The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  Louis sank to his knees, his crown of silvery gray hair caught by the helicopter’s sharp beams of light. He was on the cold rails of death. He was leaving himself. There was no pain, only a dull, spreading warmth in his chest and stomach. He knew he was dying and he didn’t care. He looked across at Michael and saw Anne staring back at him in horror. His body was nearing weightlessness. He was wondering if this was all an illusion when his brain flickered out, he fell forward and his face struck the floor.

  Spocatti shrank into the shadows. He was standing at the opposite end of the office, watching the police watch Louis Ryan die before their eyes. He said something into his cell phone and then listened to his men in the neighboring building empty rounds of bullets into the helicopter’s gas tank.

  Spocatti leapt into the heating duct and began the rapid plunge.

  In spite of all the noise, there was a moment when it seemed that everything went quiet, when the helicopter’s glinting blades hesitated, and then the machine sank, it ignited and exploded into the building.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  EPILOGUE

  Diana Crane, Chief Attorney

  Redman International

  49th Street & Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  (212) 555-2620

  Dear Jack:

  So, here we are again. Will you receive this letter? Will you answer it this time? I have sent you about a dozen letters over the past few months, only to have them returned unopened. Where are you? I send the letters to your parents and they tell me they forward them to you. Are they? They only tell me that you’re well. Are you traveling? Has it gotten easier?

  I don’t know if you’re connected to the world or if you unplugged yourself from it. Knowing you, I’ll assume the latter and hope for the former.

  Wherever you are, do you get the news? Are you aware that the stock market crashed? We survived it. That Monday, while Wall Street was crumbling, we were signing a deal with Anastassios Fondaras for $8 billion. Iran insisted he buy more ships to keep up with demand and we were happy to offer up WestTex. After a massive round of layoffs and restructuring, Redman International’s stock is now trading in the high fifties. Not where it used to be, but better.

  If you’ve been reading any of these letters, then you know that George made a full recovery. What you might not know is that Elizabeth was indicted last week. Ten years. I think she’ll do five. Maybe three, if she’s lucky. I did my best.

  Also, I’ve written this before but the status hasn’t changed. Leana is still missing. No one has seen her since she left New York Hospital last August. She disappeared, though we know she’s alright. At a benefit last Saturday, Helen Baines told me that Leana has called her, but she refuses to tell anyone where she is. I’m thinking she’s with Mario De Cicco. I checked and he’s no longer in New York.

  I’ll leave you with this. Three weeks ago, I was on Wall Street when I saw Vincent Spocatti in the crowds on the street. I know it was him, just as he knew it was me. We looked at each another and then he lifted his head and smiled before turning the other way. I reported it to the police, but there’s little they can do and Spocatti knows it.

  There’s nothing more to tell you, really, only that I miss you and wish you were here in your office at Redman International. Nothing is the same anymore. Everything’s changed. I don’t live at Redman Place. I sold my apartment and moved to the West Side. Now, I have a different view of Central Park, a cat for company and…what else? Nothing, really. Thank God for work. As my father used to say, work saves us.

  If you receive this, please write. You’ve had time. I need to know that you’re all right and that at least one of us is moving forward.

  With love,

  Diana

  P.S. I still think about him, you know? Given all that he did, it’s ridiculous. But after all this time, Eric is still part of me. Do you still think of Celina? Sometimes, it’s as if they never died, isn’t it?

  * * *

  Jack Douglas folded the letter in half and returned it to its envelope, which he’d carefully opened with a knife. Like all the letters Diana sent, he would return this one to his parents and they would forward it back to her. He sealed each letter in such a way that suggested he’d never opened it or read its contents. Jack wasn’t ready to renew their friendship. He would contact her again, but he would wait a while longer before doing so.

  Just now, he was sitting in the back of a dusty white Jeep, his skin brown from months in the sun, the top of his sandy hair bleached with streaks of blond. He was leaner than he had been in years, his body hard and toned from hiking through the jungles of Venezuela. Above him, he could hear the faint but familiar shrieking of macaws and cockatoos. Below him was the sound of rushing water. He was thousand of miles away from New York City and he loved it.

  He thought of Diana’s letter. Of course, he still thought of Celina. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of her and all that could have been. He loved her. With Elizabeth Redman now going to prison, he wondered if he ever would see the Redman family again.

  He wondered if he cared?

  He left the jeep and walked to the center of the long, rickety bridge that stretched before him. A woman had just jumped from its rotting planks and now was screaming as she plummeted to the roiling river below.

  Jack moved to the wooden rail and leaned forward. He watched her bounce thanks the bungee cord strapped to her ankles and her long dark hair cracked like a whip in the humid air. Watching her and listening to her jubilant cries, he felt strangely at peace and knew what he was doing was right. This was part of his own healing.

