* * *
“Who’s the next one?” Carmen asked.
She entered the living room with her second cup of coffee. They’d already debriefed and now it was time to settle into Ryan’s list and talk about the next logical steps.
“Cullen instructed us to do the Redmans last,” Spocatti said. “He’s expecting something grand. We’ll give him that. Probably at the opening of their hotels, which Ryan screwed up last time because he got in the way and wouldn’t listen to me. In the meantime, there are other people on the list who pissed off Ryan for any number of reasons, usually because they either snubbed him or betrayed him.”
“How?”
Spocatti held up one of the printouts Cullen emailed him on the people to be targeted. “Take Piggy French, for instance. She’s old Park Avenue, and by old Park Avenue, I mean old Park Avenue money. So old that her people don’t mix well with the new people. And by new people, I mean those whose fortunes weren’t borne out of inheritance. Piggy’s was. Piggy’s great-grandfather founded American Steel. One of her uncles was a vice president of the United States. All of the men in her family went to Harvard and all of the women, including Piggy, went to Vassar. She and her family have homes where their kind mix—Northeast Harbor, Manhattan, Europe. Piggy was born into privilege, but according to Cullen’s intel, Piggy also was something of a slut.”
“A slut?”
“And a pill-popping drunk.”
“Who names their child ‘Piggy’?”
“People of Piggy’s ilk all have nicknames,” Spocatti said. “Piggy isn’t her real name. It’s the name she was given. Or saddled with. You decide.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “You remember Babe McAdoo?”
The woman was murdered last year. She and Spocatti worked with Babe in an effort to bring down the syndicate that killed Carmen’s lover, Alex Williams, and nearly killed Carmen too. “You know I do.”
“Babe’s real name was Margaret.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“But she grew up as Babe. A lot of them have odd names. Fatty. Sis. Ezzie. Sturgie. Dodo. Phippie. Peach. Hubie. You get the picture. I bet half of them don’t even know what their real names are at this point. But they all know money and social status. Which, according to these papers, is why when Louis Ryan approached Piggy French for a dance at a charitable event one evening several years ago, she publicly laughed in his face and said she’d never be seen dancing with someone who tore down the very buildings she loved just so he could have his nasty skyscrapers. Piggy was drunk at the time. She called him the Manhattan wrecking ball, and people laughed. She called him crass and stupid and an upstart, and people laughed. A reporter from the Post was nearby, heard it all and guess what?”
“Page Six?”
“Exactly. Complete with a photo and a caption loaded with public humiliation.” He held up one of the pages Cullen sent him and showed it to her. It was a photo of Piggy French leaning back in her chair with an arm slung over the back of it and a martini in her hand. Her mouth was open. She was letting Louis Ryan have it.
“He looks shocked.”
“That’s arrogance for you. At that point in his career, no one talked to Louis like that.”
“And for that, he wants her dead?”
“Apparently they had scenes at other parties throughout the years. I came to know Louis fairly well before he died. That one scene probably crushed him because of all the people who witnessed it, and then because of the millions of others who read about it the next day. I think it bothered him that even with all his money, society still shut him out. But he didn’t understand them. He didn’t understand how they work. He thought money was the way in when it isn’t and it never will be. It’s all about lineage. The breeding and the schools. The history. I’m not surprised he wanted her dead given what she’s said to him and about him.”
“He sounds like he was a lunatic.”
“Ryan was off, especially at the end when he derailed. He came from nothing. He felt he had earned his position in society, but what he didn’t understand is that they’d never accept him, no matter how much money he had, which usually was far more than they had. Some were worth a few million. Ryan was worth billions. It didn’t matter to them. As far as they were concerned, particularly when it came to the Park Avenue crowd, he’d never be one of them.”
“So, how do we off Piggy?” she asked.
“We go through Cullen.”
“Why Cullen?”
“I did some research. Ryan and Cullen went through Yale together. They became best friends. Roommates. Their friendship only grew from there. They were members of the Yale Club and the University Club, which is about as close as Ryan got to any kind of influential social life. They were close. It’s why Cullen is running the show now. The difference between them? Louis Ryan came from nothing. But Cullen? Cullen is of the Piggy French set. Cullen is old money. In New York society, the elite circle is a small one. He’ll know Piggy. And I have a plan for him to bring Piggy to us.”
Carmen leaned back in her chair. “I can’t believe we’re going to slaughter a pig.”
“Better than a child, Carmen,” Spocatti said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When she left Tribeca Grill, Leana gave Michael a kiss on the cheek under the restaurant’s green awning and told him she’d be in touch soon. He looked as if he was about to say something, but then he stopped. She caught it. “What is it?” she asked.
“Probably nothing.”
“That generally means probably something.”
“I’m not going to trouble you with it.”
“You wouldn’t if you could.”
“All right. At lunch, you didn’t mention what happened on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht last night. Or what was written on your hotel. I saw the papers. I saw it on television. While we were eating, I waited for you to bring it up, but you didn’t. Why?”
