Mario nodded. By the end of the day, Louis Ryan would be dead. “You have my word,” he said.
Satisfied, Harold moved to the door—but then he stopped and turned. “One thing still troubles me,” he said. “For years I did my best to hide who I am. I thought no one ever would find out—and yet you did this morning. How did you know?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“No,” Harold said. “But tell me, anyway.”
“Leana told me two years ago,” he said. “Somebody photographed you at a club, gave Leana a call and approached her with the negatives. She sold a piece of jewelry, met the son of a bitch at a diner and paid a million bucks for them. I later had him quieted. We burned the negatives together. Leana got her money back, Harold. Because of her, you got to keep your secret.”
Harold was barely breathing.
“She’s known for years, Harold. And she’s never stopped loving you. I want you to think about that. That’s how special she is.”
“I know how special she is.”
There was a knock at the door. Startled, Harold stepped away from it just as Joseph Stewart, the Family’s consigliere, walked through. “Got some real interesting news for you, Mario,” he said. “It’s about Leana.” He glanced sideways at Harold. “Mind if he listens?”
Mario said that he didn’t.
Stewart continued. “I’ve done some digging and I’ve learned quite a bit about Leana’s new husband. Seems Michael Archer’s just his pen name. His real name is Michael Ryan, and his father’s name is Louis.”
And there it was.
Mario’s mind spun into motion. The blood drained from Harold’s face. “We’re going to have to move fast,” Stewart said. “There’s no telling what he has planned for her.”
“Anyone else know about this?” Mario asked.
“No,” Stewart said. “Just us.”
Mario left his office and moved quickly down the long hallway. His face was leaden and set. He hesitated only briefly when he saw Lucia standing in the entryway, closing the door behind her with a firmness that suggested irritation. “Whose limo is parked out front?” she called to no one in particular. “It’s blocking the street.”
She hadn’t seen him yet and Mario didn’t answer. He had no time for his wife or for her questions. If there was another exit near him, he would have grabbed Stewart and taken off.
The carpet ended and their shoes now clicked on parquet as they entered the foyer. Lucia turned from the mirror she was standing at and she looked at him, her lips parting when she saw the cold determination in his eyes.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Mario shoved a finger at her. “Stay out of this.”
She took a step forward, blocked his path. “You don’t intimidate me,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Tell me where you’re going.”
There was a moment of complete silence, a moment when neither moved nor even blinked…and then Harold Baines was stepping past them.
Lucia looked at the man, her eyes widening as she recognized him. When it was announced that Leana Redman would be managing Louis Ryan’s new hotel, the Daily News ran several pictures of her. In one of those pictures, her arm was around this man’s shoulders.
She looked at Mario, her eyes like a light turned to his face. “It’s Leana again, isn’t it?” she said.
He walked past her. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Not now.”
He moved down the narrow brick steps, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He noticed that Harold Baines was gone. His limousine turned at the end of the street and sped onto Fifth. Reaching into his pants pocket, Mario removed his car keys and tossed them to Stewart, who was waiting on the sidewalk, looking behind Mario, toward the open door.
Lucia was standing there. “I’ve been with your father, Mario.” Her voice was low and even and carried across the street. “He knows everything.”
Mario’s pace slowed.
“I told him you’re fucking her,” she said. “He said he’d kill her if you don’t stop.”
Mario looked at Stewart and saw the cool neutrality on his face. “Start the car, Joe,” he said. “I’ll be a minute.”
Lucia came down the stairs. “No, you won’t, Mario,” she said. “Because neither of you is going anywhere. If Joe gets into that car, I’ll see to it that he winds up in the Hudson. That’s a promise. Now, come back inside.”
Stewart’s mouth tightened into a splinter of hate. He looked at Mario.
“You work for me now, Joe,” Mario said. “Start the car.”
Relishing the moment because he never liked this Lucia bitch, Stewart crossed the street, opened the Taurus’ heavy black door and stepped inside.
And then Lucia was suddenly running toward him, sprinting across the street, plunging her hands through the open car window, grabbing hold of his arm with a fierceness that was surprising in its strength. Her long red fingernails dug into his flesh.
“Get out of the car!” she screamed. “Get out of fucking car or I’ll kill you myself!”
Stewart jerked his arm free, the fabric of his gray blazer tearing. He looked across the street at Mario, who was running a hand through his hair. “Let it go, Lucia,” Stewart said. “It’s over.”
He stuck the key into the ignition.
Lucia slapped his face. She clawed at it and drew blood. He tried to push her off and heard Mario shout her name.
And then he started the car.
The explosion catapulted the Taurus twenty feet into the air, blowing off its doors and tires and fenders, causing it to flip in a violent somersault and destroy everything in its fiery path before it landed beside Mario, whose chest had been struck by the flying debris.
* * *
At the subway terminal on West 4th Street, Harold waited for his limousine to fade from sight before he joined the crush of people hurrying down the terminal’s seemingly endless steps.
