The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (3 page)

For him, the nightmare was over.

“Where did you learn that?” Mark asked.

Celina’s face was pale.
 
“My roommate in college had a sister who was a nursing student.
 
She used to teach us things I never thought I use.
 
One of them was how to perform CPR.”

“Not so worthless,” he said.

Together, they looked at the spotlights Mark had removed.
 
Although they were no longer burning, the air around them was dim with smoke.
 

“Why did they explode?” she asked.

Before Mark could respond, a fireman approached and answered her question instead.
 
“I’ll show you.”

She exchanged looks with Mark and stepped over to one of the smoldering lights.
 
There, they watched the man pull two frayed, blackened wires from the now empty light socket.
 
“Do you see these wires?”

They nodded.

“They shouldn’t be there.”
 
He bent to his knees and asked Celina and Mark to do the same.
 
On the back of the spotlight, he pointed to a small hole where the metal was contorted and twisted out of shape.
 
“This hole shouldn’t be there, either.”

Celina braced herself for what was coming and the uproar it would cause.

“Off the record?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s not confirmed, but it’s obvious.
 
The spotlights were rigged with plastic explosives.
 
When the power was turned on, the electricity came into these two wires and set off the bombs.”

“Who would plant three bombs here?” she said.

“That’s for you and the police to figure out.”

CHAPTER TWO

George Redman left the limousine, moved to the front of The Redman International Building and was engulfed by reporters.
 

He pushed through the crowd and tried to ignore the cameras and microphones being thrust in his face.
 
His world was the twin glass doors ahead of him.
 
He would say nothing until he spoke to Celina—but that didn’t stop the reporters or their cacophony of voices.

“Can you give us a statement?”

 
“Do you think this has to do with your plans to take over WestTex? The recent decline in Redman International’s stock?”

“Who’s responsible for this, Mr. Redman?”

George glanced at the reporter who asked that question and then pressed forward, thinking it was the best question yet.
 
Who was responsible for this?

Celina was waiting for him beyond the doors and, as George embraced her, he thought she never looked or felt better to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”
 
Knowing her father as well as she did, Celina said, “Really.
 
I’m fine.”

“What happened?” he asked.

Celina explained everything to him.
 
When she told him about the man who was trapped behind the spotlight, she raised her hands in apology. “I tried to keep what happened to him from the press, but it was impossible.
 
The reporters got wind of it before I could do anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” George said. “This wasn’t our fault.
 
If anything, they’ll be congratulating you for saving that man’s life.
 
Was anyone else hurt?”

She told him about the men who had been burned.

“So, we’re facing lawsuits.”

 
“Not necessarily,” Celina said.
 
“I sent Kate and Jim from PR to speak to the families of those who were hurt.
 
If all goes well, each wife will be driving a Lexus by week’s end, their kids will have their college educations paid for, a significant amount of money will be in their bank accounts—and we’ll have signed documents saying that each family has waived all rights to sue.”

Something caught her eye and she turned.
 
George followed her gaze.
 
Across the lobby, three men in dull yellow jackets were stepping into one of the elevators with two large dogs.
 
“Bomb squad,” Celina said.
 
“They arrived just after the police and fire department.”

“How long will they be?”

She checked her watch.
 
“A full crew is here,” she said.
 
“They’ve already covered the first eighteen floors.
 
With the help of those dogs, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re out of here in the next few hours—leaving us time to make a final statement to the press and last-minute preparations for the party.”

“If anyone shows,” George said.

“They’ll show,
 
If only because they’ve paid ten grand per couple, they’ll show.
  
Besides, when have you ever known one of Mom’s parties to fail?”

George raised an eyebrow.
 
She had a point.

They moved to the bar.
 
“So, who did it?” Celina asked.

“No idea.
 
I’ve been racking my brain since I got your call.”

“I phoned the company who supplied the spotlights and was told that each light was inspected before delivery.
 
If that’s true—and I’m not saying it is—then that can only mean that someone here planted the bombs.”

“Have the police questioned the lighting crew?”

“They’re being questioned now, but what I can’t figure out is why a more powerful bomb wasn’t used.
 
