The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  But when she showed Wolfhagen the photographs, his reaction wasn’t the rage or the fear she’d been anticipating, but delight as he casually flipped through them.

  “He asked me which one I liked best,” she said. “He actually looked me in the eye and asked which one would work best for the front page of the Post—the photo of him going down on the old man in leather, or the one with him pushing the naked prostitute out of his car.”

  She sipped her tea. “I thought I could intimidate him. I thought the photographs would be enough, but I was wrong. He set me up. He wanted me in that limousine for a reason, said if I was going to judge him, I’d better be prepared to judge Mark as well, because they were one in the same.”

  “What did he do to you, Maggie?”

  “Oh, not to me, Marty—at least not yet.”

  That got his attention. “Then to Mark.”

  “The limousine had a television and a DVD player. Wolfhagen hit the remote, told me to watch the screen.” She looked at him with a sadness and a rage that was so deeply entrenched, it hardened her face. “And there was Mark,” she said. “Naked. In the middle of all these people. Wolfhagen turned up the volume, tried to make me listen to what they were doing to him, but all I could do was sit there wondering how in hell he’d superimposed Mark’s face on another man’s body.”

  The vulnerability he sensed she rarely showed anyone was back and alive. “How did you get that scar?”

  “Wolfhagen.”

  “Did he cut you?”

  “Actually, he shoved my head through the limousine’s side window.”

  Though he was startled by the violence of it, he pushed forward without pausing, not wanting to lose momentum. “Why?”

  “That video was playing. Everything I’d hoped for was gone. I’d brought a gun with me for protection, but when I went for it, Wolfhagen was quicker and he shoved my head through the window.” She stopped at the memory of it. “I must have blacked out, because when I woke, I wasn’t in the car. I was in his club and Wolfhagen had just murdered a man.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  She shook her head. “He was tied down. His forehead was strapped to the table. I could barely see his profile. There was too much confusion.”

  “What did Wolfhagen do to him?”

  “He slit this throat.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he was Wolfhagen. Because at that point, he was so high, he was delusional. He literally thought he was a god.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Shouting. Things getting out of hand. People screaming. But I’d lost a lot of blood at that point and my memory isn’t as clear as it should be. I think I was coming in an out of consciousness.”

  “Who was there?”

  “A lot of people. When I got home, I wrote down the names of those I could remember. I think there are some who think I saw the murder, and those who don’t. But I did. Wolfhagen would have killed me too if Peter Schwartz hadn’t gotten him out of there. He would have killed me. And do you know what I keep thinking after all these years? You know what I go to bed with every night? A part of me wishes he had.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Because I was scared. I thought they’d come after me. I’ve always thought that. It’s why I took a self-defense course. It’s why I took classes on how to shoot a gun. There are too many people who know I know what happened. I thought I’d be dead years ago. It’s why I told you I can’t be connected in any way to this because they’ll come for me. I’m surprised I’m sitting here now.”

  “Wolfhagen filmed everything that happened at that club, didn’t he?”

  “He did, but only a few people knew about it. That whole club was designed for blackmail. That’s the reason it was created. It’s one of the ways Wolfhagen got his inside information. When he wanted a favor from a senator or from the president of a corporation, a bit of information that could make him a fortune on the street, all he had to do was invite them to the club. He’d slip something into their drink, they’d do something stupid, it was all caught on tape. Then, when it was time to collect, he’d pick up a phone, invite that person to lunch at his office, and if they refused his favor, he’d show them how well they performed at their audition. Maybe they’d be fucking a prostitute. Maybe it was a hell of a lot worse.”

  “How did you find out about the tapes?”

  “Mark. When I was on that table, he threw a towel over my face. When I took it off, he put it back on and leaned down to my ear. He told me there were cameras. He told me not to remove the towel.”

  “But it was too late at that point. You already were on camera.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “And that’s why I took the disc marked November 2007 from Schwartz’s hidden room tonight.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I destroyed it. There are more out there—there have to be—but at least I got one of them. At least I got that.”

  His cell phone rang, which startled each of them. Maggie ran a hand through her hair while Marty answered. There was static on the line. Movement on the other end. “Hello?” he said.

  A man’s voice: “Put Maggie Cain on the phone.”

  Marty’s heart skipped a beat. Did somebody know they were here? Nobody had entered the cafe since they’d sat down, but that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t be waiting for them outside.

  He looked at Maggie, who was now watching him intently, her slender body so taut, he could almost feel the tension as if it was a wire stretching between them. “There’s no one here by that name,” he said irritably. “Who is this?”

  “Put her on the phone, Spellman.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Put her on the phone.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  “It’s Mark Andrews,” the man said. “And I know she’s with you. If either of you wants any chance of ending this, you’ll do as I say and hand her the phone now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  9:38 p.m.

