Michael’s hand tightened around the receiver. “Don’t hang up on me.”
The silence stretched.
“What is it?”
“I need to know if it’s safe for me to come back.”
“It’s safe,” Louis said.
“Are you sure?”
“I told you—it’s safe.”
But Michael could sense his father wasn’t telling him something. He could sense that something was wrong. “If you’re lying to me, Dad—”
“I’m not lying to you, Michael. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”
While Michael knew he had no choice but to trust his father, he couldn’t help feeling that he was being pushed nearer to the edge of a cliff. “Where do you expect Leana and me to stay when we get back?” he asked.
“That’s been taken care of.”
“Taken care of?” Michael said. “When were you planning on telling me—next week? We’ll be landing in another two hours. You’ve told me nothing—”
The line went dead.
* * *
Leana watched the night pass by, only dimly aware of the jet’s engines, the conversation of the couple seated in front of her, the diet-slim flight attendants as they whisked up and down the aisle.
She was still trying to understand and accept that her sister was dead and had been murdered only that morning. And she could still hear Harold’s voice echoing like a cold whisper: “Celina did love you, Leana. I can’t tell you how many times she told me that she missed you.”
At that moment, Leana ached with loss. She thought of all the times she and Celina could have been close and realized she never would have that opportunity now.
She was wondering who was responsible for Celina’s death when Michael sat down beside her. He reached for her hand and Leana looked at him, remembering what had happened only hours before in their hotel suite. Whose voice had she heard when she lifted the receiver? It wasn’t Michael’s voice, she knew that. But she also knew that she’d heard that voice before—just as she knew that one day she would put a face to it.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Leana shrugged.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Not unless you can bring my sister back.”
The silence hung in the air. Michael moved to speak, couldn’t find the words and squeezed her hand harder. Leana squeezed back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. I’m just not in a good place right now. It has nothing to do with you.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.”
She leaned back in her seat. “You know what I keep thinking?” she said. “I keep thinking how nice it’s going to feel when I find the son of a bitch who’s responsible for this.”
Michael turned to her.
“And I will find him, Michael. I swear to God I will. He’s not going to get away with this. He’s not going to get away with killing my sister. I have you to help me and I have Mario. We will find who murdered her. We’ll make him pay.”
“Leana—”
Her throat suddenly thickened. “I did love her, Michael. I never thought I did, but I did.”
He touched her hair. “We’ll get through this. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I love you,” he said.
Leana looked at him then, saw the pain on his face, the grief in his eyes and knew that he was telling her the truth. She felt guilty. How could she have mistrusted him earlier? He had never been anything but good to her. The telephone lines obviously got crossed in the storm.
Holding his hand in her own, she turned back to the window, where the world had disappeared into the darkness. For the first time in hours, she thought of Eric Parker, of the contract he had put out on her and wondered what would be waiting for her when she returned home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Anastassios Fondaras closed the final file Eric Parker stole on the takeover of WestTex Incorporated and tossed it onto Louis’ desk.
Although the man said nothing now, his dark eyes gleamed with the sort of intensity that reminded Ryan of a tiger’s eyes before the beast moved in for the kill.
Anastassios stood. “This deal Redman has with Iran,” Fondaras said, as he moved to the far right wall of windows and looked out at the city, which was brilliant in the late afternoon light. “It’s verbal, correct?”
“Yes,” Louis said, remembering his conversation with Harold Baines. “It’s verbal. Iran wouldn’t agree to sign anything until Redman took over WestTex. They felt it was a waste of time to commit themselves otherwise.”
“I see. But I assume that in the interim Redman has been in close contact with Iran,” Fondaras said. “I assume the Iranians will keep their word.”
“If circumstances were to remain the same, I’m sure they would,” Louis said. “Under current circumstances, they actually need Redman. With the Middle East unstable, most major shipping and oil companies are reluctant to enter the Gulf—including your own. Iran needs to sell their oil in order to buy arms, but few are willing to take the risk—except George. Redman’s advantage is that he knows the exact date the Navy moves into the Gulf. If Iran knew that date was as early as next week, they’d drop the deal, knowing that the Gulf would soon be secure again for trade and that they didn’t need any private deal with an American company.”
“If they knew the date,” Fondaras said.
“Exactly.”
Fondaras moved from the window and stepped to the bar. “I’ve known George Redman for nearly twenty years,” he said. “And I have genuine respect for him. A part of me even likes him.”
But, Louis thought. But….
“But this is business,” Fondaras said, as he poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. “And business is about getting there first. It’s about winning, regardless of the situation.” Drink in hand, he turned to Ryan. “So, you have no interest in being part of this deal? You’re simply going to give me this information for free?”
“Naturally, there will be a price—after all, Anastassios, as you yourself pointed out, this is business. But we’ll discuss terms later. First, tell me your plans.”
