From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

“We did. And I’m not going to lie to you. There’s no question I felt betrayed, but I also became intrigued by his life. I always considered my father a gentleman. He wasn’t violent. He was nondescript, just an average-looking man who happened to have superior skills in areas that were foreign to me. I was a young woman when I first learned about his other life. My father and I were never very close. After the abduction, I knew why. We began to talk. He told me stories and let me in. Because I didn’t judge him, I think part of him wanted to share his life with someone, because he’d never had the opportunity to do so with anyone else.”

  “He didn’t share it with your mother?”

  “We never discussed my mother. She left us when I was four.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “You’d need to ask her.”

  “Do you keep in touch?”

  “Mr. Gelling, I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

  “Where is your father now?”

  “In a Madrid cemetery.”

  “See?” he said. “Madrid. It always comes back to one of the big foreign cities. Everything happens there.” He leaned toward his glass of iced tea and puckered his lips around the straw. He sipped it while he studied her. “Did he die of natural causes?”

  “He was gunned down in the streets of Mexico City.”

  “Mexico City,” he said, as if he was underscoring his former point, which she found pointless. “Awful, but not a surprise. When was this?”

  “Fourteen years ago. I was twenty-four.”

  “And you sought revenge?”

  “He was my father. I loved him. Someone had to pay.”

  “Did you find whoever killed him?”

  “I did. I also found the others who targeted him. I killed them all.”

  “That was a brave undertaking.”

  “I was twenty-four. I didn’t know any better.”

  “Youth can be so liberating and dangerous. For you, I’m assuming it was both. Why did they want your father dead?”

  “He was hired to take out the leader of a drug cartel. The cartel wasn’t happy about that. They came after him. The end.”

  “And then you went into the family business?”

  “You could say that. Everything changed for me after my father’s death. I saw a different world. I discovered I was a crack shot. The people who used to hire my father contacted me. They offered me a job for an obscene amount of money. The person I was asked to kill was about as close to evil as you could imagine. He hurt people. I suppose that’s why I took it. Maybe I thought by getting rid of him, I was doing some good in the world. Maybe that was my justification. But you’re right—that’s youth for you. Liberating and dangerous. Now I work for hire. My only exception is that I refuse to kill children. I haven’t looked back since.”

  “Not until Alex...”

  Just hearing his name stung. The image of his face flashed before her eyes. The ache of his loss was like a tide closing in, suffocating her. She remembered the first time he told her he loved her but then forced the memory away. Focus. “Actually, Alex makes me look forward,” she said. “They’ll pay for what they did to him.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  I don’t care if you do. “I need your help. I need to know how to get to Katzev.”

  “Your story is fascinating, Carmen.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “I do. And I want to thank you for sharing it with me.”

  You gave me no choice.

  “I have one question?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why won’t you kill children? A life is a life. Who cares if it belongs to a child?”

  “A conscience needs to begin somewhere, Mr. Gelling.”

  “That’s a smooth answer, Carmen, but I think it goes deeper. Do you have a child?”

  She didn’t want to go here, but this wasn’t about her. It was about Alex. It was about doing anything to avenge his death, so she leveled her eyes with his and told the truth. “I can’t have children.”

  “What a shame. Or not. In my case, I wish I never had children. Rotten little greedy beasts. Still, why can’t you have them? Can’t conceive?”

  “That’s right. Years ago, when I was in love with a young man I worked with at the Met, we tried to get pregnant. We were seriously involved for about a year at that point. Neither of us wanted marriage, but children? We both wanted children. Unfortunately, each time we tried, I miscarried. Three times in a row to be exact. I saw my doctor and was told I couldn’t carry. Apparently, something’s wrong with my tubes. So, life cheated me out of having a child. I have no interest in cheating others out of what I wanted, but couldn’t have. Whenever asked, I refuse to do it. There are no exceptions.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “But it’s still there, isn’t it?”

  It was with her every day, but she was finished with this line of questioning and sipped her tea, offering no response.

  “This Katzev,” he said. “Of course, I’ve heard of him. And also of Jean-Georges Laurent and what you and Alex did to him that night at the Four Seasons.”

  “Laurent tried to kill us.”

  “I know he did. And I have to say, what he had in mind was ingenious. Under different circumstances, I think even you would admit to that. But you and Alex were smart to come clean with each other when you did. Love saved you. By telling the truth, you spared each other’s lives. It’s like a movie.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s what I do, Carmen. It’s what keeps me going at one-hundred-and-three. People talk to me and tell me things. I’d never tell you who told me anything, of course. That goes back to my days as a psychiatrist. Confidentiality is critical, which is why Vincent trusts me and why you will come to trust me.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and met her gaze. “Just as you would never kill a child, I would never sell either of you out. We all have our morals and ethics, regardless of how far they’re sometimes stretched. I believe that doing the right thing is important. What Laurent and Katzev tried to pull on you and Alex crosses the line. So, here I am. Prepared to help.”

  She was growing impatient with him. She just bared part of her soul to him. Now, she wanted the address. “Where does Katzev live?”

