Fifth Avenue wst-1

by Christopher Smith

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then a computerized voice said, “Clearance granted, Mr. Collins. Please select a level.” So it was somebody named Collins who sold out to Ryan, Spocatti thought. He pressed the glowing button marked 76.

  The elevator began its ascent.

  Spocatti removed the card from the slot and withdrew his gun. As the car slowed to a stop, he stepped to one side. The doors slid open. Sensing, judging, he peered out, saw no one and relaxed.

  Now for the fun part.

  The corridor was long and well furnished. On the ivory walls were paintings by the old masters, the door at the end of the hall was crafted of mahogany, the wood floor gleamed as though it had just been waxed. On a delicate side table, a Tiffany lamp cast amber rainbows of light.

  Spocatti leaned back inside the elevator. To any one else, this would have seemed nothing more than a richly appointed corridor. To him, it was an obstacle course.

  He holstered his gun, removed a slender pair of infrared glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on. Instantly, everything took on an eerie red glow. He had seen no video cameras in the hallway, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. The paintings could be decoys. He'd need to risk it.

  He looked back into the corridor. Directly in front of the elevator was a thin beam of light that would have been invisible without the glasses. Moving carefully, he dipped beneath it, knowing that if he accidentally severed it, a sensor would detect the difference in temperature and he would not hear the silent alarm as it alerted the police.

  He moved on, the web of beams becoming more difficult to elude as he neared the door that concealed Redman International’s vast cluster of computers. At one point, he had to crawl on his stomach. A moment later, he had to jump twice and roll. I could have already tripped the alarm and not even know it, he thought. The thrill he felt from not knowing charged him.

  He reached the door. Spocatti knew it was reinforced with at least three inches of steel. Ryan told him there would be a small keypad at the base of the door that, upon entering a six-digit code, would not only open the door, but turn off all surveillance equipment as well.

  He knelt, found the keypad-and saw that it was protected by a series of beams crisscrossing in front of it. He swore beneath his breath and looked again at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. I want to be out of here in thirty.

  He studied the beams. Slanting in various angles from floor to ceiling, they formed a grid-like pattern that was so small in design, his fingers would almost certainly sever one of them if he tried reaching through the tiny, diamond-shaped gaps. He needed something long and thin to stick through the openings and tap out the code. Like a pencil, perhaps. Or a pen. But he had neither. Mind racing, he looked around the room, but there was nothing here he could use and it infuriated him. He had come so close.

  And then it struck him. The answer to his problem was on his head.

  He removed the glasses from his face and looked at the bows that extended from the green frames. They were long and thin and curved at the end. One would fit perfectly through the tiny gaps. He snapped off a bow. Then, while holding the glasses to his eyes with one hand, he gingerly went to work with the other.

  In just a few moments, it was over. He entered the code Ryan gave him, the infrared beams of light winked off and the door leading to the computer room swung open on its own.

  Spocatti withdrew his gun and stood. He made a quick surveillance of the room and saw nothing inside save for a hive of computers.

  He went to them and knew he was in trouble the moment he turned on a computer. As the screen flickered to life, he noticed on the front of the computer an illuminated slot that differed slightly from the slot on the elevator’s control panel. And then the following words appeared on the screen: PLEASE SWIPE ACCESS CARD.

  The only card Ryan gave him was the computer-coded card he had used to access the elevator. He removed it from his jacket pocket, swiped it and waited. The screen went blank. A moment later, a new message flashed on the screen: ACCESS DENIED.

  And there it was-Ryan screwed up. He didn't supply him with the correct card. Spocatti felt a spark of rage, but stilled it. He could hack the machine, but there was no time. He turned the computer off and looked around the room. There were no file cabinets here, only desks with locked drawers in which he assumed Redman would keep nothing vital. Spocatti knew that everything he needed was in these computers…or safe in Redman’s office.

  He looked at the time on his watch. He still had twenty minutes before he wanted to be back in the lobby. Ryan told him that Redman’s office was on the third floor of his triplex.

  If he hurried…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  High above Redman International in her parents’ triplex, Leana Redman stood at a window at the end of a long hallway. She was looking down at the endless line of traffic on Fifth.

  She was thirty minutes late for the party. Her parents would be irritated and the press would be wondering where she was-but that's exactly as Leana wanted it. In no way did she want to be part of this event. And yet she knew she had to go. If she didn’t, her parents would disown her.

  Before she went, she decided to have a drink first.

  In the library, she bent to the small refrigerator that was at her feet and removed a bottle of champagne. She poured herself a glass and thought again of the man who had followed her earlier. His threat still chilled her. She wondered if she had made a mistake by not going to the police and knew now that she probably had.

  She went to her father's desk, turned on the green-shaded lamp and sat down. On it were several framed photographs of the family. Leana chose one of her and Celina. Here, they were children-Leana, seven; Celina, eleven-and she was surprised to see how happy they looked. In the meadow behind their Connecticut home, the girls were holding hands, resting against a tree stump and wearing huge straw hats that cast their faces in shadow. Behind them, Elizabeth was laughing, her blonde hair shining in the sun.

