The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (79 page)

With a last look around, she took an elevator to her office and phoned Louis Ryan at Manhattan Enterprises.

“It’s Leana,” she said.
 
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course you’re not disturbing me,” he said.
 
“I was just about to call you.
 
Did you receive my flowers?”

Leana admired the enormous spray of roses on her desk.
 
“Of course, I did,” she said. “How could I miss them?
 
They’re take up the room—and they’re beautiful.
 
Thank you.”

A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You know,” she said.
 
“I might have to use them in the lobby.”

“Having trouble with the florist?”

“You could say that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
 
“Something always goes wrong at the last minute and then it rights itself.
 
The florist will show and things will be fine.
 
Are you having trouble with anything else?”

“No,” she said.
 
“Everything is going smoothly.”

“Then what can I do for you?
 
Need a Xanax?”

Leana smiled.
 
“Actually, I’m not nervous at all.
 
I was calling to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding the man who murdered my sister.”

“That’s one of the reasons I was about to call you.”

Leana was suddenly alert.
 
“Have you found him?”

“No,” Louis said. “But I’ve hired a man who will.
 
His name is Vincent Spocatti, he’s one of the world’s best private investigators and he’s certain he can find the man who killed Celina.
 
Tonight, after the party, I want you to meet him.”

She thought fleetingly of her dinner date with Michael.
 
He’d understand.
 
This was important.

“Of course, I will,” she said.
 
“And thank you, Louis.
 
This means a lot to me—more than you know.”

She replaced the receiver and went to the windows behind her—she would bring Michael to the meeting and they could have dinner later.
 
She had a sudden impulse to call Harold, to tell him the good news, but then she realized—once again—that he was gone.
 
Why?
she wondered.
 
You could have come to me.
 
Didn’t you trust me enough to know that I wouldn’t care if you were gay or straight, fat or thin?

It occurred to her that maybe he hadn’t known and that maybe she should have approached him about what she knew.
 
The idea that he might be alive now if she had intervened was too overwhelming for her to consider.

She reached for the note cards on her desk.
 
Neatly typed on them was the speech she’d rewritten and memorized that morning.
 
As Leana flipped through them, reading aloud as she paced before the windows, she noticed a tiny pinpoint of red light dart across her sleeve and spiral across her hand before slipping from sight.

She stopped before the windows.

 
She looked across 53rd Street to the neighboring building, saw nothing unusual, then heard the faint sound of an engine and looked up at the helicopter that was soaring above the city. Sunlight struck its glinting blades and cast rainbows of light across her face and body.
 
She winced from the sudden light and lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

The helicopter seemed to be circling the hotel.
 
Its door was open and she saw someone leaning out—there was a video camera on his shoulder.
 
Obviously, the news was going to cover the event by air.
 
Leana wondered about that pinpoint of red light, looked at the helicopter and decided it must have been the source.
 

She stepped away from the windows and returned to her notes.

*
  
*
  
*

The afternoon sun slid through the canted blinds and striped the narrow hospital bed where Mario De Cicco lay.
 
His body was sheathed in perspiration.

Antonio looked away from the monitors that surrounded the bed and turned to face his two youngest sons, Miko and Tony.
 
“Tonight,” he said, “while she’s on camera, we take her for the world to see.”

The two brothers came to the bed.

“I did some callin’ around,” Antonio said.
 
“Sal’s boy, Rubio, knows a couple guys tending bar at the opening.
 
As a favor to me, he said he could get you two into that party, promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”

One of the monitors beeped and Antonio swung around to look at Mario, who was lying pale and motionless in the bed.
 
His breathing was deep and measured.
 
Antonio looked at the monitor, then down again at his son, hoping to see some flicker of life in his face.
 
There was none and Antonio wondered if Mario would never wake.

He turned back to Miko and Tony, for the first time looking every one of his sixty-nine years.
 
“All you have to do is clean a few glasses and wait for her to take the stage,” he said.
 
“When she’s in the middle of her speech, while everyone’s watching her, that’s when you make your move and blow her to hell.
 
If you move fast and if you stay near the rear doors, you shouldn’t have a problem getting out of there.”

“What about security?” Miko said.
 
“That place will be crawling with cops—not to mention the press.
 
Some might recognize us.
 
What’s the back-up plan?”

Antonio leveled his son with a look.
 
