The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  Her words had no affect on him. “This must be difficult for you,” he said. “I can’t imagine having to prepare for opening night when your sister’s funeral will be the morning before.”

  He let a beat of silence pass. Leana could almost hear his mind working, could almost feel the precise movement of gears as he tried to find ways to tear her down.

  “I want you to know that if you’re not up to it, that if things become too much, I’d be more than happy and willing to deliver this speech for you.” He held out his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. I was practicing it when you came in.”

  Leana finished reading the speech, not surprised to find that it was eloquent and well written. She handed him the cards. “I did notice,” she said. “But that won’t be necessary.”

  “But the press will be here,” he said. “They’ll be expecting you to be at your best.”

  “And I will be,” Leana said. “Don’t concern yourself with it.”

  For an instant, the compassion in his eyes dissolved into something darker, and then they became carefully neutral. “With all due respect, I don’t see how you could be at your best. You’ve gone through a terrible shock. The entire staff and Louis Ryan are concerned about you. I don’t think it would be wise of you to face our guests and the press when I could do the job just as well.”

  Leana lifted her head. In him she saw a man who would cut his own mother if he thought it would get him this position. “Mr. Anderson, I’m going to be frank with you. I was hired by Louis Ryan to manage this hotel. You weren’t. Instead, you were hired to be my assistant. If you continue questioning my authority, if you continue to lecture me, you’ll be looking elsewhere for work. Is that understood?”

  “I was just trying—”

  “Shut up. Please, just shut the fuck up.”

  Leana looked at her watch and wondered if Mario had returned to the restaurant.

  “My office,” she said. “I assume I have one somewhere in this building. Take me to it.”

  * * *

  Her office was enormous.

  It was located on the hotel’s fortieth floor and it faced downtown, toward The Redman International Building.

  As Leana stepped inside, she noted with interest the illumined Sisley paintings on the forest-green walls, the cream damask sofas and elegant red velvet chairs—each arranged in a way that suggested a designer’s precision—before moving across the faded Persian carpet to her desk.

  Anderson remained in the doorway. “Does this suit?”

  Leana sensed by the terse sound of his voice that his ideas, his tastes and his sweat went into the design of this office. She had a sudden image of him standing in the center of this room, an artist using his mind as a palette, working tirelessly with a team of professionals until his vision was realized.

  She knew, knew that he hoped this office would one day be his and she couldn’t help feeling a little pissed off because of it. “It’s a bit much,” she said. “I mean, look at it—it’s overkill. It’s unbalanced. It lacks imagination. It suggests that whoever did this is trying to impress instead of trying to get their work done. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s understandable,” Leana said. “I grew up surrounded by this sort of shit. My father’s a billionaire, my mother likes to spend money. A lot of it. It’s obvious you came from something more pedestrian than I did, so I get that being surrounded by all these little treasures might be meaningful to you. Still, for me? Boring.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “I’m sorry, too. But it doesn’t work. It’s kind of awful. It’ll do for now, but only until I can get my own team of designers in here and gut the place.”

  She saw the steely hardness in his eyes, the slight change in the set of his jaw and sighed. “I mean, honestly,” she said. “We’re a hotel, not a museum. Whose idea was it to hang all of these fucking Sisley paintings?”

  * * *

  When she was alone, she sat in the leather wingback behind her desk and found it nothing like the leather wingback of her childhood days, the comfortable leather chair that had been in her father’s office and smelled so distinctively of his cologne.

  She felt a sudden pang of regret and wished they hadn’t argued earlier. She should call him now and apologize, she thought. She should swallow her pride and tell him that she was sorry, that she loved him and wanted his support and his friendship.

  Still, when she reached for the phone, it was not her father she dialed. It was Mario’s restaurant.

  Oddly, there was no answer there and it was the lunch hour. As she leaned back in her chair and looked across at her father’s building, it occurred to her that Tuesday would not only be her day, but her father’s as WestTex became Redman International’s. She wondered how that would feel, wondered if the realization of her dream would be as sweet as she always thought it would be.

  Somehow, she thought, without her sister here and without her parents approval, it would be quite different. And she wondered again if she’d made a mistake by accepting this job.

  It wasn’t until later that evening, while at home and relaxing on the sofa with Michael, that she turned on the television to CNN and learned of the explosion that killed two members of the De Cicco crime Family.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Antonio De Cicco heard the bitch before he saw her.

  In the intensive care unit at St. Vincent’s Hospital, he was sitting at Mario’s bedside, holding his hand, when he heard her voice coming from beyond the closed door. She was firm in her demands to see his son, reminding those doctors and nurses on duty that her father built a children’s wing on this hospital and that if they didn’t let her see Mario now, she would have their jobs by the end of the night.

  Angrily, Antonio looked away from the network of tubes coursing through his son’s body and knew that because of Leana Redman, he had lost his daughter-in-law, lost the Family’s trusted lawyer, who was his cousin, and nearly lost his son.

