His head dipped beneath the sheets. He tickled her with his tongue on the way down to where it really mattered, and when they began again, it was in earnest.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The next morning, at his office, an intrigued James Cullen hung up his phone and sat at his desk, wondering what fresh hell this was and how he would handle it going forward.
Depending on how it turned out.
The call came from a Marty Spellman, who identified himself as a private investigator, and who now was on his way to meet Cullen so they could discuss Louis Ryan’s will.
“May I ask why you have an interest in the will, Mr. Spellman?”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Cullen, I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone. I know you’re busy. I won’t take up much of your time. Where might I meet you?”
James could have let the situation end there. But an investigator calling with an interest in Ryan’s will? There was no way he was going to resist meeting this man and trying to find out why he was so interested in it. What did this Spellman know? What did he suspect? Did he have a copy of the will? Of course, he did, which meant he already knew that each one of Ryan’s beneficiaries was now dead.
He obviously is making something of that, he thought. But what brought him to the will? Who’s behind it? And what questions does he have?
He decided it was in his best interest to find out.
“I have an office at Manhattan Enterprises, Mr. Spellman. You can meet me here. Just announce yourself at the front desk and you will be allowed through.”
“Manhattan Enterprises?”
“That’s right. Louis Ryan’s former building. You know, on Fifth?” He said it in a light, conversational sort of way. He said it as if it wasn’t a big deal.
“I know of it. I’ll see you in thirty?”
“That would be fine, Mr. Spellman. We’ll have coffee or tea, and discuss the will.”
When Marty Spellman arrived, Cullen’s assistant, Marta, let him into the room and Cullen rose from his desk to greet him. “Coffee or tea, Mr. Spellman?” Cullen asked.
“Coffee,” Marty said. “Black. Thank you.”
“Tea for me, Marta. No need to knock. Just come right in with it. Thank you.”
He assessed Spellman as he came around his desk. Tall, broad shoulders, early forties, very handsome. Notebook in hand, as well as a manila envelope, in which Cullen knew was the will.
“Sorry about my leg,” Cullen said to diffuse any tension that might be between them, though he didn’t sense any. “Lost it to cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I just sort of drag it around with me. It’s like a clingy child with wants and needs. Part of me wants to kick it away, but I feel as though I might need it later. You know, when I’m old and it’s time for somebody to spoon feed me my applesauce.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“When you’ve had your leg chopped off, Mr. Spellman, resentment tends to settle in.” He shrugged. “On the bright side, at least I’m not stuck in a wheelchair. At least I can hobble about. Even if it does feel as if a child is weighing me down. Here. Sit here. Marta will be back soon—she’s quick as lightning. Is that Louis’ will in your hand?”
“It is.”
“I haven’t seen it in three years. Not since the days following that terrible night.”
In the center of the room were two leather sofas divided by an antique mahogany coffee table. Marty took the sofa facing Cullen’s desk, and Cullen took the other. He lifted his ruined leg over his good leg, and crossed them at the knee. A moment later, the door opened and Marta came in with a coffee and tea service on a silver tray. He thanked her for it.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Marta.”
Cullen waited for the door to click shut before he looked at Marty and mouthed, but did not say, the word, lesbian.
“Excuse me?”
“Marta’s a lesbian. Awfully good at her job, though.”
“I can’t image how her sexuality would hinder her performance....”
“You never know, but one has to be careful today. We’re a lawsuit happy culture, Mr. Spellman. I have to treat her as I would anyone else, or she could sue me.”
“Would you treat her differently if you could?”
“Of course, not. I’m not exactly a homophobe.”
“No,” Marty said. “I wouldn’t peg you for that, at all.”
Cullen gestured toward the pot of coffee. “It’s a French roast from France. Literally. We have it flown in weekly along with all sorts of other indulgences. I hope you enjoy it.”
He watched Spellman pour himself a cup knowing that any small talk had just ended. They were about to get down to it. But down to what was the question. What did this man think he suspected? Whatever it was, Cullen was prepared to answer it.
“You said you were a private investigator, Mr. Spellman?”
“That’s right.”
“If I may ask, whom do you work for?”
“I work for myself.”
“No, I meant who hired you to come here today?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Just like in the movies. It’s always so hush-hush. But let me at least guess why you’re here now. I’m as concerned as you are, you know? Likely more so. I think I might be next. All of Louis’ beneficiaries are dead. Recently dead. As executor of his will, I can only imagine that my own death might be at hand, so I’ve hired security.”
“Have you talked with the police?”
“I’ve wavered on that plank for over a week now. I fear that if I do, whoever is behind this will know and they’ll be swift in putting an end to me. So, while my own private investigator tries to find out what is going on, I have two men who guard me at all times.”
Marty looked around the room. “Where are they?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Mr. Spellman. What if you’re here to kill me? What if you’re the one behind this?”
“Excuse me?”