“My plans?” Fondaras said with a laugh. “It’s textbook. Redman will be getting their oil cheap. Iran is desperate and he’s played off their needs. I plan on doing the same—only I’m going to offer Iran more money for their oil. I’ve worked with them in the past and they’ll work with me again. I plan on stealing this deal from George Redman.” His eyes flashed. “But what’s it going to cost me?”
Louis reached for his own glass of Scotch, came over to where Fondaras was standing and touched glasses with the man. “That, my friend, is the most beautiful part of all.”
* * *
Spocatti came only minutes after Fondaras left. “Eric Parker is dead,” he said. “Diana Crane and Jack Douglas found him at the bottom of her staircase two hours ago. Her apartment is crawling with cops—and the cops are saying he fell. It isn’t being considered a homicide.”
Louis accepted the information with a nod. He was seated at his desk, facing the windows. As he stared at The Redman International Building, his eyes flickered with what might have been fear.
Spocatti was about to continue when he noticed the object of Ryan’s attention through the great panes of glass. Would the man never learn?
He moved to Louis’ desk, opened a side drawer and pressed a button—the curtains whispered shut. “One bullet, Louis,” he said. “That’s all it would take.”
But Louis wasn’t listening. He was thinking of the $90 million check he gave Eric Parker in exchange for the files he stole from Diana Crane, the very check that bore the name of Manhattan Enterprises’ foreign branch, World Enterprises.
“The check,” Louis said. “You’re too smart to have come without it, so give it to me.”
Spocatti sat in the chair behind him, kicked his feet up on Louis’ desk. “There is no check, Louis.”
“Of course, ther
e is. I wrote it. You delivered it.”
“Doesn’t matter—the check’s gone.”
“Then where is it?”
“No idea. It wasn’t on Eric Parker’s body and it’s nowhere in that apartment. I have contacts at the NYPD. One of them was there when they removed the body, which was searched before Parker was pulled out. There was no check, Louis.”
“This contact,” Louis said. “This friend of yours—he can be trusted?”
“Are you questioning me? Of course, he can. He’s one of my best. While he was there, he also wired the apartment. You know as well as I do that Diana Crane will soon be missing those files. Now, we’ll know when she misses them. Now, we’ll be able to deal with matters more efficiently.”
Louis rose from his seat. “That check didn’t just disappear.”
Spocatti watched the man pace, delighted by how all of this was affecting him. “Of course, it didn’t disappear, but it’s nowhere in that apartment. That I can assure you.”
“Then where is it?”
“My guess is that whoever pushed Parker down those stairs is also holding that check.”
Louis, a man rarely stunned by the events of life, looked at Spocatti, stunned. “Pushed Parker down the stairs? You said he fell.”
“The police said he fell,” Spocatti said. “There’s a difference. And the police happen to be wrong. Eric Parker did not lose his footing and fall down the stairs like they said he did—Eric Parker was murdered. My contact and I are certain of it.”
“Who killed him?”
Spocatti smiled a slow, knowing smile. “You tell me.”
It was a moment before Louis responded. His mind filled with possibilities, made connections. And then he gradually realized that there was only one person who could have done it—Mario De Cicco.
He sat heavily in his chair.
Spocatti watched the color drain from the man’s face but felt no pity, no sympathy, only a slight annoyance at having been ignored. “I warned you, Louis.”
“I know you did.”
“Things aren’t as simple as they once were. You’re losing the game.”
“The hell I am.”
“But you are,” Spocatti said. “I told you not to send a check. I told you to wire the money from one of your anonymous accounts into one of his anonymous accounts. It would have been clean but you chose not to listen. You got greedy. You wanted that information so badly, you caved into Parker’s demands. That might turn out to be the biggest mistake of your life.”
Spocatti stood and leaned over the desk. “Now, unless you listen to me, unless you do everything I say, you probably will pay with your life—and Redman will win after all.”
Louis shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Good,” Spocatti said. “So, you’re going to listen to me? Do as I say?”
“That depends,” Louis said warily. “What do you have in mind?”
Vincent told him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The first thing Michael noticed when he and Leana cleared customs was Spocatti. He was moving in their direction, sifting through the crowds, eyes on Michael, tossing a cigarette into an ashtray as he passed it.
For a moment, Michael thought Santiago’s men had somehow followed him here, but he looked around and saw nothing unusual. He turned back to Spocatti, who now was at a restroom entrance. He nodded at Michael and stepped inside.
Michael was tempted to keep walking, but couldn’t. Spocatti once saved his life. If Santiago’s men were here, he might repeat the favor.
“I need to use the restroom,” he said to Leana. “Do you mind waiting a minute?”
The restroom was cool and quiet and painted deep blue. Spocatti was at the rear of the room, washing his hands at a sink. As Michael moved toward him, he noticed two other men standing at the urinals, both wearing business suits. Spocatti’s men.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
Spocatti turned off the water and shook his hands over the sink. Michael noticed two long, red marks running horizontally on each palm. They looked like burns. Rope burns.
