From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

At their
hotel, which was a modest but clean joint on Third Avenue, each rushed to get
ready.
 

They had
adjoining rooms.
 
Carmen slipped
into hers while Alex moved into his.
 
“Twenty minutes,” she said.
 
“We need to hurry.”

Carmen
laid out her black cocktail dress and shoes, and added a string of pearls.
 
When she stepped into the shower, she
heard a door crack open and knew.
 
Through the glass shower, she watched the door to her bathroom swing
open.
 
A very naked Alex walked
inside and knocked gently on the glass.
 
“Room for two in there?”

She
wanted to say there wasn’t, that they didn’t have time for this because it was
too important to screw it up.
 
But
she didn’t.
 
She opened the door and
watched a rush of steam roll out and cover his feet.
 
She looked at him standing there and
wasn’t sure if she ever had seen anything quite as magnificent as what she saw
now.
 
He was beautiful.
 

What am
I doing?

He
stepped behind her and reached for a wash cloth and a liquid bottle of soap on
the shower rack across from him.
 
She could feel him growing erect behind her and it was something he made
no effort to hide.
 
In fact, he
pressed against her and started washing her back with the cloth while his penis
slipped between her legs and buried itself between them.
 
He smoothed his way down to her buttocks
and then to her legs, coming up again until he reached between her legs and
lingered there while keeping the wash cloth barely moving.
 

To her
surprise, she climaxed.
 
She caught
her breath and after a moment, she turned to face him.
 
He was pouring shampoo into his hands.
 
“Watch your eyes,” he said.
 

As he
washed her hair, he lifted it up and kissed her neck and her breasts as he did
so.
 
He hadn’t shaved since morning
and the roughness of his beard was almost too much for her to bear against her
skin.
 
She was on fire.
 
She wanted him inside of her.
 
But when he finished washing her hair,
he rinsed the soap clean, kissed her again and stepped aside.

“I know
we don’t have a lot of time.
 
Give
me three minutes and I’ll be showered.”

“You’re
joking?” she said.

“It’s
true,” he said.
 
“I can shower in
three minutes.”
 

“That’s not
what I meant.”

He
winked at her.
 
“There’s always
later.
 
You need to do your hair and
makeup and get dressed so we can get out of here.”
 
He opened the glass door for her.
 
“Don’t worry,” he said.
 
“I’ve got plenty planned for later.”

*
 
*
 
*

When
they stepped out of the hotel room and into the night, they snagged a cab on
Third and told the driver the address.
 

They
needed an element of surprise, so Carmen wore her hair up and kept her face
concealed behind large, trendy round sunglasses that suggested she either was a
celebrity or a movie star.
 
Jean-Georges never had seen her in a dress and he wouldn’t be expecting
her at an event such as this, especially since it was likely he already had
viewed the photo of her lying dead in Central Park.
 
She checked her Glock G19 and concealed
it in her bejeweled purse.

Alex
took her cue from the celebrity handbook and appeared even more
unrecognizable.
 

He’d
shaved.
 
His curly hair was brushed
away from his face and gleamed from the gel he’d put in it.
 
The look emphasized the squareness of
his jaw.
 
Assisting to that end were
the dark aviator sunglasses he wore.
 
His tux was standard black and white, but the tailoring was
impeccable.
 
Model or
celebrity?
 
People would be
guessing.
 
His gun was just inside his
jacket pocket.
 
A knife was strapped
to his left calf.

The cab
hurtled through the city, cutting past and around the slower cars because
Carmen asked the driver to hurry.
 

“What’s
the plan?” Alex asked her in French.
 
Each were fluent in it and given the name of their Italian
driver--Salvatore Romano--it was unlikely he’d understand them.
 
Still, they spoke low, as near to a
whisper as possible given the sound of the traffic.

She told
him.

“Are you
sure that will work?”

“I’m
open to better ideas.”

He shared
one with her.
 
She shot him a
sidelong glance and was quiet for a moment while she thought it through.
 
“What if we joined the two?”

“How?”

She told
him.
 

“That
could work.”

“It has
to work.
 
Do you have your
camera.”
 

He
patted his pants pocket.

She
looked ahead of them down the street.
 
