The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (52 page)

With one brutal thrust off the river floor, he hurtled to the surface, kicking furiously, wildly—and leaving Celina behind in a whirlpool of bubbles.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The first thing George Redman thought when he returned from his run in Central Park and saw the crowd of reporters gathered outside his building on Fifth Avenue was that someone must have leaked another story about the takeover of WestTex Incorporated—this one probably pertaining to his new partnership with Chase.

During the past week, the press had been relentless.
 
They phoned, they emailed, they Twittered and they even sent notes via messenger in an effort to obtain interviews.
 
One particularly aggressive reporter somehow slipped past security and stormed his office, demanding that his stockholders deserved to know why he wanted to take over a shipping company whose stock had plummeted since the wars in the Middle East.

It was as exhausting as it was stressful and George had had enough.
 
They might be bitching now
, he thought,
but it won’t be long before they’re saying how they had faith in me all along
.

He slowed his stride, considered taking one of the side entrances, but thought better of it.
 
Each entrance would be covered by a group of reporters, word would be texted in seconds of his whereabouts and he would be surrounded in spite of his efforts.
 
And so he quickened his pace, readied himself for the assault, determined to get past them and through the doors and into his penthouse as soon as possible.

It was a female reporter standing at the rear of the crowd who first spotted him.
 
George watched her turn to the cameraman at her right and say something in a sharp voice.
 
By the time the man had his video camera on his shoulder, three dozen other reporters were charging forward, microphones and cameras raised, faces set in determination….and some other emotion George couldn’t define.

They enveloped him in waves, first from the front, then from the sides and back.
 
Strobes of light went off like exploding stars.
 
George squinted from the glare and hurried forward.
 
All week long he had increased security around himself and taken precautions against this very thing happening.
 
But this morning, he thought he would be able to sneak out without incident.
 
A nice jog in Central Park was all he wanted, with no one but himself and the trees and the other joggers for company.
 
Naive
, he thought.

He listened, but couldn’t distinguish what the crowd was saying.
 
The roar of questions was too loud, too fervent for him to decipher, but not once did he hear mention of WestTex.

Confused, he pushed toward the doors and heard Celina’s name mentioned once.
 
Twice.

He shouldered his way past a reporter, striking him by accident in the chest and he heard the man say that he was sorry.
 
So very sorry.

For being in my way?

George turned to the crowd.
 
Lightning seemed to light the morning sky as seventy cameras went off in rapid succession.
 
Traffic slowed on Fifth as curious drivers tried to see what was unfolding in front of his building.
 
Horns blared.
 
Someone shouted something from a passing car.

A chill raced up his spine—something was wrong.
 
The reporters were silent, expectant, their eyes searching his.
 
They were just standing there, waiting for him to say something, although he didn’t know what.

It was the man he had struck in the chest who broke the silence.
 
“I think I speak for all of us, Mr., Redman, when I say how sorry we are.”

“For what?” George said.
 
“Sorry for what?”

Glances were exchanged.

The reporter who stepped forward now took a step back.

Beyond the crowd, two police cars pulled to the curb.
 
Although there were no accompanying sirens, their lights were flashing.

“Would one of you please tell me what is going on here?”

Nobody said anything.
 
There was the sound of car doors being slammed shut.
 
At the same moment George saw Jack Douglas leave one of the police cars—face drawn, clothes rumpled—a voice from the back of the crowd said:
 
“It’s Celina, Mr. Redman.
 
We thought you knew.
 
She drowned earlier this morning.
 
Her body was sent to the Medical Examiner’s Office on First.”

And the frenzy began.

*
  
*
  
*

The silence in the room was deafening.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Redman.”

George squeezed Elizabeth’s hand harder, drawing on it for strength, but finding little there.
 
Her hand was as cold as the ice in her stare.
 
Her breathing was uneven.
 
She learned the news only moments before he, Jack and the police stepped into the penthouse.

George found her in the second-floor living room, the phone on its side and next to her feet.
 
Her face was pale as talc.
 
Her eyes burned with an odd mixture of emptiness, sorrow, rage and disbelief.
 
Helen Baines was still calling her name into the phone, still asking if she were all right, when George bent to pick it up.

He released his grip from her hand, put his arm around her and pulled her close to him.
 