He tried to keep up with them, clutching the handrail for support, but he nearly fell when a group of teenagers darted past him. It was difficult and it was exhausting, but it would be worth it.
By the time he reached the lower level, he was winded and perspiring, his heart beating dangerously fast. The train hadn’t arrived. Groups of people were either leaning against the tiled columns or waiting impatiently along the cement precipice. It was insufferably hot. The air was unmoving. He hadn’t taken the subway in years. He’d forgotten how ruthless it was in the summer.
He found an opening in the crowd, moved toward it and looked down at the grimy track. His stomach clenched when he saw a rat. Its tail flicking nervously, its ears quivering, the rat was eating the remains of a what appeared to be another rat.
Harold looked away. He wouldn’t miss this city. He wouldn’t miss this filth.
He closed his eyes and thought of Leana. She had known. All these years and she had known, her love for him never faltering. The idea that she had seen photographs of him made him want to cry in humiliation. How many times had she seen him and thought of those pictures? How many times had she held him and felt pity?
There was a sudden stir in the humid air. The cement floor vibrated and the people leaning against the columns became alert and moved forward.
Harold glanced down at the track and watched the rat disappear beneath a wooden tie, its grayish tail slipping from sight.
He thought of Louis Ryan then and wondered what would happen to the man once Mario De Cicco got hold of him. I hope he cuts his throat, Harold thought. I hope he rips out his heart, crushes it in his hands….
He trusted De Cicco in a way that surprised him.
Harold knew the Redmans would be safe in De Cicco’s hands. He knew that Mario would protect them in a way that he hadn’t. A part of him almost wished he would be here to witness tomorrow morning’s headlines.
There was a rush of wind as the train charged into the tunnel. Looming into view, it bore down hard on the crowd.
Harold watched the train storm
toward him and welcomed its presence with a certain bitterness. Three days ago he had tested positive for HIV. His heroin and cocaine addiction was out of control. He knew that even if Ryan died, the tape the man blackmailed him with would somehow resurface and fall into the hands of the press, thus embarrassing himself even further while destroying his family.
It was better this way. There was nothing left for him in this world.
The train was close.
He thought of Helen and his children, but mostly he thought of Leana. He loved her. He would miss her most. In his will, he had left her half of everything.
Just as the train was about to pass him, he welcomed its presence and jumped.
And in that moment before the train struck, Harold heard the stunned, primal cries of a society that had refused to let him be himself—a group of hypocrites taking a collective breath and then letting loose one monstrous scream. The bastards wanted him to live!
Furious, Harold wanted to scream at them, tell them what an outrage it was that he had to live a life of lies, that he had never been given the chance they took for granted—that chance to be who he was without ridicule or fear, without pain or humiliation.
But when the train struck and rolled over him, severing him, his voice was crushed, silenced like so many before him, becoming nothing more than a wet, clotted gasp as his body was sliced into quarters.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jack Douglas kept himself in check, but his anger was rising, becoming paramount, consuming him in waves.
He was on a sofa. Diana was at his side. He looked at the man seated opposite them. He had murdered Celina and now he would probably murder them. Jack wished, just wished that he could have the chance to show this son of a bitch what real fear was.
“It’s remarkable, really,” the man said. Earlier, he had introduced himself as Spocatti, merely Spocatti, and now he was sipping a drink he had Diana fix for him at the bar. In his other hand was a gun. It was pointed at Jack. “I mean, the way you pieced everything together.” He cocked his head at Diana. “If I hadn’t wired your apartment, I wouldn’t have known what you two were up to today. Louis Ryan and I probably would be in jail.”
He lifted his glass of Scotch. His eyes flashed. “To technology,” he said, and drank.
Jack sensed the storm building within Diana. Although she hurt her head and arm when she fell, he saw no pain on her face, only a mixture of anger, hatred and disgust. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t.”
Diana released her hand and glared at Spocatti. “Why are you here?”
The sun came from behind a cloud and Spocatti’s face burst into brilliant bloom. He was still for a moment, the light refracting in his eyes, before he rose and went to the bar, where he put down his glass and turned to Jack. “Celina put up quite a struggle,” he said, ignoring Diana’s question. “She was hitting me so hard with her fists, I thought I’d never get that damned rope tied around her legs.” He paused, as if in thought. “When I was swimming away, I heard her scream. Did you?”
The sound of Celina’s muffled cry echoed hollowly in Jack’s mind. He had a sudden image of her sightless eyes, her slack jaw and realized once again that he had been only moments too late to save her.
“At the time,” Spocatti said, “I thought how ridiculous that was—to scream and release all the air from her lungs.” He shook his head, as if her actions had been inappropriate. “What she did was ridiculous. But, then, she never was as bright as the press led us to believe, was she, Mr. Douglas? Just another dumb blonde who happened to hit it big thanks to pappy.”
Jack looked at the gun clutched in the man’s hand and knew that if he made a sudden move, he would be shot and killed—leaving him unable to help the Redmans and powerless to help Diana. He bit down hard on his anger and bided his time. Something would give. It had to.
