Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (78 page)

The woman looked over her shoulder at him, smoke jetting from her nose as her eyes widened. “Baby, are you kidding?” she said.
 
“We’re in New York City.
 
Everybody drives like this.”

Michael laughed. “Not quite,” he said. “But I like your modesty.
 
How much do I owe you for the favor?”

“How much you got?”

Enough to get my ass out of this city
, Michael thought.
 
And start over someplace else with Leana.
 
“How about a hundred?” he said.

The woman drew on her cigarette, braked as another cab cut in front of her. “I know who you are,” she said.
 
“I’ve read your books, seen your movies.
 
You were hot in that last one,” she said, gazing at his chest.
 
“You’re probably worth millions.
 
Hundreds of millions.
 
Let’s say you give me three bills and if anyone asks, I’ll say I never saw your fine white ass.”

Michael couldn’t help a smile. “You got a deal,” he said and handed her the money. He looked once more through the rear window, saw no sign of Spocatti’s van in the torrent of traffic and felt peculiarly, unreasonably safe. “You can let me off here,” he said. “I think we’ve lost him.”

The woman pulled to the curb, where another fare was waiting to be picked up. Cars whooshed past in a rush of exhaust. “Oh, honey, I know we lost him,” she said as Michael stepped out.
 
“I was watching.
 
Fool was almost hit by a mail truck.
 
Trust me.
 
If he’s anywhere in the vicinity, I’ll pull out my damn weave.”

*
 
*
 
*

He pulled out his cell phone and called Leana at her office.

“It’s me,” he said.
 
“What do you say about a late dinner tonight, after the party? There’s this small French restaurant in the Village that’s open late. The food’s great and so is the house wine.
 
I know it’s late notice, but a little romance might take your mind off things.”

Leana was silent for a moment, thoughtful.
 
Michael looked down the busy street, his gaze sweeping the crowds on the sidewalk, the traffic on Fifth.
 
And then he saw Spocatti’s van, black as the night, moving slowly down the avenue.

Absolutely unmoving, Michael watched the van until it faded from sight.
 
Leana said, “Have I told you recently how terrific you are?”

“As a matter of fact, you haven’t.
 
But you can tonight.
 
Should I take that as a ‘yes’?”

“You can take that as a definite yes.
 
Dinner sounds great.
 
I’ll see you later.
 
It’s a madhouse here.”

*
 
*
 
*

He took a cab to a travel agency on Third Avenue.

“I need two tickets to Madrid,” he said to the agent.
 
“Leaving tonight, on the red eye.”

The agent, a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and impossibly long eyelashes, started typing information into her computer.
 
“It’s going to be expensive,” she said.
 
“And tough to get seats.
 
The airlines might be booked....”

“I don’t care about the cost,” Michael said.
 
“And it doesn’t have to be Madrid.
 
It can be anywhere in Europe, but the flight must leave tonight--after midnight.”

“After midnight,” the woman repeated.
 
“Right.
 
Gimme a second....”

He looked through the agency’s great expanse of windows, saw tourists and businessmen hurrying by on the sidewalk, well-dressed women carrying shopping bags, a homeless man pushing a rusty shopping cart. There was no sign of Spocatti.

“Madrid’s out,” the agent said.
 
“So is London and Paris.
 
Have you ever been to Milan?”

“Several times,” Michael said.
 
“And I love it there, especially in the summer. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Her fingers danced over the keys.
 
Michael looked back out the window--and this time saw a woman, standing at the curbside, leaning against a mailbox, flipping through a newspaper.
 
She seemed familiar to him, as if he had seen her somewhere before.
 
He couldn’t remember where.
 

“Bingo,” the agent said.
 
“I can reserve two first-class seats for you to Milan.” Michael’s brow furrowed.
 
He leaned forward in his seat and continued looking at the woman on the street.
 
“Leaving when?” he asked.

“12:34 this morning.”

Michael reached for his wallet.
 
The woman on the street tossed her newspaper into a metal wastebasket and now was using her cell phone.
 
She started punching
 
numbers. She looked over at him.
 
Their eyes met and she looked casually away.

Michael gave a start--he knew that face.
 