They were approaching the restaurant.

“Are you
nervous?”

“I’m
concerned he’ll recognize us.
 
When
we’re inside, we’ll keep to the corners and wait for our chance to get him
alone, if that’s even possible.
 
If
it’s not, we’ll figure out something else.”

“Jean-Georges
doesn’t turn out for just any gig.
 
With him here, you can be sure the governor also will be here.
 
Likely the mayor and other dignitaries.
 
We need to be careful because if that’s
the case, the security has been vetted and approved by each camp.
 
It’ll be tight.”

The
driver slowed beside the restaurant’s entrance.
 
Alex paid the man and, as they stepped
out of the car, the driver checked the tip, paused and then looked over his
shoulder at them.
 
It was too dim to
see his face, but the edge in his voice was clear when he spoke.

“Au
revoir, monsieur et madame,” he said.
 
“Bonne chance avec votre muertre.”

A chill
went through Carmen.
 
He just wished
them well on their murder.

Before
she could act, Alex already was in the car’s back seat.
 
He shut the door, removed his gun,
pressed it against the back of the man’s head and told him to drive forward
while Carmen, stunned, stood watching from the sidewalk.

CHAPTER EIGHT

When
Alex shut the door, the driver began shouting for help, but Alex was
quick.
 
He slammed his gun against
the side of the man’s head and told him to shut up.
 
When he didn’t, Alex struck him again, harder
this time, until blood flowed from the man’s right ear.

“Drive
forward,” Alex said.
 
“Move to the
curb at the end of the street.
 
There’s a no parking zone there.
 
Pull next to it.”

“Don’t
kill me.”

“I don’t
plan to.”

The man
was shaking.
 
He pulled over, parked
the car and put his hands in the air.
 
They were trembling.
 
In the
rearview mirror, he watched Alex with terrified eyes as traffic passed on 52nd
Street.
 

“Put
your hands down.”

“Please
don’t kill me,” he said.
 
“I have a
wife.
 
A son.
 
Don’t kill me.”

“Put
your fucking hands down.”

He did,
but he didn’t seem to know where to put them.
 
He was too rattled.
 
They went into his lap, then to the dash
and finally they rested on the steering wheel, where Alex could see them.

“What
did you hear back there?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me
the truth and you live.
 
Did you
hear anything?”

“No!
 
I heard nothing!
 
I swear!”

“Why are
you lying to me?”

“I’m not
lying!”

Alex
asked the question again, only this time in French in an effort to trick him
into proving he knew the language.

“I told
you I’m not lying!”

“Right.”

Alex
buried his gun into the back of the man’s seat and fired twice.
 
The seat was so thick, it muffled the
sound to the point that Alex could hear the man’s shirt tearing open as the
bullets ripped through and lodged into the dash.
 
The man slumped over, dead.
 
Alex reached forward, pulled him up,
turned off the cab’s lights and then switched off the car itself.
 

He
looked around on the sidewalks, which were empty, and then patted the man on
the shoulder.
 
“Au revoir,” he
said.
 
“Et bonne chance pour votre
voyage.”

*
 
*
 
*

He put
his gun away, stepped onto the sidewalk, smoothed his hands down the front of
his jacket and started moving toward the restaurant, where he could see Carmen
waiting for him just outside the entrance.
 
It was chilly.
 
Her arms
where wrapped around herself.
 
He
reached out his hand for her as he approached.
 
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

“Trouble
with the driver?”

“You
could say that.”

“Is he
still irritable?”

“Depends
on where he ended up.”

There
were half a dozen people smoking outside the restaurant, none of whom were
paying attention to them.
 
Others in
evening wear were walking past the doorman and through the door he held open
for them.

Carmen
and Alex joined them and moved up the stairs to the receiving area.
 
A blonde woman in a black suit smiled as
they approached.
 
They were in the
Grille Room, which glowed deep red and was filled with people.
 
Most were either talking in small
groups, enjoying the glasses of champagne being offered on silver trays by the
wait staff, while others were at the bar, which was behind them and to the
right.
 

“Mr. and
Mrs. Mark Edwards,” Alex said.

The
woman looked down at her computer monitor and scrolled through the list of
names.
 