  Beside him, a young Venezuelan woman began pulling the frayed bungee cord back to the bridge. She was tall and slim, her arms and shoulders taut with muscle. Her bare feet dug into the gray wooden planks as she continued to hoist up the heavy cord. Once the cord was retrieved, she turned to him.

  “Listo?” she asked.

  Jack nodded. “Listo.”

  “You do this before, yes?”

  “I’ve done this before,” he said.

  From his pocket, he removed the blindfold he promised to wear when Celina jumped all those months ago. He showed it to the woman, who shrugged. She helped him over the wooden rail, attached the bungee to his ankles, pulled hard on the nylon strap and checked the buckles.

  Jack put the blindfold into place.

  With the sudden darkness, his senses became acute. The river was louder, the sun somehow stronger. He could feel the thrum of nature and then his heart beating in his chest.

  The woman touched his arm. “Jump,” she said. “Fly.”

  Poised at the edge of the bridge, Jack took a breath, nodded and let go of the wooden rail. For a moment, he just stood there, perfectly balanced with his arms held out at his sides. His hair stirred in the breeze. His palms faced a brilliant, cloudless sky he couldn’t see. He was aware of everything and nothing. The faint, exotic smells of the jungle enveloped him, consumed him and for the first time in months, he smiled.

  He thought of Celina then and when he jumped, he jumped hard, rising gracefully into the air and into the sun.

  For an instant, he was free.

  * * *

  Michael Archer remained in New York. In the six months that had passed since his annulment from Leana, he had left their apartment on Fifth and moved into a large, airy loft in the Village that overlooked the Hudson.

  His life was quieter. He rarely went out and he saw only close friends. He refused prime roles in movies and on Broadway, and he refused to be interviewed. Although his agent was hounding him to write another book, he hadn’t written a word in months. His dreams were bad. He supposed he was now something of a recluse.

  It was in late September, two months after the incident at The Hotel Fifth, that he received a letter from one of George Redman’s attorneys, suggesting that he join George for a blood test. Michael refused. He didn’t need a blood test to confirm that he was George Redman’s son. His mothe
r’s journal confirmed it.

  In her own hand, Anne described—in detail—her affair with George and how she knew that Michael was George’s son. If Redman couldn’t accept that, then Michael decided it was best that he wasn’t part of the man’s life.

  Leana came to him in dreams.

  He would be walking up Fifth Avenue and she would suddenly appear in the crowd, wearing the very dress she wore that night at The Hotel Fifth, her skin pale and lucent, a tiny pinpoint of bright light wavering from the hole in her stomach. In the dream, she held out her arms to him, called out his name in a voice that wasn’t her own but one that he assumed was his idea of his mother’s. And then she disappeared. When Michael ran after her, it was Louis Ryan’s face he saw, not Leana’s.

  He heard from Leana only once since they annulled their marriage. When she called, she was somewhere in Europe with Mario De Cicco, though she wouldn’t say where. In spite of all that had transpired between them—and the truth that they were half brother and sister—he admired her for keeping the conversation as light as she could.

  “I’m an expat,” she said. “Imagine that. And I’m happy. For the time being, we’re travelling Europe. We’ll visit other parts of the world and then we’ll choose a place to settle and raise a family. I’ll call you when that happens. Could be several months or several years, but I’ll call.”

  “I’m sorry for everything, Leana.”

  “I know you are,” she said. “But it’s not your fault—we both were used by him. Just hear me on this—if we don’t let go of all of it, if we don’t move forward, it will color the rest of our lives until we do. And if that happens, he wins, which we can’t let happen. I’m moving on with my life. I want the same for you. We deserve to have our lives back.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “Call me when you’ve settled.”

  “You’ll hear from me again,” Leana said, and she was gone.

  It wasn’t until January that he was ready to sit at his desk and look seriously at his typewriter, the one his agent sent him months ago as a gift.

  He knew he couldn’t go on like this. By withdrawing from the world, by hanging onto the past, he was killing himself and everything he’d worked so hard for. His agent had given him a number of story ideas, but only one mattered to Michael, only one was paramount, and if he wanted to move on, if he really wanted to deal with the past, the only way to do so would be to write about it.

  He looked at the typewriter. He never wrote on a computer and his agent knew it. He liked the sound of a typewriter. He liked the feeling of removing a piece of paper when he was finished creating something on it. He liked the rhythm of the words as they were pounded out.

  He put a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter and closed his eyes. That title, that opening sentence and the first few paragraphs came to him at once. They had been lingering in his mind since the original manuscript was burned.

  But could he do it? Could he really write the story that had changed so many lives? And if he did write about it, if he did tell the truth even if he did change the names, would he be ready for all the controversy that would ensue? Michael wasn’t sure. Novel or not, people would know the story he’d written was based on fact.