“It isn’t an absurd question. I don’t know you. You call out of the blue and ask to see me. Given what’s happened, do you think I’d see you without protecting myself? Cameras are hidden throughout this room. We’re being watched. You’re being filmed. So, please don’t try anything, if that’s your intent.”
“It isn’t my intent.”
“What is your intent?”
“To learn about your relationship with Louis Ryan.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s unlikely that you two were friends, yet you were the executor of his will.”
“Why do you think our friendship was unlikely?”
“Because you come from two different social classes. In my experience, those classes rarely mix.”
“So, now I’m shallow? Mr. Spellman, I have to say that that is insulting. Louis Ryan and I went to Yale together. We were great friends. Very close. We roomed together. I obviously don’t condone what he did to George Redman and his family, especially to poor Celina, but I suppose there are dark sides to all of us that others never see or suspect. That was the case with my relationship with Louis. Everyone knew he hated George, but they suspected that was just because they were rivals in business, which isn’t uncommon in this town. No one knew that Louis suspected George of killing his wife, Anne. That was a secret he nearly took to his grave.”
“So, what’s happening now? You must have a theory. You’ve hired security and a private investigator, so surely you’ve given this some thought. Leana Redman is being targeted again. Her brother, Michael, is being targeted. I can only assume it’s a matter of time before George Redman is also threatened in some way. Obviously, what’s happening to them now is connected to the deaths of Piggy French, the Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Rowena Clark, Peter Horrigan, Florence Holt, and Charles Stout. There’s too much of a coincidence for there not to be a connection. So, what is your take?”
“I don’
t have one. That’s why I hired help.”
“Wouldn’t it be more productive if you reached out to the police? No one remembers who Ryan’s beneficiaries were. No one is making the connections now. Why not tip off the police and end this?”
“As I said, I’m frightened of what might happen to me if I did. I’m afraid they’re watching and listening. It’s a risk I won’t take until I get to the bottom of this myself.”
“Ryan must have been close to all of them to have left them five million dollars each.”
“I don’t know how close he was to them, but I would assume, given that sum of money, that they meant something to him. Louis and I lost touch during the last few years before he died.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We were just two good friends who saw less and less of each other as time went on. We were both busy. It happens. I was into my philanthropy work. Louis obviously was scheming to kill George Redman and his family. But he knew I’d always have his back, just as I knew, back then, that he’d have mine. He made me executor of his will without my knowledge. He transferred all of his shares of Manhattan Enterprises over to me without my knowledge of it. Probably because Louis had no family. Probably because while he was alive, I never judged him while others did. That’s why we’re at Manhattan Enterprises now. When those shares were turned over to me, he essentially made me the chief shareholder of his company.”
“You’re the CEO?”
“Good heavens, no. I sit on the board and make decisions along with the rest of them, but being CEO is something I’m hardly qualified to handle. I just attend the meetings when they’re held, use my business sense to the best of my ability to keep the ship on course, and keep an office here because it’s located at a good address and it’s convenient.”
“Do you know the Redmans?”
“I’ve met George and Elizabeth at a few events, and I met Celina before that awful man no one can seem to find drowned her, but I never met Leana, though I hear she’s making a go of it now.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Do you read the papers, Mr. Spellman? Leana Redman is everywhere these days. She has that hotel on Park of hers that’s about to open. She thinks she’s going to attract the Park Avenue set, which she won’t because she’s new. But good on her for trying, I guess.”
“What do you mean by ‘new’?”
“New money.”
“You say it as if her money is different from yours.”
“It’s absolutely different.”
“How is it different?”
“She isn’t one of us. She isn’t in the book. Neither is her father. Nor was Louis, for that matter, though God knows he tried to get himself in the book and to be one of us. I was one of the few who accepted him because of our history together. Sometimes, but rarely, when worlds collide in favorable ways, that can happen.”
“If that’s the case, how was Louis friends with the baron and baroness? And Piggy French? They’re in the book. I checked. Why were they friends with Louis?”
“No idea. Business deals, likely.”
“But he left each of them five million dollars. Don’t you find that odd if they weren’t close friends?”
“Who said they weren’t close friends? Maybe they were. I didn’t know every facet of Louis’ life, Mr. Spellman. As I said, they could have entered into business together. Who knows? There are things about Louis I’ll never understand, particularly why he devised a plot to murder the Redmans when he should have just gone to the police with what he knew. Or with what he thought he knew. It wasn’t George who killed his wife, but George’s wife, Elizabeth. She’s now scrubbing toilets in prison. He was wrong about that. Terribly wrong. What he did was pure madness. How can it be explained any other way?”
Cullen held out his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Do any of us really know our friends? Our wives, husbands, children? I thought I knew Louis, but apparently I didn’t know him at all. Because the man I knew never would have resorted to the crimes he committed. He had to have been mad to commit them. He must have gone off the rails to do what he did. It’s awful what he did. I don’t understand why he did it.”
