Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

How could he have allowed himself to be drawn in by the very man who once said he wished it was his son who died all those years ago, and not his wife, Anne?

Why had he believed in him? Had he been so hungry for the man’s acceptance that he would believe and do anything? Marry a woman he barely knew? Agree to kill a man responsible for his mother’s death? And what if that, too, was a lie?

The telephone rang again.

Michael considered ignoring it, but realized it might be his father and so he left for his apartment to answer it.

“Yes?” he said sharply.

“Mr. Archer?”

It was the front desk. Michael closed his eyes, willed himself to relax. “What is it, Jonathan?”

“You have a visitor, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s George Redman. Shall I show him up?”

The knock came almost at once.

Michael stopped pacing and looked across the foyer to the door. It was in shadow. A narrow beam of interrupted light shined beneath it.

George Redman was beyond that door. The man accused of murdering his mother was about to enter his apartment. Michael wondered again why Redman was here and then realized it really didn’t matter-he was glad he was here. Though they’d met only briefly at the opening of the Redman International Building, he now had the chance to stand face-to-face with the man. Alone.

As he went to the door, it occurred to him that if this apartment was indeed wired, his father would eventually hear every word about to be spoken. And that thrilled him.

He opened the door and the two men stared at each other.

Although Redman was well over six feet and had a broad, rugged build, he was somehow different from the man Michael remembered. He seemed smaller, less threatening. His resemblance to Leana was striking.

An awkward silence passed. Michael could hear one of his neighbors playing a piano. Then Redman extended his hand, which Michael shook. “Thanks for seeing me,” George said.

Michael stepped aside and asked him to come in. George went to the center of the foyer and looked around.

“Is Leana here?” he asked.

“She’s at the hospital.”

“Then she knows?”

“We saw it on the news. I tried telling her there wasn’t anything she could do, but she wouldn’t listen and went to the hospital, anyway.”

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?