Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

When they turned onto Fifth, Diana reached in her purse for her cell phone and started punching numbers. “I’m going to call ahead to Redman Place and make sure no unexpected visitors are waiting for us,” she said.

Eric looked at her. “I thought you already took care of the press.”

“I did,” Diana said. “That’s why no one greeted us at the hospital. But things can go wrong, Eric, so I’m calling ahead to be safe.”

Whatever. Eric turned back to the window. All he wanted to do now was go home, grab a cold beer from the fridge and crawl into his own bed. At this point, he couldn't care less about the press. His mind was more preoccupied with the possibility that he might see Celina or George while they were wheeling him across the lobby. He was on crutches, but they were so awkward to use, he felt they made him look more like a cripple than a wheelchair did.

And Eric did not want to appear weak should he run into George or Celina.

Diana snapped her phone shut. She looked out a window. Eric watched her-something in her features had changed. The fingers of her right hand were toying with the brooch he once gave Celina.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There’s a problem.”

“What kind of problem? Is the press there?”

“It has nothing to do with the press.”

“Then what is it?”

She took a breath and let it out all at once. Whatever anger he sensed coming from her earlier was now an emotion he couldn’t quite define.

“Diana-”

“It’s your apartment,” she said.

Before the pipes burst, the apartment was one of the most sought after in Manhattan for its view of Central Park. It was valued well into the millions. His collection of paintings, antique furniture and sculptures bought anonymously at auction was worth more.

But now, as Eric wheeled through the half-foot of water that already was ruining the hardwood floors, he realized that figure had dropped dramatically overnight.

His apartment was ruined.

He turned to Sam Mitchell, the manager of Redman Place, a man he had been friends with for years-but who now was curiously distant toward him.

“What happened, Sam?”

“Several pipes burst, Mr. Parker.” The man’s sudden formality hung in the air. Mitchell always called Eric by his first name. Now, Eric could only wonder how many other people George Redman had turned against him.

“I can see that, Sam. Mind telling me why?”

“Our men are still working on it. We won’t know until the end of the day.”

He wheeled over to the terrace, where Diana stood with her shoes in her hands. She fought for a smile, couldn’t manage it and looked away. Water dripped onto them from the vacant hole that used to be a ceiling. His cast, the very cast his doctors warned him not to get wet, was soaked.

“How many other tenants went through this?” Eric asked.

“None, Mr. Parker.”

“You mean to tell me mine was the only apartment whose pipes burst?”

“That’s correct.”

“But how can that be?”

“We won’t know until our investigation is complete.”

“I want to know now.”

“We’re working as fast as we can.”

“Pipes don’t burst in the middle of summer. In this building, they wouldn’t burst even in the deepest of winter. I need to know what’s going on. Now.”

The man said nothing.

Diana placed a hand on his shoulder. Eric shrugged it off and wheeled away. He felt like hurling something right now, but stilled the impulse. Water sloshed at his feet.

“I assume my insurance will cover this,” he said, moving toward the bedroom that no longer was a bedroom-maintenance had torn it apart to get to one of the burst pipes. “The paintings alone are worth a fortune. They can’t be replaced. And the furniture-all one of a kind, all bought at auction. Are you getting the picture, Sam? Are you hearing me?”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“Say it. Nothing can faze me now.”

“I hope that’s so,” Mitchell said, “because when you were terminated from Redman International, you lost your insurance coverage on your apartment. As you know, as a senior employee, it was paid for by the organization. But with your recent termination, Mr. Redman canceled it.”

Eric was speechless. Diana mouthed-but did not say-the word “terminated.’”

“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Mitchell said. “The water is leaking through to the apartment below yours. It has destroyed Mrs. Aldrich’s van Gogh and each of her prized Monets-not to mention the Henry VIII furniture that has been in her family for years and is considered priceless. She told me her insurance company plans to sue you. She told me to tell you to get a good lawyer.”

“None of this makes sense,” Diana said. “This isn’t Eric’s fault. Your insurance will cover it. This has to do with the building itself, not with Eric Parker.”

Mitchell’s words were measured. “While it’s true that our insurance covers our original systems, the problem is that it appears that the trouble started in Mr. Parker’s master bathroom, which he remodeled two years ago. If the report finds that to be the source of the problem, then we’re dealing with plumbing that was altered by a third party. And it releases us from responsibility.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Diana said. “The plumbing was up to code. It passed all inspections-yours and the city’s. You signed off on that.”

Sam held out his hands. “Look,” he said. “I know this is difficult. I know everyone is upset. But when you read the document we signed with Mr. Parker, you’ll note a clause that releases us from all responsibilities when any alterations are made to our original systems.”

“Then the plumbing company is responsible.”

“Maybe,” Mitchell said. “But we’re two years out from that remodel. If it were a month, you’d have a strong case. But two years?” He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Eric shot Diana a look. What he saw in her face was defeat. Redman bankrupted me.

There was a silence while Mitchell moved across the room to an Art Deco table that was beside a shiny black bar. On it were four vases filled with red roses. “There is at least one bright note to all this, Mr. Parker,” he said. “These roses arrived this morning as a welcome home gift. They’re from Louis Ryan.”

“George is behind this. You know it as well as I do.”

Diana entered her living room with a pot of hot coffee in one hand, two coffee mugs in the other. She was fresh from the shower and now wore a white terry bathrobe. Her hair, curling around her face in slick dark waves, was wet.

“He’s responsible for those pipes bursting.”

“We have to talk, Eric,” she said, sitting in the chair opposite him and arranging the mugs on an end table. “Things aren’t adding up.”

“What things?”

She poured the coffee, handed him one of the steaming mugs and took a sip from her own. She seemed very tired when she said, “You’ve been lying to me.”

Eric was about to speak, but Diana held up a hand, silencing him. “Right now I’m going to do the talking. You’re going to shut up and listen. When I ask you a question, you’ll answer it and you’ll answer it honestly. If you lie to me, Eric, I’ll know. It’s what I do. It’s that special gift that I get paid so much for. And if you do lie to me, that will be a mistake you will regret, because as far as I see it, you need me now-and I’ve just about had it with you.”

She eased back in her chair.

In the window behind her, Manhattan was cloaked in a blanket of haze and smog. There was only the slightest hint of the sun behind the screen of clouds. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a rectangular black velvet box. She handed it to Eric and waited for him to open it. With the parting of velvet came a brilliant flash of diamonds and sapphires and rubies.