  She wondered when her feelings for Celina changed. The answer came at once. When Dad began taking her to Redman International.

  It was late. No matter how much she didn’t want to go, she had to join the party. Turning the picture face down on the desk, she flipped off the light and left for the bar. As she bent to put the bottle of champagne back into the refrigerator, she caught a glimpse of herself in the windows beside her. There was also something else in the reflection. The door to the library was opening.

  She felt a start and turned. The door was almost fully open now. A flag of light spilled into the room. She was about to ask who was there when a man peered inside. He didn't see her-Leana was at the opposite end of the room, partly concealed by shadow.

  He stood in the doorway, sensing, judging, his concentration intent. Something in his left hand glinted and Leana saw that it was a gun.

  She stood completely still, barely breathing. Although she wasn’t absolutely certain, he resembled the man who had followed her earlier…

  Panic rose in her. She receded deeper into shadow and wondered how he had gotten up here without a card to access the elevator. She watched him enter the room. He didn’t walk into it, but eased into it like a cat, his gaze constantly changing as he moved toward her father’s desk.

  She could not let him see her.

  At the end of the bar was a bookcase that extended two feet from the wall. On one side was a small opening she could hide behind. When the man wasn't looking in her direction, Leana nudged toward it. Her dress rustled when she moved. The man heard it, whirled on his heel and took aim. Leana froze. Their eyes met.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she shouted.

  The man stepped away from her father’s desk and lowered his gun. After a moment’s silence, he said, “There you are.”

  Leana was taken aback. The man was holstering his gun, seemingly oblivious to her fear. “I asked who you are!”

  “Antonio Benedetti,” he said. “A member of security.” He stepped forward
and she could see now that he was not the man who had followed her earlier, but one who resembled him. Her heart was pounding. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” he said. “You’re late for the party. Your parents told me to come and find you.”

  “And you needed a gun for that?”

  “Miss Redman,” he said, “after what happened here this morning, every member of security is carrying a gun.”

  She studied him. He was tall and dark, his features sharp and attractive. There was a coolness about him that she found appealing. She took a breath as he stepped over to the door and held it open for her. “Your mother’s furious,” he said. “If you’re not in the lobby soon, she’ll probably have me fired. Are you coming?”

  Leana hesitated, then started toward the open door. As she walked past the man, she said, “My sister saved a life today. The least I can do is save a job. Let’s go.”

  The elevator dropped like a stone.

  As they neared the lobby, Leana looked up at the elevator’s lighted dial and watched the floors race by. She heard the crowd’s rising din, felt beneath her feet the driving beat of the band and became nervous. She never fit into these situations. She would know few people here. This was her parents’ and sister’s world, not hers. So, why had she been asked to come?

  She looked at the man standing beside her and saw that he was looking at her. Again she thought how handsome he was. She glanced at his left hand and saw no ring. Promising, but life had taught her that no ring meant nothing. “What do you think the chances are of this place blowing up tonight?” she asked.

  Her question didn't faze him. “Less than zero.”

  “Oh, come on,” Leana said. “Don’t you think my father has something else planned to capture the world’s attention? Like a sniper, perhaps? Or maybe a fire?”

  He cocked his head at her. “You think your father rigged those spotlights with explosives?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “But people were hurt, your sister nearly killed.”

  “Quelle domage.”

  “I still don’t see your point. Why would your father want to do something as ridiculous as that? It makes no sense.”

  “Free publicity, Mr. Benedetti, makes a lot of sense.”

  He leaned against the wall and studied her. “You don’t believe what you’re saying, do you?”

  Leana’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s always interesting to see what other people will believe.”

  The car slowed to a stop. With the parting of doors came a sudden blast of cool air, music and noise. Leana stood there a moment, undetected, and looked around the crowded room. While she saw no friends of hers, it seemed that wherever she looked, she was reminded of her sister. From the waterfall to her right to the Lalique crystal chandeliers that shined above her head, Celina’s influence was clear.

  Once, when Redman International was nearing completion, Leana asked her father if she could help decorate the lobby. George dismissed her and said it was a job for professionals. He would never know the hurt Leana felt when it was decided that Celina would decorate the lobby. George would only sense Leana’s anger afterwards and pass it off as one of her moods.

  They left the elevator. “Well,” Benedetti said, “it was nice talking to you.”

  “And to you,” Leana said. “Keep your eye out for any snipers. You never know when one will pop up.”

  Leana watched him move into the crowd, where this time she saw a few familiar faces in the endless sea of heads. Looking over at her parents and sister, she saw that they were still greeting guests-George laughing, Elizabeth chatting, Celina hugging.

  Leana wanted to hurl.

  She started toward them, her gaze shifting from George to Elizabeth to Celina. One of these days, they’ll respect me as much as they respect her. But even as she thought this, she wondered how she’d pull it off. As she took her position next to Celina in the reception line, disappointment, frustration and anger were all clearly expressed by George and Elizabeth-and yet neither said a word.

