“She’ll tell you she came from Atlanta.”
“We both know better. So, what is it, Leana? Are we a team? You impressed me today. You’ve impressed me with your hotel. The concepts you and Hugo came up with are terrific.”
She needed to buy herself time. “Let me talk to Mario,” she said. “I need his advice, just as you used to talk over big decisions with Mom. I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
“By eight?”
“Actually, I start work at five. You’ll hear from me then, if you’re awake. If not, I’ll call back.”
She stood to leave, and as she did so, her father also stood and came around his desk. “I know you feel as if I undercut you with my hotel. But I think you understand now that it’s not personal. It’s business. Do you see that?”
In spite of the fact that she and her father each took a bullet at The Hotel Fifth, she had to admit that she did. Business was about opportunities. It wasn’t about personal attachments or what haunted you in the past. Her father got that hotel for a steal and he capitalized on it. She understood now. What bothered her is that he still planned to open it on the same day as The Park.
“Would you consider opening it the weekend after The Park opens?”
“No.”
“So, this is what I’ll learn from you? That family doesn’t matter?”
“You see? You’re making this personal again. But it isn’t, Leana. It’s purely a business decision. You need to understand how business works if you’re going to be successful. Because we’re opening our hotels on the same day, the press will latch onto it because they know of our tumultuous history together. The exposure for both of us will be significant. That’s what matters to me. It’s what should matter to you. You have to manipulate the press in order to get your share of it. We’ll each have a successful opening. In the end, we’ll each win.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I’ve been at this for years. You know, Celina and I fought all the time. It was part of our everyday lives. Sometimes, days would pass and we wouldn’t speak to each other. As you and I work together, the same will be true for us.”
“That sounds pleasant.”
“I’m telling you the truth, and I’m giving you my best advice. Take it. Run with it. Absorb it. If you want to carve out your own name in this city, you’re going to have to learn to be ruthless because that’s how the game is played here. It’s not played by being nice. You need to be cutthroat, even with me. I can help you with that.”
“That’s the thing,” Leana said. “I’m not so sure how I feel about that.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When her driver dropped her off at home, Leana had, in that brief span of time, enough time to know exactly how she felt.
She left the Bentley with Sean, thanked him for his help, said she’d see him tomorrow and stepped quickly into her building. She appreciated him, but wondered when the time would come when she wouldn’t feel so paranoid about being out in public. Because of all that had happened, she was feeling more and more like a prisoner.
And it was getting old.
She decided to call Anastassios the next day to see if he had learned anything about the murders that happened on his ship, and if he still felt there was a link to what was happening to her now. There was a possibility that they were coincidences. But in her gut, she felt that couldn’t be the case.
She called out Mario’s name when she entered their penthouse, but there was no answer. It was still reasonably early. He could be at his restaurant with his brothers for all she knew.
She went to the phone and called her father. When he answered, she said, “There’s no need to wait. I’ll take on the Columbus Circle project and manage Pepper there. You’re stuck with her on her other projects. Sorry about that. I need to see how this plays out between us before I move forward with any plans that might affect my future.”
“Fair enough,” George said. “But if those are your terms, there’s a condition. As we agreed upon earlier, you work Columbus and your hotel at the same time. You’ll need to do both, because I’m losing time. I promise to keep Pepper in check.”
“You think you can do that?”
“If she wants to work for me, I can. Are you agreeable to that?”
It was a lot to take on. If she split her time like this, she could fail with her hotel and also with her father’s project. Could she do it?
I can do it.
“I’ll agree to it,” she said. “I’ll be onsite tomorrow morning. Tell Pepper I expect her there by five, but you need to have a good, long, definitive talk with her beforehand. She needs to understand that she will be answering to me, not you. Me. If she acts up, I’ll give her one warning. If she continues, I’ll fire her from the project. That could happen as early as tomorrow if she doesn’t have her act together. Those are my terms. Otherwise, I’m out and will go forward on my own. As for my hotel, I’ll be spending afternoons and evenings there. No exceptions. I plan on succeeding with each.”
“Those are big plans,” he said. “Especially considering the deadlines. You’re ready for this?”
“I was ready five years ago.”
“I won’t have you fire Pepper out of spite.”
She wasn’t offended by the comment. It was a natural concern given her relationship with Pepper. “I don’t intend to. She just needs to understand the chain of command. If she doesn’t and she pulls anything that undermines me, I’ll contact you first before I take action. Fair enough? I think you’ll agree that, if she does misbehave, we’re better off without her than with her. We each have deadlines to meet. We each agree that your project must succeed with minimal interruptions from someone who is pissed off that she didn’t get her way.”
“You’re sounding more and more like Celina,” he said. “And maybe even me.”
“Let’s set the record straight. I’m my own person. I’m not Celina. I’m not you. I’m Leana Redman. Don’t forget it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
It was ten days before Piggy French’s body was found in her townhouse off Park, and when it was discovered, it had become a bloated host to a nest of feasting maggots.