The three that went off were low-impact explosives.
 
They were designed to cause only minor damage.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

“So, what is this?”

George shrugged.
 
“Who knows?
 
Maybe someone hates the design of our building.”

Somehow, her father usually managed to keep his sense of humor, even in situations as difficult as this.
 
“What’s the word on RRK?” she asked.

“If they were nervous about backing us before, they must be terrified now,” he said.

Roberts, Richards and Kravis—better known as RRK—was the investment group George hired to help finance the takeover of WestTex Incorporated.
 
Although George had management, without RRK’s $3.75 billion war chest, without their skills and the banks they had locked up, he wouldn’t be able to complete this deal on his own.

“I haven’t heard a word,” he said.
 
“But I’m sure I will by this evening.
 
This is probably the excuse Frank Richards has been waiting for.
 
He’s never been in favor of this takeover.
 
If he thinks someone rigged those spotlights to make a statement about our falling stock, or to protest our interest in WestTex, he won’t think twice about pulling out—regardless of any deal we have with him.”

Celina knew that was true.
 
While there were other banks and investment groups who might be willing to take the risk her father was offering, few were as experienced as RRK when it came to LBOs.

“Have you seen your sister today?” he asked.
 
“Your mother was looking for her earlier.
 
She was supposed to help her prepare for the party.”

“And Mom thought she’d show?”
 
Celina tilted her head.
 
“Leana probably doesn’t even know what happened here today.”

“I need to call your mother,” he said.
 
“She made me promise to call as soon as I knew something.
 
If you see Leana, tell her your mother needs her.”

Although she knew she wouldn’t see Leana until later that evening, Celina agreed and followed her father to the door.

The press was there, cameras and microphones raised.
 
“You can use one of the side entrances,” she said.

“And lose their sympathy at the very moment I need it most?
 
Forget it.”

And then he was gone, through the doors, swarmed by reporters and finally answering whatever questions he could.
 
Celina watched him for a moment, listened to the crowd’s frenzied shouting, but then she stepped away and resumed her work.
 
There was still much to be done before the party.

*
  
*
  
*

The sun was just beginning to set behind Manhattan’s jagged horizon when Leana Redman left Washington Square.

She had been in the park since morning, reading the latest edition of Vogue, talking with those people she knew, watching those she didn’t.

Now, as she passed the big empty fountain and neared the white arch, she watched the many children playing with their parents, glanced at a father twirling his young daughter in the air, and then kept walking, oblivious to the man taking pictures of her.

Evening was beginning to descend, but the air was balmy and she was glad to be wearing only shorts and a T-shirt.
 
At twenty-five, Leana Redman had a long, thick mane of curly black hair, which, to her dismay, she had inherited from her father.
 
Although she wasn’t considered as beautiful as her older sister, there was something about her that always made people look twice.

She left the park and began moving up Fifth.
 
The sidewalks were jammed with people.
 
A group of five teenage boys darted past her on skateboards, screaming and shouting as they shot through the crowd in a colorful blur of red and white and brilliant shades of green.

Leana lifted her face to the warm breeze and tried to focus on the problem ahead of her—tonight’s party.
 
She had planned on not attending when her mother, sensing this, demanded her presence.
 
“Your father will be expecting your support.”

The irony almost made Leana laugh.
 
He’s never needed it before
.

Four hours ago she was supposed to have met Elizabeth at their Connecticut estate and help her with last-minute preparations for the party.
 
Why her mother wanted her help was beyond Leana—especially since they both knew that Celina would take care of everything.
 
As she always does.

She stopped at a crowded newspaper stand.
 
A man moved beside her.
 
Leana gave him a sidelong glance.
 
Tall and dark, his face lean and angular, the man wore an unseasonably warm black leather jacket that exposed a broad chest and the sophisticated camera hanging around his neck.

Leana sensed she’d seen him before.

It was her turn in line.
 
Ignoring the many newspapers and magazines that carried front-page pictures of her father, Celina and the new building, she asked the attendant for the latest issue of Interview, paid him and then tucked the magazine into the oversized Prada handbag that hung at her side.