Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“I’m traveling with my wife,” Michael said, handing her the cash. “Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ryan.” He looked back out the window and saw with a start that the woman was gone. He left his seat, went to the windows and searched the crowds on the street.

But there was no sign of her. It was as if she had disappeared.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Michael felt heavy with dread. He turned away from the windows, faced the puzzled agent and saw that she had placed a receipt for their E-tickets in an envelope.

“As a matter of fact, something is wrong,” he said. He crossed to her desk, pocketed the tickets and removed his wallet, handing her a hundred dollar bill.

“If there’s another way out of here,” he said, “that’s yours.”

Leana moved swiftly across the busy lobby, checking each table as she passed it, Zack Anderson at her side. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Why haven’t the flowers been delivered?”

“Good question,” Anderson said. “I called the florist an hour ago, gave them hell and was told that they’re on their way.”

“On their way?” Leana said. “Where is this florist located?”

“On Third and Forty-fifth.”

Leana shook her head. “That’s a ten-minute drive from here. Give them a call and tell them if they want our account, they’ll have those flowers here within those ten minutes. No excuses.”

“Right.”

“What about security?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“They are here,” he said. “They arrived shortly after you.”

Leana looked around the lobby. At first she noticed only the staff of decorators who had been there for days, fussing over details she herself would never have considered. The lobby now held three hundred tables for six, four ornate bars flown in from Hong Kong, a sophisticated sound system that would amplify her voice to hundreds of people.

And then, to her right, she noted a tall, rugged man in a black dinner jacket. He was speaking into his lapel as he stepped behind the waterfall. High above on the third level, she noticed another man inspecting one of the alarm systems. And behind her, the wait staff was listening closely to a group of five identically dressed men.

“How many are they?”

“Thirty,” Zack said.

“Not enough. Talk to whoever’s in charge and tell them I want at least twenty more brought in. In a few hours, this place is going to be filled with some of the most influential people in the world. I want them safe.”

Anderson nodded and as Leana watched him walk away, she wondered if their scene the other day had worked. He was a different person now-not judgmental, willing to take direction, polite. Without his help, she knew none of this would be going so smoothly.

With a last look around, she took an elevator to her office and phoned Louis Ryan at Manhattan Enterprises.

“It’s Leana,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course you’re not disturbing me,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Did you receive my flowers?”

Leana admired the enormous spray of roses on her desk. “Of course, I did,” she said. “How could I miss them? They’re take up the room-and they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You know,” she said. “I might have to use them in the lobby.”

“Having trouble with the florist?”

“You could say that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Something always goes wrong at the last minute and then it rights itself. The florist will show and things will be fine. Are you having trouble with anything else?”

“No,” she said. “Everything is going smoothly.”

“Then what can I do for you? Need a Xanax?”

Leana smiled. “Actually, I’m not nervous at all. I was calling to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding the man who murdered my sister.”

“That’s one of the reasons I was about to call you.”

Leana was suddenly alert. “Have you found him?”

“No,” Louis said. “But I’ve hired a man who will. His name is Vincent Spocatti, he’s one of the world’s best private investigators and he’s certain he can find the man who killed Celina. Tonight, after the party, I want you to meet him.”

She thought fleetingly of her dinner date with Michael. He’d understand. This was important.

“Of course, I will,” she said. “And thank you, Louis. This means a lot to me-more than you know.”

She replaced the receiver and went to the windows behind her-she would bring Michael to the meeting and they could have dinner later. She had a sudden impulse to call Harold, to tell him the good news, but then she realized-once again-that he was gone. Why? she wondered. You could have come to me. Didn’t you trust me enough to know that I wouldn’t care if you were gay or straight, fat or thin?

It occurred to her that maybe he hadn’t known and that maybe she should have approached him about what she knew. The idea that he might be alive now if she had intervened was too overwhelming for her to consider.

She reached for the note cards on her desk. Neatly typed on them was the speech she’d rewritten and memorized that morning. As Leana flipped through them, reading aloud as she paced before the windows, she noticed a tiny pinpoint of red light dart across her sleeve and spiral across her hand before slipping from sight.

She stopped before the windows.

She looked across 53rd Street to the neighboring building, saw nothing unusual, then heard the faint sound of an engine and looked up at the helicopter that was soaring above the city. Sunlight struck its glinting blades and cast rainbows of light across her face and body. She winced from the sudden light and lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

The helicopter seemed to be circling the hotel. Its door was open and she saw someone leaning out-there was a video camera on his shoulder. Obviously, the news was going to cover the event by air. Leana wondered about that pinpoint of red light, looked at the helicopter and decided it must have been the source.

She stepped away from the windows and returned to her notes.

The afternoon sun slid through the canted blinds and striped the narrow hospital bed where Mario De Cicco lay. His body was sheathed in perspiration.

Antonio looked away from the monitors that surrounded the bed and turned to face his two youngest sons, Miko and Tony. “Tonight,” he said, “while she’s on camera, we take her for the world to see.”

The two brothers came to the bed.

“I did some callin’ around,” Antonio said. “Sal’s boy, Rubio, knows a couple guys tending bar at the opening. As a favor to me, he said he could get you two into that party, promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”

One of the monitors beeped and Antonio swung around to look at Mario, who was lying pale and motionless in the bed. His breathing was deep and measured. Antonio looked at the monitor, then down again at his son, hoping to see some flicker of life in his face. There was none and Antonio wondered if Mario would never wake.

He turned back to Miko and Tony, for the first time looking every one of his sixty-nine years. “All you have to do is clean a few glasses and wait for her to take the stage,” he said. “When she’s in the middle of her speech, while everyone’s watching her, that’s when you make your move and blow her to hell. If you move fast and if you stay near the rear doors, you shouldn’t have a problem getting out of there.”

“What about security?” Miko said. “That place will be crawling with cops-not to mention the press. Some might recognize us. What’s the back-up plan?”

Antonio leveled his son with a look. “Since when do you give a shit about security?” he said. “Or about the press? If somebody gets in your way, blow their fuckin’ head off. Once you fire that first shot, there’s going to be so much goddamned commotion, nobody is going to get in your way. Then you seek out Leana Redman, snuff her and get out of there.”