The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (127 page)

It was over in seconds.
 
His eyes growing wider, Yates placed his hand over his neck and tried to speak.
 
But he couldn’t.
 
His heart was seizing up.

Carmen backed away from him and positioned her body so his last few breaths were caught on camera.
 
She dropped the syringe into her purse, blew him a kiss and lowered her head slightly as she left him behind and moved through the enthusiastic crowd.
 

It didn’t take long.
 

Behind her, she heard the crash of a chair hitting the ground, women screaming, men shouting for someone to call 911, and then she was on the stairs, hurrying past the singer who now was belting out something jazzy on the second level, and then she entered the first floor, where the crowd was tighter than before.
 

She slipped through it.
 
As she neared the door and the doorman she’d encountered earlier, she was completely composed.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

“Afraid so,” she said.
 
“One drink limit.
 
My flight leaves first thing.
 
But it was nice to see Teddy even if he wasn’t feeling well.”
 
She moved past him and took the stairs.
 
“Good night.”

He nodded at her and with that, she walked down the street toward Vincent, who was waiting for her in the van she could see at the end of the street.
 
She stepped into it and he pressed the gas.
 
“How long was I?” she asked.

“Just over twenty.”

She couldn’t still the disappointment that washed over her.
 
She had promised him fifteen and she’d blown it.

Spocatti turned the wheel and they started moving toward their next target.
 
Carmen stepped to the back of the van, where she changed into comfortable clothes and then checked the contents of a large satchel that was at the center of the van.
 
It was all there.
 
With an uneasiness that was alien to her, she moved back to the front passenger seat and sat down.
 

Everything was in place.

Spocatti broke the silence.
 
“Killing Yates wasn’t easy,” he said.
 
“But you pulled it off.
 
You did well.”

She pulled her hair away from her face and knotted it into a ponytail.
 
“I’m worried about this next one,” she said.

“I agree, but we need the distraction.”

“There are other ways to cause a distraction.”

“You’re just a woman going for a walk.
 
You’re too sharp for anyone to know what else you’re up to.
 
I know you’ll be discrete.”
 

She pulled hard on the knot, turned her hair up into a bun and reached down into the bag at her feet.
 
Inside was a cap with realistic blonde ponytail attached to it.
 
She put it on and checked herself in the visor’s mirror.
 
“Powerful people live there.
 
There has to be some level of protection on that street that we’re not considering.
 
Are there cameras?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, I’ve checked.”
 
He turned to her.
 
“I’m putting neither of us in jeopardy for Wolfhagen, Carmen.
 
I could give a shit about him.
 
But just like you, I’ve been paid.
 
I’ve done my work and I’ve checked that street.
 
It’s clean.
 
Now we stick to the plan.
 
Just walk at a regular pace.
 
When you bend, do it quickly.
 
I won’t be far behind.”

“I want that bonus, Vincent.”

“We both do.
 
We’ll get it.”

The van weaved through traffic, Spocatti caught a string of green lights and started uptown toward East 75th Street.
 
He didn’t say another word to Carmen and she felt she knew him well enough to know why.
 
What they were about to do next was critical not only because it would take out the one woman who delivered the trial’s most damning testimony against Wolfhagen, but also because it would cause a massive, city-wide panic that would allow them to complete their night’s work and finish this job for good.

But the downside was beyond comprehension and almost crippling for her to fathom, just as it had been when Spocatti first had the idea.
 
If they pulled this off—and given the planning and preparation that had gone into this particular job, there was no reason for her to believe it wouldn’t go off—hundreds of innocent people could die and buildings would fall as a part of Manhattan was wiped off the face of New York City forever.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

9:38 p.m.

While Carmen was busy putting stitches into Spocatti’s arm and preparing to kill Ted Yates, Maggie Cain was preparing to talk to a dead man.

Marty handed her his cell, but kept his thumb pressed against the receiver so he couldn’t be heard.
 
“I don’t know what’s going on here or if this person is who he says he is, but I need you to play it cool.
 
Either he’s for real or we’re being set up.
 
I’ve never heard his voice before.
 
