If he timed this right, if he grabbed the statue, swung it at De Cicco’s head and shut the door before the others could follow, he might have a chance to get to Diana’s room, lock the door, go to her bathroom, lock that door and call security for help.
He knew it was a long shot, but it was all he had.
At Redman International, Jack and Diana left the building, flagged a cab, got one on their fifth try and told the driver to take them to Redman Place.
“There’s a hundred dollars in it for you if you hurry,” Diana said. She opened her handbag, removed the money and dropped it on the driver’s front seat. “It’s an emergency.”
The driver stepped on it, but traffic on Fifth was thick. He tried to maneuver through the clogged thoroughfare, but it was difficult and there wasn’t much he could do. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But this is bullshit. Look at these assholes. They don’t know how to drive.”
“Just try,” Diana said. She looked at Jack. “We might be too late.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Eric.”
The driver found an opening and raced through it. Redman Place was a five-minute drive. If this man was aggressive enough, they could be there in three.
“Let’s go, Eric. If you don’t step it up, I’ll help.”
Eric looked at De Cicco as he passed him. He focused all of his concentration on what was beyond that door and where the statue was on the desk. It would be to the far right. He would need to drop a crutch, grab the statue and then turn to swing it.
He moved through the door, shot a sideways glance and saw it sitting there.
And everything slowed.
He dropped the crutch under his right armpit, leaned in to reach for the statue and grabbed it. He turn to swing it so he could bash in the side of De Cicco’s head but instead he was being propelled forward. Somebody had shoved him. He sailed through the air and crashed onto the floor. His head struck wood and for a moment, he blacked out.
He was being shaken.
He opened his eyes and saw De Cicco leaning over him. “Get up.”
His eyes fluttered and he saw movement across the room. One of the men was carefully putting the statue back in place with his gloved hands.
“Get up.”
He made an effort to move, but a searing pain shot through his shoulder, which was dislocated. De Cicco saw the problem, grabbed Eric by the shirt and easily picked him up so he was standing.
Eric’s shoulder was drooping. The pain was unbearable. He was about to shout when one of De Cicco’s men came behind him and covered his mouth with a hand.
“You can live or you can die,” Mario said. “Your choice. To live, you need to tell me who you called to put the contract on Leana.”
Without hesitation, Eric jerked his head away to free his mouth and blurted out the person’s name.
Without hesitation, Mario De Cicco grabbed Eric again and lifted him to the top of the staircase. And right there, on Eric’s face, was the shock of what was about to happen to him. He tried to struggle, tried to get this man off him, but it was useless. De Cicco leaned close to Eric’s ear. “You fucked with the wrong person. Nobody touches Leana Redman. When they do, just look at what happens.”
The cab swung in front of Redman Place. Eric and Diana rushed out. She tossed another hundred through the passenger’s side window, thanked the driver and ran with Eric to the revolving doors.
Across the lobby was the bank of elevators. They hurried toward them, pressed the button and waited for one of the doors to open.
“You told me you’d let me live!” Eric shouted.
“I lied,” De Cicco said. “Ain’t that a bitch?”
“Here’s your bitch,” Eric said. “It’s Leana Fucking Redman. Tell her for me that she can burn in hell. Tell her for me that she can-”
But before Eric could finish speaking, De Cicco pushed him down the winding staircase.
Mario and his men moved forward to watch him fall. They watched his body twist and bend in unnatural angles as he toppled down the staircase, they watched his cast catch on a rung and snap it in half, and they watched what happened when he suddenly flipped over and his neck came down hard on the banister.
It wasn’t the wood that cracked-the banister could sustain the impact. Instead, it was the bones in Eric’s neck that cracked and the sound they made was like wood splintering in the room. As Eric Parker continued to fall, the men noted the difference in how he fell. He now was a rag doll. As he fell to the bottom of the steps, there was no life in him-just momentum behind him. He was dead and lying in a growing pool of his own blood by the time he hit the floor.
“Let’s move,” De Cicco said.
The men hurried down the stairs, Mario placed a gloved finger on Eric Parker’s neck, felt no pulse and joined his men as they checked the room to make certain no trace of themselves was there. They were backing out of the room and looking for any signs of a struggle when Mario brushed against a side table. He looked down and saw Parker’s watch and wallet, and what looked to be a check.
He lifted the check, read the amount, looked at the name of the corporation listed on it and then looked back in surprise at Parker. What was World Enterprises? Who was behind it? Why had they paid Parker $90 million? What had he done to earn it?
Mario pocketed the check. Since there was no asking Eric Parker now, they left the room, found the stairs and began rushing down them just as an elevator door whisked open. De Cicco and his men were three floors down when they heard a woman, her voice high and shrill, call out Eric’s name.
They hesitated.
And then they fled down the stairs when she began screaming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Carving a path in the evening sky, the plane soared over the Atlantic, hurtling towards New York and JFK.