Earlier, when he and Leana left their apartment to flag a cab, this woman had been walking toward them, a newspaper tucked beneath her arm.
 
She had glanced at him as she passed.

At the time, Michael thought how striking she was, her dark good looks classically European.
 
Now, he sensed with a cold needle of fear that she worked for Spocatti.

He looked at the agent, his heart pounding.
 
“How much are the tickets?” he asked. “I’m in a hurry.”

The woman told him.
 
“I’ll need your name,” she said.
 
“Along with the name of the person you’re traveling with.”

“I’m traveling with my wife,” Michael said, handing her the cash.
 
“Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ryan.”
 
He looked back out the window and saw with a start that the woman was gone.
 
He left his seat, went to the windows and searched the crowds on the street.

But there was no sign of her.
 
It was as if she had disappeared.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Michael felt heavy with dread.
 
He turned away from the windows, faced the puzzled agent and saw that she had placed a receipt for their E-tickets in an envelope.

“As a matter of fact, something is wrong,” he said.
 
He crossed to her desk, pocketed the tickets and removed his wallet, handing her a hundred dollar bill.

“If there’s another way out of here,” he said, “that’s yours.”
 

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Leana moved swiftly across the busy lobby, checking each table as she passed it, Zack Anderson at her side.
 
“It’s getting late,” she said.
 
“Why haven’t the flowers been delivered?”

“Good question,” Anderson said.
 
“I called the florist an hour ago, gave them hell and was told that they’re on their way.”

“On their way?” Leana said.
 
“Where is this florist located?”

“On Third and Forty-fifth.”

Leana shook her head.
 
“That’s a ten-minute drive from here.
 
Give them a call and tell them if they want our account, they’ll have those flowers here within those ten minutes.
 
No excuses.”

“Right.”

“What about security?” she asked.
 
“Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“They are here,” he said.
 
“They arrived shortly after you.”

Leana looked around the lobby.
 
At first she noticed only the staff of decorators who had been there for days, fussing over details she herself would never have considered.
 
The lobby now held three hundred tables for six, four ornate bars flown in from Hong Kong, a sophisticated sound system that would amplify her voice to hundreds of people.

And then, to her right, she noted a tall, rugged man in a black dinner jacket.
 
He was speaking into his lapel as he stepped behind the waterfall.
 
High above on the third level, she noticed another man inspecting one of the alarm systems.
 
And behind her, the wait staff was listening closely to a group of five identically dressed men.

“How many are they?”

“Thirty,” Zack said.

“Not enough.
 
Talk to whoever’s in charge and tell them I want at least twenty more brought in.
 
In a few hours, this place is going to be filled with some of the most influential people in the world.
 
I want them safe.”

Anderson nodded and as Leana watched him walk away, she wondered if their scene the other day had worked.
 
He was a different person now--not judgmental, willing to take direction, polite.
 
Without his help, she knew none of this would be going so smoothly.

With a last look around, she took an elevator to her office and phoned Louis Ryan at Manhattan Enterprises.

“It’s Leana,” she said.
 
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course you’re not disturbing me,” he said.
 
“I was just about to call you.
 
Did you receive my flowers?”

Leana admired the enormous spray of roses on her desk.
 
“Of course, I did,” she said. “How could I miss them?
 
They’re take up the room--and they’re beautiful.
 
Thank you.”

A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You know,” she said.
 
“I might have to use them in the lobby.”

“Having trouble with the florist?”

“You could say that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
 
“Something always goes wrong at the last minute and then it rights itself.
 
The florist will show and things will be fine.
 
Are you having trouble with anything else?”

“No,” she said.
 
“Everything is going smoothly.”

“Then what can I do for you?
 
Need a Xanax?”

Leana smiled.
 
“Actually, I’m not nervous at all.
 
I was calling to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding the man who murdered my sister.”

“That’s one of the reasons I was about to call you.”

Leana was suddenly alert.
 
“Have you found him?”

“No,” Louis said. “But I’ve hired a man who will.
 
His name is Vincent Spocatti, he’s one of the world’s best private investigators and he’s certain he can find the man who killed Celina.
 
Tonight, after the party, I want you to meet him.”