The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And I assume he returned by the same car?”

  “He did,” the man said. She could sense a mix of eagerness and caution in the man’s voice. He’s holding back, she thought. Go easy.

  “Was Eric alone?” she asked.

  “He was,” the man said. “But he wasn’t in your apartment long before he called the front desk, told me that he was expecting some friends and to just show them up when they arrived.”

  Diana looked at Jack. “Who were these friends, Billy? Did you recognize them?”

  The silence that followed wavered like heat from a city street.

  “I didn’t recognize any of them,” he said quietly.

  In that moment, Diana knew he was lying

  “Billy,” she said carefully. “It’s very important that I know who came to my apartment. It’s very important that you tell me if you recognized anyone. Please tell me. There is no need to be frightened. Your name will never be mentioned. If you know anything, you’ve got to tell me.”

  Diana could almost feel the man making his decision, weighing whatever odds he felt needed to be weighed. And then he spoke. “I only recognized one of them,” he said, his voice stronger than it was moments before. “And I’ll be damned if he’s going to intimidate me any longer.”

  Diana was riveted. She leaned forward in her seat. “What are you talking about, Billy? Who’s trying to intimidate you?”

  “Mario De Cicco,” the man said. “The Mob boss. He and his friends came just after Mr. Parker’s first guest left with all those folders. He told me that if anyone learned he was at Redman Place, he’d make me and my family regret it for the rest of our lives.”

  * * *

  From his van on 59th Street, Spocatti waited for Diana Crane to hang up her telephone before he removed his headphones and sat in thought. He carefully dissected the possibilities he now was faced with, tossed around a few ideas and then made his decision.

  He rose from his seat at the rear of the van and moved forward, toward the front of the van, where he reached for his cell phone and dialed Louis Ryan’s private number.

  While he waited for Ryan to answer to the line, he listened to the traffic rushing past him outside. It occurred to him that this assignment was drawing to an end. His time in Manhattan was growing short. For his own safety, for his own protection, he knew that he would soon have to implement a series of plans that would not only alter the future Louis Ryan planned for George Redman, his family and the Redman empire, but which also would assure himself of a safe departure.

  While Redman and his family would indeed die after the fall of Redman International, it wouldn’t be as Louis Ryan planned.

  Ryan answered the line. Spocatti told him everything that had happened during the last twenty minutes in Diana Crane’s apartment. He told him what had to be done. It was a moment before Louis responded. “And you’re certain this will work,” he said.

  “Absolutely certain?” Spocatti said. He was delighted by the tension in Ryan’s voice. “There are no certainties, Louis. But I can promise you this—if you want Redman International to crumble, if you want Redman to burn for what he did to your wife, then this is the way to go. There’s no other choice.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Eric was murdered,” Diana said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Jack sat at the edge of Diana’s desk. As she told him the details of her conversation with Billy, the doorman, he couldn’t help feeling that they were at the threshold of a series of revelations that ultimately would lead them to the person responsible for Celina’s death.

  “Where is Billy now?” he asked.

  “In the lobby. He goes on break in fifteen minutes. I asked him to come here when he clocks out.”

  “You don’t think he’ll run, do you?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Now, more than ever, he needs help. We’re it.”

  Satisfied, Jack watched her reach inside her desk for a pen and pad of paper. She began to write. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Before we call George, I want to have my facts straight, so give me a minute to write them down and we’ll talk when I’m finished.”

  Jack left the desk and moved to the window across the room that overlooked Central Park. The sky was darkening, rain was threatening. The wind blew smartly through the trees, causing their leaves to turn upwards, exposing a paler shade of green.

  Diana dropped the pen onto the desk.

  “Why?” she said. “Why would Mario De Cicco want to kill Eric? It makes no sense.”

  Jack looked away from the window. The last time he heard mention of Mario De Cicco’s name was the night Eric was beaten. He told Diana this.

  “Celina and Leana were there? Why didn’t they do something?”

  “I assume it was because you were handling the situation.”

  “Handling the situation?” Diana said. “I’d just been beaten. I was no more handling the situation than they were.” And then it occurred to her how odd it was that Leana was there. “Was Leana alone?” she asked.

  “She was with two men.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “That was a while ago, Diana.”

  She stared at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “A couple of brutes. Black pants, black shirts.”

  Diana’s mind flashed back to that evening. The two men who burst into Eric’s bedroom were wearing black.

  “When Celina called out her sister’s name, they led Leana away,” he said. “It was then that Celina said Mario De Cicco’s name.”

  Diana leaned back in her chair. “Two years ego, Leana had an affair with De Cicco. She came to my office one afternoon and told me that she was in love with him. I’ve always liked Leana. And I’ve always hated how George treats her. I think she senses this. We aren’t friends, but over the years, she would ask for my advice, or she’d drop in to say hello. I don’t know why she ever confided in me about her affair with De Cicco, but she did. Maybe she needed a sounding board. She doesn’t have many friends.”