  Leana supposed she should be happy for the way her presence-or lack thereof-had affected them, but she wasn’t. Instead, a part of her felt guilty for coming late.

  Outside, the paparazzi went suddenly wild as Michael Archer alighted from his limousine and stepped into the lobby. Cameras flashed. The crowd of onlookers cheered. Leana recognized him immediately. “I didn’t know Mom sent him an invitation,” she said to Celina. “I read one of his books a few months ago.”

  Celina looked puzzled. “Mom didn’t send him an invitation. I went over the guest list twice with her. Michael Archer’s name was nowhere on it." She gave her sister a look. "And where have you been?”

  "Flossing."

  Leana looked at Elizabeth, who was watching Michael Archer shake hands with her husband. She knew her mother had no tolerance for those who crashed parties-especially her own. She wondered how she would handle this.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said politely as Michael approached. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Her voice was firm. She ignored his hand. “This is a private party.”

  In the silence that fell, George and Celina turned to listen. Leana watched Michael. “I apologize for intruding,” he said. “But I understand you’re raising money this evening for children with HIV, and I wanted to do something to help.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. He handed it to Elizabeth. “I hope this will.”

  Elizabeth looked at the check, then coolly back at Michael. “$100,000 is very generous,” she said.

  “I work in the entertainment industry,” he said. “HIV is prevalent there. It’s the least I could do. It’s a cause I believe in.”

  Although Leana doubted he knew it, Michael Archer had just handed her mother five million dollars. Perhaps six. Once word got around that he had given her a check for $100,000, the other guests would be scrambling for their checkbooks, desperate not to lose face. Elizabeth knew it, but she didn’t show it.

  “I apologize,” she said to him. “This is very kind of you. We would be pleased to have you stay. Would you?”

  The relief that crossed Michael Archer’s face was unmistakable. Leana lifted her chin at the same moment he turned to look at her. Their eyes met and Michael smiled. “Mrs. Redman,” he said, “it would be my pleasure.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The old Buick coughed, wheezed and shook for several moments before it jerked to a halt and died in the heart of Manhattan.

  Jack Douglas sat there, numb, as steam rose from the engine and the headlights dimmed into darkness. He knew what was wrong with the car without checking the engine. For weeks now, he had been meaning to have a new radiator and alternator installed, but he was so busy with work, he had put it off. Naturally, both failed him on the night of George Redman’s party.

  He would have to catch a cab.

  He opened the glove compartment, plucked the invitation from a mass of crumbled papers and broken pencils, and searched for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He looked on the seat beside him, on the floor, in the pockets of his black dinner jacket and pants, and then remembered leaving it back at his apartment, out in full-view on the kitchen table, just so he wouldn’t leave it behind.

  He could help but laugh. Now he would have to walk.

  He left the car where it had died, on the corner of Fifth and 75th Street, and started for The Redman International Building, which was over a mile downtown. He knew his car would get towed, but he didn’t care. Tonight, Jack Douglas had more important things on his mind.

  Tonight might just change the rest of his life.

  He had just passed 61st Street when lightning flashed and thunder rippled across the sky. Jack looked up, felt the rising breeze on his face and quickened his step. It had better not rain, he thought.

  But it did.

  When the rain became wind-swept sheets, panic rose in him and he broke into a run, th
e rain pelting his lowered head. With each passing motorist, he was sprinkled with the spray that flew off their wheels. He ran seven blocks before The Redman International Building came into sight, and when it did, Jack slowed. If George Redman himself hadn’t sent him an invitation to tonight’s party, he would have passed on this and gone home. But that wasn't happening.

  Last week, when he sold an unprecedented $500 million dollars worth of bonds to a client in France, he had become the financial world’s most revered species-a Big Swinging Dick. The following morning, when the Journal named him Wall Street’s latest financial whiz, every investment firm in Manhattan tried luring him away from Morgan Stanley-but to no avail.

  Jack refused the offers, determined to remain loyal to the firm that gave him his start. And then came the invitation from George Redman, asking him to come to the grand opening of the new Redman International Building. “Congratulations on the Journal article,” George wrote on the invitation. “And I hope you’ll come to the party. I’d like to discuss a few things with you.”

  And that was all it took. Redman International was the world’s leading conglomerate. If Jack was offered a job there, his career would be set. So much for loyalty, he thought.

  As much as he didn’t want to, he stepped into the building and handed the doorman his damp invitation. The band wasn’t playing. There was nothing but the rustle of silk, the light din of those who hadn’t seen him and the titter of those who had. The doorman looked at him, then at the invitation and seemed to hesitate with indecision. But then he smiled and said, “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Douglas.”

  “Right,” Jack said, and moved into the lobby.

  A waiter stopped beside him. “Champagne, sir?”

  “Champagne, sir” was at the end of a ten-foot pole and conveyed the message: “You and your wet clothes and your dirty face are not welcome at this party.”