“My eyes,” he said quietly. “Focus on them. You’ve always known these bastards mean nothing and you’re right. Let’s show them how it’s done. Let’s sell this hotel of yours.”
He gave a curt nod in the orchestra’s direction, a swell of music rose up and suddenly, he was leading Leana.
For his age, he was surprisingly light on his feet and he moved with a kind of grace that suggested that if forty years had passed since he last danced, it must have been one hell of a dance because he was precise, deliberate and exacting in his moves.
He used the entire floor, sweeping her around it with ease and twirling her twice. She made a few mistakes, but few would notice because of the way he handled her. When the waltz ended, he extended his arm and let go of her while standing back to applaud her.
He addressed the crowd. “For the two of you who haven’t been talking about her since her arrival tonight, my dancing partner, Leana Redman, has a new hotel opening soon on Park Avenue. It’s called The Park and she has painstakingly restored the building and its rooms to their Art Deco heyday. You’ll be reading a lot about it and her over the coming weeks and months. She’s going to be a force, this one. I, for one, am looking forward to the opening night party.” His eyes swept the room. “Pray you get an invitation because from what I hear, it’s going to be the social event of the year.”
Anastassios’ generosity left Leana speechless. As the media closed in, bathing her in staccato rhythms of light, Anastassios took her by the hand and led her back into the chittering crowd, most of whom now were looking upon Leana as if she was their new star.
“I can’t thank you enough for that,” she said to him. “First the Times, now this. It’s too much.”
His brow furrowed. “You spoke to the Times? I didn’t know they were here. In fact, they pointedly said they weren’t coming tonight. Or did this happen earlier today?”
“No,” she said, looking first at the bar and then around the room for Mario. “It was just before I saw you.”
“The Times is here?”
By his tone, it was obvious that he was unaware of it. “I think there’s some confusion,” she said. “They rented one of your boardrooms downstairs to conduct interviews. I spoke to a reporter named Maria Leonard. They’re going to do a feature on me and the hotel.”
“Come with me for a moment,” he said.
They cut through the crowd and Fondaras took her into a private room. The concern on his face was unmistakable when he turned to her. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. “Nobody rented a private boardroom this evening. I’m not in the business of renting out boardrooms to the press or to anyone else. Where were you taken?”
She thought back. “She took me to a bank of elevators. We went to level 2B. No, 3B. It was 3B. There was a boardroom just to the right of the elevator. We went in there.”
“And she interviewed you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“What does that mean?”
“She said she didn’t want to take too much of my time. She kept apologizing. She told me it was a pre-interview. She said we’d have a much longer interview before The Park opened.”
“What did she ask you?”
“She wanted to know the specifics of The Park’s opening night party.” And the moment Leana said it, she saw all of it. First, the tarp. Now, this interviewer asking her where she was going to stand to address the crowd that night and how much security she’d have on hand given what happened three years ago when she opened Louis Ryan’s hotel, The Hotel Fifth.
She told Anastassios what she shared with the reporter.
“That’s all she wanted to know?”
“For now. She said it was so they could be better prepared to cover the event.”
“I’ll bet. What does she look like? What is she wearing?”
Leana told him.
Anastassios crossed the room to a desk, reached for one of the telephones on it and called his chief of security. He gave the man the information Leana had given him. “Find her,” he said. “And when you do, bring her to my second-floor office and then find me. Do it as quietly as possible.” He hung up the phone and went to his computer. He brought up the Times’ site. “What did you say her name was?”
“Maria Leonard.”
He typed her name into a search field, which yielded no results. “If she works at the Times, the Times certainly doesn’t know about it. Where is Mario?”
“We were supposed to meet at the bar, but he wasn’t there when we passed it. I’ve been gone for a while. He knows everyone. He could be anywhere.”
“I’m going to help find him,” he said. “But I need you to stay here where it’s safe. You and I both know what happened to your family. We also know what happened a year ago at the Four Seasons. Nobody knows for sure if you were part of what happened to Jean-Georges Laurent, but you might have been. Worse, tonight someone left a threatening message on the tarp covering your hotel. The Times did not rent a boardroom to conduct interviews on this ship. Unless you are that woman’s first story for the paper, which I doubt, she doesn’t work there or she would have shown up in the search results. The questions she asked you are worrisome, to say the least. We ignore none of this.”
“Why would someone target me?”
“Because you’re a Redman.”
“I’m the basement Redman.”
“You’re whoever you want to be, Leana. That’s your choice.”
It could have been Harold speaking to her. Or Mario. “But none of this makes sense,” she said. “Louis Ryan is dead.”
“Your father has more enemies than just Louis Ryan. Look at me, for instance. I took WestTex from him. I’m certain he’d include me in that list even though I have nothing significant against your father, with the exception of how he’s treated you. Business is business. We’re both in it to win and he lost. Deep down, a part of us admires each other because we both know what it takes to stay on top.”
He waved a hand. “But this isn’t business. It’s personal. You were targeted on my ship by a liar whose questions suggest an ulterior motive. I’m not about to let your father lose another daughter when I can help.”
