The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  “Eric and I used to.”

  He accepted this with a nod.

  “Let me come right to the point.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I want to know if you had anything to do with what happened to Eric last night.”

  The tension was quick to form and it stretched between them. George looked at Celina, but his face remained expressionless. He didn’t answer.

  “I was there when they wheeled Eric out of Redman Place,” Celina said. “I saw them lift him into the back of an ambulance. I saw Diana Crane join him. I want to know if you had anything to do with it.”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Dad.”

  “I’m not playing games with you.”

  “Then just answer the question.”

  “Not until you answer mine.”

  At that moment, she felt a bitterness toward her father she hadn’t felt before—and it frightened her. She thought of the argument they had the other morning and realized they no longer were as close as they once were. Something had shifted. She knew she could stop this, but she wouldn’t. Celina had to know the truth, no matter what she might lose because of it.

  “All right,” she said. “My heart says there is no way you could have done this.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “Because the rest of me feels differently.”

  “Well,” George said. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He finished his drink and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Celina.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back home to your mother.”

  “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “And I don’t intend to. It’s ludicrous.”

  “Then answer this for me, Dad. If you had nothing to do with what happened to Eric, who did you call that day in your study?”

  George looked down at her. Celina met his gaze with her own. She wouldn’t look away.

  “You want to know who I phoned that day in my study?”

  “Yes. I want to know.”

  George placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. His face was only inches from hers when he spoke. “I phoned a friend of mine who’s going to see to it that Eric Parker never works in this town again. That’s what I did to Eric, Celina. I destroyed his professional career. Nothing else.” He straightened. “Satisfied?”

  She knew he was telling her the truth. She could see it on his face.

  George turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Celina said. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something that’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about Leana.”

  There was a guarded look in his eyes. “What about Leana?”

  “She was there last night. I saw her in the crowd.”

  George looked around them, likely to see if anyone was listening. He reclaimed his seat. “Go on,” he said.

  “She was with two men. I noticed her after they wheeled Eric out of Redman Place.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “I called out her name to make sure of it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She spoke to the men beside her, they looked at me and hurried her away from the crowd. When they lifted Eric into that ambulance, I swear to God she was smiling.”

  George reached for his empty glass of Scotch and wished it was full. “What did the men look like?”

  Celina read his mind. “They looked like friends of Mario De Cicco’s to me.”

  “Do you think she’s seeing him again?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past Leana.”

  “Neither would I.” He pushed back his chair.

  “There’s more,” Celina said. “This morning, I spoke to the doormen who were on duty last night.”

  “And?”

  “Each of them mentioned talking with Leana. My guess is that she distracted them so her friends could get to Eric.” There was a silence. “I didn’t want to tell you any of this, but I thought you should know. If one of those doormen tells the police that Leana was there during the time of the attack, she could get into serious trouble—especially if Eric learns she was there. There’s no telling what he’d do if he makes that connection.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t already?”

  George stood and turned to leave, but then he stopped and faced his daughter. “I’m going to be honest with you, Celina. One thing still bothers me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fact that you knew all this and still thought I was responsible for what happened to Eric.”

  * * *

  Later, in his office at Redman Place, George spoke separately to the same three doormen Leana spoke to the night Eric was beaten.

  One was French, the other two Hispanics. The message he gave each was the same—George had friends at the Department of Immigration. If even one of them mentioned to the police that they spoke to Leana the night of the beating, he would see to it that all were deported to their respective countries the following week.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For three days there was nothing but darkness and haze and a terrible, unrelenting pain that came in waves and consumed him. From time to time, during those moments when the haze lifted slightly, he became aware of sounds—a door swinging open, men talking, a woman sobbing. And then darkness.

  He dreamed.

  He was in his bedroom, making love to Diana and suddenly there was no longer a sheet covering them. Before he could react, before he could even think, there was a hand on the back of his neck and he was being pulled, lifted, thrown. At the same instant his head struck the bureau, he heard Diana scream. There were two distinct slaps, followed by a muffled cry. And then nothing as she fell silent.

  Eric struggled to his feet, groped for a light switch, turned it on. There were two men, both in black. One had a handful of Diana’s hair and was dragging her from the room. Blood seeped from her forehead and mouth, staining her skin. She was unconscious.

  Eric looked to his right. The other man was coming at him. He was tall and solid and walked without hesitation or hurry. In his hand, Eric saw his own baseball bat—the one he kept in the front hall, the one he used on Sunday afternoons in the Park, the one he once hit a grand slam with. Leana was at that game. She had sat beneath the shade of an elm, cheering along with the rest of the crowd.

  Leana….

  He took a step back, stumbled to the floor and watched the baseball bat descend to bash in the side of his head. He lifted a hand to shield his face, but the attacker instead swung lower and the bat struck Eric’s leg, splintering the bone.