  The pain he felt earlier dissolved into fury and resolve. He would crush her, just as he promised Lucia he would.

  And yet he couldn’t—at least not here. If he made any scene, any threats in public, there would be witnesses—and the D.A., a man who for years had been waiting to lock his ass behind bars, would be on him the moment Leana Redman was murdered at the opening of The Hotel Fifth.

  He sat in thought for several moments, now only dimly aware of the bitch’s presence and her frequently raised voice, before making his decision and reaching for the call button at his son’s side.

  He pushed it and waited. When the nurse arrived, he caught a brief glimpse of Leana Redman before the door to his son’s room closed. She was standing at the nurse’s station, her back to him and she was gesticulating with her hands, arguing with one of the doctors.

  “Yes, Mr. De Cicco?”

  With an effort, Antonio stood and became aware of the trepidation in the young woman’s eyes. “I hear a woman shouting about my son,” he said calmly. “What’s the problem?”

  The nurse seemed perplexed. “It’s Leana Redman, sir. She wants to see him.”

  “And you won’t let her. That why she’s shouting?”

  The woman nodded. “Only the immediate family is allowed to visit.”

  “Then throw her the fuck out.”

  The woman moved to speak, but then hesitated. “It’s her father,” she said. “He’s done so much for the hospital. We’re afraid that if we do—”

  “She’s disturbing the patients,” De Cicco said evenly. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna allow that?” He saw that’s exactly what they planned to do and felt a sharp pulse at his temples.

  “Maybe I should speak to her myself,” he said, coming around the bed and moving to the door. “Stay with my son. I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  She was not the same person he remembered from two years ago.

  As he stepped out of the room and mov
ed into the corridor, Leana turned to him and he was struck at once by the change in her. Her skin was pale beneath the fluorescent lights, her features were sharpened by age, and there was a wise determination in her eyes that made him pause. She hadn’t possessed that before.

  As he neared her, Leana faced him with a defiance that was almost surprising in its strength. Resolve burned in her eyes. Her voice was firm when she spoke. “I’m not leaving until I see him, Antonio.”

  She was in love with his son. The woman had just gotten married and yet she was in love with his son. He could see it on her face, hear it in her voice and he was appalled at her nerve. Did she really believe she could tell him what to do? Order him around like he was one of her servants? He felt sick with his loathing of her—and yet his features remained impassive.

  “Here’s the deal, cunt. You’re gonna be waiting awhile—like fuckin’ forever. You’re not seeing my son.” He looked at the doctor, an older man standing beside Leana. “She has no right to be here,” he said. “If she enters that room, I’ll sue you and this hospital. Is that understood?”

  The doctor had no choice but to agree.

  Antonio looked at Leana, saw the pain on her face, the hatred in her eyes and wondered if Lucia was right. He wondered if this Redman bitch was sleeping with Mario.

  “You’re not wanted here,” he said to her. “Go home to your husband.”

  As he walked away, her death came to him.

  He had an image of her standing in the center of a crowd, shining, immaculate, her eyes brilliant and glinting in the torrent of cameras flashing in her face, her voice clear and confident as she gave the speech he had been told about that morning.

  And then he saw her lifting into the air, toward the chandeliers, her face crumpling as it rose into the halo of her own blood, the hail of bullets ripping from the rear of the room and mangling what had once been her head.

  Behind him, her voice was high and thin: “Antonio—”

  But De Cicco already was in his son’s room. The door swung shut behind him. For now, he was through with her.

  * * *

  Michael stared at the man standing in his entryway, stunned by the drastic change in his appearance, certain he couldn’t have heard him right. “What did you just say?”

  The man, who had flown from L.A. to see Michael, put a finger to his lips and motioned for Michael to follow him out of the apartment and into the hallway. “Hurry,” he whispered. “My plane leaves in an hour and I’m not missing it for you. I’m tired of this bullshit. Your father’s fucking crazy. I’m out of here.”

  Suddenly wary, Michael followed the man to the end of the hall, where there was an illumined wall of elevators, a window that overlooked Manhattan and a tall, potted plant that gleamed as though it had just been waxed.

  The man went to the window, leaned against it and lit a cigarette. He drew deeply on it, the smoke lifting like a veil in front of his face. His name was Bill Jennings and he was Michael’s business manager—a man Michael hadn’t seen or heard from him since the banks foreclosed on him.

  “What’s going on, Bill?” he asked. “You’re not exactly putting me at ease.”

  The man exhaled a cloud of smoke. “We can’t talk in your apartment,” he said. “The fucker probably has it bugged. If I hadn’t shaved off my beard and dyed my hair blond, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

  Michael was losing his patience. “What are you talking about? And what’s this about Santiago?”