  “I have no idea.”

  It was like a slap across her face. She was confused. Then angry. She just spilled some of her most personal secrets to this man. “But I thought you knew? Spocatti sent me to you because you knew.”

  “That isn’t true. He sent you here because I know people who might know. In fact, I know people who likely will know because I know everyone. That’s what you’re really here for, Carmen—my contacts. I’m going to give you a name of a person who I’m fairly certain will know Katzev’s address. Or can find it. She’s powerful. Travels in all sorts of circles, some of which she’d rather keep quiet, not that I blame her. Odd woman, really, if you know her history, but that’s the sort of person you need right now. Someone with her history. And her contacts. And her knowledge of these sorts of things, of which she’s intimate. I’ve already called ahead to tell her about you. She’s eager to meet because she thrives on this as much as I do.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Babe McAdoo. She’s a socialite from one of the big New York families. Non-traditional. A bit off. As eccentric as, uh, you know who.” He glanced quickly at Big Ben. “But in her set, maybe that’s just how it is. Who knows with her? There will be times when you’ll think she’s speaking in tongues, but it’s all an act. When you get down to business with her, she’s all business. It’s like she switches on a light and becomes the person you need. And when she’s that person, she’s quite good. I actually admire her when she’s that person.”

  “Her name sounds familiar to me.”

  “McAdoo Seasonings? That’s her family.”

  “I think I’ve put her on turkey.”


  “That’s a curious way to put it, but in a way, I suppose all of America has. She’s been spread from coast-to-coast. And her reach goes beyond the salt-and-pepper set, for which I’m certain she’s grateful. Why limit yourself when there are so many other things that can be crushed, blended and sprinkled?”

  “Can I trust her?”

  “I wouldn’t send you there if you couldn’t.”

  “When should I see her?”

  He looked across the room at Frank, who stood in front of a fireplace, above which was a large mirror. “What time is it, Frank?”

  “Just after eleven, sir.”

  “That was quick. Did the mirror help?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gelling looked at Carmen. “I adore him. You should see Babe now. She lives on Park. I’ll give you her address. And please, after you speak with her, if you could call me? Or even call and stop by afterward? I’d appreciate it. I like to keep up.” For an instant, she saw a flash of vulnerability cross his face. A hint of fear. “Knowing how things are proceeding? That’s what keeps me going. It’s what makes me want to see tomorrow.”

  CHAP

  TER EIGHT

  Babe McAdoo lived in a townhouse on Seventy-Fourth and Park. Given the long history of her family’s seasonings, which Carmen knew were popular in the States, especially around the holidays, when everything is breaded, roasted, dusted and stuffed, the building was large and stately, one of those rare Manhattan mansions that you stopped to marvel at due to its sheer size and beauty.

  Carmen didn’t want to be on the street longer than necessary. She walked up a wide set of granite stairs that led to two massive, lacquered mahogany doors, which gleamed in the sun as if they’d just been polished. She rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer. When the door opened, an older man in a black suit looked out at Carmen with cool dismissal.

  She knew it was because of the way she was dressed. And that her hair was a mess because she had no product with her at the Holiday Inn Express. And that she wore no makeup for the same reason. She probably looked a hot wreck. She felt him judge her in that instant and had to stop him when he started to close the door. He thought she was a transient.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Carmen Gragera. I have an appointment to see Ms. McAdoo.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re Carmen Gragera?”

  “I had a rough night.”

  “Apparently. I apologize for closing the door. Too many people stop by to ask for money. They come in droves. I thought—”

  That I was a bum. “That’s fine,” she interrupted. “I know you’re probably used to seeing something quite different when someone comes to visit Ms. McAdoo. Women in Chanel. Birkins. Skin lifted so far, it’s surprising they don’t have beards. That sort of thing.”

  “I’m afraid, I am.” He opened the door for her. “Please come in. And forgive my manners. Ms. McAdoo is expecting you. I assume you’re carrying?”

  She motioned toward her pocket and he removed her gun.

  “It will be kept in a safe spot,” he said, putting it in his jacket pocket. “And the rest of you?”

  She held out her arms. “There’s nothing more, but feel free to search.”

  He did. Satisfied, he said, “If you’d follow me to the parlor, you can have a seat while I’ll gather her for you.”

  Gather her for me? Am I dealing with another invalid? “If now isn’t a good time—”

  “She’s just upstairs doing her Turtle Breathing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Her Turtle Breathing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s part of her Zen workout. After twenty minutes of Naval Chakra, she always ends with a technique called Turtle Breathing. When she arrives, you’ll find her quite relaxed.” He paused and reconsidered his statement. “Well, as relaxed as Ms. McAdoo can be. I’ve never seen a person with such energy. It’s...inspiring.”

  The way he said ‘inspiring’ made it sound exhausting.

  They went to the parlor, which seemed as if it was sheathed in gold. Gold-colored wallpaper. Deep gold curtains with massive gold tassels at the five floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street. A sprawling gold Aubusson rug that stretched across the parquet floors. Intricately carved gold moldings at the ceilings.

