Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series)

by Smith, Christopher

  “That’s right.”

  “Why? Doesn’t he deserve to know that someone else is involved? That those events didn’t happen because of us?”

  “That’s not my problem, Carmen. Nor is it yours. It’s none of our business. We weren’t hired to be investigators. We were hired to be assassins. There’s a difference.”

  They stepped inside. When the doors closed and the elevator began its descent, he said, “We go by the contract. We were paid to kill ten people, nothing more. Leana Redman, George Redman, and Michael Archer are the last on the list. If somebody else gets to them first, for whatever reason, so be it. There’s nothing we can do about that. We are aware of it, we are on top of it, and that’s what matters. I have a feeling that whoever else wants them dead will also act at each hotel’s opening, if not before. But if it hasn’t happened before those events, we need to be acutely aware of their presence—we need to check the crowd for anything that appears off. If George goes down at his hotel’s opening, or if Leana’s goes down at her hotel’s opening, and we’re not part of either of their deaths, we walk away. We get the hell out of there. Obviously, we’re not the only ones targeting them. Do I care about that? Only when it comes to our own safety. Otherwise, we continue to turn a blind eye to it because the end game is the same—their deaths. It might be that the only person we need to bring down is Archer since no one but us has targeted him yet.”

  “George hasn’t been targeted.”

  “Yet. For whatever reason, they may just want Leana and Michael. If that’s the case, we step in and take out George when the moment is right.”

  “You’ll step in. I’ll be with Leana and Michael.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “And that’s fine. I should have been allowed to kill Redman three years ago, but look at me now. At last—an opportunity for closure.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  When Marty left Manhattan Enterprises, he grabbed a cab, gave the driver an address on the Upper West Side, and called Gloria, who lived there in an apartment overlooking the Park.

  “This is becoming a habit,” she said.

  “I hope not a bad one.”

  “We’re good.”

  “It’s about Leana.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Are you home?”

  “Your timing is perfect. I’m back from getting groceries.”

  “Would you mind if I stopped by? I need to discuss something with you in person, not over the phone. I need a favor.”

  “You’re onto something?”

  “I’m not sure. I might be. We’ll see.”

  “You know where to find me,” she said.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  * * *

  When he arrived at Gloria’s apartment, she opened the door and gave him a kiss on each cheek.

  “How was Vegas?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say it was good to get away.”

  “And Jennifer?”

  “She has put a pox on video blackjack. Otherwise, she’s already back to work at Channel One.”

  “She’s a workaholic, that one.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But she’s sweet. I like her. And I especially like her for you.”

  How many years had it taken them to get to this point, where they could talk as they used to talk—as friends with no baggage? Too many. They’d been through a lot together, especially recently, which only had brought them closer. He stepped deeper into the space and waited to be greeted by his daughters.

  But he wasn’t.

  “Where are Jack and the girls?”

  “I sent them to get ice cream,” she said. “I sensed this was private and thought you’d want to talk alone. I hope I’m right. I know you probably wanted to see them.”

  “I would have, but you’re right. This is private.”

  “Come into the living room. Do you want something to drink? Iced tea?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  He watched her cross to one of the chairs banked by a wall of windows that overlooked the Park. She sat down, smiled up at him as he took the seat opposite her, and with her pinky, lifted a finger of brown hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear.

  The way she tucked her hair behind her ear was something that evoked a fond memory within him. When he first met her years ago in college, she had shyly done the same thing when he introduced himself to her. Only her hair wasn’t colored then. It was lighter, less severe. Long gone was the introspective woman he fell in love with years ago. Her hard-won success as an artist had given her entree into society’s closed rooms, and had freed her to become the strong, opinionated woman she was today.

  “So, what’s happening? How can I help?”

  “You remember yesterday, when I asked you about James Cullen?”

  “Of course.”

  “I met with him before coming here.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “It’s tough to tell. He was relaxed when I questioned him about being the executor of Ryan’s will. He told me he and Ryan went to Yale together. And that they roomed together, thus their friendship.”

  “They roomed together?”

  “That’s what he said, which is easy enough to verify, but I don’t doubt him. He exhibited no signs of lying to me when I talked with him. If anything, he expressed concern for his own safety.”

  “Why would he be concerned for his safety?”

  “There were seven beneficiaries in Ryan’s will. The Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Peter Horrigan, Piggy French, Rowena Clark, Charles Stout, and Florence Holt.”

  Gloria leaned forward in her chair with concern on her face. “I don’t know Horrigan and Clark, but I certainly knew the others. I especially knew Piggy French and the baron and baroness. They’re dead, Marty. All of them. Just recently.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m assuming Horrigan and Clark also are dead?”

  “They are.”

  “So, obviously this is no coincidence.”

  “I’d say it isn’t.”

  “You said they were beneficiaries in Ryan’s will. What did he leave them?”

  “Five million dollars each.”

