now you die.”
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
Carmen stood along the periphery of the dance floor, watching Michael Archer twirl his sister around to the delight of many. When the waltz ended with a burst of applause, Leana gave her brother a kiss on the cheek.
Carmen needed to get to them now, while they were still together. She removed her cell from her clutch, turned it on and checked the image. But she looked up when she heard Leana say something to a short, good-looking man with silver hair. The man nodded, and then spoke into his cell. A moment later lights in the lobby dimmed, and a spotlight was trained on Leana, who kept hold of her brother’s hand.
She was going to give a speech of some sort.
“I’ll keep this very brief,” Leana said to the crowd. “But I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for coming in support of my first hotel. I can’t tell you what it means to me.”
Again, the crowd applauded, only louder this time, and Leana lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the light so she could see them.
“The Park is possibl
e because of a few people. First, my husband, Mario De Cicco, whose guidance and support have been unwavering. I can’t see you, Mario, but I know you’re close. My general manager, Zack Anderson, whose enthusiasm and love for the hotel business shows in every detail of what you’ve seen here tonight. To my brother, Michael Archer, whom a few of you might know. He and I have been put through the ringer over the past few weeks, for whatever reason, but we’re here tonight and stronger because of it. He’s going to kill me for saying this, but he has a new movie coming out next week, so go and see it.”
She turned to him as the crowd laughed, she saw him shake his head at her, and then she grasped his hand tighter.
“Just a few more people,” Leana said. “But they’re very important, so please indulge me. To my head of security, Sean Scott, who has kept me safe and sound thanks to the recommendation of my great friend, Anastassios Fondaras, who also is here tonight—as if you ladies didn’t know.” She turned and reached out to Scott, who was standing behind her. “Stop blushing,” she said. “I can see it from here.”
“I’m not blushing, Miss Redman.”
“You are so blushing.” She turned back to the crowd. “Finally, I’d like to thank two very important men in my life. First, my father, George Redman, whose own hotel, The Hotel Fifth, opens tonight on Fifth. I hope you all spend time there at some point. He has taught me a great deal about business without him even knowing it, and I’m grateful for that. Probably more than he knows. And finally, there’s Harold Baines, my hero, and my forever best friend. Many of you knew Harold. Many of you knew how special he was, how interesting and kind he was. What some of you might not know is that this hotel was restored because of a significant gift Harold gave to me. It’s my intention to seek out other historic buildings in this city, and save them through detailed restorations, just like the one you’ve seen here tonight. I love my city. I know all of us love our city. While none of you ever will find me building a skyscraper, you will find me occasionally throwing parties like this that celebrate an historic building that deserved a second chance, and got it.” She nodded her head at them and pulled her brother closer. “Thank you,” she said. “Now, lights off me, and back to the party.”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 40
