“Well, I can’t believe it. The man doesn’t even belong here. What does Louis Ryan care about the discovery of twelve Monet paintings? What does he care about HIV and AIDS? Just look at him,” she said in a low voice. “Sitting there, smiling, as if he doesn’t know that we’re here. As if he doesn’t remember what he put us through all those years ago. You murdering his wife. Ridiculous.”
George squeezed her hand. It was a moment before he could dispel the image of Anne Ryan that flashed before his eyes. “Look,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him. This was bound to happen someday. Why don’t we just ignore him and enjoy ourselves?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just leave?”
“Because we’re on a boat in the middle of the Hudson. We can’t leave.”
“Oh, please, George. Somewhere on this floating island there’s a helicopter. We can tell Anastassios that there has been an emergency.” She looked around her. Everyone was either sitting down to dinner, or preparing to. The air was a hum of voices. “Where is Celina sitting? Maybe she and Jack wouldn’t mind switching tables with us.”
“I haven’t seen Celina.”
“And I haven’t seen Harold. Look at poor Helen over there, sitting by herself, having to talk to that awful Mamie Fitzbergen and listen to one of her dull conversations about how splashes of Holy water are restoring her youth. You’d think Harold would be more considerate of her.”
“Something isn’t right with Harold,” he said. “He seems distracted lately. Not himself. I’m going to talk to him soon and see if anything is wrong.”
“And when you do,” Louis Ryan said from across the table. “Make sure you give him my thanks.”
His voice cut across the table like a blade. Silence lingered as those seated at the Redman table—and those seated at the tables surrounding it—stopped talking and started listening.
Elizabeth and George turned to Ryan. It was clear by his amused expression that he had been listening to them.
“What do you mean by that, Louis?” George asked.
Louis lowered his chin and peered over his eyeglasses. “I wish I could put it in simpler terms, George, but I can’t. It means that I’d like you to give Harold my thanks.”
George ignored the sarcasm and kept his tone light. “What for?”
“For finding someone to run my new hotel for me.”
George hadn’t become successful in this crowd without possessing the ability to act. He remained calm, even though denial was rising up in him that his best friend would talk to this man. “It’s good that you and Harold have been chatting.”
“Actually, we had a meeting,” Louis said. “And I have to hand it to him—I couldn’t be happier with his choice.” He smiled. “Of course, I should probably be thanking you and Elizabeth, as well. Without your efforts, the young woman Harold brought to my attention wouldn’t be alive today.”
George was slipping, beginning not to care. “Maybe we should talk about this later?” he said. “Another time?” He held up his glass of champagne, lifted it to Louis and drank. “For me, talking business ended a few hours ago.”
It was as if the suggestion went unheard.
Louis eased back in his chair and said, “What strikes me about this young woman is how closely she resembles my dead wife. Do you remember Anne, George? Do you remember how long and dark her hair was? How tan she would get in the summer? How beautiful and stubborn and strong she was? How alive she was?” He paused. “Probably not. I would imagine that killing someone and getting away with it must force a person to stuff down any memory of it. I, on the other hand, have never forgotten.”
At the same instant a reporter stepped forward to take their picture, Louis leaned forward and locked eyes with George. The camera flashed.
Elizabeth Redman looked at the reporter with such hatred and stood so quickly that her chair toppled over and crashed to the hardwood deck.
Excitement rippled through the crowd.
The reporter took another picture. And another.
Elizabeth reached down, grabbed her glass of water and threw it in Ryan’s face. It caught him by surprise, but his initial reaction was to laugh at her.
And now everyone was watching. George reached out and gripped Elizabeth’s arm before she did something else she would regret. All around them, cameras were popping.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ryan,” he said.
“You don’t even know just how much nerve,” Louis said, wiping his face with a silk napkin. “The person I’m talking about is your daughter, Leana. I’ve hired her to run my new hotel for me. She starts next week.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
While her parents and sister were dining on the world’s largest privately owned yacht, Leana was standing at the corner of Mulberry and Prince. It was dark, a light rain was falling and traffic from the two streets hummed in her ears.
Twelve hours had passed since she was sent the gun. Twelve hours of decisions and indecisions had passed through her mind. Twelve hours left to go before the man carried out his threat.
She glanced around her.
Age-worn brick buildings lined the block. Somewhere in the distance, a woman was crying, shouting, screaming. Leana was aware of the men passing her on the street, and she was aware that they were aware of her. Although she had gone through great lengths to come to this spot and not be followed, she knew that any one of these men could be the man who sent her the gun.
She removed her cell phone from her inside jacket pocket and felt the gun she concealed there earlier. If for some reason the man decided to make his move tonight, she would kill him with his own gun. If I get the chance.
