Fifth Avenue

by Christopher Smith

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sun went behind a cloud and a shadow stretched across Manhattan, leaving Louis Ryan’s face gray in its presence.

  “I want to talk to you about your mother’s death.”

  Michael straightened in his chair. They were in his father’s office. Louis was seated behind his desk; Michael in front of it. He thought Louis had asked him here to discuss Leana Redman and the party he had been sent to last night, not his mother.

  “Why?”

  “There are things you don’t know.”

  “What things?”

  “A lot of things.” Louis turned in his chair. “But before I begin, I want you to know I realize you should have been told this years ago, when you were young enough to understand it. Maybe, if you knew what I’ve gone through over the past thirty-one years, we could have been closer--as a father and son should be.”

  He made an effort to smile but failed, his eyes belying the grief that still lingered within him. “I would have liked that.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow. That was news to him.

  “Do you remember what happened when your mother passed away?”

  “She was in a car accident.”

  Louis stepped to the far right wall of windows, where he watched workers remove the red ribbon from the center of The Redman International Building. “It wasn’t an accident. Your mother was murdered and what George Redman did to her was brutal.”

  Michael couldn’t have heard him right. The sudden roaring in his ears dulled his father’s words, making it difficult for him to hear everything Louis was saying.

  “...George and I were friends at Harvard....”

  “...my partner in a development called Pine Gardens....”

  “...Yes, I admit I lied in court. I even admit I used George. But I grew up poor. George had all the money in the world. The only reason I asked him to be my partner was because I thought we’d need his father to cosign a loan for us. When I learned I could buy Pine Gardens on my own, I did, and so he sued me....”

  Michael shut his eyes. This isn’t happening.

  “For years George tried to get his share of Pine Gardens. For years, he tried to prove we had a partnership. I refused to let him have any of it.” He paused. “That decision cost your mother her life.”

  Michael looked up at his father, his concentration intense.

  “Your mother was murdered just two days after Redman lost his final appeal in court. It was late and it was snowing. She was returning home from a friend’s house when George blew out her tires with a shotgun. Your mother lost control of the car, skidded in the snow and tumbled over the bridge that led to our house. It was a seventy foot drop. She didn’t have a chance....”

  Michael looked at his father for some sign of the lie he was sure he was telling, but there was none. It was obvious he was telling the truth. For Michael, it was as if someone had shot him.

  “I was never able to prove it,” Louis said. “But I know it was him. George Redman killed my wife--your mother. The moment I learned her tires were flattened by a shotgun, I knew it was Redman who pulled the trigger.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Besides having the perfect motive--wanting revenge against me--George Redman is an excellent marksman. Once, when we were in college, he took me skeet shooting on his father’s yacht. Even with the rolling of the waves, George rarely missed. But George is smart. He got rid of whatever gun he used and made certain he had an alibi. When the police questioned him, he told them he was with Judge William Cranston’s daughter, Elizabeth Cranston, now Elizabeth Redman, during the night of the shooting.

  “I don’t know how he did it, but he got Elizabeth to lie for him. Because when the police questioned her, she confirmed it and George was dropped as a suspect. A week later, the police concluded that poachers were hunting in the woods on either side of the bridge. They said a stray shot flattened your mother’s tires. Despite pressure from me and a team of lawyers, the case wasn't reopened and George Redman walked free.”

  It was as if all those years of never understanding his father came to an end. Now Michael knew why Louis never discussed Anne’s death, why he became irritated whenever the subject was brought up, why he, Michael, hadn’t been allowed to attend his mother’s funeral. Now he understood his father’s mood swings and those evenings, as a child, when he heard Louis weeping in his bedroom. Now it made sense.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this from the beginning?” Michael asked.

  “Too many reasons,” Louis said. “But the main reason is that I didn’t want to hurt you. You were just a child when Anne died. You barely knew her. How could I tell you then what he did to your mother? If you were me, would you have told your three-year-old son that his mother had been murdered? Would you have brought him to her funeral, knowing how upsetting it would be for him to see her like that? I doubt it. And besides, you wouldn’t have understood.”

  “You could have told me when I was older.”

  “Agreed,” Louis said. “And I wanted to. But every time I tried to tell you, every time I thought the moment was right, I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t say that your mother was murdered. I still find it difficult to say. And so I allowed you to live in the comfort of not knowing the truth. I know you won’t see it this way, but in a sense, I’ve spared you the anger I’ve had to live with for years.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  Louis went to his desk and reached for the pack of cigarettes next to his picture of Anne. He shook one out, lit it with a lighter and exhaled a plume of blue smoke. “Because the time is right.”