  “Was De Cicco in love with her?”

  “No idea,” Diana said. “I told her to stay away from him, but she wouldn’t listen to me, as if that’s a surprise. Leana doesn’t listen to anybody.”

  “Do you think she’s behind this?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” Diana said. “Yesterday, Eric told me that he and Leana almost slept with one another the night of Redman International’s opening. He told me that someone must have tipped Celina off to them, because she walked into the room and caught them in bed together.” She was quiet for a moment. “If Eric thought that person was Leana, there’s no telling what he’d do to her—or what he did to her, for that matter.”

  “Like threatening her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If he did and she went to De Cicco for help, there’s no telling what he’d do to Eric.”

  It sounded plausible, but Diana knew better than to work on whims. “It’s a possibility,” she said. “And that’s all we’ve got—a possibility. At the very least, George should know what we know.” She glanced at her watch. “Billy should be here in a few minutes. Let’s call George now.”

  She reached for the phone just as it rang. Diana answered it. “It’s Billy, Ms. Crane. A Mr. Timothy Parker is here to see you. Shall I show him up?”

  * * *

  Jack followed Diana out of the room and down the winding staircase.

  “You know Eric’s younger brother?” he asked.

  Diana nodded. “He’s studying law at Yale. This summer he’s taking a course on constitutional law and I’ve been helping him over the phone with his dissents. Eric’s parents are in their 80s and Tim probably came in their place to tend to Eric.”

  They moved toward the foyer.

  “Why would he be coming to you?”

  Diana shrugged. “Tim knows Eric and I were seeing each other. I’m sure he knows what happened to C
elina and thought that here was the logical place to come before going to the morgue.” She sensed what Jack was thinking, and said, “Don’t worry—he won’t stay long. The moment he leaves, we’re calling George.”

  There was a tap at the door. Diana wondered how she would comfort Eric’s younger brother when she herself hadn’t dealt with Eric’s death. Deciding there was no best way, she turned the handle—and stumbled back when the door was kicked open.

  Diana tipped over a side table and went down like a ten pin. Her head cracked against the slate floor. Her arm twisted painfully behind her.

  The man who stormed inside was not Timothy Parker. This man was tall and dark, his features chiseled, black hair gleaming.

  As Jack rushed forward to help Diana, the intruder shut the door behind him and removed a gun from his inside jacket pocket. He pressed it against Jack’s forehead.

  As cool steel met flesh, their eyes met.

  Vincent Spocatti cocked the trigger.

  Recognition flashed across Jack Douglas’ face.

  This man was Celina’s murderer.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The secretary tried, but couldn’t stop Leana as she sailed past the woman’s desk and stepped into Louis Ryan’s office. Her hair and clothes were wet from the rain now beating the streets.

  Startled, Ryan turned from the windows he was standing at, faced Leana and waved away the secretary as she rushed inside. “It’s all right, Judy,” he said. “Leana’s always welcome.”

  The secretary looked with annoyance at Leana, then closed the door on her way out.

  Louis began moving across the room, toward his private bath that was behind one of the doors to his left. “You’re soaking wet”” he said. “Let me get you a towel so you can dry off.”

  Leana ran a hand through her hair as she watched him go. She was still trying to forget the argument she had with her father, but it was impossible. She had gone to see her parents with the best intentions and in spite of her mother’s surprising embrace, she left with them shattered.

  We’ll never be close, she kept thinking. He hates me.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t help find Celina’s murderer.

  She knew her father had exhausted his huge network of contacts, applied pressure to where it would be most effective, but he didn’t have the kind of contacts she had. He didn’t have access to the enormous underworld of power that was available to her. Her contacts were among the most powerful men in New York.

  “I’m sorry for barging in like this,” she called. “But I need to talk to you.”

  Ryan emerged from the bathroom with a thick, pale blue towel draped over his arm. With a sympathetic face, he came over to where she was standing and handed it to her. “I’ve been trying to reach you since I learned the news,” he said. “There’s been no answer at your apartment or on your cell. I’m sorry for what happened to your sister, Leana.”

  Leana patted her face with the towel. Later, she would tell him that he couldn’t reach her because had been in Monte Carlo, marrying Michael Archer. Now, there was something more important she had to discuss with him.

  “Celina is why I’m here,” she said. “I want you to help me find the man who murdered her. You’ve got power, Louis. You’ve got contacts. Together, with my father, we’ll find out who did this.”

  Ryan looked at her, but made no move to speak.

  “I need you,” Leana said. “Please help me.”

  Louis sighed. “You’re asking me to help George Redman.”

  She expected resistance and was prepared for it. “In a way, I am,” she said. “But I’m really asking you to help me and to help my sister. If you won’t, Louis, then I’m afraid I can’t work for you. I won’t be at the opening of The Hotel Fifth.”

  She handed him the towel, which he tossed into the bathroom. He shut the door.

