The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (126 page)

“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?

Carmen followed him through the crowd and to the rear of the bar, where there was a wide arched doorway that led to another room.
 
Here, it was somewhat quieter.
 
The decor was the same and there was an identical bar, at which sat Yates, alone—just as they were told he would be.
 

The seats to his right were occupied, but to his left there were two open chairs.
 
Carmen went to the one farthest away from him.
 
The young man pulled out the chair, she smiled over her shoulder at him as she sat down, and then she heard him say to the bartender.
 
“Martini here.”
 
He looked at her as Yates turned to do the same.
 
“Straight up?”

“And with three olives.”

“Belvedere?”

“I prefer the Goose.”

Yates lifted his own martini in an amused toast to her comment and Carmen knew why.
 
This was his drink, and Grey Goose was his choice of vodka.

She looked at him.
 
“I suppose that is an odd way to put it.”

“The French would love you for it.”

“The French would be happy I was buying their vodka.”

“The French know how it’s done.”

“The French almost made me an ex-pat.”

She crossed her legs and put her purse on the bar.
 
Yates, who was indeed fat and hovering somewhere near 80, glanced down at her tanned legs before taking another sip of his drink.
 
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.
 
“I’m Ted Yates.”

“Sophia Bianchi.”

“An Italian drinking French vodka?”

“Consider me a non-conformist.”

“Non-conformist.
 
Ex-pat.
 
What do you believe in?”

“Freedom.”

He laughed at that.
 
“I would have thought Uvix for you.”

Carmen waved her hand.
 
“Vodka never should be made from grapes.”

“It’s actually rather good.”

“As good as the Goose?”

“Probably not that good.”
 

She smiled.
 
“I didn’t think so.”

The bartender came with her drink and she watched Yates look around the room.
 
It was starting to fill up, the din was rising and soon the chair between them would be occupied.
 
“Are you meeting someone tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head and ate an olive.
 
“It’s just me.
 
I’m in town for the week and a good friend who’s a member thought I might enjoy stopping by for a cocktail.”

“What do you think so far?”

“It’s lovely,” she said.
  
“And obviously popular.”

“How’s the olive?”

She chose another and held it to her mouth.
 
“Perfectly soaked in French vodka.”

At that moment, a middle-aged gentleman pulled out the seat between them and started to sit down.
 
Carmen saw the disappointment that crossed Yates’ face and shrugged her shoulders at him, as if she wasn’t sure what to do.
 
The man caught the shrug and asked if anyone was sitting here.
 
And Carmen took the opportunity.

“Actually,” she said.
 
“We were just starting to talk.
 
Would you mind if I slid over and you took my chair?”

“Not at all.”

She sat in the chair next to Yates and lowered her purse so it rested in her lap.
 
She released the latch.
 
The bartender, missing nothing, moved her martini in front of her.
 
She touched glasses with Yates, who once again dropped his gaze to her legs.
 
“This is a nice surprise,” he said.
 
“Nobody ever talks to me here.”

“That’s a curious thing to say.
 
Did you throw a drink in someone’s face?”

“No,” he said, smiling.
 
“But sometimes I’d like to.
 
I’m just old and worn out and not very popular anymore.”

“Sometimes, being unpopular with the wrong crowd isn’t such a bad thing.
 
But if it bothers you, why come?”

“Lot’s of reasons,” he said.
 
“I live nearby.
 
I once had terrific times here, especially when my wife was alive.
 
And I still enjoy myself even if the mood has changed against me.”

“Now you’re creating a mystery.”

He motioned for the bartender to bring two new drinks.
 
“Allow me to deepen it.
 
What I am is a man at the end of his life who’s made his share of mistakes.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“They were public mistakes.”

“I think you’re probably more than that,” she said.
 
“Look at this place.”
 
Her words gave her an excuse to look around the room.
 
People were talking closely and loudly in an effort to be heard.
 
The room was near capacity, which was to her benefit.
 
At the far right of the bar, vodka and vermouth were shaking with ice.
 
Carmen noted that on this side of the bar, he was the only bartender on duty.
 

With distraction on her side, she reached her hand into her purse and grabbed the syringe.
 
And then, as always when she was about perform a kill, she felt the rush of anticipation shoot through her body.
 
“They don’t just let anyone in.”

He held out his hands as if in defeat.

She stuck out her bottom lip and took one of his hands in her own.
 
She came up behind him, the syringe at her side.
 
She looked down at his face and into his liquid blue eyes, and felt nothing when she saw hope, lust and embarrassment reflected back at her.
 

“And besides,” she said, leaning in close so only she, he and the microphones could hear.
 
“You’re Teddy Yates.
 
You could buy and sell all of these people.
 
We both know that just as we both know that Maximilian Wolfhagen would one day make you pay for sending him to prison.
 
Now, it’s time to collect.”

Yates’ brow furrowed and then, just as quickly, his eyes widened with recognition as he saw what was about to happen.
 

But Carmen was quick.
 
She leaned forward as if to kiss him on the neck, but instead, with her hair tumbling over and concealing her hand, she slipped the syringe into his carotid artery and pressed down hard so the contents mainlined into his heart.