He pointed to the door they entered a moment ago. “Like every door on this ship, that one is reinforced with three inches of steel. I don’t take my life or my enemies lightly. Neither should you. It will be locked. No one will be able to get in but my crew and me. If someone knocks, don’t answer because none of us knock. We slide our cards and just enter. You can leave at any point, but I’m recommending that you stay here.”
“Who is doing this?” she said.
“I don’t know. But like your father and your fiancé, I have the means to find out. Let me find Mario and bring him back here. We’ll get each of you out safely and discreetly. Then, as quickly as possible, we’ll get to the root of this. Mario knows people. I know people. Your father knows people. We can stop this.”
But as Leana watched him leave, she knew better. No one stopped it before and she had no reason to believe that anyone could stop it now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vincent Spocatti stood beneath a security camera tucked high within the wall. He faced the crowded bar and watched the door through which Anastassios Fondaras and Leana Redman had walked ten minutes before.
When Fondaras emerged without Leana and was met by one of his men outside, Spocatti saw them exchange words before they parted ways and started to move separately and with purpose into the crowd.
Spocatti kept his eyes on the guard because he was the one speaking into his wrist while moving toward the hallway that led to the elevator Carmen took Leana to earlier. When the man disappeared from sight, Spocatti looked around the room and watched the other guards, most of whom now had a finger pressed against their earpieces and appeared to be listening.
Somehow, they were onto Carmen.
He turned his back to the room and spoke quietly into the microphone at his own wrist. “W
here are you?”
“In a fucking powder room.”
She sounded out of breath. “Where?”
“Below you on the second level.”
He heard the sound of something slamming against a wall. “What are you doing? I need you to get out of there.”
“Can’t.”
He could hear struggling, then the sound of a woman screaming and a muffled gunshot that cut the scream short. Though each person was screened before entering the ship, no one thought twice about Carmen’s digital recorder, which actually was a gun when unfolded and configured differently.
“Florence Holt is dead,” she said. “And not without a fight. For a tiny little bitch, that motherfucker was strong. I’m locking this bathroom and leaving it. Do you want Stout or should I take him?”
“Listen to me,” he said, looking around the room at the guards, who were sifting through the crowds. “Fondaras is sweeping the ship. It has something to do with Leana Redman. One of the guards just moved toward the bank of elevators. Be expecting him.”
“How—?”
“It doesn’t matter how. Expect him. Get off the ship. I’m going to take out Stout. I’ll meet you back at the apartment. Don’t screw this up.”
* * *
Carmen looked down at Florence Holt’s ruined meat face and moved quickly. She turned the woman over, unzipped her silver-sequined dress and pulled it off her. There was blood and brain matter on the upper part of the dress. Before the stains could fully set, Carmen turned to the sink, thrust parts of the material under cold water and washed them free. If someone was coming down here to find her because of Leana Redman, they’d know what Carmen was wearing and how her hair was worn.
She held up the dress and inspected it. It wasn’t perfect, but the lights throughout the ship were so dim any lingering stains would go unnoticed. She slipped out of her black dress, ripped it into quarters and flushed them down the toilet.
She put on Holt’s dress. Like Carmen, Holt was small, which was good. What wasn’t so good was that the dress had been tailored to Holt’s body and it looked awkward on Carmen. It was loose in the front, tight in the rear. Those who knew fashion—and there were plenty on this ship who feasted on it—might take notice.
But the men working for Fondaras wouldn’t think twice about it and that’s why, for the most part, she felt it could work.
She turned to the mirror and twisted her hair so it fell over her right shoulder. She removed the diamonds from Florence Holts neck and ears, rinsed the blood off them in the sink and dried them with a towel. She put them on and then reached for Holt’s purse, where she found a tube of lipstick. Two quick swipes across her lips and now they were the color of Holt’s bleeding face.
There were two things left to do.
She dipped into her purse and removed a pair of tweezers. She used them to pluck out a note she and Spocatti wrote earlier. It was a list of ten people who were on the ship tonight. The idea was Carmen’s. There was an obvious link between Holt and Stout—they had each sat on the board of Louis Ryan’s Manhattan Enterprises once. So Carmen came up with a list of people who had no link to Holt or Stout, or especially to Louis Ryan. She dropped the note next to the toilet. The police would find it, and if they bought it, they’d be thrown off by it.
Next, she removed a small camera from her purse, which had been allowed on the ship because if anyone loves to be photographed, it’s society at social events. She looked down at Holt, who was lying on her side naked save for her bra and panties.
With her foot, Carmen pushed her over so her hamburger face was exposed. She took several photos for Coleman, dropped the camera back into her purse and then opened the door and peered into the hall. No one was there, but she could hear the elevator working. She took a final look at herself in the mirror, decided it would have to do and then, after turning off the lights, she locked the door and closed it behind her.
She looked up and around. Where were the cameras? She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were here somewhere. And so she walked as naturally as she could to the bank of elevators, listening as one of them approached.
It was the center elevator.
