Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

Michael left the room.

When the door clicked shut, Louis reached for the phone on his desk and punched numbers. Michael would see his side sooner than he expected. “It’s Louis, Vincent.” He looked at the picture of his wife. He had sworn long ago that he and Michael would avenge her death together. Michael just needed a little stimulation. “I’ve got another job for you, but you must move quickly.”

Michael knew something was wrong the moment he finished climbing the six flights of stairs and saw that the door to his apartment was ajar.

The first thought that raced through his mind was Rufus. If someone was in the apartment, then why wasn’t the dog barking? Had the intruder already left? Michael couldn’t be sure.

He started down the hallway, moving slowly, his senses acute. He glimpsed an empty wine bottle lying beside the freight elevator, picked it up and tossed it once between his hands. The bottle was heavy, solid. It could fracture jaws, break bones, cut flesh.

He passed the apartment to his right and heard the sound of a child crying, the tinny blare of a television that was turned too loud. Canned studio laughter wafted through the thin, graying walls-Edith Bunker shouting at Archie.

Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.

The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.

Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.

For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.

Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.

Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark crimson. It wasn’t until he turned to reach for another towel that he saw the envelope taped to the rust-spotted refrigerator.

Michael stared at the envelope. It bore his name in thick bold letters. It seemed to scream out at him, shouting his name across the room.

Again, he became aware of the tinny laughter drifting down the hallway. It was as though someone somewhere was laughing at him.

He covered Rufus with another towel, stood and opened the envelope. Inside was a white piece of paper. Typed on it were these words: “You weren’t here so we left an example of what happens when we’re ignored. Please have our money soon, Mr. Ryan, or this will be you.”

The shock of seeing his real name in print terrified him. How much did they know about him? How far were they willing to go?

Michael tore the note in half and telephoned his father. He needed that money, regardless of the stings that were attached to it. As he waited for someone to answer, he glimpsed the picture of his mother. It was lying askew on the floor, just a few feet away from Rufus’ body. Someone had slashed it with a knife.

“Yes?”

“It’s Michael. I’ve changed my mind. I need your help. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”

Could he commit murder?

“What made you change your mind?”

Michael managed to speak only out of sheer will. “Santiago broke into my apartment and butchered my dog.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I’ll bet you are. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He glanced at the blood-soaked towels that covered his dog and knew it could be him lying there, knew that if he didn’t do as his father asked, it would be him lying there. “I’ll do anything.”

Including murder?

“Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning? We’ll discuss everything in detail then.”

Michael said he’d be there and hung up the phone.

When he knelt beside Rufus, he ran a trembling hand over the dog’s back. If he waited, just a moment, it seemed he would understand. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my fault and I’m sorry.”

They said they were giving him three weeks to come up with the money. So, why this? What was the point of killing a harmless dog? Michael covered Rufus with another towel. Then he glanced at the tattered remains of his mother’s picture. Anger rose in him, a fury so deep only revenge could pacify it. Maybe it was just as well he help his father.

Yes, he could commit murder.

The sun cut through the partly open Venetian blinds and sliced bright bands of gold across Eric Parker’s sleeping face, the cream-colored sheets of his four-poster bed, and a section of his bloodstained leather belt, which, along with the rest of his clothes, lay in a crumpled mass at the foot of his bed.

It was late Saturday morning.

He awoke with a headache a little before noon. After fumbling in his bedside table for some aspirin, he sat up in bed, swallowed three Tylenol dry and then walked into the bathroom, where he drank water from the faucet and relieved himself.

As he stood before the toilet, Eric peered at himself in the bathroom mirror, surprised to find that he looked worse than he felt. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the pupils still dilated; his hair was a wild mass of dark brown waves; his face, usually smooth and tan, was creased with fine pink lines and he was in need of a shave.

Eric flushed the toilet and turned with a groan away from the mirror. Regardless of how much he’d drank, last night was still fresh in his mind. When Eric left Leana, he took the elevator to the lobby, asked the doorman to get him a cab and then waited for it outside in the rain so there would be no chance of him running into Celina or George.

When a cab pulled alongside him, he stepped soaking wet inside and instructed the cabbie to take him to Redman Place, the condominium complex where many of Redman International’s senior executives lived-including himself, Celina and Diana Crane. Not wanting to come across either of them, Eric went straight to his apartment, peeled off his damp clothes and crawled into bed, where he quickly forgot the beating he gave Leana Redman and fell asleep.

Now, standing beneath a hot shower, Eric realized the enormity of what he had done to Leana. Hitting her with that belt had been a grave mistake. If he hadn’t threatened her, Eric was certain she would have gone to the police-or to her father-and he now would be in jail, instead of his bathroom.

He wondered how long she would keep quiet. Did she believe him when he said he’d have a contract put out on her? When her anger prevailed-and he knew it would, probably even had-would she risk the chance that he was bluffing and go to the police? Or to George?

Eric stepped out of the shower and was struck with the realization that by hitting Leana, he had given her the power to blackmail him. Leana knew how hard he had struggled to reach the top. She knew how much his reputation and his job at Redman International meant to him.

If she wanted to, she could destroy everything he ever worked for.