  Eric screamed. He turned onto his side, clawed at the carpet, tried to move, tried to run, but it was useless—the pain was overwhelming.

  He looked down at his leg and saw that it was horribly twisted. A broken bone jetted from the torn flesh. A wave of nausea seized him. Bile rose in his mouth and he gagged. The man tossed the bat aside, grabbed Eric by the head and started clubbing his face with his fist. Each blow sent Eric into an abyss that was deeper than any nightmare he had ever fallen in.

  But even in sleep, Eric knew this nightmare had been reality. When he woke on the fourth day, the hospital room was in shadow. He became aware of sounds again. He heard the faint hum of an air conditioner, the familiar tapping of rain against a window he couldn’t see. He turned his head.

  Tried to turn his head.

  The action sent sharp knives of pain throughout his body. He moaned.

  Across the room, someone, a woman: “Eric?”

  His lips parted. They felt as dry and as swollen as his tongue and throat. It took everything he had to force out one word: “Celina?”

  “No,” the voice said. “It’s Diana.”

  She came across the room and sat in the white vinyl chair that was beside his bed. After pressing a button to alert the nurse, she reached for his hand and held it in her own. “You’re going to be all right,
” she said. “You’re in for a rough ride, but you’re awake now and you’re going to be all right.”

  He tried to speak again, but Diana put a finger to his lips. “Try not to talk or move. You’ve had an operation on your leg. It’s in a cast now, but the doctors say you’ll eventually be fine. All you have to do is rest and concentrate on getting better. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  The nurse stepped into the room. Diana turned to her. “He’s awake,” she said. “And he’s in pain. Can you get something for him?”

  The woman stepped over to the bed and checked Eric’s chart. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He isn’t due for another shot until four.”

  “I don’t care if he isn’t due for another shot until next week,” Diana said evenly. “He’s in pain. Part of your job is pain management. Now, either you move your ass and manage that pain, or I’ll get your supervisor.” She cocked her head. “You won’t want that to happen.”

  The nurse said she’d speak to the doctor and left the room.

  Diana turned back to Eric and saw that he was looking at her intently. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s just a black eye and a scrape on the forehead. I’ve been dealt worse blows than this in my life.”

  Eric wondered if that was true. Although he had known Diana for years, he knew surprisingly little about her. He knew she came from a small city in Maine, knew her father died at an early age, knew what a struggle it had been for her to complete college and earn her law degree. Beyond that, it was as if she was just another one of the many faceless people he had met in his life. Only this faceless person was in love with him and now caring for him. He wondered if she sensed that he didn’t love her, that he never had and never would, that the only reason he stepped into her life was because he was lonely and wanted to make Celina jealous.

  He felt a twinge of guilt. There was no question that somehow Diana saved his life. He should feel grateful for what she’s done for him, and he was, though not in the way she wanted him to be. Eric still loved Celina.

  Diana was smiling down at him, her hand still squeezing his. She was a strong woman—he knew that—and although he never fully liked her, he did respect her. She was a good lawyer. She appeared to be a good person. But when he fully ended it with her, he wondered how good she would be then.

  Diana stood. “There’s something I want to show you,” she said, turning on a light.

  Eric winced. He saw the flowers only after his eyes adjusted. The room was literally filled with bouquets of flowers. Diana plucked a rose from its vase and Eric looked questioningly at her.

  “A lot of people care about you,” she said. “These have been arriving for the past four days. But there’s no more room for them. I hope you don’t mind, but I told the nurse to start sending whatever else comes to those patients who haven’t received flowers.”

  “Who sent…?” His voice was a rasp, his lips barely able to move. “Did you collect the cards?”

  “Of course,” Diana said. “They’re all in that drawer. But most are from Louis Ryan. He’s been here half a dozen times and he’s concerned about you.”

  She stepped over to the bed and looked down at him. “Considering the way George feels about him, I had no idea that you and Louis Ryan were such good friends.”

  Neither had Eric.

  * * *

  Diana had just left for Redman International when the doctor stepped into the room.

  He was middle-aged with a deep tan, deeper brown eyes and hair that had gone prematurely white. His name was Dr. Robert Hutchins and he checked Eric’s chart closely. “You have a broken leg, two cracked ribs, and a multitude of cuts and bruises. Otherwise, you’re in perfect health.”

  Eric attempted to sit up, but failed. He tried to clear his throat and was surprised to find that even that was difficult. Earlier, they had given him a cup of hot tea with honey, a generous shot of Demerol and now it was easier for him to speak.

  “When can I get out of here?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “Start packing my bags.”

  “Maybe I should rephrase that,” Hutchins said. “You’ll leave here when your body allows you to. The men who attacked you knew what they were doing. Your leg was broken in three places. I think they wanted to make sure you wouldn’t walk again.”

  It was a moment before Eric could speak. “Will I?”

