The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (48 page)

BOOK THREE

THIRD WEEK

CHAPTER THIRTY

The following morning, at precisely the same time Celina Redman was leaving to go bungee jumping with Jack Douglas in upstate New York, and only hours before George Redman left Redman International for his three-mile run in Central Park, Eric Parker was being wheeled out of New York Hospital to a gray stretch limousine that was double-parked at a discreet side entrance.

There were no reporters—Diana Crane had seen to that—and as the chauffeur came around to help the nurse lift him into the back seat, Eric thought that the day he stepped foot back into this hospital would be far too soon.
 
It was time to go home.

Diana already was seated in the back, facing traffic.
 
She wore a black Chanel suit that came just to her knees, the diamond brooch Eric gave her the night they were attacked and a matching diamond tennis bracelet that also was from Eric.

Her legs, sheathed in black stockings, were crossed.
 
Because his leg was extended in a cast, Eric had to sit sideways on the seat facing her.
 
Diana did not look at him once as he was hoisted from the wheelchair and into the back, and there was no conversation once the door shut behind him.

She had been cool toward him since her arrival that morning.

“Is there something wrong?” Eric asked.
 
He knew she had been to Anastassios Fondaras’ party and wondered if something had happened.
 
Celina, George and Elizabeth were there.

“Nothing is wrong,” Diana said.

“Then why aren’t you speaking to me?”

“You really don’t want to know, Eric.”

Fucking women
. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we’ll discuss it later—not here.”

The limousine swung out of the hospital.

Eric turned away from her and looked out a window.
 
On today of all days, he didn’t need to deal with a moody woman.
 
Only an hour ago, he learned that because he no longer was an employee of Redman International, he also no longer was under their insurance plan and would have to pay all medical expenses himself—which were rapidly approaching the six figure mark, and would certainly top that number considering the months of rehabilitation he still had to endure. Although money wasn’t a problem for him now, the idea of having to pay for something George Redman’s daughter did to him was infuriating.

The limousine caught a string of green lights and sailed across 69th Street to Fifth.
 
Eric watched men and women and children stroll down the streets and avenues, walking their dogs on retractable neon leashes, jogging with iPods clipped to their waists.

He rolled down a window and breathed in the smells of the city.
 
He would be back soon.
 
The city would be his once again and he would be back on top—only this time without the prestige of Redman International.
 

When they turned onto Fifth, Diana reached in her purse for her cell phone and started punching numbers.
 
“I’m going to call ahead to Redman Place and make sure no unexpected visitors are waiting for us,” she said.

Eric looked at her.
 
“I thought you already took care of the press.”

“I did,” Diana said.
 
“That’s why no one greeted us at the hospital.
 
But things can go wrong, Eric, so I’m calling ahead to be safe.”

Whatever.
 
Eric turned back to the window.
 
All he wanted to do now was go home, grab a cold beer from the fridge and crawl into his own bed.
 
At this point, he couldn’t care less about the press. His mind was more preoccupied with the possibility that he might see Celina or George while they were wheeling him across the lobby.
 
He was on crutches, but they were so awkward to use, he felt they made him look more like a cripple than a wheelchair did.

And Eric did not want to appear weak should he run into George or Celina.

Diana snapped her phone shut.
 
She looked out a window.
 
Eric watched her—something in her features had changed.
 
The fingers of her right hand were toying with the brooch he once gave Celina.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There’s a problem.”

“What kind of problem?
 
Is the press there?”

“It has nothing to do with the press.”

“Then what is it?”

She took a breath and let it out all at once.
 
Whatever anger he sensed coming from her earlier was now an emotion he couldn’t quite define.
  

“Diana—”

“It’s your apartment,” she said.

*
  
*
  
*

Before the pipes burst, the apartment was one of the most sought after in Manhattan for its view of Central Park.
 
It was valued well into the millions.
 
His collection of paintings, antique furniture and sculptures bought anonymously at auction was worth more.

But now, as Eric wheeled through the half-foot of water that already was ruining the hardwood floors, he realized that figure had dropped dramatically overnight.

His apartment was ruined.
 

He turned to Sam Mitchell, the manager of Redman Place, a man he had been friends with for years—but who now was curiously distant toward him.

