Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (41 page)

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.

They found a staircase that went below ship and followed a narrow passage to its end. As they turned onto a wider passage and began looking for one of the staterooms, Celina thought that she never wanted a man more than she wanted this man.
 

It came to her then that this would be only the second man she had ever been with, and the thought exhilarated her.
 
She sensed that it would be different with Jack than it had been with Eric.
  
She sensed it would be better.

They stopped in front of a door that was at the end of the hall.
 
Jack opened it and stepped inside.
 
Across the room, seated naked at the foot of a large four-poster bed, was Harold Baines, a rubber tube tied to the sunken flesh of his upper left arm, the needle of a syringe buried in the fold.

Seated behind him was a young man, his legs wrapped around the shadow of Harold’s thinning waist, his waiter’s uniform cast carelessly to the floor.

There was a moment when Harold’s eyes met Jack’s, when shock registered on each man’s face, then Jack quickly closed the door before Celina could see.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

She went for the door.
 
Jack reached for her hand and pulled her toward him.
 
He kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth.
 
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said.
 
“Anyone could walk in on us here and we’d regret it.
 
Here isn't the place.
 
Let’s wait.”

*
 
*
 
*

“This must be some sort of joke,” Elizabeth Redman said in a whisper to her husband.
 
“He can’t be seated here.
 
He can’t be seated at our table.
 
Anastassios knows better.
 
He never would have allowed it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” George said, looking away from Louis Ryan, who was seated opposite them.
 
“Anastassios knows I’m trying to buy WestTex.
 
He knows I’m going to be competition.
 
This is exactly something he would do.”

“Well, I can’t believe it.
  
The man doesn’t even belong here.
 
What does Louis Ryan care about the discovery of twelve Monet paintings?
 
What does he care about HIV and AIDS?
  
Just look at him,” she said in a low voice.
 
“Sitting there, smiling, as if he doesn’t know that we’re here.
 
As if he doesn’t remember what he put us through all those years ago.
 
You murdering his wife.
 
Ridiculous.”

George squeezed her hand.
 
It was a moment before he could dispel the image of Anne Ryan that flashed before his eyes.
 
“Look,” he said quietly.
 
“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him.
 
This was bound to happen someday.
 
Why don’t we just ignore him and enjoy ourselves?”

“I’ve got a better idea.
 
Why don’t we just leave?”

“Because we’re on a boat in the middle of the Hudson.
 
We can’t leave.”

“Oh, please, George.
 
Somewhere on this floating island there’s a helicopter.
 
We can tell Anastassios that there has been an emergency.”
 
She looked around her.
 
Everyone was either sitting down to dinner, or preparing to.
 
The air was a hum of voices.
 
“Where is Celina sitting?
 
Maybe she and Jack wouldn’t mind switching tables with us.”

“I haven’t seen Celina.”

“And I haven’t seen Harold.
 
Look at poor Helen over there, sitting by herself, having to talk to that awful Mamie Fitzbergen and listen to one of her dull conversations about how splashes of Holy water are restoring her youth.
 
You’d think Harold would be more considerate of her.”

“Something isn’t right with Harold,” he said.
 
“He seems distracted lately.
 
Not himself.
 
I’m going to talk to him soon and see if anything is wrong.”

“And when you do,” Louis Ryan said from across the table.
 
“Make sure you give him my thanks.”

His voice cut across the table like a blade.
 
Silence lingered as those seated at the Redman table--and those seated at the tables surrounding it--stopped talking and started listening.

Elizabeth and George turned to Ryan.
 
It was clear by his amused expression that he had been listening to them.

“What do you mean by that, Louis?” George asked.

Louis lowered his chin and peered over his eyeglasses.
 
“I wish I could put it in simpler terms, George, but I can’t.
 
It means that I’d like you to give Harold my thanks.”

George ignored the sarcasm and kept his tone light.
 
“What for?”

“For finding someone to run my new hotel for me.”

George hadn’t become successful in this crowd without possessing the ability to act.
 
He remained calm, even though denial was rising up in him that his best friend would talk to this man.
 
“It’s good that you and Harold have been chatting.”

“Actually, we had a meeting,” Louis said.
 
“And I have to hand it to him--I couldn’t be happier with his choice.”
 