Michael unbuckled his safety belt, reached for Leana’s hand and squeezed it gently. She had been silent ever since they left Heathrow and he could sense her slowly withdrawing into that part of herself that no one could hurt. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
As he left his seat and walked towards the rear of the plane, the quiet rage that had been building within him since they left Monte Carlo finally struck. He knew his father was behind this, knew that it was he who had Celina Redman murdered. He probably used Spocatti, he thought. Probably got that son of a bitch to do it for him…
The stewardess smiled as he approached.
“Where are the phones?” Michael asked.
The woman motioned toward an area just outside the restrooms. “They’re there, Mr. Archer.”
He thanked the woman, moved in their direction and swayed slightly when the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. An older woman with a shock of blonde hair grabbed his arm as he passed her seat. “You’re Michael Archer,” she said.
Michael released his arm, aware that other passengers were now looking at him. Recognizing him. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But it happens all the time. I’m flattered.” And he moved on, ignoring the woman even as she said to the man seated beside her: “I could have sworn…”
He picked up one of the telephones, swiped his credit card and dialed. While he waited for the connection to go through, he thought back to earlier that evening: Leana picking up the phone, hearing the conversation with his father, and how he quickly severed the connection when Louis took a breath. Leana stepping into the bathroom, watching him while he showered.
At the time, Michael thought that if he ignored her, that if he just washed himself and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, she would doubt what she heard on the phone and think perhaps the lines somehow got crossed in the storm. But what if she didn’t think she heard someone else’s conversation, not his? What if she recognized his father’s voice and was just staying with him until she could safely escape? Since his life was at stake, the implications unnerved him.
Finally, the line was answered by a woman. “Manhattan Enterprises.”
&nb
sp; “Judy, it’s Michael. Is my father in?”
“He’s in a conference, Michael.”
“Please tell him I’m on the line. I’m calling from a plane. It’s urgent.”
There was a sigh, a click and the abrupt sound of Muzak. Michael closed his eyes and felt the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. His life was out of control. Yesterday morning he shot and killed a man in his apartment after the man burned his manuscript. The police obviously were looking into that now, asking questions, following leads.
His father told him earlier that they found the charred bodies in his apartment and the Iranian cab driver dumped in an alley one block away. Although Michael rented the apartment under an assumed name, he knew that sooner or later the police would learn it was his apartment the bodies were found in.
He was famous. Although his apartment was surrounded by people whose reality was altered by drugs, certainly somebody had recognized him during the three weeks he’d lived there.
But I can help you, Louis said. Kill Redman and the police will never know that apartment was yours.
Although his father never said this, Michael knew the opposite also was true: If you don’t kill Redman, every cop in the world will be after your ass. As will Santiago.
It was an endless cycle that offered no escape. Michael wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, how much longer he could keep up with the facade.
His father answered the line. “What is it, Michael?”
“We need to talk.”
“That isn’t possible right now.”
“Not good enough,” Michael said. “We need to talk. Now.”
“And I said it isn’t possible.”
“Who are you with?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fine,” Michael said. “Then answer this for me and you can get back to your meeting-why did you have to kill her sister?”
“I’m not discussing this with you now. Call me when you arrive in New York.”
Michael’s hand tightened around the receiver. “Don’t hang up on me.”
The silence stretched.
“What is it?”
“I need to know if it’s safe for me to come back.”
“It’s safe,” Louis said.
“Are you sure?”
“I told you-it’s safe.”
But Michael could sense his father wasn’t telling him something. He could sense that something was wrong. “If you’re lying to me, Dad-”
“I’m not lying to you, Michael. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”
While Michael knew he had no choice but to trust his father, he couldn’t help feeling that he was being pushed nearer to the edge of a cliff. “Where do you expect Leana and me to stay when we get back?” he asked.
“That’s been taken care of.”
“Taken care of?” Michael said. “When were you planning on telling me-next week? We’ll be landing in another two hours. You’ve told me nothing-”
The line went dead.
Leana watched the night pass by, only dimly aware of the jet’s engines, the conversation of the couple seated in front of her, the diet-slim flight attendants as they whisked up and down the aisle.
She was still trying to understand and accept that her sister was dead and had been murdered only that morning. And she could still hear Harold’s voice echoing like a cold whisper: “Celina did love you, Leana. I can’t tell you how many times she told me that she missed you.”
At that moment, Leana ached with loss. She thought of all the times she and Celina could have been close and realized she never would have that opportunity now.
She was wondering who was responsible for Celina’s death when Michael sat down beside her. He reached for her hand and Leana looked at him, remembering what had happened only hours before in their hotel suite. Whose voice had she heard when she lifted the receiver? It wasn’t Michael’s voice, she knew that. But she also knew that she’d heard that voice before-just as she knew that one day she would put a face to it.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Leana shrugged.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Not unless you can bring my sister back.”