“I’m here to help you, Michael.”
“Why? To make up for the life you took earlier?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Michael took a step toward him. “Why did you kill her sister?”
Spocatti raised an eyebrow. “Look at you—standing up so tall and brave.”
“She didn’t have to die.”
“I just do as I’m told.” He ripped a towel from a dispenser and began wiping his hands. “Actually, you’re right,” he said. “Of course, I killed her. And I enjoyed killing her. You should have seen the expression on her face when I cut the rope and tied it around her legs. Now we’re talking fear—”
Michael lunged forward and pushed Spocatti against the wall. The two men at the urinals looked over their shoulders. One laughed. The other went to the door and blocked it so no one else could enter.
“Who’s next?” Michael asked.
Spocatti didn’t struggle. Instead, he looked bemused. “Everyone is next, Michael. Everyone will die. It’s all going to be tragic. Blood will be everywhere.”
His hands soared up. He shoved Michael against the opposite wall and withdrew the gun concealed beneath his black leather jacket.
Tried to withdraw his gun.
It caught on his shoulder holster and tumbled from his hand.
As if in slow motion, Michael watched the gun bounce off Spocatti’s knee, drop to the blue tile floor and spin in his direction.
He lunged for it.
Tried to lunge for it.
The man at the row of urinals no longer was amused. Suddenly, he was standing in front of Michael, blocking his path to the gun.
Spocatti picked it up. He holstered it and said to Michael, “If you want to get through the next few days alive, and especially if you want to be rid of Santiago, I suggest you cut the bullshit, listen to me carefully and do as I say.”
* * *
Leana was nowhere in sight when Michael left the restroom.
He looked around the crowded corridor and found her standing across from him. She was on her cell phone, talking rapidly, gesticulating with her free hand. Michael wondered who she was talking to and if it concerned him and the conversation she overheard in Monte Carlo.
When she snapped the phone shut, he moved toward her, the knot hardening in his stomach—tightening. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Mario.”
“Mario?” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. While they were in Monte Carlo, his father told him that De Cicco was running a check on them both. If the man somehow learned he was Louis’ son, Michael knew that Mario would take him out.
“And?”
“Eric’s dead,” she said. “The contract’s been canceled.”
He searched her eyes, trying to see if there was something more she wasn’t telling him.
“So, it’s over,” he said.
She looked incredulous. “Are you serious? Of course, it isn’t over. First, the spotlights explode, then my sister is murdered. Someone is out to hurt my family. Are my parents next? Is it me? Nobody’s been caught. Which one of us is next?”
Michael could say nothing.
Leana reached for the oversized handbag that was at her feet. “Look,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry for getting upset.”
“You have every reason to be upset.”
“It’s just that I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.” She started to leave. “Can we go home now? It’s late and I’m tired. I want to get up early tomorrow morning and see my parents.”
* * *
For Michael and Leana, home now was a new apartment located at the top of a Fifth Avenue high rise.
As their limousine neared the glittering tower, Michael thought back to the phone conversation he had in Monte Carlo with his father. The man thought of everything. Not onl
y did he know his son would need a new place to live, but he also knew that that place would have to reflect the kind of wealth and power his new bride would be expecting.
He wondered if his father intentionally chose an apartment on Fifth Avenue. If Louis had, Michael wouldn’t be surprised. Only yesterday morning, his manuscript by the same name had been burned.
The car hit a string of green lights, sailed up Madison and turned onto 59th Street, where it crossed over to Fifth. As it began moving down the avenue, Michael looked at the people on the sidewalk, at the illumined store windows and remembered what Spocatti told him in the restroom. The doorman’s name is Joseph. He’s tall, dark hair, thick mustache. He’s expecting you. When you see him, act as if you already know each other.
The car pulled to the curb.
Michael looked out the window and saw a liveried doorman hurrying in their direction. For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. The man coming toward them was short and bald.
He looked past the man, toward the twin gilt doors, and saw one other doorman standing at the entrance—but he was young and blond.
His door swung open. “Mr. Archer,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to have you back with us.”
Michael had no choice but to go with it. He stepped out of the car.
“And you must be Mrs. Archer,” the man said, looking past Michael. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
As Leana alighted from the limousine, the man flashed Michael an intimate, knowing smile. “She’s every bit as beautiful as you said she would be, Mr. Archer.”
Michael managed a smile of his own, hating Spocatti more now than he had before. “Where is Joseph?” he asked. “I thought he’d be working tonight.”
“Flu,” the man said. “We’re hoping he’ll be back tomorrow. Let me help you with your bags.”
They took an elevator to the fiftieth floor. When Michael entered the apartment, he found it as sumptuous as Spocatti said it would be. It was filled with items similar to those that he lost to the bank only a few short weeks ago.
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 31