He kissed her and said they would get through this.
 
It was one of the few lies he had ever told her and not for one minute did Elizabeth believe it.
 
Her face crumpled, she glared at him through tears and then looked at the detective who was sitting on the sofa opposite them.
 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I want to know what happened,” she said to the man in a thick voice.
 
“You tell me what happened to my daughter.”

Lieutenant Vic Greenfield, the detective assigned to the case, glanced at George, saw that he also was ready for answers and stood.
 
“She was bungee jumping with Mr. Douglas—”

“I know that,” Elizabeth said sharply.
 
“Celina and I talked about it at last night’s party.
 
I told her that I thought it was a foolish idea.
 
I told her I didn’t want her to do it, but she said she had no choice.”

Her eyes hardened on Jack, who was sitting across the room, running a hand through his hair. Although his face was flushed, his eyes wet with grief, Elizabeth saw no remorse on the man’s face, only her own anger and loss reflected on it.
 
“She said she had no choice because she made a deal with Mr. Douglas that she would do it.
 
My daughter never backed down on her word, Lieutenant. Not ever.”

“Perhaps you should know that Mr. Douglas himself nearly drowned while trying to save your daughter’s life.
 
If it weren’t for a man by the name of Alex Stevens, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

Elizabeth gave the detective a look of loathing.
 
“That would suit me fine, Mr. Greenfield.
 
As far as I’m concerned, he’s responsible for her death.”

“Elizabeth,” George said.

“It’s true.”

“It’s not true.
 
You know how Celina was.”

“If she hadn’t gone with him, she would be alive now.”

“This was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jack said from across the room.
 
“It was murder.”

Elizabeth looked at Jack at the same moment Isadora, the family cat, strolled into the living room and began washing herself in a slim band of sunlight.
 
She gave the animal a look as gray as driftwood and said in a low voice to Jack, “What did you just say?”

“I said it was murder.”

Before anyone could speak, the Lieutenant intervened and told George and Elizabeth everything.
 
He told them about Celina’s jump, how she was lowered successfully to the raft and how the raft capsized when the first jumper—a man they had not yet identified and were still searching for—apparently slipped and fell, sending all aboard into the water.

He told them that by struggling to stay afloat, Celina’s legs got tangled in the rope secured to the raft’s anchor.
 
He told them about Jack’s efforts to save her.

Although George listened, hearing every detail of his daughter’s death and the attempt to rescue her, he found it difficult to concentrate.
 
He was numb.
 
He was not sure how much more of this he could take. The pressure and the grief and the anger building within him were beginning to take their toll.
 
His daughter was dead.
 
Celina was murdered.
 
It all seemed unreal to him.
 
Just yesterday they were together.
 
She was vibrant and excited by what was happening in the company and by what was happening in her life with Jack.
 

Now she was gone.
 
Somebody stole her from him.

From the bottom of his gut, his fury took control of him.
 
He had power and he would use that power.
 
Some of his closest friends were the leaders of countries.
 
His daughter was dead, but he was alive and with his contacts, with his billions, he could make his enemies tremble.

Looking hard at the Lieutenant, he said, “I want to know what happened to the son of a bitch who’s responsible for this.”

“We’re still looking for him, Mr. Redman.”

“You mean to tell me no one standing on that footbridge saw him swim away from the raft?”

“That’s correct,” he said.
 
“We questioned the witnesses, but there was so much confusion, no one could recall seeing anyone swim away.
 
Many thought he also drowned.”

“Well, he didn’t,” George said.
 
“He’s out there right now—free.
 
And I want him caught.
 
Do you understand me?”

The Lieutenant’s jaw tightened.
 
“Of course, Mr. Redman.”

George’s stomach felt as though someone had driven nails into it.
 
“Whoever rigged those spotlights with explosive is the person responsible for my daughter’s death.”

“We can’t be sure of that,” the man said guardedly.
 
“But we’ve considered it.”

“You’re telling me you don’t see the parallel?”

“Until we have more information, it’s under consideration.”

“Here’s something else to consider,” George said, rising from his seat.
 
“I’ve been waiting weeks for you to find out who was behind those explosives, but you’ve come back with nothing.
 
Not one thing.
 
Tell me why.”

“It was done professionally,” the man said.
 
“Whoever tapped those lights left no leads.”