George looked disappointed. He wanted to break the news to Leana himself. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “That man meant the world to Leana. She loved him fiercely.”
While Michael knew that Leana once had an affair with Mario De Cicco, she never elaborated just how deeply those feelings went and he was surprised now by the jealousy it sparked within him. Given De Cicco’s notorious lifestyle, it also seemed odd that her father understood it.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink, would you?” George asked. “I’m still a little shaken, myself.”
Shaken about De Cicco?
They moved into the large room with its tall windows and red curtains, its paneled mahogany walls and illumined paintings and leather-bound books. Michael motioned toward the rosewood chairs arranged in the center of the room and asked George to have a seat. “What can I get you?”
“Scotch, if you have it,” George said.
Michael stood at the unfamiliar bar, his gaze sweeping over rows of glinting bottles, deeply etched Faberge glasses, a shining, empty ice bucket. He had used this bar only once since he and Leana moved in and it was a moment before he found the appropriate bottle, which was half-full, its label scratched, as if it had been used. You’re a clever son of a bitch, aren’t you, Dad? As he poured, he wondered where in this room the microphones were hidden. Who was listening to them now? Spocatti? His father? Both?
Drinks in hand, he came across the room and noticed that Redman was watching him. His gaze was almost scrutinizing, as if he was looking at someone he hadn’t seen in years.
Michael handed him his drink. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.
George shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. You just remind me of someone I knew some time ago.”
Michael took the chair opposite him, his interest rising. “Who was that?”
“Her name was Anne,” George said. “She looked a lot like you.”
Michael tried to still his emotions. He couldn’t believe this man had just mentioned his mother. All his life he had longed for information about her. He wanted to know things that only people close to her could know, but his father rarely spoke about her. He thought of the films he watched that morning and knew that while they offered a bridge to the past in fleeting scenes that encouraged memories, they never could convey what a person’s personal memories could. And so he pressed on.
“Were you friends?” he asked.
The sadness on George Redman’s face was unmistakable. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose Anne and I were friends. There was a time when we were even close. But things changed and I never saw her again. That was years ago.”
Michael’s heart was pounding. He was conflicted. If what his father said was true, George Redman murdered his mother. He’d taken a shotgun, blown out her tires and sent her over that bridge to her death. But he also knew that George couldn’t understand the complexity of what was unfolding here. And since George might tell him more about his mother than his own father would, he decided to take this as far as he could, regardless of the repercussions.
“What was she like?”
“We don’t need to talk about this.”
“Leana could be hours,” he said. “I’m interested.”
“There are other subjects to discuss, like your marriage to my daughter.”
“Leana and I agreed that we’d discuss that with you and Elizabeth together.” He held out his hands. “What can I say?” he said. “You’ve made me curious about her.”
George seemed to understand that and so he acquiesced. “She was beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t know her long and I only saw her on occasion, but there were times when I would have done anything for her.”
“Were you two involved?”
The boldness of the question caught George off guard. He saw the rapt attention on Michael’s face and finished his drink. “Anne was married when I met her and I respected that,” he said. “I wanted to remain friends with her but her husband decided against that. We didn’t get along.” He lifted his empty glass. “Would you mind?”
Michael went to the bar and fixed him another drink. He replaced the bottle and listened to Redman shift in his seat. “Are they still married?”
“Anne’s dead, Michael.”
And there it was. Michael stood at the bar, a thousand questions tumbling through his mind, but he chose to ask only one because only one mattered—and Redman’s reaction to it was almost as important as his answer.
He came across the room and handed George his drink. He saw the discomfort on his face and what might have been grief in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How did she die?”
It was as if those words dropped an invisible veil. George straightened in his chair. He collected himself. Whatever world he had allowed himself to travel to was gone. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “Today has been difficult enough.”
“Of course.”
The phone rang.
“That might be Leana,” George said.
Michael excused himself and left for the foyer, not wanting to talk in the library. He had a feeling it was his father calling and he was right.
“What are you doing, Michael?” Louis said. “Why are you with him?”
Michael looked back into the library and saw that Redman had left his seat. He now was standing in front of the Vermeer, in which a woman was holding a balance. And Michael thought, Did you kill my mother?
“Answer me, Michael. Why is he there?”
There was a sudden jangling of keys beyond the locked door and Michael turned as Leana stepped into the apartment. Their eyes met and Michael immediately sensed by the expression on her face that things had not gone well at the hospital. His father’s voice was a sharp jolt on the phone. “Get him out of that apartment, Michael. Get him out now or I’ll pay Santiago nothing.”
With a firm hand, Michael replaced the receiver and walked over to where Leana stood. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”
Leana pressed her face into the warmth of his chest. She didn’t answer.
Michael rested his chin on the top of her head. He could feel her trying to keep herself under control and his heart went out to her. “How is he?” he asked.