He smiled.
 
“Of course, I should probably be thanking you and Elizabeth, as well.
 
Without your efforts, the young woman Harold brought to my attention wouldn’t be alive today.”

George was slipping, beginning not to care.
 
“Maybe we should talk about this later?” he said.
 
“Another time?”
 
He held up his glass of champagne, lifted it to Louis and drank.
 
“For me, talking business ended a few hours ago.”

It was as if the suggestion went unheard.

Louis eased back in his chair and said, “What strikes me about this young woman is how closely she resembles my dead wife.
 
Do you remember Anne, George?
 
Do you remember how long and dark her hair was?
 
How tan she would get in the summer?
 
How beautiful and stubborn and strong she was?
 
How alive she was?”
 
He paused.
 
“Probably not.
 
I would imagine that killing someone and getting away with it must force a person to stuff down any memory of it.
  
I, on the other hand, have never forgotten.”

At the same instant a reporter stepped forward to take their picture, Louis leaned forward and locked eyes with George.
 
The camera flashed.
 

Elizabeth Redman looked at the reporter with such hatred and stood so quickly that her chair toppled over and crashed to the hardwood deck.

Excitement rippled through the crowd.

The reporter took another picture.
 
And another.

Elizabeth reached down, grabbed her glass of water and threw it in Ryan's face.
 
It caught him by surprise, but his initial reaction was to laugh at her.

And now everyone was watching.
  
George reached out and gripped Elizabeth’s arm before she did something else she would regret.
 
All around them, cameras were popping.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ryan,” he said.

“You don’t even know just how much nerve,” Louis said, wiping his face with a silk napkin.
 
“The person I’m talking about is your daughter, Leana.
 
I’ve hired her to run my new hotel for me.
 
She starts next week.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

While her parents and sister were dining on the world’s largest privately owned yacht, Leana was standing at the corner of Mulberry and Prince.
 
It was dark, a light rain was falling and traffic from the two streets hummed in her ears.

Twelve hours had passed since she was sent the gun.
 
Twelve hours of decisions and indecisions had passed through her mind.
 
Twelve hours left to go before the man carried out his threat.

She glanced around her.

Age-worn brick buildings lined the block.
 
Somewhere in the distance, a woman was crying, shouting, screaming.
 
Leana was aware of the men passing her on the street, and she was aware that they were aware of her.
 
Although she had gone through great lengths to come to this spot and not be followed, she knew that any one of these men could be the man who sent her the gun.

She removed her cell phone from her inside jacket pocket and felt the gun she concealed there earlier.
 
If for some reason the man decided to make his move tonight, she would kill him with his own gun.
 
If I get the chance.

She punched numbers.
 
There was a click and the line began to ring.
 
She waited for someone to answer.
 
Rain whipped against her in sheets, soaking her clothes, chilling her to the bone.
 
She could no longer hear the woman screaming.
 
It was as if her voice had been snuffed.
 
A man walking past her slowed his pace and smiled a smile that had long since ceased being a smile.
 

Leana turned away.
 
She felt the gun pressed against her ribcage.
 
She began to tremble.

Finally, the line was answered by a woman.
 
Leana recognized the voice instantly and knew that once she spoke, the woman would recognize her voice as well.
 
Still, she didn’t hesitate to ask for the one man she should have phoned earlier--the only man who could now help her.
 
“I need to speak to Mario,” she said to his wife. “Tell him it’s Leana Redman.
 
Tell him it’s urgent.”

But the line went dead.

*
 
*
 
*

“Who was that on the phone?”

Lucia De Cicco turned in surprise as Mario entered the kitchen from the foyer.
 
His hair, face and black leather jacket were dripping from the rain.
 
In his hand was the gallon of ice cream she asked him to get.

“I asked who that was.”

“It was no one,” she said.
 
“Whoever was there hung up.”

She moved away from the phone, carefully wiping clean from her face any sign of the anger she felt only moments before.
 
Lucia knew that if she was going to keep her husband, she would have to still whatever rage and jealousy was within her and pretend a woman by the name of Leana Redman didn’t exist.

“You know I don’t want you answering the phone,” Mario said as he removed his coat and shoes.
 
“Not after what happened last week.”