She punched numbers. There was a click and the line began to ring. She waited for someone to answer. Rain whipped against her in sheets, soaking her clothes, chilling her to the bone. She could no longer hear the woman screaming. It was as if her voice had been snuffed. A man walking past her slowed his pace and smiled a smile that had long since ceased being a smile.
Leana turned away. She felt the gun pressed against her ribcage. She began to tremble.
Finally, the line was answered by a woman. Leana recognized the voice instantly and knew that once she spoke, the woman would recognize her voice as well. Still, she didn’t hesitate to ask for the one man she should have phoned earlier—the only man who could now help her. “I need to speak to Mario,” she said to his wife. “Tell him it’s Leana Redman. Tell him it’s urgent.”
But the line went dead.
* * *
“Who was that on the phone?”
Lucia De Cicco turned in surprise as Mario entered the kitchen from the foyer. His hair, face and black leather jacket were dripping from the rain. In his hand was the gallon of ice cream she asked him to get.
“I asked who that was.”
“It was no one,” she said. “Whoever was there hung up.”
She moved away from the phone, carefully wiping clean from her face any sign of the anger she felt only moments before. Lucia knew that if she was going to keep her husband, she would have to still whatever rage and jealousy was within her and pretend a woman by the name of Leana Redman didn’t exist.
“You know I don’t want you answering the phone,” Mario said as he removed his coat and shoes. “Not after what happened last week.”
It was a moment before Lucia could dispel the image of the three dozen black roses she received by messenger. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Don’t you think it’s time we did?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
In her bare feet, she crossed the room and took the ice cream from her husband’s hands. For years, she was a woman who moved with the confidence beauty inspires, but now she seemed oddly aware of it and herself.
“What kind did you get?”
“Heath Bar Crunch,” he said. “And don’t change the subject. We’re going to talk about this.”
She w
ent to the large island that dominated the center of the kitchen, removed two bowls from a cupboard, a silver spoon from a drawer. As she began scooping the ice cream into the bowls, she looked at Mario, then over at the phone, which was across the room. Mario took the stool opposite her. She sensed him staring at her and said, “Look, Mario. I’ve spoken with your father, I’ve talked to your brothers. As far as I’m concerned, what happened last week never happened.”
“But it did happen.”
She focused on the ice cream.
“You were sent a death threat, Lucia. Somebody wants to kill you and we need to talk about it.”
She glared at him. “And for what? Because of something I did? No, Mario. Because of something you or your goddamned family did. How do you think it makes me feel knowing I might be dead in a week because of my association with this family?”
“That’ll never happen—”
“Really?” she said. “You can promise me that? You can promise our children that?”
“Lucia, please.”
“Look,” she said. “You wanted to discuss this, so let’s discuss it. I want to know what you’re going to say to the children when they see their mother shot dead because she wanted to open a window for some air. How are you going to explain the holes in my body? The blood on my face? I’m scared to death and you haven’t once comforted me. I lie in bed at night wondering when I’ll be able to leave my home again, but realize I might never be able to because it could mean my death.”
Mario was about to speak when the phone rang. Lucia looked at her husband, saw him turning on the stool.
She knew who was on that phone. She began to cross the room, but Mario was suddenly beside her, intercepting.
“You’re not answering it,” he said. “Forget it.”
He reached for the receiver at the same moment Lucia asked him not to answer it. But Mario did answer it, a brief conversation was held, and he hung up the phone, furious.
“You lied to me,” he said. “That was Leana who called a few minutes ago. She’s in trouble. She said you hung up on her. Why?”
“You know why.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“I’m your wife. I don’t owe you an excuse when another woman calls—especially that woman.”
“Like hell you don’t,” he said. “She’s in trouble.”
He reached for his jacket and put it on while stepping into his shoes. He was angry with her, but he would deal with it later. Leana needed him.
“Where are you going, Mario?”
“I’m meeting her at a shelter on Prince Street.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Lucia—”
“I’ll call your father,” she said. “I’ll tell him where you’re going.”
“You can do whatever you want. My father knows the situation. He knows I’d only be going to help her.”
“Not if I tell him differently.”
Silence hit the room.
Mario looked at his wife and thought of all the years he had wasted with her; all the years that were gone and he could never get back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“It means I’ll tell him you’re sleeping with her,” she said. “It means I’ll tell him I caught you in bed with her. That the children caught you in bed with her.”
Mario took a step toward her.
Lucia stood firm. In her eyes was a defiance that would not be shattered by intimidation. “He trusts me more than he trusts you. He’ll believe it all and he’ll kill her. He told me so himself. He’ll kill her, Mario.”
“You’d actually do that? You’d destroy my relationship with my father. You’d lie to have an innocent person killed?”
There was no hesitation when she said, “You’re fucking right I would.”
Mario knew that whatever love and respect he once felt for her was gone. He was finished with her. “Then I suggest you pick up the phone and start dialing, Lucia, because I’m leaving.”