  For punches of color, Babe McAdoo placed a black Steinway grand in the front windows; large paintings on the walls circled the room; and four bright red Victorian chairs, upholstered in crushed velvet, were at the room’s center, facing each other with a marble-topped coffee table between them. There was more, but as much as she wanted to, she didn’t want to take all of it in. She wanted to get to work.

  And yet as Carmen sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, that part of her that admired all that surrounded her couldn’t help but look and assess. What she saw was the real deal, much of it left untouched. Looking around, she thought a lot of people must have an enthusiastic need for McAdoo Seasonings, because what she noted—from the painting of water lilies by Monet to the authentic Tiffany lamp on the table beneath it—couldn’t have been in their collection otherwise.

  There was a disturbance in the air. She heard footsteps coming down the grand set of stairs she saw in the entryway. Then a voice: “Something wet,” she heard a woman say. “Something that pops on the tongue. A spritz of fantastic. And maybe crackers. Or something like that. Figure it out. It’s what you do best, Max. Five minutes. Is she in there?”

  “She is, madam.”

  “I’m dying to meet her. I need this. My body craves this. It’s been too long. Also get some cheese. She might be hungry. I heard she had a hell of a night last night, poor girl. Sprinkle the cheese with the McAdoo lime chile pepper powder. My blend—not the diluted one we shuck on the shelves. It’ll give it a zing. Not too much, though. I don’t want to blow her head off.”

  “Madam...”

  “Poor choice of words, I know.”

  “She’s right through there.”

  “Five minutes, Max. Not a moment longer. You know how I can be after the Turtle Breathing.”

  “Of course. Five minutes.”

  “Off you go.”

  Carmen heard him hurry away. She stood and faced the entrance to the parlor. What came through it was a middle-aged woman, likely near sixty but with some medical assistance, she appeared closer to fifty. Babe McAdoo had dark red hair pulled back into a tight chignon, which revealed a thin, oval face sharpened by years of extreme wealth and all the pressures that came with it. She wore a pale yellow caftan that was so delicate, it made her appear almost ethereal as she moved.

  “Hellohoware?” she said, coming across the room with her hand outstretched. “I’m Babe McAdoo. Call me Babe. Everyone does, but only when I invite them to.”

  “Carmen Gragera,” Carmen said. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Not under these circumstances, I’m afraid. I understand you’ve been dealt a blow. And that you had a difficult night. And that someone is trying to kill you. And that you need my help. Gelling didn’t send you here for just any reason.”

  “He didn’t, though I was under the impression that my conversation with him was private.”

  “As much as it could be, it was. I don’t know any of the particulars, just the generalities. Gelling had to give me something in order for me to agree to see you. I don’t see just anyone. He knows that.”

  Babe McAdoo turned and motioned toward the red chairs. “So, sit,” she said. “Right there. That red chair. Let’s sit and talk. Let’s see what needs to be done and how we can arrange the chessboard so it’s in your favor, not theirs. I live for that!”

  * * *

  After Max returned with the cheese sprinkled with Babe McAdoo’s private blend of their lime chile pepper seasoning, the crackers and two flutes of bubbling champagne, Babe waved him away and lifted her glass to Carmen. “Here’s to getting to know one another.”

  Carmen lifted her glass, touched it against Babe’s, and took t
he smallest of sips. She rarely drank, but she didn’t want to offend this woman, who might be able to help her. Still, to get there, they obviously were going to talk, which made her tense. She already went down memory lane with Gelling. She didn’t want to do so again with another stranger.

  But she would if that’s what it took to get Katzev.

  Babe McAdoo surprised her. She leaned back in her red Victorian chair and folded her right leg elegantly over her left. “You’re all the same,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “None of you want to talk. That’s not a criticism—just an observation. Your privacy means a lot to you. I know it does, for a wealth of reasons, and I get it because my privacy also means a great deal to me because of who I am. I will tell you this, though. I’m no Gelling.” She rolled her eyes and took another sip of her champagne. “The psychiatrist in him has a thirst that won’t be quenched until his withered heart finally shuts down and his spirit slips through his lips and hopefully through a parted window. Only then, when his energy goes out into the universe and finds more answers to more questions than he ever thought possible, will he truly be happy.” She paused. “I think.”

  She put the glass down on the table between them, put some cheese on a cracker and popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored it. “When I said that we should get to know each other, I was just being polite. You don’t have to share your secrets with me, Carmen. However, I would advise that you tell me those things you think will help us find the person or persons responsible for killing your friend, Alex, and nearly you. Otherwise, what’s the point? You’d just be wasting my time, which I can’t have. So, yes, you might have to spill a few secrets along the way. You’ll feel uncomfortable doing so—I get it—but hopefully it will lead to a successful conclusion. Make sense?”

  “I can agree to that.”

  “Terrific. Have a cracker and some cheese. You look famished. Malnourished. Don’t be shy. And if you don’t drink, then let’s not pretend that you do. What would you like?”

  “I’m fine. Really.”