The silence hung in the air. Michael moved to speak, couldn’t find the words and squeezed her hand harder. Leana squeezed back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. I’m just not in a good place right now. It has nothing to do with you.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.”
She leaned back in her seat. “You know what I keep thinking?” she said. “I keep thinking how nice it’s going to feel when I find the son of a bitch who’s responsible for this.”
Michael turned to her.
“And I will find him, Michael. I swear to God I will. He’s not going to get away with this. He’s not going to get away with killing my sister. I have you to help me and I have Mario. We will find who murdered her. We’ll make him pay.”
“Leana-”
Her throat suddenly thickened. “I did love her, Michael. I never thought I did, but I did.”
He touched her hair. “We’ll get through this. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I love you,” he said.
Leana looked at him then, saw the pain on his face, the grief in his eyes and knew that he was telling her the truth. She felt guilty. How could she have mistrusted him earlier? He had never been anything but good to her. The telephone lines obviously got crossed in the storm.
Holding his hand in her own, she turned back to the window, where the world had disappeared into the darkness. For the first time in hours, she thought of Eric Parker, of the contract he had put out on her and wondered what would be waiting for her when she returned home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Anastassios Fondaras closed the final file Eric Parker stole on the takeover of WestTex Incorporated and tossed it onto Louis’ desk.
Although the man said nothing now, his dark eyes gleamed with the sort of intensity that reminded Ryan of a tiger’s eyes before the beast moved in for the kill.
Anastassios stood. “This deal Redman has with Iran,” Fondaras said, as he moved to the far right wall of windows and looked out at the city, which was brilliant in the late afternoon light. “It’s verbal, correct?”
“Yes,” Louis said, remembering his conversation with Harold Baines. “It’s verbal. Iran wouldn’t agree to sign anything until Redman took over WestTex. They felt it was a waste of time to commit themselves otherwise.”
“I see. But I assume that in the interim Redman has been in close contact with Iran,” Fondaras said. “I assume the Iranians will keep their word.”
“If circumstances were to remain the same, I’m sure they would,” Louis said. “Under current circumstances, they actually need Redman. With the Middle East unstable, most major shipping and oil companies are reluctant to enter the Gulf-including your own. Iran needs to sell their oil in order to buy arms, but few are willing to take the risk-except George. Redman’s advantage is that he knows the exact date the Navy moves into the Gulf. If Iran knew that date was as early as next week, they’d drop the deal, knowing that the Gulf would soon be secure again for trade and that they didn’t need any private deal with an American company.”
“If they knew the date,” Fondaras said.
“Exactly.”
Fondaras moved from the window and stepped to the bar. “I’ve known George Redman for nearly twenty years,” he said. “And I have genuine respect for him. A part of me even likes him.”
But, Louis thought. But…
“But this is business,” Fondaras said, as he poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. “And business is about getting there first. It’s about winning, regardless of the situation.” Drink in hand, he turned to Ryan. “So, you have no interest in being part of this deal? You’re simply going to give me this information for free?”
“Naturally, there will be a
price-after all, Anastassios, as you yourself pointed out, this is business. But we’ll discuss terms later. First, tell me your plans.”
“My plans?” Fondaras said with a laugh. “It’s textbook. Redman will be getting their oil cheap. Iran is desperate and he’s played off their needs. I plan on doing the same-only I’m going to offer Iran more money for their oil. I’ve worked with them in the past and they’ll work with me again. I plan on stealing this deal from George Redman.” His eyes flashed. “But what’s it going to cost me?”
Louis reached for his own glass of Scotch, came over to where Fondaras was standing and touched glasses with the man. “That, my friend, is the most beautiful part of all.”
Spocatti came only minutes after Fondaras left. “Eric Parker is dead,” he said. “Diana Crane and Jack Douglas found him at the bottom of her staircase two hours ago. Her apartment is crawling with cops-and the cops are saying he fell. It isn’t being considered a homicide.”
Louis accepted the information with a nod. He was seated at his desk, facing the windows. As he stared at The Redman International Building, his eyes flickered with what might have been fear.
Spocatti was about to continue when he noticed the object of Ryan’s attention through the great panes of glass. Would the man never learn?
He moved to Louis’ desk, opened a side drawer and pressed a button-the curtains whispered shut. “One bullet, Louis,” he said. “That’s all it would take.”
But Louis wasn’t listening. He was thinking of the $90 million check he gave Eric Parker in exchange for the files he stole from Diana Crane, the very check that bore the name of Manhattan Enterprises’ foreign branch, World Enterprises.
“The check,” Louis said. “You’re too smart to have come without it, so give it to me.”
Spocatti sat in the chair behind him, kicked his feet up on Louis’ desk. “There is no check, Louis.”
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