“What happened, Sam?”

“Several pipes burst, Mr. Parker.”
 
The man’s sudden formality hung in the air.
 
Mitchell always called Eric by his first name.
 
Now, Eric could only wonder how many other people George Redman had turned against him.

“I can see that, Sam.
 
Mind telling me why?”

“Our men are still working on it.
 
We won’t know until the end of the day.”

He wheeled over to the terrace, where Diana stood with her shoes in her hands.
 
She fought for a smile, couldn’t manage it and looked away.
 
Water dripped onto them from the vacant hole that used to be a ceiling. His cast, the very cast his doctors warned him not to get wet, was soaked.

“How many other tenants went through this?” Eric asked.

“None, Mr. Parker.”

“You mean to tell me mine was the only apartment whose pipes burst?”

“That’s correct.”

“But how can that be?”

“We won’t know until our investigation is complete.”

“I want to know now.”

“We’re working as fast as we can.”

“Pipes don’t burst in the middle of summer.
 
In this building, they wouldn’t burst even in the deepest of winter.
 
I need to know what’s going on.
 
Now.”

The man said nothing.

Diana placed a hand on his shoulder.
 
Eric shrugged it off and wheeled away.
 
He felt like hurling something right now, but stilled the impulse.
 
Water sloshed at his feet.

“I assume my insurance will cover this,” he said, moving toward the bedroom that no longer was a bedroom—maintenance had torn it apart to get to one of the burst pipes.
 
“The paintings alone are worth a fortune.
 
They can’t be replaced.
 
And the furniture—all one of a kind, all bought at auction.
 
Are you getting the picture, Sam?
 
Are you hearing me?”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“Say it.
 
Nothing can faze me now.”

“I hope that’s so,” Mitchell said, “because when you were terminated from Redman International, you lost your insurance coverage on your apartment.
 
As you know, as a senior employee, it was paid for by the organization.
 
But with your recent termination, Mr. Redman canceled it.”

Eric was speechless.
 
Diana mouthed—but did not say—the word “terminated.’”

“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Mitchell said.
 
“The water is leaking through to the apartment below yours.
  
It has destroyed Mrs. Aldrich’s van Gogh and each of her prized Monets—not to mention the Henry VIII furniture that has been in her family for years and is considered priceless.
 
She told me her insurance company plans to sue you.
 
She told me to tell you to get a good lawyer.”

“None of this makes sense,” Diana said.
 
“This isn’t Eric’s fault.
 
Your insurance will cover it.
 
This has to do with the building itself, not with Eric Parker.”

Mitchell’s words were measured.
 
“While it’s true that our insurance covers our original systems, the problem is that it appears that the trouble started in Mr. Parker’s master bathroom, which he remodeled two years ago.
 
If the report finds that to be the source of the problem, then we’re dealing with plumbing that was altered by a third party.
 
And it releases us from responsibility.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Diana said.
 
“The plumbing was up to code.
 
It passed all inspections—yours and the city’s.
 
You signed off on that.”

Sam held out his hands.
 
“Look,” he said.
 
“I know this is difficult.
 
I know everyone is upset.
 
But when you read the document we signed with Mr. Parker, you’ll note a clause that releases us from all responsibilities when any alterations are made to our original systems.”

“Then the plumbing company is responsible.”

“Maybe,” Mitchell said.
 
“But we’re two years out from that remodel.
 
If it were a month, you’d have a strong case.
 
But two years?”
 
He shook his head.
 
“I doubt it.”

Eric shot Diana a look.
 
What he saw in her face was defeat.
 
Redman bankrupted me.

There was a silence while Mitchell moved across the room to an Art Deco table that was beside a shiny black bar.
 
On it were four vases filled with red roses.
 
“There is at least one bright note to all this, Mr. Parker,” he said.
 
“These roses arrived this morning as a welcome home gift.
 
They’re from Louis Ryan.”

*
  
*
  
*

“George is behind this.
 
You know it as well as I do.”

Diana entered her living room with a pot of hot coffee in one hand, two coffee mugs in the other.
 
She was fresh from the shower and now wore a white terry bathrobe.
 
Her hair, curling around her face in slick dark waves, was wet.