The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (73 page)

He looked at Leana, saw the cold fear on her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and thought,
What has my father done now….

The next few moments passed in a haze.

George came into the foyer, told Leana about the death of their best friend, a man he thought he had known but never truly had.
  
He caught his daughter when her knees buckled and she began to cry in a shrill of grief.
 
Over and over again, she asked why Harold had done it.
 
George said he didn’t know.
 
He remained at her side, comforting her, his arms enveloping her in a way they hadn’t since she was a child.

He pressed his face against hers and closed his eyes.
 
When he did, he once again saw the haunting image of a train hurtling into a shadowy tunnel, bearing down hard toward an impatient crowd and then Harold inexplicably leaping from the platform and jumping to his death.

*
  
*
  
*

The helicopter soared over the city and moved slowly down Fifth, its spotlight shining along the mirrored facades of tall buildings, illuminating their interiors with quick bursts of light.

In the dark silence of Louis Ryan’s office, Spocatti watched the machine, watched it glide steadily toward them, its multi-colored lights blinking, steel blades flashing, chopping the heavy air with a smooth, measured fierceness.

Ryan was sitting opposite him, glass of Scotch in hand, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
 
He had not spoken since Michael severed the connection and, in a sense, blatantly told Louis to go to hell.

In an odd way, Spocatti was proud of Michael.
 
Standing up to his father took guts.
 
Perhaps Michael wasn’t the man he assumed he was.
 
Perhaps he was stronger.

The roar of the helicopter grew louder.

Ryan stamped out his cigarette.
 
“Things have changed,” he said.
 
“I threatened Michael with Santiago and he hung up on me.
 
I think he knows.”

Spocatti could barely see the man’s face.
 
It was as if a net of shadows had been cast against it.
 
“I doubt that,” he said.
 
“If anyone told him, we would have heard.”

“Not necessarily,” Louis said.
 
And then, his voice surprisingly bitter, “You’re not perfect, Vincent.
 
Neither are your men or the equipment you use.
 
So do me a favor and stop pretending you’re God.”

The helicopter passed and Ryan’s pale face was caught in the light as it wavered like water into the office.

Spocatti stared into that face—saw the stern line that was Ryan’s mouth, the nightmare that was boiling in his liquid-brown eyes—before he watched it slide back into darkness.
 
He wondered at exactly what point the man’s mind had begun to turn.
 
He wondered to what extent Ryan realized his carefully orchestrated plan was souring.

“I want you to keep an eye on Michael,” Louis said.
 
“I want you to increase security around him, record his every move.
 
He’ll be at the funeral tomorrow—I’m sure of that.
 
Since there’s no telling what he has planned after that, watch him.
 
I have a feeling he’s going to try something.”

“I can take him out,” Spocatti said.

“Not until I’m finished with him.”

“And when will that be?”

Louis lit another cigarette and, for an instant, his face glowed in the fiery globe. “Tuesday,” he said.
 
“When we bury the rest of them.”
 

BOOK FOUR

CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE

“It
really
is
special
,”
the
Realtor
said.
 
She was standing
in
the
center
of
the
large,
empty
foyer and
her
voice
echoed
off
the
stark
white
walls.
 
“As you know,
apartments on
Fifth
are rare,
especially
in
the
50s and 60s.
 
And this is a
penthouse, which obviously further amplifies its appeal.”
 
She
let a silence go by
.
 
“
If you want to make a statement and live on Fifth Avenue, this is the place to do so
.
 
Few in the city are better.”

She allowed the man a moment to take in the space.

“Let’s take a tour,” she said.

The
apartment was
large
and
airy.
 
It comprised
two floors and boasted
sweeping
views of
the
city.
 
I
t
was completely
white throughout—white walls, white
carpets,
white
woodwork,
white
marble
floors in
the bathrooms,
white
fireplace
in
the
library,
everywhere
white, white, white.

“From what I hear, the owners
are arty, eccentric
types,”
the
Realtor
said
as
they moved through
the
living
room
and stepped
into
the
dining area.
 
“They’re
old
money
from
Iceland
and
word
has
it
that
they
missed
their country so much
that
they
surrounded themselves
in white, in
a
sense
giving
them the
illusion
of
being lost
in
a blizzard.”

“You don’t say?”

She caught the sarcasm and couldn’t help a laugh.
 
“It’s what we’ve been asked to say.
 
Whether it’s true, I can’t say.
 
But I can confirm that the apartment was featured this year in Architectural Digest.”

The
man
walked down
a
bright hallway
and stepped
into
the
library.
 
She followed
.
 
“This is
my favorite
room
,” she said.
 
“
The windows sell it.
 
That’s a true New York view.
 
You easily could fit two-hundred people in here for entertaining.
 
And at night, it’s magnificent.
 
With that backdrop, you can imagine how beautiful it is in here
.
”

The man moved to
the
far
set
of
windows.
 
Hands clasped
behind
his back,
he
looked
across
53rd
Street
to
the
city’s newest hotel.

The woman
stepped
behind
him.
 
“And then you have that,” she said.
 
“The largest hotel in New York.
  
Four
thousand
rooms,
all of
them booked
for
the
weekend.
 
Tonight
is the
opening night
party.
 
You’ve heard that
Leana
Redman is managing the hotel?”

“Didn’t she just bury her sister yesterday?”

“She did.”

“And now she opens that hotel tonight,” he said.
 
“That’s a pretty quick recovery, wouldn’t you say?”

The woman didn’t say.
 
“
Do
you
like
the
view?”

“Very
much,” he said.
 
“But
I
wonder
if
I
might
see
it
at
night?”

“Of
course,”
she
said.
 
“I
could
show it
to
you
tomorrow evening.”

“No,”
the
man
said.
 
“I’m
leaving
the
country
tomorrow morning.
 
I
won’t
be
back
for weeks and
you may
have sold
it by
then.”
 
He turned away
from
the
window
and
looked
at
her
.
 
“I’d
like
to
see
it
tonight.
 
And,
if
the view is as spectacular as you say it is, it’s likely that I’ll just write
you
a
check
for
the
full amount.”