  He handed Michael the newspaper his secretary gave him earlier that morning. As Michael read about the recent, sharp decline in Redman International’s stock, Louis said, “Thirty-one years ago, I was unable to put that bastard away for what he did to your mother. Now, with his stock at an all-time low, I finally have the kind of money and power it’s going to take to bury him and each member of his family. They’ll all pay for what George Redman did to your mother. But I’ll need your help.”

  Before he could react, Michael glimpsed the front-page picture of the spotlight that lay crushed in front of The Redman International Building. For a moment, he just stared at it, his mind making connections he never knew existed. He looked up at Louis. “You rigged those spotlights with explosives.”

  “Let’s just say I made it happen.”

  “But you nearly killed a man.”

  “Not the right one, Michael. George Redman is still alive.”

  Michael tossed the paper onto the desk. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the plan. But there are many things to be done before that day, and when it does come, it won’t be me pulling the trigger. It will be you. And you’ll do it for your mother. That is, of course, if you still want me to pay off Santiago.”

  And there it was, the reason his father agreed to help him. Michael shook his head, disappointment, anger and hurt threading through him. Just once couldn’t the man help him? Just once couldn’t he do the right thing?

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m no murderer.”

  Louis’ jaw tightened. “You’d better think twice about that, Michael. Your own is about to be committed.” He glanced at his desk calendar. “How long has Santiago given you to come up with the money? Two weeks? A month? Your time is running out.”

  “I’ll find another way to get the money.”

  Louis crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “Who are you kidding? If you could have gone elsewhere for the money, you would have. You proved I’m your last hope just by coming to me.”

  He reached inside his desk drawer and removed his personal checkbook. “If you want my help, I’m here--but only if you’re willing to help me correct the past.”

  Michael was about to speak, but then decided it was pointless and left for the door. Before stepping out of the room, he stopped and lo
oked at his father. Louis’ eyes were as cold and as bitter as the silence that hung between them. “If George Redman did what you say he did, then he should pay for what he did to Mom. But there are other ways. There’s the law. I’ll be damned--”

  Louis raised a hand. “Don’t say any of this to me, Michael. Say it to your mother. She’s the one you need to explain this to, not me.”

  Only his father could make this more difficult than it was. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “But your mother was murdered. So, why couldn't you be? We all could be.”

  Michael left the room.

  When the door clicked shut, Louis reached for the phone on his desk and punched numbers. Michael would see his side sooner than he expected. “It’s Louis, Vincent.” He looked at the picture of his wife. He had sworn long ago that he and Michael would avenge her death together. Michael just needed a little stimulation. “I’ve got another job for you, but you must move quickly.”

  * * *

  Michael knew something was wrong the moment he finished climbing the six flights of stairs and saw that the door to his apartment was ajar.

  The first thought that raced through his mind was Rufus. If someone was in the apartment, then why wasn’t the dog barking? Had the intruder already left? Michael couldn’t be sure.

  He started down the hallway, moving slowly, his senses acute. He glimpsed an empty wine bottle lying beside the freight elevator, picked it up and tossed it once between his hands. The bottle was heavy, solid. It could fracture jaws, break bones, cut flesh.

  He passed the apartment to his right and heard the sound of a child crying, the tinny blare of a television that was turned too loud. Canned studio laughter wafted through the thin, graying walls--Edith Bunker shouting at Archie.

  Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.

  The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.

  Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.

  For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.

  Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.

  Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark crimson. It wasn’t until he turned to reach for another towel that he saw the envelope taped to the rust-spotted refrigerator.

  Michael stared at the envelope. It bore his name in thick bold letters. It seemed to scream out at him, shouting his name across the room.

  Again, he became aware of the tinny laughter drifting down the hallway. It was as though someone somewhere was laughing at him.

  He covered Rufus with another towel, stood and opened the envelope. Inside was a white piece of paper. Typed on it were these words: “You weren’t here so we left an example of what happens when we’re ignored. Please have our money soon, Mr. Ryan, or this will be you.”

  The shock of seeing his real name in print terrified him. How much did they know about him? How far were they willing to go?

  Michael tore the note in half and telephoned his father. He needed that money, regardless of the stings that were attached to it. As he waited for someone to answer, he glimpsed the picture of his mother. It was lying askew on the floor, just a few feet away from Rufus’ body. Someone had slashed it with a knife.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Michael. I’ve changed my mind. I need your help. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”

  Could he commit murder?