  Her eyes widened. “I can’t speak for Horrigan and Clark, but the others hated him. I know that for a fact. Ryan tried to force his way into society. He resented them for not allowing that to happen. I was at one party where Piggy French openly mocked Ryan. A photographer caught the moment. It was on Page Six, complete with photo.”

  “I’ve seen the photo. I’ve read the cutline.”

  “But why would he leave them five million dollars?”

  “That’s the mystery.”

  “Something’s wrong here.”

  “You think?”

  “You said you needed a favor of me.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you think this is related to what’s happening to Leana now?”

  “I’m leaning in that direction. I just need to figure out how.”

  “I’ll do anything to help Leana. What do you need?”

  “I need to speak to someone who knew all of them intimately. Or at least most of them, since I doubt anyone knew Rowena Clark.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Ryan’s former mistress. She left him when he wouldn’t marry her after eleven years with him. She wound up marrying a teacher instead, and now she’s dead.”

  “It’s as if he’s still at it,” she said, almost to herself. “It’s as if he’s driving this from the grave.”

  Marty didn’t answer.

  “Is he?”

  “I don’t know how he could be, but after this and as odd as it sounds, he nevertheless is something of a suspect.”

  “The person you need to speak to is Fitzy Fertzbergen. Fitzy knows everyone. His family has been in the book for generations, and despite the fact that he’s nearly broke—which in their world means he’s down to his last few million—he’s a player in all the
right circles. He’s still a Fertzbergen, which carries with it a hell of a lot of weight. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather made much of lower Manhattan into what it is today. He’s a bit of an eccentric, but when he comes through, he’s fantastic. And he’s invited everywhere because of who he is. His connections will help you in ways that I can’t. I can arrange for that meeting. If I know Fitzy, which I do, he won’t be able to turn away from such a feast.”

  “I’m assuming he isn’t discreet.”

  “He isn’t. So be careful with your questioning. Everything you say to him will be brought up at the next dinner party. If I can get you in to see him today, he will share your questions at whatever party he’s attending tonight, assuming there is one.”

  “Actually, at this point, with Leana’s hotel opening in days, I don’t think it matters if he shoots his mouth. I just need him to lay it bare for me.”

  “He’ll do that. He’ll bubble over with glee to do that, because he has nothing other than his lineage and the hope that he can get himself back on track, which he might. You never know in this world. He could strike the right deal with the right person—someone like Louis Ryan, if he were still darkening the planet—and make back the money he once had. But be ready for the theatrics. Fitzy Fertzbergen brings them with a force of nature that will knock you on your ass.”

  “And still you send me there?”

  “I send you there because Fitzy knows where the bodies are buried. Consider his mouth a shovel. He’ll happily dig for you.”

  “You’ll make the call?”

  She stood up from her chair and went to her cell, which was on the kitchen island. “I’ll call him now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Fitzy Fertzbergen’s townhouse was located at Sixty-Fifth Street and Park, a prime address if there ever was one. And though Gloria had said that Fitzy was fixed for cash, which Marty didn’t doubt because these were the things that Gloria knew that most didn’t, you wouldn’t know it by the looks of his property. It was a beautiful brownstone, three windows across and five stories high with a black iron gate in front and two topiaries on either side of the mahogany door. It seemed at once elegant and understated, which is exactly what he expected given Fitzy’s lineage and the expectations that came with that lineage.

  He walked down three steps to the door and rang the buzzer to the right of it. To his surprise, it wasn’t a butler or an assistant who answered, but an older man in a yellow caftan and a shock of white hair who must have been Fitzy himself.

  “Mr. Spellman?” he said.

  Marty couldn’t help but stare at his face, which seemed unnaturally pulled in a myriad of directions that made no logical sense. “Mr. Fertzbergen?”

  “That’s right. Please, come in. Your ex-wife told me that you needed my assistance. It sounded urgent. Naturally, I’m eager to know what the issue is, and how I can help. Please don’t mind the mess. I’m preparing to give to charity.”

  Marty stepped into the entryway and saw in a glance that the only charity Fitzy Fertzbergen was giving to was himself. Just inside the door and running along the length of a long hallway that stretched into a poorly lit room he barely could see, were stacks of old magazines, newspapers, and books that soared toward the dim ceiling. On top of them were such oddities as unfolded blankets, a lamp with no shade, and bric-a-brac gone amuck. Marty had the sense that if he accidentally nudged into any of it, it all would come tumbling down upon him and likely bury him alive.

  Fitzy Fertzbergen was a hoarder.

  “Just this way,” Fitzy said, cutting through the doorway to his right, his caftan billowing behind him as if he was a massive butterfly hovering in flight. “Into the parlor. Please ignore the mess. This simply isn’t how I live. For the past month, I’ve been gathering everything to be hauled away. This weekend, when it’s moved out of here, I’ll finally be able to breathe.”

  “I can only imagine how important that will be.”

  “To what?”

  To breathe.

  “To give to charity,” he said. “It’s very generous of you.”