“Because I didn’t to want to talk about it and I didn’t want to worry you about it. I knew you already knew. Of course, you knew. It’s everywhere. What’s the point in rehashing it when the police are on top of it?”
“Because we share these things together openly. Or at least, I hope we do.”
“Look, when I went to the restroom a moment ago, Anastassios called me. He asked me to meet him at the hotel at two. It’s about a security team he recommends. He wants me to meet the owner and his team. I need to call him back because I cut the conversation short, but I’m in great hands. Mario will take care of me. Anastassios is being unbelievably helpful. The police are on it. You have my back. So, please let’s not worry too much about it until we learn more.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I know what we went through before was rough, but in spite of what everyone is saying, this obviously isn’t about Ryan. He’s dead. Dad killed him.”
“Then explain Holt and Stout. They were on Ryan’s board.”
“Lot’s of people remain on that board. Manhattan Enterprises continues on without Louis. Who knows what’s going on over there?”
“Have you been threatened beyond what was written on your hotel?”
“That was a prank.”
“You and I both know better. Why won’t you come clean with me?”
There was no getting around him, so she came clean. She told him about her interview with Maria Leonard from the Times, who didn’t exist and how video surveillance linked her to Holt’s death. “Obviously, there’s a link, I just don’t know what it is. That’s why I’m relying on Mario, Anastassios and especially the police to find out what’s going on and to end this as soon as possible. But you need to understand that my life can’t stop in the meantime, Michael. I have responsibilities now that I’ve never had. I’m sure either Mario or Anastassios will hook me up with a bodyguard of some sort, and a second armed guard will be following me around. That’s likely what I’m looking at when I meet Anastassios at two. But here’s what I want you to promise me. If you sense that anyone is trac
ing you, you call me immediately and I’ll make sure you’re covered.”
“Leana, someone’s always following me. It’s part of my life. Especially with the new movie coming out. If you happen to pass Times Square over the next few weeks, have a look around you. Look at the screens and look at the billboards. You can’t miss me. In this city, that kind of exposure is tough to run from.”
“You must be able to tell the difference between a fan and a maniac.”
He smiled at her before he left, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes, there is no difference. I’ve learned that too many times. Some fans have only the best intentions, but they can be a bit wild, which is where the line blurs.”
He kissed her on the cheek again and she sensed that he wanted to leave. “Thanks for coming clean. Listen to Mario and Anastassios. I’ll be in touch with you more than you’ll want, but deal with it. I’m your brother and I’m just concerned.”
Before he could turn away, she grabbed his arm.
“Has anyone come near you?” she asked. “Recently?”
He looked surprised. “No one’s come near me. I don’t expect them to.”
“Why not? You were involved in this as much as I was when Ryan was alive. Are you saying that you’re immune to it now?”
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes skirted away for an instant, and then he put his cap back on and shook his head. “Of course, I’m not. But everything’s fine. No one has come near me. If I was going to grill you like that, I’d tell you if someone had.”
She searched his face for some trace of a lie, but she couldn’t read past his expression. He was, after all, an actor. “Do your fans follow you?”
“Sometimes.”
“How do you know if they’re fans?”
“You always know a fan, Leana. Fans generally want something from you, even if it’s just a photograph or a signature. When they follow me, at first they’re usually a bit shy. Then they gather up their courage and, before you know it, they’re suddenly in my face.”
“I’m going to ask you a last time. Has anyone followed you recently who you suspected wasn’t a fan?”
“Look,” he said. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy over this. Everything’s fine. I promise. I’ll talk to you soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Leana watched Michael walk away and couldn’t help worrying about him. He hadn’t, after all, answered her question.
In spite of the crowds on the sidewalks, his eyes met no one’s. He kept his head lowered. He shrank into himself, as if the less there was of him, the less there was to be recognized. She felt there was something he wasn’t telling her, so she’d follow through and be in touch with him sooner than he wanted.
That’s what sisters are for, Michael.
When he was out of sight, she took out her cell and called Anastassios.
“You shouldn’t go out of your way for me,” she said. “There’s no need for you to come to the hotel. Let me meet you on the ship. I’ll come to you and see you and your men there.”
“The ship is now a crime scene, Leana. It’s impossible to meet me here.”
Of course it was a crime scene. The idea of it chilled her. “What am I thinking?” she said. “I’m sorry. What did you have in mind?”
“Last night, I told you that I’d contact a security crew for you. Turns out they’re available and I’d like to introduce them to you. They’re among the best—I use them myself when I need to—and I expect you to hire them until your hotel is finished. I especially want them there for the grand opening. We both know what happened at The Hotel Fifth. Hopefully your fiancé, with his connections, also can make sure you’re safe. So, we’ll meet you at the hotel, I’ll make the introductions, you’ll hire them, and then I want a complete tour of the hotel. Because, frankly, I’m eager to see what you’ve done to it and what you have in store for us. Does that work for you?”
“It means a great deal to me, Anastassios. I’ll see you at two.”