He stepped past her and moved toward the door. Lucia went to the phone. Hands trembling, her pride and her marriage threatened, she picked up the receiver and started dialing.
“I’d give some thought to that, Lucia,” Mario said from the door. “Because if any harm comes to Leana or myself, I swear on my mother’s grave it will be the biggest mistake of your life.”
* * *
When Leana arrived at the shelter on Prince Street, she found it crowded with men, women and children. Volunteers circulated with hot coffee and sandwiches, soup and rolls. Fluorescent lights winked and buzzed, casting a harsh glow on an even harsher reality.
She went to the rear of the shelter, chose a seat at the only empty table and watched the entrance. She wanted to see Mario come in, wanted to watch him walk toward her, wanted to feel the reassurance his presence would bring. Only then would she feel reasonably safe.
As she sat there, her thoughts turned to Michael and she wondered, as she had throughout the day, where he was and why he hadn’t phoned or come by the apartment. Although only a day had passed since they were together, she was surprised by how much she missed him.
A woman carrying a pot of hot coffee and a bag of Styrofoam cups stopped beside her table and sat down. “You’re new,” she said. “My name is Karen. Welcome.”
Leana felt self-conscious. She didn’t belong here. Her father was one of the richest men in the country. This woman’s time should be spent with someone who needed the attention. “Thank you,” she said.
“Would you like some coffee? You look cold in those wet clothes.”
“No, thank you,” Leana said. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Here. Let me pour you a cup.”
“But I didn’t come here for that. I came here to meet someone.”
The woman lifted her head. Leana noticed her noticing the expensive clothes she wore, the diamond and gold watch Harold gave as a Christmas gift and suddenly wished she was somewhere else.
“I see,” the woman said. She poured Leana a cup of coffee anyway and handed it to her. “Look,” she said. “We all have problems. If you feel uncomfortable accepting this—which you shouldn’t—maybe you’d like to give a donation when you leave. But that’s up to you. This coffee will warm you up and, if nothing else, that makes me feel good.”
She stood. “Now, how about a blanket while you’re waiting for your friend?”
Leana was touched by the woman’s kindness. “I’d love a blanket,” she said.
When she was alone, she looked more closely around the shelter. Leana knew that for many of these people, what they were eating here was probably their first meal of the day. In a corner of the room, she saw one of the volunteers bathing a young child while its mother, preoccupied with her other two children, looked on. She wondered where this woman and her children would sleep tonight. Had they found space at a shelter, or was it the street for them after this?
She took a sip of coffee and knew that Mario chose to meet here on purpose. Even now, with a threat against her life, he refused to let her forget how fortunate she was.
When the woman returned with the blanket, Leana wrapped it around her shoulders, thanked her and asked, “Where do these people go at night, once they’re finished eating?”
The woman leaned against the table. “By now all the shelters are full,” she said. “And so they go back to their spots on the streets.”
Leana looked across the room. She could not imagine that woman and her children sleeping alone on the streets. “How do they survive there? How do they live?”
“Many don’t survive there. Many don’t live.”
The woman said it so matter-of-factly, Leana was taken aback. “Those children over there with that woman. Do they go to school?”
“Some do. But even if they don’t, that doesn’t mean they’re not bright. Every child you see in this room—except for the smaller ones—knows how to take care of himself. If they are hungry and there
isn’t a food shelter nearby, then they know which restaurants throw out the cleanest trash. If they want a bed for the night, they know to start looking early at the shelters instead of looking late. If they have no money, they either beg, borrow or steal—usually steal.” The woman shrugged. “It’s a way of life for them,” she said. “While some are angry as hell at the system, you’d be surprised by how many have accepted their situation.”
Leana couldn’t imagine accepting any of this. She couldn’t imagine living without a home, or going to bed hungry, or sleeping in a cardboard box. She couldn’t imagine picking through a garbage can for food.
She looked around the room and a feeling of shame overcame her. Had she really had it so bad as a child?
There was the sound of a door being shut and Leana looked up to see Mario coming toward her. Never in her life had she been more happy to see him.
“That your friend?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Leana said. “That’s my friend.”
“You’re a lucky woman. He’s one of my favorite people. Do you realize he comes here once a week with either a carload of food or a check to buy food?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
The woman left and Leana kept looking at Mario, who was now weaving through the tables.
“My car’s outside,” Mario said, after giving Leana a hug. “I want you to come with me. We’re moving you out of your apartment.”
Leana hadn’t expected this. She began to protest. “But where will I go?”
“That’s taken care of.”
“There’s got to be another way, Mario. I love that apartment.”
“More than your life? Let’s go.”
Reluctantly, Leana went with him. As they left the shelter and stepped into the night, the two men waiting outside the entrance fell in step behind them. Leana knew that these men, like herself and Mario, were armed.
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 22