Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“Answer me, Michael. Why is he there?”

There was a sudden jangling of keys beyond the locked door and Michael turned as Leana stepped into the apartment. Their eyes met and Michael immediately sensed by the expression on her face that things had not gone well at the hospital. His father’s voice was a sharp jolt on the phone. “Get him out of that apartment, Michael. Get him out now or I’ll pay Santiago nothing.”

With a firm hand, Michael replaced the receiver and walked over to where Leana stood. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”

Leana pressed her face into the warmth of his chest. She didn’t answer.

Michael rested his chin on the top of her head. He could feel her trying to keep herself under control and his heart went out to her. “How is he?” he asked.

“Not good,” she said. “It was awful. I fought with the doctor and Mario’s father wouldn’t let me see him.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. Three of his ribs were crushed. He lost a lot of blood. The doctor says we have to wait.”

Michael pulled back and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. He had fallen in love with her. He didn’t know how or when it had happened, but the feeling was there and he realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “I promise. But right now you have to pull yourself together.” He nodded toward the library. “Your father’s here.”

Leana’s eyes widened. She looked behind her and came face to face with her father, who had stepped away from the painting and now was standing in the center of the library, near an ormolu writing table, his hands at his sides.

He smiled at her and it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” he said. “But I guess I was too late. Are you all right?”

Leana was confused. Her father hadn’t come here to tell her about Mario-George hated the man. Years ago, he had forbidden that she see him. Something else was wrong. “What are we talking about?” she said, alarmed. “Is Mom all right?”

George was unmoving. “Your mother’s fine.” He looked at Michael. “I thought you said she knew?”

Michael was as bewildered as George. “She does know,” he said. “She just came from the hospital. We saw what happened to De Cicco on the news.” But Michael saw by the change in Redman’s expression that his coming here had nothing to do with Mario De Cicco or with the explosion that nearly cost the man his life.

He looked at Leana, saw the cold fear on her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and thought, What has my father done now…

The next few moments passed in a haze.

George came into the foyer, told Leana about the death of their best friend, a man he thought he had known but never truly had. He caught his daughter when her knees buckled and she began to cry in a shrill of grief. Over and over again, she asked why Harold had done it. George said he didn’t know. He remained at her side, comforting her, his arms enveloping her in a way they hadn’t since she was a child.

He pressed his face against hers and closed his eyes. When he did, he once again saw the haunting image of a train hurtling into a shadowy tunnel, bearing down hard toward an impatient crowd and then Harold inexplicably leaping from the platform and jumping to his death.

The helicopter soared over the city and moved slowly down Fifth, its spotlight shining along the mirrored facades of tall buildings, illuminating their interiors with quick bursts of light.

In the dark silence of Louis Ryan’s office, Spocatti watched the machine, watched it glide steadily toward them, its multi-colored lights blinking, steel blades flashing, chopping the heavy air with a smooth, measured fierceness.

Ryan was sitting opposite him, glass of Scotch in hand, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He had not spoken since Michael severed the connection and, in a sense, blatantly told Louis to go to hell.

In an odd way, Spocatti was proud of Michael. Standing up to his father took guts. Perhaps Michael wasn’t the man he assumed he was. Perhaps he was stronger.

The roar of the helicopter grew louder.

Ryan stamped out his cigarette. “Things have changed,” he said. “I threatened Michael with Santiago and he hung up on me. I think he knows.”

Spocatti could barely see the man’s face. It was as if a net of shadows had been cast against it. “I doubt that,” he said. “If anyone told him, we would have heard.”

“Not necessarily,” Louis said. And then, his voice surprisingly bitter, “You’re not perfect, Vincent. Neither are your men or the equipment you use. So do me a favor and stop pretending you’re God.”

The helicopter passed and Ryan’s pale face was caught in the light as it wavered like water into the office.

Spocatti stared into that face-saw the stern line that was Ryan’s mouth, the nightmare that was boiling in his liquid-brown eyes-before he watched it slide back into darkness. He wondered at exactly what point the man’s mind had begun to turn. He wondered to what extent Ryan realized his carefully orchestrated plan was souring.

“I want you to keep an eye on Michael,” Louis said. “I want you to increase security around him, record his every move. He’ll be at the funeral tomorrow-I’m sure of that. Since there’s no telling what he has planned after that, watch him. I have a feeling he’s going to try something.”

“I can take him out,” Spocatti said.

“Not until I’m finished with him.”

“And when will that be?”

Louis lit another cigarette and, for an instant, his face glowed in the fiery globe. “Tuesday,” he said. “When we bury the rest of them.”

“It really is special,” the Realtor said. She was standing in the center of the large, empty foyer and her voice echoed off the stark white walls. “As you know, apartments on Fifth are rare, especially in the 50s and 60s. And this is a penthouse, which obviously further amplifies its appeal.” She let a silence go by. “If you want to make a statement and live on Fifth Avenue, this is the place to do so. Few in the city are better.”

She allowed the man a moment to take in the space.

“Let’s take a tour,” she said.

The apartment was large and airy. It comprised two floors and boasted sweeping views of the city. It was completely white throughout-white walls, white carpets, white woodwork, white marble floors in the bathrooms, white fireplace in the library, everywhere white, white, white.

“From what I hear, the owners are arty, eccentric types,” the Realtor said as they moved through the living room and stepped into the dining area. “They’re old money from Iceland and word has it that they missed their country so much that they surrounded themselves in white, in a sense giving them the illusion of being lost in a blizzard.”

“You don’t say?”

She caught the sarcasm and couldn’t help a laugh. “It’s what we’ve been asked to say. Whether it’s true, I can’t say. But I can confirm that the apartment was featured this year in Architectural Digest.”

The man walked down a bright hallway and stepped into the library. She followed. “This is my favorite room,” she said. “The windows sell it. That’s a true New York view. You easily could fit two-hundred people in here for entertaining. And at night, it’s magnificent. With that backdrop, you can imagine how beautiful it is in here.”

The man moved to the far set of windows. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked across 53rd Street to the city’s newest hotel.

The woman stepped behind him. “And then you have that,” she said. “The largest hotel in New York. Four thousand rooms, all of them booked for the weekend. Tonight is the opening night party. You’ve heard that Leana Redman is managing the hotel?”