“Not good,” she said. “It was awful. I fought with the doctor and Mario’s father wouldn’t let me see him.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. Three of his ribs were crushed. He lost a lot of blood. The doctor says we have to wait.”
Michael pulled back and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. He had fallen in love with her. He didn’t know how or when it had happened, but the feeling was there and he realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “I promise. But right now you have to pull yourself together.” He nodded toward the library. “Your father’s here.”
Leana’s eyes widened. She looked behind her and came face to face with her father, who had stepped away from the painting and now was standing in the center of the library, near an ormolu writing table, his hands at his sides.
He smiled at her and it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” he said. “But I guess I was too late. Are you all right?”
Leana was confused. Her father hadn’t come here to tell her about Mario—George hated the man. Years ago, he had forbidden that she see him. Something else was wrong. “What are we talking about?” she said, alarmed. “Is Mom all right?”
George was unmoving. “Your mother’s fine.” He looked at Michael. “I thought you said she knew?”
Michael was as bewildered as George. “She does know,” he said. “She just came from the hospital. We saw what happened to De Cicco on the news.” But Michael saw by the change in Redman’s expression that his coming here had nothing to do with Mario De Cicco or with the explosion that nearly cost the man
his life.
He looked at Leana, saw the cold fear on her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and thought, What has my father done now….
The next few moments passed in a haze.
George came into the foyer, told Leana about the death of their best friend, a man he thought he had known but never truly had. He caught his daughter when her knees buckled and she began to cry in a shrill of grief. Over and over again, she asked why Harold had done it. George said he didn’t know. He remained at her side, comforting her, his arms enveloping her in a way they hadn’t since she was a child.
He pressed his face against hers and closed his eyes. When he did, he once again saw the haunting image of a train hurtling into a shadowy tunnel, bearing down hard toward an impatient crowd and then Harold inexplicably leaping from the platform and jumping to his death.
* * *
The helicopter soared over the city and moved slowly down Fifth, its spotlight shining along the mirrored facades of tall buildings, illuminating their interiors with quick bursts of light.
In the dark silence of Louis Ryan’s office, Spocatti watched the machine, watched it glide steadily toward them, its multi-colored lights blinking, steel blades flashing, chopping the heavy air with a smooth, measured fierceness.
Ryan was sitting opposite him, glass of Scotch in hand, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He had not spoken since Michael severed the connection and, in a sense, blatantly told Louis to go to hell.
In an odd way, Spocatti was proud of Michael. Standing up to his father took guts. Perhaps Michael wasn’t the man he assumed he was. Perhaps he was stronger.
The roar of the helicopter grew louder.
Ryan stamped out his cigarette. “Things have changed,” he said. “I threatened Michael with Santiago and he hung up on me. I think he knows.”
Spocatti could barely see the man’s face. It was as if a net of shadows had been cast against it. “I doubt that,” he said. “If anyone told him, we would have heard.”
“Not necessarily,” Louis said. And then, his voice surprisingly bitter, “You’re not perfect, Vincent. Neither are your men or the equipment you use. So do me a favor and stop pretending you’re God.”
The helicopter passed and Ryan’s pale face was caught in the light as it wavered like water into the office.
Spocatti stared into that face—saw the stern line that was Ryan’s mouth, the nightmare that was boiling in his liquid-brown eyes—before he watched it slide back into darkness. He wondered at exactly what point the man’s mind had begun to turn. He wondered to what extent Ryan realized his carefully orchestrated plan was souring.
“I want you to keep an eye on Michael,” Louis said. “I want you to increase security around him, record his every move. He’ll be at the funeral tomorrow—I’m sure of that. Since there’s no telling what he has planned after that, watch him. I have a feeling he’s going to try something.”
“I can take him out,” Spocatti said.
“Not until I’m finished with him.”
“And when will that be?”
Louis lit another cigarette and, for an instant, his face glowed in the fiery globe. “Tuesday,” he said. “When we bury the rest of them.”
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“It really is special,” the Realtor said. She was standing in the center of the large, empty foyer and her voice echoed off the stark white walls. “As you know, apartments on Fifth are rare, especially in the 50s and 60s. And this is a penthouse, which obviously further amplifies its appeal.” She let a silence go by. “If you want to make a statement and live on Fifth Avenue, this is the place to do so. Few in the city are better.”
She allowed the man a moment to take in the space.
“Let’s take a tour,” she said.
The apartment was large and airy. It comprised two floors and boasted sweeping views of the city. It was completely white throughout—white walls, white carpets, white woodwork, white marble floors in the bathrooms, white fireplace in the library, everywhere white, white, white.
“From what I hear, the owners are arty, eccentric types,” the Realtor said as they moved through the living room and stepped into the dining area. “They’re old money from Iceland and word has it that they missed their country so much that they surrounded themselves in white, in a sense giving them the illusion of being lost in a blizzard.”