  The man couldn’t look Michael in the eyes. “He doesn’t exist” he said simply. “There is no Stephano Santiago. Your father made him up to scare you. For the past year, Louis has been making me skim money from your accounts so it would look as if you’d gone broke. He made me suggest that you try gambling at one of his casinos when the banks finally foreclosed. He knew you’d lose and he knew that you’d eventually go running to him once he made you believe the casino was Mafia-controlled.”

  There was a tension in the air, a disturbance in the silence. The man glanced at Michael, saw the disbelief on his face and screwed up his own. “Ah, shit, Michael. Santiago doesn’t own Aura—your father does, at least part of it. He arranged for you to be offered that loan, knowing you’d be scared shitless when you lost it all and had to pay back a man by the name of Stephano Santiago. He’s been planning this from the start.”

  It wasn’t possible.

  Michael thought of the call he received only that morning, the call warning him to do as his father asked and kill George Redman. And then he thought of his dog. “But my dog,” he said to Bill. “Santiago killed him. He left a note saying he’d do the same to me if I didn’t come up with the money.”

  “Your father killed your dog, Michael. I’m telling you, Santiago doesn’t exist.”

  Pieces of a puzzle he never knew existed began falling into place. Michael thought back to the men who chased him out of his apartment—men Santiago supposedly hired—and realized once again what a coincidence it was that Spocatti had been there to help him. But of course there were no coincidences. His father was behind it all.

  “I hate myself for this, Michael,” Jennings said. “More than you know. But your father said he’d kill me if I didn’t go along with it. He promised he’d make me pay if I didn’t make you believe. Now he’s got people watching this building—that’s why I changed my appearance. If they knew I was here, they’d kill us both.”

  Michael shot him a look. “Am I broke?”

  Jennings removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Michael. “There’s a check in there and instructions. Everything I skimmed was put into another account, under a different name. You have about three million dollars your father said you wouldn’t be needing again.” His last words lingered in the air. Their eyes met and he nodded toward the envelope, now clutched in Michael’s hand. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

  He looked at his watch, saw that he had only an hour to get to La Guardia and swore beneath his breath. He dropped his cigarette into the silver ashtray beside him, pressed the elevator’s down button and said, “I’m not going to the police. I’m leaving that to you. But if you need my help, you can count on it. After what your father’s done, I want that son of a bitch behind bars.”

  The elevator doors slid open and he stepped inside. Michael was about to speak when he heard the faint ringing of a telephone coming from his apartment. The sound echoed hollowly in the empty hallway.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  Jennings shrugged. In his eyes was a look of fear. “As far away from your father as a plane will take me,” he said. The doors started to close. “I suggest you do the same. Leave New York. Take Leana with you. I don’t know what your father is up to, I don’t know why he’s done this, but I do know he’s dangerous. And I know you’re at risk.”

  * * *

  As Michael stood looking at himself in the division of the elevator’s brushed steel doors, he thought he looked like an apparition, a ghost hovering between two separate realities, two worlds of lightness and darkness.

  His father had been manipulating him from the start, playing on his fears and his love for his mother. Although Michael never fully trusted Louis in the weeks that had passed since their reunion, he was starting to do so and it was this that sparked his rage now.

  How could he have allowed himself to be drawn in by the very man who once said he wished it was his son who died all those years ago, and not his wife, Anne?

  Why had he believed in him? Had he been so hungry for the man’s acceptance that he would believe and do anything? Marry a woman he barely knew? Agree to kill a man responsible for his mother’s death? And what if that, too, was a lie?

  The telephone rang again.

  Michael considered ignoring it, but realized it might be his father and so he left for his apartment to answer it.

  “Yes?” he said sharply.

  “Mr. Archer?”

  It was the front desk.
Michael closed his eyes, willed himself to relax. “What is it, Jonathan?”

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s George Redman. Shall I show him up?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The knock came almost at once.

  Michael stopped pacing and looked across the foyer to the door. It was in shadow. A narrow beam of interrupted light shined beneath it.

  George Redman was beyond that door. The man accused of murdering his mother was about to enter his apartment. Michael wondered again why Redman was here and then realized it really didn’t matter—he was glad he was here. Though they’d met only briefly at the opening of the Redman International Building, he now had the chance to stand face-to-face with the man. Alone.

  As he went to the door, it occurred to him that if this apartment was indeed wired, his father would eventually hear every word about to be spoken. And that thrilled him.

  He opened the door and the two men stared at each other.

  Although Redman was well over six feet and had a broad, rugged build, he was somehow different from the man Michael remembered. He seemed smaller, less threatening. His resemblance to Leana was striking.

  An awkward silence passed. Michael could hear one of his neighbors playing a piano. Then Redman extended his hand, which Michael shook. “Thanks for seeing me,” George said.

  Michael stepped aside and asked him to come in. George went to the center of the foyer and looked around.

  “Is Leana here?” he asked.

  “She’s at the hospital.”

  “Then she knows?”

  “We saw it on the news. I tried telling her there wasn’t anything she could do, but she wouldn’t listen and went to the hospital, anyway.”