It was her maid, Esperanza, who found Piggy with her nose smashed on the parlor floor and who screamed at the sight of her dead employer resting in the cracked surface of her own blood.
Sobbing, she screamed again when she came upon Marvin’s decomposing body in the kitchen, where flies were buzzing around him, zipping in and out of him, and where the air was more foul than it would be around heaps of trash stacked three deep on a city street in the middle of a blistering July heat.
When the police arrived, a ruined Esperanza, who only spoke broken English, told them that she had been on her yearly vacation to Miami to visit family and therefore didn’t find them earlier. She was questioned about the moldy tea in the tea service beside Piggy, which was confiscated so it could be tested.
“Miss Piggy drink lots of different herbal teas, but she mostly liked the Goose,” she told the detective who questioned her.
“The Goose?” the woman said.
“You know, the Grey Goose. The vodka. Miss Piggy called it ‘the Goose.’ She called it her ‘big way to get through the day with an ‘A’.’ She was funny that way. She was big drama queen. Like my nephew, Juan Carlos, whose drag name is Fleeta Sailors. I know he’s going to burn in hell, but I love him anyway.” She looked down at her former employer, and put a hand over her heart. “Oh, Miss Piggy, you used to make me laugh more than Honey Boo Boo. I’ll miss you.”
“Was Ms. French an alcoholic?”
“Oh, sure. She big drunk. I used to find her passed out on the bathroom floor, usually mumbling on about needing more of the Goose. But since I couldn’t move her after she got so fat, I’d just clean up around her.”
“You’d what?”
“I’d grab the Spic and Span and clean up around her. Miss Piggy didn’t mind. I don’t think she really knew. Bu
t somebody had to clean up her vomit, so I did it. It was my job. And besides, she was good to me. She gave me big yearly bonus, so I could go to Florida. She was kind that way.”
When she was asked if Piggy had any enemies, Esperanza shrugged. “No, no. Everyone like Miss Piggy. She had lot of friends. She just didn’t see them anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“The Goose.”
“Everyone has an enemy, Esperanza. Certainly Piggy, with all her money, had hers.”
“She had those two ex-husbands who called her that mean word,” Esperanza said.
“What word?”
“This was long time ago. I don’ know.”
“What was the word?”
Esperanza genuflected. “Heyzeus Cristo. I don’ wanna say it.”
“I’m asking you to say it, Esperanza.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They each call her a coño.”
“A what?”
“You know. Coño. Concha. Pucha.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Cunt!” Esperanza shouted in frustration. “They call Miss Piggy a cunt!”
Though the tea was being tested for its compounds, each death was considered accidental until it could be proved that foul play was involved.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
James Cullen learned all of this through various resources. With Piggy French dead, people in the know were talking, especially about the maggots found feasting on Piggy’s face, mouth and eyes, the news of which was as much a titillation as it was as an abomination in their circles.
Telephones rang. Emails shot across the city as new information was leaked. At dinner parties on Fifth and on Park, where Piggy had been a mainstay before the Goose, the pills and the unwanted orgasms felled her, she was a source of conversation that stood singularly at the trough.
Her death shook society—as well as the society columns and the gossip blogs—and Cullen absorbed it all with a thrill. Her undoing would have pleased his old friend, Louis Ryan, if only because of all the times Piggy snubbed him.
Louis was of the new money, and thus was never good enough for her. She publicly humiliated him at parties, which Cullen, whose social status was on par with Piggy’s, thought was cruel and unnecessary. He never understood her, but now, at this point, he’d never have to understand her again.
Now, in his office high at the top of Manhattan Enterprises, he sat at his desk, opened the Times to the obituary section, and saw the familiar faces of three people he once knew, but who, like Piggy, were no longer among the living.
There were the Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, each shown in their prime in older photos from one of the grand dinner parties they were famous for giving at their over-the-top, rococo-decorated penthouse on Fifth. Cullen had been to several of those parties, and he had tried to convince the baroness to invite Louis Ryan to one of them so he could assimilate into society, but she always refused.
“He’s not one of us, James. He’s new. Common. And I hate what he’s doing to the city. All of those beautiful old buildings torn down so he can construct those towering heaps of hideous glass. I know you went to school with him. I appreciate that, as well as your friendship. I know that even the most unfortunate bonds can be made while at university. But he never will be invited to one of my dinner parties. His presence would tip the balance too far into the murk, and likely would leave the evening there. Who in our set would talk to him, for heaven’s sake? That man looks like an ogre and has the manners of one.”
On another occasion, when Louis pressed him, James tried to reason with the baron, who had none of it. “You know I’ll never go against my wife, James. I received my title by marrying her. And besides, Ryan would sink the party by the end of the first course. He’s crude and unformed. He’s not respected or admired, and he’s especially not generous. With all of his billions, show me one charitable organization that he’s funded in this city. Just one.”
“I can’t.”