  “What made you change your mind?”

  Michael managed to speak only out of sheer will. “Santiago broke into my apartment and butchered my dog.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “I’ll bet you are. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  He glanced at the blood-soaked towels that covered his dog and knew it could be him lying there, knew that if he didn’t do as his father asked, it would be him lying there. “I’ll do anything.”

  Including murder?

  “Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning? We’ll discuss everything in detail then.”

  Michael said he’d be there and hung up the phone.

  When he knelt beside Rufus, he ran a trembling hand over the dog’s back. If he waited, just a moment, it seemed he would understand. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my fault and I’m sorry.”

  They said they were giving him three weeks to come up with the money. So, why this? What was the point of killing a harmless dog? Michael covered Rufus with another towel. Then he glanced at the tattered remains of his mother’s picture. Anger rose in him, a fury so deep only revenge could pacify it. Maybe it was just as well he help his father.

  Yes, he could commit murder.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sun cut through the partly open Venetian blinds and sliced bright bands of gold across Eric Parker’s sleeping face, the cream-colored sheets of his four-poster bed, and a section of his bloodstained leather belt, which, along with the rest of his clothes, lay in a crumpled mass at the foot of his bed.

  It was late Saturday morning.

  He awoke with a headache a little before noon. After fumbling in his bedside table for some aspirin, he sat up in bed, swallowed three Tylenol dry and then walked into the bathroom, where he drank water from the faucet and relieved himself.

  As he stood before the toilet, Eric peered at himself in the bathroom mirror, surprised to find that he looked worse than he felt. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the pupils still dilated; his hair was a wild mass of dark brown waves; his face, usually smooth and tan, was creased with fine pink lines and he was in need of a shave.

  Eric flushed the toilet and turned with a groan away from the mirror. Regardless of how much he’d drank, last night was still fresh in his mind. When Eric left Leana, he took the elevator to the lobby, asked the doorman to get him a cab and then waited for it outside in the rain so there would be no chance of him running into Celina or George.

  When a cab pulled alongside him, he stepped soaking wet inside and instructed the cabbie to take him to Redman Place, the condominium complex where many of Redman International’s senior executives lived--including himself, Celina and Diana Crane. Not wanting to come across either of them, Eric went straight to his apartment, peeled off his damp clothes and crawled into bed, where he quickly forgot the beating he gave Leana Redman and fell asleep.

  Now, standing beneath a hot shower, Eric realized the enormity of what he had done to Leana. Hitting her with that belt had been a grave mistake. If he hadn’t threatened her, Eric was certain she would have gone to the police--or to her father--and he now would be in jail, instead of his bathroom.

  He wondered how long she would keep quiet. Did she believe him when he said he’d have a contract put out on her? When her anger prevailed--and he knew it would, probably even had--would she risk the chance that he was bluffing and go to the police? Or to George?

  Eric stepped out of the shower and was struck with the realization that by hitting Leana, he had given her the power to blackmai
l him. Leana knew how hard he had struggled to reach the top. She knew how much his reputation and his job at Redman International meant to him.

  If she wanted to, she could destroy everything he ever worked for.

  * * *

  Later, after changing into a pair of dark blue sweat pants and an old, faded football jersey, Eric knew he had to call Celina and explain to her what she’d walked in on last night. If he let too much time pass, more damage would be done.

  He went to the living room, picked up the telephone and dialed Celina’s number. If she told her father what she had seen, he knew George would fire him--and all those years of struggling to the top would have been for nothing. As the phone rang, his thoughts returned to Leana. If he lost his job because of her, he would make her see that last night was just a party.

  There was no answer. Eric replaced the receiver, stepped into a pair of worn moccasins and left for Celina’s apartment, which was two floors above his. There was no answer there as well. Either she was out, or she was not answering the door.

  He returned to his apartment and dialed the doorman.

  “I saw her come in myself, Mr. Parker, at around eleven last night. No, she hasn’t left the building. Yes, I’m sure of it. You have a nice day, too, sir.”

  Eric replaced the receiver. So, she was in her apartment. He considered taking his own key and using it, but thought better of it. She would have nothing to do with him now. If he walked into her apartment unannounced, she would either throw him out herself, or she would have security do it. Eric knew that as well as he knew himself.

  It was over. Deep down he knew what he had with Celina was over. And all because of Leana.

  He opened two French doors and stepped out onto a terrace that smelled faintly of potted roses and city air. Below him, Fifth Avenue bustled and Central Park sighed, and the sun gilded the tops of shiny limousines and enormous elm trees.