You should know immediately whether it’s him.”

She shook her head at him.
 
“What are you talking about?”

He put a finger to his lips and lifted his thumb from the receiver. Maggie took the phone.
 
“Hello?” she said.

“Maggie, it’s Mark.”

A chill went through her—it couldn’t be him.
 
She looked up at Marty in denial, but in spite of the poor connection, she was almost certain it was Mark’s voice.

“I need your help.”

There was a crackling on the line, a buzz of interference.
 
She put a hand over her free ear and tried to focus on his voice in spite of the sudden racing of her heart.
 
She watched Marty grab a napkin and start to write on it.
 
For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
 
Her world was drawing in on itself and then, in a flash, there was only the truth standing in front of her.
 
She stared at it for a moment and then walked into it.

“How can this be you?” she said.
 
“I went to your funeral.
 
I was with your parents when your body arrived from Spain.
 
I saw them lower your coffin into the ground and bury you.”

“But you never saw
me
, Maggie.”

That stopped her.
 
He was right—she hadn’t seen him.
 
He arrived in a body bag.
 
Only his parents were allowed to physically see him.
 
“But your parents saw you,” she said.
 
“Your parents would have told me if it wasn’t you.”

Marty pushed the napkin in front of her.
 
She looked down and read:
 
“Get him to reveal something only the two of you would know.”

“My parents know what’s happening.
 
They’ve known from the beginning.
 
Wolfhagen is killing everyone who testified against him.
 
When I was running in Pamplona, I was stabbed by an American.
 
He was dark.
 
Maybe of Italian or Spanish descent.
 
Before he stabbed me, he told me that Wolfhagen wanted to thank me for ruining his life.”

Something was wrong.
 
His voice wasn’t right.
 
It sounded like him—but there was something off about it.
 
Something raw.
 
“This isn’t you.
 
This isn’t Mark’s voice.”

“I’ve had several operations, one on my larynx.
  
I’m still healing, Maggie.
 
I’m in rough shape.”

“Answer a question for me.”

“Anything.”

“What’s my cat’s name?”

“Baby Jane.”

Anyone could know that.
 
The real test was if he answered her next question correctly.
 
If he did, there would be no doubt in her mind that this was Mark because it was their private joke.
 
“But what do you call her?”

He didn’t hesitate.
 
“Blanche,” he said.
 
“She’s always been Blanche to me.”

She put a hand to her mouth.
 

“She’s never been as tough as you think she is.
 
She’s a wimp.
 
She’s always been a wimp.
 
You got it wrong.
 
You should have named her Blanche.”

How many times had he said just that to her?
 
She looked up at Marty and nodded.
 
“It’s him,” she said.
 
“It’s him.”

“Find out where he is.”

Her whole body started to shake.
 
“Where are you?”

“I was in a Spanish hospital for a week before I was able to reach the FBI and tell them what happened.
 
I’ve been under their protection since.
 
Their doctors have been treating me for the past several weeks.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be alright.
 
But right now I’m shit—I’m filled with steel rods.
 
I’ve got new knees.
 
They had to rebuild my nose.
 
I’ve got a long road ahead of me, Maggie.”

She was fighting back tears.
 
“When can I see you.”

“Tonight,” he said.
 
“But only briefly.
 
The FBI knows you’re working with Marty Spellman on this.
 
They want you both to come in and talk, tell them what you know.
 
Can you do that?
 
I need you to do that.”

She told Marty, who nodded.

“Where are you?”

He gave her directions, but the directions didn’t make sense.

“Why are you there?” she asked.
 
“Why aren’t you in a hospital?”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said.
 
“I’m supposed to be dead.
 
If they put me in a hospital, the media would be all over it and my cover would be blown.
 
The FBI has safe houses all over New York.
 
I was put in one of them.
 
It’s critical that I appear dead.
 
It’s critical that no one sees me until this is over.”

It made sense.

“When can you be here?”

She asked Marty.

“An hour,” he said.

She looked confused.
 
They were only twenty minutes away.
 
She was about to speak when he held up a hand.
 
“An hour,” he said firmly.

“We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Why so long?”