“In those moments when you’ve made an effort to draw connections between the deaths of his beneficiaries and what’s happening now, where does your mind lead you?”
“It leads me nowhere. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand any of this. It befuddles me; and frankly, it scares me. I’m not one to go down without a fight, which is why I’ve hired security, but I’m no fool, Mr. Spellman. Whoever is behind this will win in the end. They’ll get to me, just like they got to everyone else. I’ll die. And do you know what’s worse than that?”
“How can anything be worse than that?”
James Cullen furrowed his brow. “Isn’t it obvious? If I die, I’ll be cheated out of finding out what’s going on and why I was murdered in the first place. Now, look. You’ve upset me. I’ve given you my time. I’ve told you what little I know. Do you have any other questions?”
“Not for you. At least not now. I might need to see you again.”
“I’d be happy to answer any of your questions. Whatever you learn might help me. I don’t want to die, Mr. Spellman. If I can assist you, I will, because it very well might be you who ends this.”
Marty got up to leave. “Thanks for the coffee and for seeing me.”
“It was my pleasure. I wish you luck. Please call at any time. I hope I’m still here to answer.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When Spellman left, Spocatti and Carmen stepped through a side entrance and moved into the room.
“Well?” Cullen said.
“You handled yourself well,” Spocatti said. “But he’s smart. We were watching. He’ll continue to nose around. There’s a chance that he might involve the police.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Nothing can be traced back to you. Even if he did go to the police, they’d have a difficult time trying to figure out your motivation for killing off Louis’ beneficiaries. Why? There is nothing in it for you. You have no motive. Louis did.”
“He was wise to leave them that money,” Carmen said. “It was a way to throw people off. He planned for everything, didn’t he?”
“It appears that way.”
“I would have liked to have known him.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Spocatti said. “Trust me.”
“So, what’s your opinion?” Cullen asked. “Do we just let him snoop around, or do we eliminate him?”
“What we don’t know is whether he told someone that he was coming here today. If he did and if he dies, it wouldn’t bode well for you, to say the least.”
“If he unearths something that could incriminate me, it will be worse.”
“There’s nothing to unearth. The money you paid us came from your offshore account into our offshore accounts. It’s untraceable. Leana Redman, George Redman, and Michael Archer will be dead in a matter of days. Then this will be behind you.”
“Or be smack in front of me.”
“I don’t see how,” Carmen said. “To the world, you’re innocent in all this. You come from one of New York’s most prestigious families. You may have blood on your hands because of what you’ve carried through for Louis, but what’s in your favor is that your blood is blue. No one will suspect you of this. You and your family are revered in this city. I don’t see it happening. As Vincent said, you have no motive.”
“Everything ends in three days,” Spocatti said. “Let’s wait and see if Spellman causes a stink before we overreact. If he does, we take him out. If he doesn’t—and I don’t think he has time to do any damage even if he wanted to—then we just walk away from it. Killing more people is only going to generate more attention, especially a private investigator who may have told someone he was visiting you. If we murder him, there’s every chance that the police will come to you. You can handl
e their questions the same way you handled Spellman’s questions, which was spot on, but why subject yourself to them if you don’t have to? Right now, the worst thing you can do is act irrationally. That’s where Louis went wrong—he didn’t listen to me—and look where it got him. Just let us handle this. We need you to be just as you were with Spellman.”
“I never commended you for what you wrote on the tarp covering Leana’s hotel,” Cullen said. “Or how you wounded her by blowing out that storefront. Louis would have appreciated that.”
Spocatti didn’t look at Carmen. Instead, he nodded at Cullen. “Just trust us. Everything is coming together. Carmen and I have a solid plan.”
“Which is?”
“We stop putting pressure on them. Right now, we lie low. Give them a chance to breathe. Maybe drop their guards a bit, though that’s unlikely. Still, Carmen will take care of Leana and Michael at the opening of her hotel. I’ll take care of George on the same night, when his hotel opens. Then everyone on Louis’ list will be dead, you can transfer the rest of our money to our accounts, and we’ll be done with this and gone.”
“I have your invitations,” Cullen said, walking around to the front of his desk and retrieving them from a drawer. “My name is good for a lot of things in this city, such as securing these. I hear they’re not easy to come by.” He handed one to each of them. “One is for the opening of Leana’s hotel, the other is for George’s. I made up the names for you. I hope they work.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re sure this will work?”
“Oh, it’ll work,” Carmen said. “We’ll see to it.”
* * *
Spocatti and Carmen left Cullen’s office and moved through the industrial space, which was empty, save for Marta, who was paid handsomely to be discreet and therefore never once looked at them as they passed.
Carmen waited until the elevator doors slid open before turning to Vincent. “So, we never tell him?”
“We don’t.”
“We just let him believe that it was us behind the tarp and the shooting that nearly cost Leana Redman her eyesight?”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 30