“I know you can’t. Look. Greed rests upon the plates of too many that attend our parties, but at least they are skilled enough not to show their hands as readily as Ryan does. All give at least a portion of their fortunes away to those in need. Many sit on the right boards. Some begin meaningful foundations and sustain them. They also attend church, which Ryan doesn’t. And he’s Catholic, not Protestant, which doesn’t sit well with anyone. They understand the rules, whereas Ryan doesn’t. I’m sorry. He never will be welcome here.”
Cullen told all of it to Ryan, who felt slighted and never forgot it.
Cullen skimmed through each obituary and saw that their deaths were being ruled a murder-suicide, with the baron shooting his wife before shooting himself in the head. There was mention of a note the baron left behind, written in his own hand that hinted at a long-term battle with depression. “I don’t see the point of this anymore,” he wrote. “Living in her shadow has become impossible for me.”
Just below them and to the right, was the handsome face of Peter Horrigan, the Wall Street lawyer Ryan hired to advise his board of directors of their rights and duties when he tried to buy Redman International when it was at its weakest.
As far as Louis was concerned, Horrigan failed him every bit as much as Charles Stout and Florence Holt, especially since he asked Horrigan to speak privately with each board member before they reached their consensus and persuade them to consider the inherent potential of owning Redman International. Horrigan refused, claiming it was illegal, which it was. But James knew that Louis didn’t see it that way. He considered Horrigan to be one of the key reasons his takeover attempt of Redman International was shot down by the board, thus robbing him of a key element of his revenge against Redman.
And now Horrigan was dead after being struck by a van while crossing Park Avenue on the downside of dusk. From prior news reports, Cullen knew the van hadn’t stopped—some witnesses said it actually sped up—and that police were searching for the vehicle and its owner.
Finally, on the left side of the page was an obituary without a photo. Earlier, he had to hunt for it, but eventually he found it. It was so brief that it appeared to suggest a life of no significance.
It was for a woman named Rowena Clark, who died at her Brooklyn home four days earlier after a fall down her staircase. The obituary said that Clark was sixty-two, the widow of Nicolas Clark, and the mother of two adult children.
Cullen knew exactly who she was—Louis’ former mistress, who left him years ago for Nicolas because she no longer wanted to continue an eleven-year affair if marriage wasn’t in the equation. Cullen remembered the situation and the arguments that ensued between Louis and Rowena, whom Louis genuinely loved even though marriage was out of the question for him. A year after their break-up, she married a “fucking teacher,” as Louis put it, and he apparently never got over the slight.
“Because there you are now, Rowena,” Cullen said to her obituary. “A life truncated into one hundred-fifty words. Give or take.”
He closed the newspaper and went over to the wall of windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue. Charles Stout, Florence Holt, Piggy French, the Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Peter Horrigan and Rowena Clark were dead. Spocatti and Carmen had been busy since Leana’s recovery in the hospital. Successfully busy.
Three more to go, he thought. Michael Archer, George Redman and Leana Redman.
And when they were gone, James Cullen would finally realize what had driven him to follow Louis’ request to make certain all died. His motivation wasn’t just out of loyalty to his good friend, whom he loved as if he was his own brother.
It also was the one hundred million dollars he would secretly receive from Ryan’s estate when once all was said and done.
CHAPTER FIFTY
It was evening when Spocatti and Carmen arrived at Cullen’s office to discuss next steps.
“You’re bald,” Cullen said to Spocatti when they entered the room. He came around his desk and leaned against
it as they walked toward him. “When did that happen?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably the night of Anastassios’ party. You would have been recognized. After all, Leana Redman was there. She would have known you in a minute.”
He looked at Carmen, whom he had yet to meet in person. “So this is Carmen?” he said, appraising her. “Beautiful. And by the way, nice job on everything you’ve been doing to help Vincent.”
“What makes you think that he’s not the one who’s been helping me? Piggy French met her end because of a choice I made. I killed the baron and baroness—not Vincent. He was busy running over Peter Horrigan. We share the work equally, Mr. Cullen.” She shot Spocatti a sideways glance. “Just not the pay.”
“You are a tiger,” Cullen said. “No wonder Florence Holt didn’t stand a chance against you.”
He extended his hand, which she shook.
“Did she put up much of a fight?”
“I believe Vincent filled you in on everything.”
“But I’d like to relive the scene through you,” Cullen said. “I hear she was scrappy.”
“She was. And stronger than you’d expect.”
“Those dykes can fight. What was it like shooting her in the face?”
Carmen looked coolly at him. “I sent you the photos. You saw what it was like.”
“But if you could expand upon the situation and give me a sense of what it was like, I’d enjoy that.”
“Why?”
“Because of how she treated Louis. Because I also didn’t like her, and I’m glad that she’s dead.”
“Let’s just say that if I’d used hollow-point bullets, her face would have looked a lot worse.”
“How? After what you did to her, her face looked as if it went through a meat grinder. She didn’t have a closed casket for nothing.”
“True. She needed one. But if I’d gone with the hollow-points, her casket would have been a foot shorter because she would have been missing her head.”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 22