  In the safe house on Avenue A, Carmen grabbed a satchel of supplies, followed Spocatti into their shithole of a bathroom and ripped open his shirt. She paid no attention to the buttons that popped off and ricocheted off the peeling walls. She was in a hurry. They needed to move.

  She could sense Spocatti looking down at her.

  “Horny?” he asked.

  “Shut up, Vincent.”

  “Because I’d be happy to fuck you,” he said. “Release some of this unnecessary tension between us. Consider it my way of apologizing for leaving you behind.” He grabbed a handful of her ass, but she was fast. Just as quickly, she grabbed his crotch and squeezed it hard, so much so that he released his hand and, through the pain, put it on top of hers. He squeezed his crotch with her. “How does that feel?” he asked. “Big enough to make you forget you had a bad day?”

  She knocked his hand away. “I don’t need your mercy fuck, Vincent.”

  “It wouldn’t be one.”

  “Let me fix your arm.”

  He put her hand back on his crotch and she was surprised by how much it had grown. “What do you say?” he said. “I fuck you, you do your nurse duties and then we get back to work?”

  She’d be a liar if she said she wasn’t attracted to him, but this isn’t how she played it, and she knew it was the same for him. He was testing her, just as always.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re sweet, Vincent. And that’s quite a package you’ve got. Your old man would be proud. But I’m going to clean your arm now, you’re going to let me do it and then we’re going back out. You know why?”

  He had an amused look on his face. “Tell me,” he said.

  “Because if we don’t finish this job soon, we’ll have blown it. The police are onto us. So are Maggie Cain and her P.I., who now knows for certain that we’re working for Wolfhagen. If
this isn’t front-page news by tomorrow, then it will be the next day. And all those people who once testified against Wolfhagen who aren’t already dead will know that soon they will be. And then they’ll flee.”

  “Schwartz won’t flee.”

  Spocatti took him out days before Carmen arrived from Spain. There were two others in the city sitting in their own chilled living rooms, poised exactly like Schwartz. Only, those people had been dead longer. “No,” she said. “Not unless those maggots sprout wings.”

  She removed the last of his shirt. He hadn’t lost much blood. Cain’s bullet only grazed him. Still, if she didn’t clean and stitch it properly, it would become infected and then they’d really be in for it. Given their records, there were no hospitals available to them.

  She removed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the satchel and soaked a clean cloth with it. She pressed it against his arm and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t wince. “I’m not losing out on a $10 million bonus for you, Vincent.”

  “I don’t expect you to. I was just offering you my cock, Carmen. Frankly, I’m offended you don’t want it.”

  She looked up at him and was about to speak when the look on his face stopped her. Gone was any trace of humor. Back was the cold man with the hard eyes and the set mouth that reminded her again why she never could trust him.

  He took the bottle of rubbing alcohol from her hand, poured it over the wound and allowed it to splash into the sink. He saved half for the clean-up and handed the bottle back to her.

  “Get a needle,” he said. “Stitch me up. It’s past nine-thirty. I want to be out of here in fifteen. We have four people on our list and we’re getting through them tonight.”

  She looked surprised. “I thought there were five.”

  “There were,” he said. “But I had an opportunity to take out Alan Ross earlier today and so I did.” She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “I’m not explaining it to you. Later, you can watch the footage yourself to see how it went down. Just stitch me up so you can take care of that scrape on your forehead and make yourself look pretty. We know Yates’ routine. He’ll be sitting at that bar in twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  When they left the building, Carmen was a new woman.

  Her face was clean, she’d applied fresh makeup, brushed her hair, concealed the scrape and changed into a short black dress that revealed long, slender legs and a robust bust. Her dark hair tumbled down her back and swung when she moved. In her ears were faux black diamonds that concealed tiny microphones. The brooch she wore was a camouflaged miniature camera. She was beautiful, she knew it, and just how deeply she knew it was reflected in the confident way she held herself.

  She was wearing heels for the first time in what seemed like months and even though she hated them, she knew how important they were. This next job was all about illusion. As pretty as she looked right now—and as sexy as she was without going over the top—it was just a tool to generate the interest of one man.

  Spocatti was ahead of her, climbing into the van parked curbside. Carmen went to the passenger-side door and slid in. She opened the small, jeweled black purse she’d brought with her, checked her gun to make certain it was loaded, looked for the syringe Spocatti had filled with a lethal dose of potassium chloride and, satisfied, snapped it shut.

  The drove uptown in silence.

  When they arrived at a private club called The Townhouse, which was just off Park on 67th Street and which Wolfhagen had made arrangements for Carmen to enter, Spocatti stopped at the street corner to drop her off.

  “Stick to the plan,” he said. “Don’t pull another Hayes.”

  She lowered the illumined visor for a final check of her appearance. “I learned my lesson, Vincent. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yates is fat and lonely and old. This should be easy for you. I’m expecting you to be out of there in twenty.”