Spocatti returned to his seat. “Your parents live in Florida, don’t they, Jack? West Palm?”
Jack lifted his eyes to him.
“I’ve got a friend of my own in that area and gave him a call before I visited you. Nice place, West Palm. Your parents must have saved their nickels over the years and tucked away a little money for the future.” He smiled. “If you’ve spent your life sweating at a Pittsburgh steel mill, like your father did, you don’t move to West Palm unless you’ve been careful with your money.”
His voice lowered a notch. “My friend paid them a visit, Jack. He says their home is beautiful—wide open and airy. He thought your mother was particularly nice. My friend was seeking directions and she was happy to help him. Gotta love the blue-collar elderly.”
The anger Jack felt was like a pain in his chest. A thousand thoughts spun through his mind—but only one mattered and that was his parents’ safety. “Have you hurt them?” he asked.
Spocatti looked affronted. “Hurt them?” he said. “That’s the very last thing I want to do.” He glanced at his watch, then at the phone that was on the table beside Jack. “Why don’t you give them a call?” he said. “See for yourself if they’re all right.”
And in that moment, Jack knew they wouldn’t be all right. He reached for the phone and dialed. The line rang several times before his mother answered. “Yes?” she said. Her voice was strained.
“Mom, it’s Jack. Is everything all right?”
She burst into tears.
Jack closed his eyes and saw himself tearing Spocatti apart. “Listen to me, Mom. You’re going to have to calm down. Do you hear me? Tell me what’s wrong.”
She spoke through sobs. “A man broke into our house.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice was shrill. “We thought you’d know. He’s sitting beside your father. He has a gun. He said if you don’t do what he wants, he’ll kill us.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jack said. “You and Dad will be safe. Do you understand me? You’ll be safe. I promise.”
“He’s hurt your father,” she said. “He punched him in the face. He’s going to kill us. You have to do whatever he wants.” Before Jack could respond, he heard a sharp, frightened cry—and the line went dead.
He stared at the receiver. He felt helpless, inept. His parents were at the opposite end of the country. He could do nothing.
Diana took the phone from his hand and replaced it. They looked at Spocatti.
“This is what you’re going to do,” he said. “Both of you will attend Celina Redman’s funeral tomorrow morning. Then, you’ll board Redman’s private Lear and fly to London, then on to Iran—just as planned. You will tell no one—not Redman, not the police—what you learned here today. You’ll act as though nothing happened. If you don’t, I’ll kill your parents, Jack. That’s a promise.”
He looked at Diana and could sense a murderous rage rising from her like flames from a bonfire. “Your mother,” he said. “She lives in Maine, right? Bangor, I believe. Why don’t you give her a call and see if she’s all right?”
* * *
A wild chorus of horns trumpeted behind the cab as it darted into the far right lane and jerked to a stop in front of The Hotel Fifth.
Stepping out, the sun hitting her hard in the face, Leana slipped between two parked cars and moved up the red-carpeted steps that led to the hotel’s gilded entrance.
Almost immediately, she spotted Zack Anderson. Dressed immaculately in a slick navy blue silk suit, he was standing in the center of the busy lobby, his hands braced on either side of an intricately carved podium, the waterfall casting resilient waves of light through his thick, silvery gray hair.
He seemed oblivious to the steady stream of activity surrounding him. As workers prepared for the opening night party, Anderson’s lips moved silently, almost as if he were rehearsing something.
Leana approached him, thinking this was not the first time he would see her looking her worst. After the rain that fell earlier, she knew she was a mess. “Zack,” she said, smiling as he looked up. “Got a minute?”
“I didn’t know I needed an appointment.”
“Of course, you don’t,” he said. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you after what happened to your sister.” His face softened. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, tucking the note cards into his jacket pocket. “You must be devastated.”
Leana didn’t answer. Instead, she looked around the cavernous lobby, surprised to see how much it had changed in the short time since she’d been here. Everything appeared to be up and running—the stores and the restaurants and bars all seemed to be ready to open. There was no doubt in her mind that Zack Anderson was responsible for this smooth transition and she supposed she owed him a debt of gratitude. Obviously, the man put in the long hours she herself should have put in.
Still, she was guarded. Hadn’t he once told her that he wanted her job?
He unbuttoned his jacket and stepped away from the podium, appraising her with a sweeping glance. “Get caught in the rain?” he asked.
Leana gave him a cool, leveling look. She tapped a finger beneath her right eye. “Your mascara is smudged, Zack. I need you to check that before tonight’s event.”
His face flushed.
“Louis said you’d written me a speech for opening night. I’d like to see it.” She nodded towards his jacket pocket. “Do you have it on you?”
“Just on note cards.”
“So, I noted.” She held out an open palm. “I’ll want to make changes. Let me see the speech.”
He removed the cards from his pocket and handed them to her. As Leana began reading through them, Anderson said, “I read about your wedding in this morning’s paper. Congratulations. Michael Archer is quite a catch.”
“So, am I. But you’ll figure that out if you last long enough, Zack.”
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 36