Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series)

by Smith, Christopher

  Spocatti held out his hand. “Antonio Benedetti.”

  She shook it. “Have we met?”

  “Unlikely. I’m rarely in the States and I’m just about to leave again in a matter of hours. But before I do, I was wondering if your husband was around?”

  “I wonder same thing.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nada. Why you need my husband?”

  “I understand he’s now a consultant. I hear he’s the best and I’d like to speak to him about potentially using his services on a business venture I’m exploring.”

  “How you know who I am?”

  “You’re in all the papers, including the international papers. Everyone knows who you are.”

  Her face brightened. “Oh,” she said. “I had no idea, at least about the international papers. Are they kind to me there? Because here, they mean. They hate me. They say I’m cheap, and not because I don’t tip well, because Epifania tip very well. What they really saying is that they think I’m a whore.”

  “That’s not the case in Europe. They say lovely things about you there. Women want to look like you. They admire you.”

  “I don’ think I’ve ever been recognized or admired,” she said. She reached into her purse to remove her phone. “Charles has left me here ninety minutes so he can schmooze it up with his snotty friends. Let me call him over for you. It’ll piss him off. Give me two secs.”

  She tapped out a few numbers on her iPhone and waited for Stout to answer. “Chuckie,” she said. “It’s your second wife, Epifania. Remember her? The one who helped you ruin that pretty rug? Yeah, I thought you remember. Look, princess, there a man here who wants to see you. I don’t care if you’re with Countess Castellani and Lady Ionesco. I cleaned their fucking toilets before I was hire to clean yours. They’re a couple of mean bitches and you can tell them I used to wipe my ass on their expensive sheets. That’s right, Chuckie―I did. What? Oh, there a man who wants to see you, like I do. You’ve left me here forever, which is mean. And cruel. Yes, I’m still at the bar. So is he. I don’ know what he want—something about business. And Chuckie, listen to my dirty mouth. Epifania gettin’ messy. Epifania one drink away from gettin’ sloppy, so you better hurry. You know how Epifania get.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “That last part was lie,” she said to Spocatti. “I barely have one drink. But it’ll get him here faster. He hates it when I get sloppy. But when he take me to parties like this and leaves me alone because he’s embarrassed to be with me, guess what Epifania does? That’s right—Epifania drink martinis. Lots of them. God, I’m bored. I’m so fuckin’ bored. I can’t wait to divorce that prick.”

  You won’t have to, Spocatti thought.

  “Just last week, he had no choice but to take me to Spinny Ogtag’s birthday party for Addy Miller. My name was on the invitation list, which never happen, so Chuckie couldn’t get out of it.” She took a sip of her drink. “Spinny good guy. I think he likes me because he’s gay and game for whatever I bring to the table, which is plenty if I’m in one of my moods. He call me the loose cannon of Park Avenue, the only one who don’t shoot blanks. How about that? Epifania a loose cannon and she live on Park. Epifania fuckin’ made it.”

  “We all leave our marks.”

  “I left mine on a rug and on some pricey sheets. Here come Chuckie now. God, he ugly. Limp dick, too.” She noticeably downed her drink and took an awkward step backwards, as if her legs were unsteady due to too much alcohol. She winked at Spocatti. “That’ll get him.”

  “Epifania,” Stout said as he came through the crowd and placed his hand on her back. “I’m sorry, darling. People tend to sweep me away at events such as these.” He kissed her near her diamond choker, which he likely gave to her and which Spocatti thought was a clever move on his part. The undercurrent was clear: Remember the necklace, my dear. And everything else you have because of me. So, cut the bullshit. Now.

  He looked at Spocatti and held out his hand, which Spocatti shook.

  “That Antonio Benedetti,” Epifania said. “He want talk business. He heard you great consultant or something. I offered to hook you up so, you know, if anyone make money, Epifania get part of the deal.”

  Stout laughed lightly and pulled her in close to him. “I’d love to talk, but I’m afraid that would be impossible here.” He grimaced and shook his head. “The music, the noise. Is there a way I can reach you, Mr. Benedetti? Do you have a card, perhaps?”

  “Actually,” Spocatti said, “I’m leaving for Madrid in a few minutes. I promise this will be brief. If we could step outside for a moment, I could tell you what I have in mind and you can let me know if you’re interested. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in what I’m offering, Mr. Stout. It could turn out that I’m about to become your biggest client.”

  “It’s just that the timing—”

  “I won’t ask twice, Mr. Stout.” Spocatti waved his hand in front of him. “Shall we?” He looked at Epifania. “I’ll have him back in ten minutes.”

  “Take twenny,” she said. “That guy over there has his eye on me. Epifania chat him up. Epifania rock his world.”

  Reluctantly, Stout followed Spocatti through the crowd and off the ship. Spocatti was more aware than ever of the heightened security. Less discreetly than before, Fondaras’ men were milling about, looking at each face that passed them, including his.

  Since he was with Stout, a man everyone knew and revered, nobody paid much attention to either of them. They left the ship and were moving down the boardwalk when a shriek was unleashed behind them.

  Stout and Spocatti turned.