  The doctor hesitated. “You’ll walk,” he said. “But it will be awhile before you can do so without a limp. You were struck in the leg with a baseball bat and your femur splintered, causing nerve and muscle damage. As you know, we had to operate. You now have a steel pin in your leg.” He drew back the sheet and pinched Eric’s big toe. He watched Eric’s face and waited for a reaction. There was none.

  He pinched harder, this time digging in with his fingernails. Nothing.

  “I want you to try wiggling your toes for me, Eric.”

  Eric lifted his head slightly and looked down at his leg. It was elevated and in a cast. His toes were a shade darker than the bruises had been on Leana’s face.

  The sight startled him.

  “I know,” Hutchins said. “But some discoloration is normal. They’ll look better in a week. Now, try wiggling them.”

  When Eric couldn’t, he eased his head back onto the pillow. With tightly shut eyes, he said, “I’m going to fucking kill her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and tried again to wiggle his toes. He couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move them.

  “Okay, Eric,” the doctor said. “Come on. Try moving them for me.’’

  “I have been.”

  Hutchins glanced at him. There was a look of fear on Eric’s face—only slightly masked by a look of rage.

  Wordlessly, Hutchins replaced the sheet. “How much of that night do you remember?”

  Everything. “Nothing.”

  “Any idea who could have done this to you?”

  I know exactly who did it. “None,” he said.

  “When you woke earlier, we had to call the police. They’re waiting outside. They want to question you, but if you feel that you’re too weak to do it, just tell me and they’ll be gone for now.”

  “I’ll talk to them eventually,” Eric said. “But later? I want to go back to sleep. I doubt if I’ll be of any help, anyway.” I’ll take care of that bitch myself.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think I’m feeling? I’m in fucking pain.”

  He watched Hutchins prepare a syringe and inject it into the IV. “Sleep,” he said. “This will help.” He clicked the empty syringe into the biohazard box and touched Eric’s shoulder. “You’re going to be all right,” he said. “But I’m not going to lie to you. The worst is yet to come. It’ll be months before you regain full use of your leg—and you’ll only get that far if you work very hard in rehab. So, I want you to get as much rest as possible. You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  He woke at midnight.

  The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and moonlight cut into his room from the window opposite his bed.

  He looked down the length of his cast to his foot. In the silver light of the moon, the bruises on his toes looked black. He tried moving his toes, couldn’t, and tried harder. They remained still.

  Eric closed his eyes and prayed to a God he hadn’t prayed to in years. He made promises no man could ever be expected to keep and opened his eyes. He tried but still couldn’t move his toes. It was as if they were no longer a part of his body. He wondered if he would ever walk again.

  It was at that moment he made his decision. He reached for the phone that was on the table next to him, grimaced from a sudden stab of pain in his left shoulder, and punched numbers. A moment passed before a familiar voice answered.

  After explaining in detail what had happened, Eric told the man exactly what he wanted from him. There was a silence.

  “You’re sure?” t
he man said.

  “I’m sure,” Eric said.

  “And you understand once I’ve set things into motion, you can’t change your mind. We go through channels, many of which are anonymous. This is an irreversible decision on your part. You need to understand that.”

  “I understand that,” Eric said. “That’s why I called you.”

  “Any particular way you want it done?”

  “I couldn’t care less how it’s done, Sal—but I do expect her to suffer before she dies.”

  “Suffering is additional.”

  “Then charge me for it.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” the man said. “And don’t worry. We’ll make her life a living hell.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The phone rang three times before Leana looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was 7:15 A.M. and her apartment was ablaze with early-morning sunlight.

  She sat up in bed and wondered who would call at this hour of the morning. She thought of a number of possibilities and realized the only person she really wanted to hear from was Michael Archer. But he rarely phoned. Lately, he almost always chose to stop by instead.

  When the phone entered its fifth ring, Leana answered it—and the line went dead. That was twice since last evening someone had called and hung up on her. She wondered if Mario somehow got her number and was calling to see if she was in and safe, but didn’t want to talk. But she cast that idea aside. If Mario wanted to talk to her, he’d talk.

  She replaced the receiver, slid under the covers and wondered how he was. She hadn’t seen him since the night Eric was beaten; hadn’t heard from him since the note she received in the restaurant.

  Although she was angry with him for lying to her, she missed him, though not enough to call. She would leave that up to Mario.

  She looked around her new apartment.

  In a matter of days, she and Michael Archer had transformed the loft into a place she now was proud to call home. No longer were the walls a dull, lifeless gray—they now were ivory bright. The furniture the previous tenant left behind was gone—Michael had it hauled away—and the broken windows were replaced with fresh panes of glass. Although there still was much to be done—furniture to buy, curtains to hang, floors to clean and wax—she was looking forward to the work, perhaps because she knew Michael would be there to help her.