  “He’s also worth billions, which erases age and weight. I have no idea what I’m walking into or which starlet will be trying to charm him when I find him. But I’ll be quick. And I’m better looking than most. Expect to hear from me in fifteen.”

  “Don’t use the gun.”

  She was growing tired of him. She was every bit as good as he was and he knew it. She applied a last swipe of lipstick, smacked her lips together, shut the visor and opened the door. She pulled her hair away from her face and turned to look at him. Her voice was steady when she spoke. “Cut the condescending bullshit attitude toward me or you’re finishing this alone.”

  On the street, it was quiet. This was mostly a residential neighborhood, but there were a handful of restaurants and, of course, The Townhouse, which was two-thirds of the way down the street on the right.

  Carmen moved down the sidewalk as if on air.

  She was still in pain from the bookend Cain smashed against her side, but unlike most people, Carmen didn’t mind the pain. Her awareness of it only made her focus more intently on the task at hand and so she moved through it, holding herself with the confidence of the rich, her black dress swinging along with her hair as she approached the building’s red-carpeted entrance.

  At the top step stood a middle-aged man in an expensive business suit. His hands were behind his back and he smiled at her as she approached. “Welcome,” he said when she took the steps. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

  She smiled at him.

  “Are you here to meet someone?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m in town for the week and a guest of one of your members.”

  “May I ask who?”

  “George Redman.”

  “Your name?”

  “Sophia Bianchi.”

  From behind his back, he pulled out an iPad. Carmen watched him turn it on and, in the glow reflected upon his face, move his finger down the screen until he arrived at her name, which he clicked. “Perfect,” he said. He stepped aside and opened the glass and bronze door. “Have you been to The Townhouse before?”

  “First time.”

  “You’ll find a lively crowd on the first level, a terrific new talent performing wartime standards on the second, and the lounge on the third. Waiters are throughout, so you won’t want for a drink. But if you are looking to relax with a cocktail before potentially coming upon someone you know, I recommend the lounge first.”

  She moved past him and then, turning on her heel, stopped on the cusp of entering the crowded room. “Actually, I am hoping to find an old friend here tonight. Do you happen to know if Ted Yates has arrived?”

  “You’ll find him in the lounge.”

  * * *

  When it came to taking a life in public, Carmen was no stranger.

  She’d slit throats in Sicily during open-air operas, she’d broken necks in Paris while shopping for shoes in the Marais, she’d swept down the Alps and caused one especially difficult man to go flying into a tree, and on one job in Vienna, she’d taken down a pedophile priest (and a few unfortunate others who were there to absolve their sins) when she poisoned the wine being offered at Communion.

  Now, as she walked into a room that harkened back to another time—dark mahogany woodwork reaching to the tall ceilings, Tiffany windows and fixtures splashing color along the golden walls, lights dimmed just low enough to flatter the well-appointed crowd—she felt suddenly recharged with the life she was about to take.

  Ted Yates had earned his billions thanks to Wolfhagen and, in turn, Wolfhagen had earned at least part of his fortune thanks to Ted Yates. With their contacts, their knowledge and insights into national and international markets—not to mention Wolfhagen’s ability to garner inside information—they once were an unassailable team, until Wolfhagen was charged, put on trial and had to face Yates when he took the stand to testify against him.

  For his trouble, Yates was offered immunity, as was everyone. As a slap on the wrist, everything was taken from him save for his apartment on Fifth and all the money he’d managed to tuck away in Swiss accounts. In all, he
’d lost close to a billion in cash, securities and property, but it was just a dent in what he really had at his disposal. Though people assumed but could never be sure, Ted Yates was among the wealthiest men in the world.

  And today he would die.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked Vincent while turning her head to toy with one of her earrings.

  “I can hear you.”

  “And the brooch? You can see everything?”

  “You’re fine, Carmen. Move.”

  At the end of the room was the staircase that led to the two additional levels. There also was an elevator to the left of the staircase. In a glance, she could see it was the building’s original elevator—this crowd would have it no other way—and that it likely was too slow for her needs.

  And so Carmen moved through the smiling crowd, took to the stairs and passed the level on which a young woman was singing “The Memory of Your Face,” which was just ironic enough to make Carmen smile. The woman was so good, Carmen longed to listen, but there was no time. She went quickly up the last flight of stairs and into the lounge, which was dominated by an enormous mahogany bar and just as crowded as each of the rooms below.

  A man stopped beside her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”

  She looked at the shallow bowls with their bubbling stems and couldn’t deny that she wanted one. She looked at him and also couldn’t deny that with his dark wavy hair, broad shoulders and classic Greek looks, that she wouldn’t mind having him either. “I’m more of a martini girl.”

  “I’d be happy to get one for you.”

  “You’re kind,” she said, sweeping the bar and finding no trace of Yates. “But I think I’ll just sit at the bar, if I can find a seat.”

  “You won’t find one here,” he said. “But there is room on the other side.”

  Other side?