  It was Victoire Poisson, Florence Holt’s eccentric, longtime lover, who rolled her own cigarettes and who wore white tuxedos. She was with Fondaras and his men, who were trying to help her into another room while she continued to shriek before collapsing to her knees. She was inconsolable. In spite of the starch in her tuxedo, she appeared as limber as a rag doll.

  Spocatti saw Mario De Cicco hurry in front of them and stop at the door where his fiancé, Leana Redman, was being held. One of Fondaras’ men opened it for him and then remained outside after he closed it.

  “What on Earth?” Stout said. “I’ve known Poisson for years. She’s a little off with those weird tuxedoes she insists on wearing and I hate it when she rolls her own cigarettes in public because they always end up looking like a joint, but otherwise she’s not melodramatic. And I don’t see Florence anywhere. Has something happened to Florence?”

  “Mr. Stout,” Spocatti said. “I need to catch my plane. It would be helpful if I could have your attention.”

  “Of course.”

  A few people left the ship and stepped onto the boardwalk. Spocatti and Stout were well ahead of them, but still, he didn’t have much time. Just ahead of them were two ships anchored side-by-side. Each was dark, as if they were vacant. Spocatti moved toward them. There would be a dock between them and the harbor at the end of it.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Benedetti?”

  Spocatti kept his face neutral as Victoire Poisson continued to scream her piercing scream. “I’m beginning a new business venture,” Spocatti said. “With Steve Jobs gone, Apple’s stock has dropped and it remains vulnerable without its visionary. A group of tech investors from Japan have agreed to back a unique new device I’ve designed that bests anything Apple has created.”

  “You want to take on Apple?”

  “I plan on taking on Apple and winning.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Benedetti, but too many have tried that and failed.”

  “Let’s not forget that Apple wasn’t always on top. Let’s also not forget the reason their competitors lost. They were essentially competing with copy-cat devices Apple already had conceived and branded to the mainstream.”

  “And you have your own device?”

  “I do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you discreet?”

  “Of course, I am.”

&n
bsp; “I need to count on that.”

  “You have my word.”

  They were nearly upon the two darkened ships. Spocatti glanced behind him and took Stout’s arm. He lowered his voice. “Everyone is leaving. If we could go just around the corner, I’d feel more secure about telling you what I have in mind.”

  “Is that necessary? People look agitated, probably because Victoire has turned into a banshee. I hardly think they’ll be listening to us.”

  But Spocatti urged him around the corner and they started to walk down the dock that separated the two ships. The water lapped against the boats. Tall lampposts on either side of them cast an amber glow in the humid air. Spocatti could sense Stout’s hesitation. They were mid-way down the dock when Stout stopped.

  “You can tell me here,” he said.

  But here wasn’t perfect. Spocatti looked into the man’s eyes and dipped his hand into his pocket, where the knife was. He gripped it just as one of Fondaras’ guards shined a flashlight down the length of the dock where they were standing. He started to come toward them.

  “Who’s there?” the man called.

  “It’s Charles Stout,” Stout said in a bored voice. “And a friend of mine. Mr. Antonio Benedetti.”

  “I’ll need to see your ID’s.”

  The man, who was young and buff and likely in his mid-thirties, came forward with swift intent.

  “Our ID’s?” Stout said. “Nick, you know very well who I am. That’s insulting.”

  “There’s been a situation on the ship, Mr. Stout. Of course, I know who you are. I mean no disrespect. I’ve been ordered to check as many ID’s as possible. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

  “Safety from what?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “Certainly, you can, especially if my own safety is at risk. We deserve to know what’s happening. Now, what is it?”

  “Florence Holt was found in a bathroom with her face blown off.”

  “She was what?”

  “Someone shot her at such close range, it looked like somebody poured a can of Manwich on her face.”

  “What’s Manwich?”

  “Like spaghetti sauce, only thicker and you add meat and a bun.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Stout said. “She can’t be dead. She just won her public battle with Bell’s palsy.”

  The man blinked at him.

  “Bell’s palsy. You know. It caused her to have a droopy eye,” Stout explained. “For months, the whole right side of her face sagged as if it was warm vanilla pudding. The disease turned her into a monster and she removed herself from all social circles because of it. Tonight was her return.”

  He looked at Spocatti. “Of course, the rumor mill has other notions. Some say that it wasn’t Bell’s palsy at all but a bad Botox injection that hit a nerve. I never believed that because everyone knew that Florence was a die-hard organic vegan who was wholly against chemicals. People missed her while she was away. She was fun at parties, even if she was saddled with that weird partner of hers who rolls her own cigarettes and smokes them as if they’re joints. Then Florence rallied and triumphed. Tonight, we finally got her back, and now this.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Was it a tea bagger?” he asked.

  “Was it a what?

  “You know, one of those tea-party people. They hate lesbians. They want to pray the gay away, as if that’s worked for any of them. Did they shoot her square in the face?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I bet it was a tea bagger,” Stout said. “Awful people. I think I saw one on the ship tonight. They have a certain hypocritical look about them, like they just spoke to God after secretly fucking the hell out of somebody’s son or daughter. Some of them claim they eschew sex, but that’s all you can smell on them.”