  “We both know that’s what you want,” she said. “I’m not stupid. I understand the situation. You want my presence recorded by the press. You want to make my father a laughingstock. Right now, a part of me wants the same. If you still want this to happen, then I’m asking you to help me.”

  Louis’ eyes softened. “Leana,” he said, “regardless of how I feel toward your father, I would never have wanted this to happen to him or to you. What happened to your sister is a tragedy. Whoever’s responsible should pay with his own life.”

  He was sincere. She could hear it in his voice, see it on his face and it surprised her. “Then you’ll help me?” she said. “You’ll do what you can?”

  Ryan raised his head as if to study her. “Of course, I’ll help you.”

  Leana thanked him and turned to leave.

  “Before you leave, I’d like to talk to you about opening night. It’s only two days from now and we haven’t discussed it yet. I know this isn’t a good time, but can you give me a minute?”

  Leana hesitated. “Of course,” she said.

  “The invitations were sent out last week,” Louis said. “And we’ve had a tremendous response. Everyone who matters in Manhattan and various parts of the world will be there—along with the press. They’ll be expecting a speech of some sort.”

  Leana balked. “Louis, I’ll be frank with you. I’ll go to the opening party, as promised, and I’ll mingle with the crowd as you want me to, but I really doubt I’ll have the time or the concentration to write a speech—let alone the energy to deliver one. My sister is dead. Someone is out to destroy my family.”

  “The speech already is written,” Louis said. “Zack Anderson wrote it. It’s brief. It stays on point. People will sympathize with you. It strikes just the right tone. I’ve already approved it. Zack is preparing a final copy for your inspection.”

  Leana cringed at the idea of having to deal with her assistant, Zack Anderson. One of her first duties as manager would be to fire him. “And if I don’t like it?” she asked.

  “Then make whatever changes you want. You’re the manager of this hotel, Leana. The floor is yours.”

  “All right,” Leana said. “I’ll do it. But one other thing. I’m going to need security. Can you provide me with that? There’s no telling who will be in that crowd, or who might slip in. I want to be protected.”

  “I’ve already taken care of that,” Louis said. “The building will be covered in surveillance. There will be men and women in evening wear who are there to trail you and protect you. You’ll note guards around the room and at all entrances—and so will everyone else.” He paused. “But beyond that, one of my best men has been assigned to you. He will be with you the entire night.”

  * * *

  When she left Ryan’s office, she stood beneath a canopy on 47th Street, removed her cell phone from her handbag and punched numbers.

  Curtains of rain were billowing down the avenue, lashing the cars and the crowds on the sidewalk, striking the buildings with peppered force. Finally, a man answered. “Mario’s,” the voice said.

  “This is Leana Archer,” she said. “I need to speak to Mario.”

  “Who is this?”

  He didn’t recognize her married name. “Leana Redman,” she said, shouting above the howling wind. “I need to speak to Mario. Is he in?”

  “Mario’s out,” the man said. “You missed him.”

  “This is important,” Leana said. “Do you know where he went?”

  But the man knew nothing.

  * * *

  As the limousine slowed in front of the brick warehouse, Harold Baines finished injecting the last bit of heroin into the exhausted flesh of his left forearm. He removed the needle from the scarred, swollen vein, and noticed that not one drop of blood leaked to stain his wax-like skin. Although the vein was plump, it was as though it had dried up, becoming nothing more than a purplish cord.

  It was pouring, the rain literally beating against the roof of the car. As the drug gradually began turning his world into the illusion in which he found peace, Harold looked through the side window and up at the decrepi
t warehouse.

  Glimmering in the rain, it seemed to beckon to him, this building with its rotting bricks and broken facade. Shining, it seemed to offer him some solace within its crumbling walls.

  Along the street, several other limousines were parked, their engines idling. Harold checked his watch, squinted to see the time and reached for the briefcase on the seat beside him. He tapped a knuckle against the tinted glass that separated passenger from driver and the glass receded. “I’ll be a while,” he said. “But I want you to wait. I may leave early.”

  The driver nodded.

  Bracing himself for the rain, Harold fled the car and began racing across the slick pavement. The water splashed at his feet. It drenched his shoes. By the time he reached the building’s entrance, his clothes were soaked and he was out of breath, the nests of veins at his temples beating as rapidly as the wings of small birds.

  The door he now stood before was parted slightly, revealing a darkness that was occasionally interrupted by flashes of blue light. Threading through the music that hammered down to him from the floors above, he could hear what sounded like crowds of people. Harold looked behind him, through the tumultuous rain, aware that Louis Ryan might have had him followed again, but not caring. No harm could befall him now. Harold was invincible.

  Inside, his briefcase was accepted by a man in a gorilla suit, who then handed it to a naked woman sheathed in plastic wrap, who then placed it on the floor alongside several other briefcases. A man in leather chaps and nothing else checked the contents and nodded at the gorilla.

  Harold caught the nod and the woman in plastic wrap motioned to the stairs behind him. “There’s a great crowd,” she said, her voice unnaturally deep. “One of the best I’ve seen.”