“You don’t say?”
She caught the sarcasm and couldn’t help a laugh. “It’s what we’ve been asked to say. Whether it’s true, I can’t say. But I can confirm that the apartment was featured this year in Architectural Digest.”
The man walked down a bright hallway and stepped into the library. She followed. “This is my favorite room,” she said. “The windows sell it. That’s a true New York view. You easily could fit two-hundred people in here for entertaining. And at night, it’s magnificent. With that backdrop, you can imagine how beautiful it is in here.”
The man moved to the far set of windows. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked across 53rd Street to the city’s newest hotel.
The woman stepped behind him. “And then you have that,” she said. “The largest hotel in New York. Four thousand rooms, all of them booked for the weekend. Tonight is the opening night party. You’ve heard that Leana Redman is managing the hotel?”
“Didn’t she just bury her sister yesterday?”
“She did.”
“And now she opens that hotel tonight,” he said. “That’s a pretty quick recovery, wouldn’t you say?”
The woman didn’t say. “Do you like the view?”
“Very much,” he said. “But I wonder if I might see it at night?”
“Of course,” she said. “I could show it to you tomorrow evening.”
“No,” the man said. “I’m leaving the country tomorrow morning. I won’t be back for weeks and you may have sold it by then.” He turned away from the window and looked at her. “I’d like to see it tonight. And, if the view is as spectacular as you say it is, it’s likely that I’ll just write you a check for the full amount.”
The woman kept her features neutral, but her mind was working. After calling in a number of favors, she had secured an invitation to the opening of The Hotel Fifth. She had spent a fortune on her dress and almost as much on having it tailored to her body. There was no way she could show this apartment tonight. The connections she could make tonight were invaluable.
And yet this apartment had been on the market for months. The asking price was $25 million. Because of the recession, here was the first person in weeks to show genuine interest in it. She couldn’t lose this sale, for professional and personal reasons.
The man was watching her, waiting for a response. “If it’s a problem,” he said, “I can always look elsewhere. I really need to wrap this up today.”
“No,” the woman said. “That isn’t necessary. It’s just that I’ve been invited to that party tonight. Leana Redman and I are friends. She invited me herself. It’s important that I attend and help her through what likely will be a difficult evening.”
His gaze met hers levelly. Unflinchingly.
The woman sensed he didn’t believe her.
“Look,” he said. “If this party means so much to you, I wouldn’t mind coming here alone tonight and checking out the view for myself. Just give me a key and I’ll return it to you tomorrow morning, before my plane leaves.”
“That’s actually against the law,” the woman said. “I’m not allowed to do that.”
“It’ll just be me.”
“I could get into trouble,” she said. “I could lose my license.”
“Or you could make a $2 million commission. Who will know?”
“The doormen.”
“Doormen can be dealt with,” he said. “A little charm, a lot of money—and they become your best friends.”
She thought about this and made her decision. “All right,” she said. “If it wouldn’t be too mu
ch trouble. And if this stays between us.”
“Of course,” the man said, gazing across at the hotel. “Just between us.”
* * *
They awoke in each other’s arms to the abrupt sound of music.
Michael lifted his head from the pillow and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He would have given anything to have awakened anywhere in the world but here. He knew Leana had to get ready for the day and so he let the music play. She moved closer to him and murmured something.
Michael put his arm around her and gently kissed the back of her neck. Neither had slept well. More than once in the night he turned to find her looking at him, her face pale and watchful in the moonlight, her eyes heavy and dead with memories of Harold and Celina.
Yesterday morning, at her sister’s funeral, he stood alongside her and her parents at an elegant Connecticut cemetery. He was a fraud grieving for a woman he hadn’t known, yet easily could have saved.
Yesterday afternoon, while Leana tried to rest, Louis phoned, again threatening him with Santiago. Silently, bitterly, Michael listened, but what Louis didn’t know is that Michael knew that Santiago didn’t exist and that Michael no longer believed that George Redman killed his mother. Meeting the man and seeing how he spoke about his mother altered the landscape. He wanted to confront his father with his lies, but instead he spun some of his own, reassuring Louis that he also wanted Redman dead, that meeting the man had solidified his resolve.
His words still lingered in his mind. “I asked him, Dad. I asked him how Mom died, and you should have seen the look on his face. It was as though I had accused him of murder.”
“And that surprised you?” Louis said.
“I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t,” Michael said. “I don’t trust you. I never have and—after this experience—I never will. But this is now personal for me, too. When I saw the look on Redman’s face, I knew he pulled that trigger and I want him dead for it. What you need to understand is this—once it’s over, I never want to see you again. You’ll pay off Santiago—just as you promised—and you will give me money to start over with. A lot of money. Those are my terms. Either you meet them or I’m out of here. Now, tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
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