  Spocatti looked behind them. In the distance, people were walking by. Not many, but enough to cause alarm. Soon there would be others, people who might turn this way and look down at the three men standing near the dock. With Florence Holt’s body found, he knew the party was finished and soon, hundreds of shaken people would start to pass by.

  Carmen came through tonight and made her kill. Given their competitive history, there was no way he was going to lose face and fail.

  While Stout reached for his wallet and started to pull out his ID, Spocatti made the same motions, only he was making certain the sharp end of the knife was in the correct position for his needs. It was.

  He looked at the two men and noticed that the guard was staring hard at him. “Do you have your ID, Mr. Benedetti?”

  “I have this,” Spocatti said. He pulled the knife from his pocket and in one blistering arc, he carved it across their throats, severing them deep as fans of blood spattered across his face.

  Each man collapsed, their hands at their throats as they twisted and writhed on the dock, gurgling for air as they sputtered up blood, and drowned in it. Spocatti took a step back and watched the blood flow in jetted torrents across the dock. He was about to take their photograph for Coleman when another guard came around the corner, flashed his light toward them and saw what was happening.

  Spocatti couldn’t let the man get a read on his face or his build. With no way out other than the river itself, he hunched over to appear smaller and sprinted toward the end of the dock while the guard took flight and started to run after him.

  “Stop!”

  With the city’s lights dancing along the river rippling surface, the otherwise dark water glimmered ahead of Spocatti like a mystery. Because he was in a harbor suited for ships, the water would be deep. He’d need to escape from here first and then find his way to dry ground.

  He ran faster, knowing the impossible was upon him. Soon, helicopters would be called into action. They’d be alerted of what he’d done and they’d search the waters with lights that would cut deep enough to see him if he wasn’t out of the water in time.

  Behind him, he heard others shout for him to stop. A sound of a gun went off, but given the poor lighting, the guard missed. With everything he had in him, Spocatti bolted to the end of the dock and dived into the water. He scraped away his glasses and dropped his knife as he did so. Now, they and his fingerprints would sink to the bottom of the Hudson, where currents would carry them adrift.

  The water was cold, but not biting—it still carried a trace of late summer’s warmth. He could see nothing as he swam down into the deep, but he could hear gunshots being fired into the water, some of which came too close for comfort, so he dived deeper. He could hear the roaring sound of a muddled frenzy unfurling above him and then he heard the unexpected splash of someone diving in after him.

  At first, he was incredulous that someone would take that chance, but this city was nothing if not a city of heroes and here was just another chance for someone to shine in the newspapers, on websites and on television if they caught him.

  But Spocatti was nothing if not in shape. He lived his life planning for moments such as this. He worked out relentlessly because he never knew when a job would go wrong. He kicked and he kicked hard. He cut his way through the murk and toward a path he hoped would lead to the promise of his own escape.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Florence Holt is dead,” Anastassios Fondaras said to Leana and Mario after he closed the door behind him. “She was shot in the face in one of the lower bathrooms. Whoever did it left wearing Florence’s dress. What’s worse is that one of my own men escorted her off the ship to safety. How she did so is complicated and embarrassing—for me, yes, but even more so for two males guests of mine, who were having sex at the time. I’ll leave it to the papers to give you their names and tell you the rest.”

  Leana looked at Mario, who was seated beside her. His focus was on Fondaras.

  “Charles Stout and a member of my security team are also dead. Their throats were slashed on a dock that separates two smaller ships just down the pier. We tried to catch the killer, but he dived into the ocean. Now,
police are searching for him by air and along the banks that lead to dry land. There’s a good chance we’ll find him. The woman we have on video.” He looked at Leana. “I’ve seen the tapes, including the one where you were taken to one of the boardrooms below ship. It’s the same woman who said she was from the Times.”

  “Does anything link the three deaths?” Mario asked.

  “The police found a note in the bathroom where Holt was murdered. On it was a list of ten names, including Holt and Stout’s. They’re looking into the other eight now to find connections. Of course, the note could be bogus. A means to mislead. Still, they need to take it seriously, because everyone on that list was here tonight.”

  “Holt and Stout sat on the board of Louis Ryan’s Manhattan Enterprises,” Leana said. “There’s one connection.”

  “I also thought of that,” Fondaras said. “But on that list are names that have nothing to do with Ryan. One of the film stars here tonight was on the list. An author was on it. So was that fat contessa from one of those food shows, whom I overheard criticizing the food. I actually heard her say that the “blinis are bunk.” That’s when I introduced myself to her. From my expression alone, she knew I heard what she said. She looked shattered and stricken. Poor, fat contessa. On that list was a bizarre, random mix of people. The police have their work cut out for them.”

  Leana started to speak, but Fondaras interjected. “Louis Ryan is dead, Leana. I understand what you went through was traumatic. But that was years ago. This is something else.”

  “Was I on that list?”

  “No.”

  “Because after what happened tonight at my hotel, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was. I don’t believe in coincidences, Anastassios. That woman who took me to your boardroom questioned me for a reason. I once worked for Louis, just like Holt and Stout.”