Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“If they knew the date,” Fondaras said.

“Exactly.”

Fondaras moved from the window and stepped to the bar. “I’ve known George Redman for nearly twenty years,” he said. “And I have genuine respect for him. A part of me even likes him.”

But, Louis thought. But…

“But this is business,” Fondaras said, as he poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. “And business is about getting there first. It’s about winning, regardless of the situation.” Drink in hand, he turned to Ryan. “So, you have no interest in being part of this deal? You’re simply going to give me this information for free?”

“Naturally, there will be a price-after all, Anastassios, as you yourself pointed out, this is business. But we’ll discuss terms later. First, tell me your plans.”

“My plans?” Fondaras said with a laugh. “It’s textbook. Redman will be getting their oil cheap. Iran is desperate and he’s played off their needs. I plan on doing the same-only I’m going to offer Iran more money for their oil. I’ve worked with them in the past and they’ll work with me again. I plan on stealing this deal from George Redman.” His eyes flashed. “But what’s it going to cost me?”

Louis reached for his own glass of Scotch, came over to where Fondaras was standing and touched glasses with the man. “That, my friend, is the most beautiful part of all.”

Spocatti came only minutes after Fondaras left. “Eric Parker is dead,” he said. “Diana Crane and Jack Douglas found him at the bottom of her staircase two hours ago. Her apartment is crawling with cops-and the cops are saying he fell. It isn’t being considered a homicide.”

Louis accepted the information with a nod. He was seated at his desk, facing the windows. As he stared at The Redman International Building, his eyes flickered with what might have been fear.

Spocatti was about to continue when he noticed the object of Ryan’s attention through the great panes of glass. Would the man never learn?

He moved to Louis’ desk, opened a side drawer and pressed a button-the curtains whispered shut. “One bullet, Louis,” he said. “That’s all it would take.”

But Louis wasn’t listening. He was thinking of the $90 million check he gave Eric Parker in exchange for the files he stole from Diana Crane, the very check that bore the name of Manhattan Enterprises’ foreign branch, World Enterprises.

“The check,” Louis said. “You’re too smart to have come without it, so give it to me.”

Spocatti sat in the chair behind him, kicked his feet up on Louis’ desk. “There is no check, Louis.”

“Of course, there is. I wrote it. You delivered it.”

“Doesn’t matter-the check’s gone.”

“Then where is it?”

“No idea. It wasn’t on Eric Parker’s body and it’s nowhere in that apartment. I have contacts at the NYPD. One of them was there when they removed the body, which was searched before Parker was pulled out. There was no check, Louis.”

“This contact,” Louis said. “This friend of yours-he can be trusted?”

“Are you questioning me? Of course, he can. He’s one of my best. While he was there, he also wired the apartment. You know as well as I do that Diana Crane will soon be missing those files. Now, we’ll know when she misses them. Now, we’ll be able to deal with matters more efficiently.”

Louis rose from his seat. “That check didn’t just disappear.”

Spocatti watched the man pace, delighted by how all of this was affecting him. “Of course, it didn’t disappear, but it’s nowhere in that apartment. That I can assure you.”

“Then where is it?”

“My guess is that whoever pushed Parker down those stairs is also holding that check.”

Louis, a man rarely stunned by the events of life, looked at Spocatti, stunned. “Pushed Parker down the stairs? You said he fell.”

“The police said he fell,” Spocatti said. “There’s a difference. And the police happen to be wrong. Eric Parker did not lose his footing and fall down the stairs like they said he did-Eric Parker was murdered. My contact and I are certain of it.”

“Who killed him?”

Spocatti smiled a slow, knowing smile. “You tell me.”

It was a moment before Louis responded. His mind filled with possibilities, made connections. And then he gradually realized that there was only one person who could have done it-Mario De Cicco.

He sat heavily in his chair.

Spocatti watched the color drain from the man’s face but felt no pity, no sympathy, only a slight annoyance at having been ignored. “I warned you, Louis.”

“I know you did.”

“Things aren’t as simple as they once were. You’re losing the game.”

“The hell I am.”

“But you are,” Spocatti said. “I told you not to send a check. I told you to wire the money from one of your anonymous accounts into one of his anonymous accounts. It would have been clean but you chose not to listen. You got greedy. You wanted that information so badly, you caved into Parker’s demands. That might turn out to be the biggest mistake of your life.”

Spocatti stood and leaned over the desk. “Now, unless you listen to me, unless you do everything I say, you probably will pay with your life-and Redman will win after all.”

Louis shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Good,” Spocatti said. “So, you’re going to listen to me? Do as I say?”

“That depends,” Louis said warily. “What do you have in mind?”

Vincent told him.

The first thing Michael noticed when he and Leana cleared customs was Spocatti. He was moving in their direction, sifting through the crowds, eyes on Michael, tossing a cigarette into an ashtray as he passed it.

For a moment, Michael thought Santiago’s men had somehow followed him here, but he looked around and saw nothing unusual. He turned back to Spocatti, who now was at a restroom entrance. He nodded at Michael and stepped inside.

Michael was tempted to keep walking, but couldn’t. Spocatti once saved his life. If Santiago’s men were here, he might repeat the favor.

“I need to use the restroom,” he said to Leana. “Do you mind waiting a minute?”

The restroom was cool and quiet and painted deep blue. Spocatti was at the rear of the room, washing his hands at a sink. As Michael moved toward him, he noticed two other men standing at the urinals, both wearing business suits. Spocatti’s men.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

Spocatti turned off the water and shook his hands over the sink. Michael noticed two long, red marks running horizontally on each palm. They looked like burns. Rope burns.

“I’m here to help you, Michael.”

“Why? To make up for the life you took earlier?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Michael took a step toward him. “Why did you kill her sister?”

Spocatti raised an eyebrow. “Look at you-standing up so tall and brave.”

“She didn’t have to die.”

“I just do as I’m told.” He ripped a towel from a dispenser and began wiping his hands. “Actually, you’re right,” he said. “Of course, I killed her. And I enjoyed killing her. You should have seen the expression on her face when I cut the rope and tied it around her legs. Now we’re talking fear-”

Michael lunged forward and pushed Spocatti against the wall. The two men at the urinals looked over their shoulders. One laughed. The other went to the door and blocked it so no one else could enter.

“Who’s next?” Michael asked.

Spocatti didn’t struggle. Instead, he looked bemused. “Everyone is next, Michael. Everyone will die. It’s all going to be tragic. Blood will be everywhere.”