Carmen pressed the button for the elevator to the far right and heard it lurch into motion. Her stomach tensed as the center elevator drew closer. She reached into her purse and removed her gun, concealing it between her thigh and her purse.
She waited. Every part of her focused on the possibilities and how she would respond to them. The center elevator started to slow. It was stopping here. How many would be inside? She looked around for a place to hide, but there was no time to do so.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Carmen pressed her back against the far right elevator, which was nearing her, and held her breath while waiting for whoever was inside to emerge.
When they did, it was two drunk men who tripped out and moved into the room.
Carmen remained absolutely still.
One of the men pulled the other over to a group of chairs in the middle of the room. He pushed him into one and got on his knees while the other man fumbled with his belt and laughed. “We’re going to get caught,” said the man in the chair.
The other man stifled his own laughter and tugged at the man’s pants. “Addy, would you shut up? Please just shut up. Take out that cock Phippie Sturgison told me about and give it to me.”
“You want my cock, slut?”
“Oh, please. I’m a fucking baron. I don’t talk dirty, so don’t expect it. It reminds me of The Townhouse in the mid-nineties and the memory of those days still hurts. All those daddies fondling twinks—gross. Come on. Give it to me. I want to see if it’s true.”
“Then reach in and haul it out for yourself, baroness,” the man named Addy said. “Face the truth and see if you can handle it.” He giggled. “The truth. You can’t handle the truth!”
“Shhhh! Christ, it’s huge. Let me suck it. When you’re close, I want you to shoot into my mouth. OK? Don’t fuck it up because you’re drunk. I want to swallow it.”
Carmen was so engrossed by what she was seeing that she was surprised when the elevator doors she was pressed against opened.
She stumbled back into the compartment and came face-to-face with a member of security. She looked up at him as he scrutinized her face.
Quickly, she reached out her hand and stopped the doors from closing. “I came down here looking for a free restroom and found them!” she said, pointing at the two men, who were aghast and now attempting to stand. “What they’re doing is disgusting! Why would Anastassios allow anything like this to happen on his ship? At his party? Why isn’t anyone policing the area for this sort of behavior? I don’t want to be part of this event. I’m not giving anything to his cause. I want out of here. Now.”
She pressed the button and the doors started to close. She pretended to catch her breath. She touched her chest with her hand as if to steady herself, and then she looked him squarely in the eye. “I want to be escorted off this ship,” she said. “I feel vile. I can’t believe I came upon that. I’m requesting that you take me through that crowd and safely onto the pier or I will report you to Fondaras, who is a personal friend. You can look for those two later. One of them is named Addy, which I assume will help. The other one presumably is a baron. Check your guest list and hold them accountable.”
The man nodded and apologized.
And Carmen, swept up in the drama of her own faux tantrum, pressed her gun even more firmly against her thigh in an effort to make certain it was concealed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spocatti had no weapon, so he needed to find a suitable one.
The logical place was the ship’s dining room, where the guests soon would be seated for dinner.
He slipped inside as if to admire the space and found glowing candles on dozens of round tables covered with white linen, beautiful china and silver, and flowers sitting low in vases.
Larger flower arrangements towered in strat
egic places to offer an element of surprise when the guests filed in. Across the room, a white Steinway grand gleamed. Spocatti stepped farther inside, reached for a steak knife on one of the tables when none of the staff was looking and dropped it into his pants pocket.
Now for the more challenging part—getting Stout alone before Florence Holt’s body was found and this place turned into a horror show.
He wandered around the ship with his bald head slightly lowered and his eyes hidden behind his lightly tinted sunglasses. He went to the bar and asked for a fresh glass of sparkling water so he could seamlessly blend in with the crowd. Then, across from him, he saw Epifania Zapopa, the young new wife Stout married after being caught having sex with her on his first wife’s priceless Aubusson rug.
As beautiful and as chic as she was, she nevertheless looked out of place in this crowd because she was, in fact, out of place. While society couldn’t fully shun Charles Stout because of his name, family and money, they absolutely could shun Epifania, who had no education and who had been little more than a common maid, in their eyes, when the truth about their affair, first conceived doggy-style after she served him two heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream, was revealed.
At the bar, she appeared at once stunning, lonely and frustrated. He could only imagine that after they shared their one dance in which Epifania somehow shimmied to “Fly Me to the Moon,” Stout had left her here so he could mingle alone without the awkwardness Epifania brought with her due to her sorry pedigree. Spocatti watched her take her phone out of her purse and check it for messages. She did it so quickly, it was obvious there weren’t any.
He walked over to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Aren’t you Epifania Zapopa?”
She turned to look at him and, up close, he saw that she was more beautiful than he had realized. Her long, wavy brown hair framed an oval face that only had a trace of makeup because anything more wasn’t necessary. She looked to be somewhere in her late twenties, but that could just be a trick of nature or the ship’s soft lighting. She wore a black cocktail dress that accentuated her curvaceous figure, tall shoes that showed off her legs and a diamond choker around her neck that boasted an unusually large sapphire at its center. “I’m Epifania,” she said.
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 6