  “It runs in the bones,” Fitzy said. “It’s who I am. It’s why I’m called upon to sit on boards and to make critical decisions about the welfare of those who live in this city.”

  “On which boards do you sit?” Marty asked.

  “Oh, that isn’t important,” Fitzy said.

  Marty followed him into the parlor, and faced more junk than he was anticipating, especially after maneuvering through the cramped hallway. A Steinway grand, apparently forgotten and unplayed for years, was in a corner of the room and swamped beneath decades of crap. Mountains of useless junk were piled so high along the walls that they had spilled into the middle of the room, probably from sheer exhaustion. The musty smell was suffocating, but worse was a rotten odor underneath it. He didn’t want to know what it was or where it was coming from, so he just put his mind into another place. He thought of his wife, Jennifer. He thought of her smile; he thought of the perfume she wore; and he thought of how much he loved her. That made him happy.

  Fitzy moved toward a sofa that was riddled with magazines on the right and left, with only a small space free in the middle. When he sat, the magazines collided into his thighs, but Fitzy made no fuss about it. He simply shoved them aside and fluffed out his caftan so it would somehow look elegant amid the turmoil.

  “Sit there,” he said, pointing across from him. “In that chair. The free one, not the other two, which obviously would be impossible given the state they’re in. I made that one special for you. You can’t imagine how much is leaving here this weekend. It’s the least I can do, giving all of this away. What a relief it will be to have it in the right hands, to make a difference to those who need it. That’s what we Fertzbergens are about. Making a difference. Would you like some tea?”

  Marty looked at the dusty tea service and declined. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s so hot outside.”

  “Perhaps over ice?”

  What does his freezer look like? Filled with mold? More magazines? A relative? “Really, I’m fine. And I have to thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Fertzbergen. You’re very kind.”

  “Please. It’s Fitzy. Everyone calls me Fitzy. Tallulah Bankhead called me that at a party back in sixty-six. Everyone roared when she said it, even that bitch Piggy French, who was young then, but who’s dead now. The name stuck, probably because Tallulah was being Tallulah, which means she was drunk off her ass. Not that anyone dared to mention it at the time.”

  Marty smiled at him. “Actually, that’s something of a coincidence. I’m here to talk to you about Piggy French and a few other people Gloria says you probably knew.”

  “Gloria told me about your interest in Piggy, so it’s no coincidence. I mentioned her name to spark and to titillate. About these other people—what do you mean by ‘knew’? ‘Knew’ implies death.”

  “It does,” Marty said.

  “You know,” Fitzy said, “I’m facing my own.” He touched the back of his hand to his weirdly molded cheek, and looked up at the ceiling with a kind of despair. “God only knows when it’s coming, but I’m preparing for it. First, I need to complete this rush to charity of mine. Then there’s the real rush. I need to finish my memoirs, which will be published after my death because otherwise I’d be sued.”

  “Do you have a publisher?”

  “Oh, no,” Fitzy said. “Well, not in the traditional sense. Those snotty publishing bastards would ruin my words. They’d want total control, which I won’t tolerate. They’d fear the pending lawsuits and strip my memoir of its essence. It’s essence! I’m going to be the publisher. A posthumous publisher. I’m going straight to that Amazon Kindle thingy. My lawyer has strict orders to publish the book the week following my passing. It’ll be a smash, but I’ll never see it. Too bad, I guess. I would have loved another flash of attention, but I’ve already had my share of it, so be it. It doesn’t matter at this point. I’ve had a great
life, and what I’ve learned since I’m facing the end is that everything has narrowed. Some things come into focus, but other things I once considered critical have just faded away. I need to have the book finished so it can be out there when I’m gone. My friends at the Times and at other newspapers have promised that they will make certain it receives the attention it deserves. That will happen. Everyone knows me. People regard me. And when they read what I have to say about all of those people—important, well-known people who still matter, and who once spilled their secrets to me while under the influence—the world will suck the juices from the book like an infant attached to a mother’s tit.”

  “You do have a way with words,” Marty said.

  “Wait until you read the book. You have no idea.” He scrutinized Marty’s face. “Why do you want to know about that cunt, Piggy French?”

  “Cunt?”

  “That’s right. She was called that several times by her ex-husbands. Those stories will forever live in infamy, and for good reason. She’s one of the nastiest hags I ever had the misfortune of meeting. Regardless of her recent demise, I cut her throat in the book. I stick that pig so often that she bleeds on every page. The chapter devoted to her was not only a delight to write because she deserved it, but also necessary. People need to understand the mean-spirited, pill-popping drunk Piggy was.”

  “It sounds as if it might be a best-seller.”

  “Oh, it’ll be a best-seller.”

  “Profits going to charity, I assume?”

  “Of course. The lot of it.”

  “Which charity?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re so impressive, Fitzy.”

  “It’s been said by priests and by cardinals.”

  “I have a feeling it’s being said somewhere right now.”

  “You’re very kind. But you’re probably right.”

  “Fitzy,” Marty said, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course. That’s why you’re here.”