* * *
When she arrived at the hotel, she was relieved to see two men standing on either side of it—one at the Park Avenue entrance and the other at the Forty-Seventh Street entrance.
The men were construction workers, not security, but they were big—young, tall, muscular—and few would try anything with them around. She looked up, saw a clean new tarp shielding the building and better yet—no press.
“You can pull over here,” she said to the driver. “I’ll get off at Forty-Seventh.”
She paid the driver, got out of the cab and walked across the street to the two men. She shook their hands and thanked them for keeping watch over the hotel. “We’ll have you back inside soon,” she said. “I know this is boring work, but I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing and that you’ll receive a bonus for this.”
“It’s no problem, Miss Redman.”
“We’ve got your back, ma’am.”
Standing beside them, she felt dwarfed by their height—and Leana wasn’t short. “There’s a Starbucks over on Forty-Eighth,” she said. “Would you like me to get you a coffee? Or maybe an iced coffee? It’s hot out. What would you like?”
Surprised by the offer, they looked at each other. Leana sensed it was because she was a Redman and a certain precedent among the blue-collar workers in the city, many of whom had worked for her father over the years, already had been set when it came to interacting with a Redman. You simply didn’t unless you were spoken to, which irritated her.
She felt humiliated that her name was attached to that kind of arrogance. She was no better than they were. She also knew that at their prior jobs, it was unlikely that the owner of a building offered to run across the street and get them anything.
But that’s not how she intended to manage or to grow her reputation. She had no intention of becoming her father. She planned to be human, something George couldn’t comprehend. “Or whatever you want,” she said. “I’m happy to do it. But we’ve got to hurry. I have company coming, boys.”
The tallest one and probably the youngest, who called her “ma’am,” said he wouldn’t mind an iced coffee with lots of sugar. The other one said he’d take one hot and black.
Then they both asked if she was sure.
“It’s just coffee,” Leana said, checking her watch. She still had fifteen minutes before Fondaras arrived. “Give me ten. And also know this. Each of you also will receive a vacation once this hotel wraps, which can’t happen soon enough for all of us. Wherever you want to go with your families, just let me know. I appreciate all that you’ve done.”
* * *
When she returned with the coffees, Fondaras and the security crew had yet to arrive, which was good. She didn’t want to keep Anastassios, of all people, waiting. She handed over the coffees to the men, who thanked her for them.
“You’re real nice, Miss Redman.”
“Call me Leana.”
“Not many would do what you just did.”
“Why not? You’re the ones standing out in this heat, not me. All I did was lose a few calories while jogging over to get coffee. So, my ass thanks you for that.”
They laughed.
“All right,” she said, wanting to turn the subject away from her. “How’s the day been?”
“Some press people showed up this morning, but I think they were disappointed that the tarp was down and they left. They tried to question us, but we were asked to say nothing, so we offered a ‘no comment.’”
His eyes lit up when he said it.
“How’d that feel?” she asked.
“Fuckin’ awesome.” His caught himself. “Sorry, Miss Redman.”
She put her hand on his forearm. “It’s Leana. And I can say fuck with the best of them. Don’t worry about it. You read the tarp, didn’t you? Or at least you know what it said. There isn’t much I haven’t heard or said or been called in this city.”
“We’re sorry about the tarp, Miss—uh—Leana.”
&
nbsp; “I’ve been told that with all the publicity the tarp received, it’s going to sell the hotel. But as what? A brothel?”
“What’s inside ain’t no brothel,” the older man said.
“And how would you know that?” Leana asked him with a smile.
Each man sipped his coffee.
* * *
When Anastassios arrived, on time, in one of three stretch black limousines that pulled alongside the hotel, Leana excused herself from the men and waited streetside for the doors to open. She didn’t know which car Fondaras was in, so she stood near the middle and waited for the doors to swing open.
He alighted from the first car and, without acknowledging her, looked up at the building, specifically at the tarp. Then, he took in the front of the building, craning his neck high and shielding his eyes from the sun with his right hand so he could see all of it. Satisfied, he turned to her with clear approval on his face.
He was in a dark blue business suit and looked immaculate as he came toward her. Even in the bright light of mid-afternoon, his dyed brown hair was so well done, it nevertheless looked thick and natural. He wore no tie and his collar, open at the throat, revealed a deep tan and unusually youthful-looking skin. She wasn’t exactly sure how old he was, but she had known him since she was a toddler, when he and her father first entered into business together before their fortunes multiplied and they became business rivals.
He reached out his hands to her and grasped them as other car doors opened and several men stepped out.
“How are you?” he asked. “Quite a day, I imagine.”
“In ways that you probably can’t imagine.”
He looked at her with concern. “Meaning...?”
“Forget the television and newspaper reports about what was scrawled on the hotel last night. What bothers me more is that once again, my father screwed me today. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. I won’t burden you with it, Anastassios, because what’s done is done, and I know you’re here for other reasons. But let’s just say I’ve had better days.”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 12