  Maybe he’d change the names later. Maybe he wouldn’t. What mattered now was getting it on paper.

  And then he remembered what the man Cain said to him that day in his apartment. Just moments after he read the first chapter and destroyed the manuscript, Cain asked how Michael could use these events, these places. Michael’s answer was immediate—perhaps he would use a pseudonym.

  He rested his hands on the typewriter and was relieved to find that it no longer seemed as threatening. He thought of Leana then, thought of all the Redmans, chose a generic pseudonym and after a moment, he began to type:

  FIFTH AVENUE

  A novel by:

  Christopher Smith

  BOOK ONE

  FIRST WEEK

  CHAPTER ONE

  July

  New York City

  The bombs, placed high above Fifth Avenue on the roof of The Redman International Building, would explode in five minutes.

  Now, with its mirrored walls of glass reflecting Fifth Avenue’s thick, late-morning traffic, the building itself seemed alive with movement.

  On scaffolding at the building’s middle, men and women were hanging the enormous red velvet ribbon that would soon cover sixteen of Redman International’s seventy-nine stories. High above on the roof, a lighting crew was moving ten spotlights into position. And inside, fifty skilled decorators were turning the lobby into a festive ballroom.

  Celina Redman, who was in charge of the confusion, stood before the building with her arms crossed. Streams of people were brushing past her on the sidewalk, some glancing up at the red ribbon, others stopping to glance in surprise at her. She tried to ignore them, tried to focus on her work and become one with the crowd, but it was difficult. Just that morning, her face and this building had been on the cover of every major paper in New York.

  She admired the building before her.

  Located on the corner of Fifth and 49th Street, the building was the product of thirty-one years of her father’s life. Founded when George Redman was twenty-six, Redman International was among the world’s leading conglomerates. It included a commercial airline, office and condominium complexes, textile and steel mills and, soon, WestTex Incorporated—one of the country’s largest shipping corporations. With this building on Fifth Avenue, all that stood in George Redman’s way was the future. And by all appearances, it was as bright as the diamonds Celina had chosen to wear later that evening.

  ####

  Thank you for purchasing and reading “Fifth Avenue.” I hope you enjoyed it.

  Please contact me at ChristopherSmithBooks for any comments or suggestions.

  Follow me on Twitter at @CSmithBooks

  Please join my fan page on Facebook here.

  Below is the second in the Fifth Avenue series, the Wall Street thriller “Running of the Bulls.” Look for the third in the series, Park Avenue, in 2012.

  Thank you again.

  Christopher

  RUNNING OF THE BULLS

  A novel by

  Christopher Smith

  For my great friend, Margaret Nagle.

  Thank you for everything.

  Copyright and Legal Notice:

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  First ebook edition © 2011.

  Book design by Brandi Doane.

  For all permissions, please contact the author at: mailto:ChristopherSmithBooks@gmail.com

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 Christopher Smith. All rights reserved worldwide.

  http://www.christophersmithbooks.com

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  For their help with this book, the author is particularly grateful to Erich Kaiser, Ross Smith, Ann Smith, Margaret Nagle, Matt Bialer, Brandi Doane, Jon McCann, Ted Adams, Antonio Gragera, Constance Hunting, Deborah Rogers, Suzie Irby, R.J. Keller, Laura Baumgardner, Martine Bound, Jamie Clark, David H. Burton, Misty Rayburn, Sandy Phippen, Keri “The Book Heroine” Rico and Mathy Matturro Terrill.

  The author also would like to thank the amazing team at the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office in New
York City; the City of Pamplona, Spain (and the bulls the author ran with which were kind enough not to trample him); Ivan Boesky for his inspiration, however unintended it was on his part; for supportive readers everywhere who send along the best, most encouraging mail; to those men and women who introduced the author to the real Wall Street while he researched this book; and to friends, old and new, all of whom either helped to shape this book or who offered support as it was written.

  Thank you.

  BOOK ONE

  PREFACE

  New York City

  Bebe Cole was an apparition that moved forward without sound, an enigma in the center of the dim foyer, where she turned on unsteady feet, unbuttoned her full-length cashmere coat, and let it fall to the gleaming marble floor.

  She was naked, bloody, bruised.

  “They’ve killed us,” she said.

  Still stunned from the beating, Edward Cole stared at his wife from the doorway of their Fifth Avenue apartment, unable to answer her, unable to speak.

  The bandage they’d wrapped around his chest was too tight for him to breathe with any comfort; the drugs they’d pumped him full of were too much of a chemical blow for his body to handle. He brought a hand to his ruined face and felt its altered shapes and swollen cheeks. He smoothed his fingertips along the uneven curve of his broken nose and wondered how he’d ever explain this to a public who would want to know.