“Since when do you give a shit about security?” he said.
 
“Or about the press?
 
If somebody gets in your way, blow their fuckin’ head off. Once you fire that first shot, there’s going to be so much goddamned commotion, nobody is going to get in your way.
 
Then you seek out Leana Redman, snuff her and get out of there.”

He nodded toward Nicky Corrao, who was sitting across the room in the blue vinyl chair, listening to their plans.
 
“Nicky’s driving,” he said.
 
“He’ll be at the 53rd Street entrance, ready to bolt when you two come out.”

He looked over at Mario.
 
“I want her out of his life,” he said.
 
“When he wakes, I want her obituary to be the first thing he sees.
 
If it isn’t, if any of you let me down, I’ll never forget it.
 
Is that understood?”

Perfectly.

“Then I suggest you get moving,” Antonio said.
 
“Call Rubio now and find out what he wants you to wear and where he wants you to meet him.
 
Nicky, you stay here.
 
When Pauly comes, tell him to keep an eye on Mario.
 
If he wakes, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Nicky,” Antonio said, a slight edge to his voice.
 
“You make sure you’re parked at that entrance tonight.
 
If you’re not, if Miko and Tony don’t get out safe, you’ll wind up as cold as Leana Redman.”

Nicky watched the men step out of the room.
 
He was thinking what a bastard De Cicco could be when one of the monitors beeped again.

He looked at Mario, then up at the monitor—a green jagged line was racing across the screen.
 
Curious, he stepped to Mario’s side and looked down with naked wonderment at the web of tubes and wires that netted his body.

He had always respected Mario—the man was fair, had class.
 
When Nicky earned his bones, it was Mario who was first to congratulate him, Mario who took him out that night and got them both drunk.
 
Nicky wanted him to live.
 
He squeezed Mario’s shoulder, and was about to say his name when Mario’s eyes snapped open.

They stared at one another.
 
Mario’s eyes crinkled and he managed a tentative smile. “Are they gone?” he asked.

Nicky’s lips parted.
 
He looked quickly toward the door and was about to speak when Mario grasped his hand.
 
“No,” he said.
 
“I don’t want to talk to them.
 
I only want to talk to you.
  
Now, come here.
 
Come closer.
 
And just listen to me, Nicky.
 
I’m about to make you a very wealthy man.”

*
  
*
  
*

Spocatti pushed through the revolving brass doors of The Manhattan Enterprises Building and left the searing heat of midtown behind.

He moved quickly across the crowded lobby, took the last hit off his cigarette and tossed it still burning onto the floor.
 
He stopped at a bank of elevators, pressed the already glowing button and smiled at the woman who had moved beside him.
 
She was beautiful, her long, dark hair tumbling down her back in thick waves.

The doors slid open.

The woman stepped inside and Spocatti followed.
 
Again he looked at her.
 
She was wearing dark sunglasses, faded jeans and a white T-shirt.
 
Her lips were full and painted deep red.
 
He nodded at her, smiled when she nodded back.

The door closed and they were alone.
 
Spocatti pressed a button and the car lurched into motion.
 
The woman continued staring straight ahead.

He glanced sideways at her.
 
“Have you found him?” he asked.

“Of course.
 
We nailed him at a travel agency on 40th Street.
 
He’s now at your apartment.”

If Spocatti was relieved, it didn’t show on his face.
 
He looked up at the elevator’s lighted dial and watched the floors tick by.
 
“And where was our friend hoping to go?”

The woman opened her black leather handbag and removed the receipt for the airline tickets.
 
She handed it to Spocatti.
 
“He bought two first-class tickets to Milan.
 
The flight leaves this evening from JFK.
 
My guess is that he was planning to take Leana on a trip.”

Spocatti pocketed the envelope and studied her reflection in the elevator’s brass doors. She was stunning in her arrogance.
 
Her name was Amparo Gragera, she weighed less than 110 pounds—and he had once seen her kill a man twice her size with her bare hands. She was an important member of his organization, had complete weapons training, a solid knowledge of computers and once had been the love of his life.
 
He knew she could be just as deadly as he.

“Is everything set for tonight?” he asked.

“Terry took care of everything this morning.”

“And you know what’s expected of you?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Just personally,” he said.
 
“But no, not professionally.”

“What a relief.”

“This is our last night in New York.
 
How about dinner once the job is done?”