“Do you have an invitation?”
she asked.

“We’re
just in from L.A.
 
Mamie van Marais
suggested we drop by because friends of ours will be here.
 
I believe she called ahead not long
ago.
 
She practically demanded we
come.”

The
woman nodded and by the way she kept glancing at Alex’s face, it was clear to
Carmen that she was wondering if he was a celebrity using a different name for
anonymity.
 
“That sounds like
Mamie--and I should know because I took the call.
 
Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Below
them on the street, where Alex shot the taxi driver, came the muffled sound of
a woman screaming.
 
All turned to
look but they could see nothing because they were on the second floor and the
windows were across the room.
 
The
woman screamed again, louder this time, and started to call for help.

Carmen
ignored her.
 
They needed to get
inside.
 
“Do you know where we might
find Tootie and Addy?”

The
woman looked down the long corridor to her right, which opened into the Pool
Room.
 
It was packed with members of
society, all of whom seemed adrift in ether, their feet barely touching the
floor.
 
“I’m afraid that’s the
question of the day.
 
But you find
them in there, for sure.
 
I know
they’re not in here.”
 
When she
turned back to them, a surprised look came over her face as three members of
security hurried past them and took the stairs down to the street.

Carmen
and Alex checked them as they passed.
 
Two men, one woman.
 
The men
wore tuxedoes in an effort to blend in with the crowd.
 
The woman wore a simple black
dress.
 
For her, the giveaway were
her shoes.
 
They were flats.
 
Tonight, at this affair, no legitimate
guest would be caught dead in them.

Alex put
his arm around Carmen.
 
“Something’s
obviously wrong.
 
We should go
inside.”

They
walked past the woman into the corridor, which was lined with people paying
little attention to the drama unfolding outside.
 
Why ruin the illusion by facing
something real?

Instinctively,
Carmen and Alex moved to the right, away from the large bank of glass and brass
doors that led to the front of the building.
 
They stepped into the Pool Room to look
for Jean-Georges.
 
A few other
guests were wearing sunglasses, likely celebrities, which wasn’t unexpected but
nevertheless welcome.
 
It allowed
them to blend in.
 

“Where
do you want to start?” Alex asked.

Before
she could answer, an announcement was made that people should move to the Pool
Room.
 

As
discretely as they could, they moved to their left and allowed the masses to
move from the Grill Room and the Front Bar into the Pool Room, which was
spectacular.

Because
it was autumn, the room was decorated with four tall trees lit in varying
shades of orange.
 
The effect was
stunning, decadent and beautiful, particularly given the square pool that
bubbled vibrant yellow in the center of the floor.
 

Just
across from it, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked 53rd
Street, were a man and a woman, who Carmen guessed were Addy and Tootie
Staunton-Miller.
 

Beside
them was a young woman with long, curly dark hair who was creating something of
a stir and for good reason.
 
She was
wearing an intricate, thirties-inspired evening dress crafted in silver
beadwork that stopped just short of her knees.
 
Ropes of diamonds hung loosely from her
neck, a thick diamond bracelet was at her wrist and in her ears were two of the
largest teardrop diamonds Carmen had ever seen.
 
Standing there, with the diamonds and the
dress and the room’s waves of orange light all conspiring in her favor, she
looked otherworldly, a dazzling exclamation point gleaming in front of the
windows’ wavering mesh curtains.

Carmen
knew who she was.
 

She
recognized her from the press, but also from her time with Vincent Spocatti,
the assassin she worked with a year ago who failed to bring her and other
members of her family down two years before.
 
She was Leana Redman, the estranged
daughter of the billionaire George Redman, both of whom were famously shot by
the now-deceased businessman Louis Ryan, who went to great lengths to ruin the
Redman family due to a personal vendetta.

Carmen
studied Leana.
 
Given her height,
her looks and her figure, she would have been mistaken for a model if she
didn’t have such an intelligent, mischievous look in her eyes.

She was
standing next to a man somewhere in his late thirties.
 
He was tall and dark and had a body that
rivaled Alex’s.
 
He was either
Italian or Sicilian--Carmen couldn’t tell which, though he was so good looking,
she decided she really didn’t care.
 

She
watched Leana step forward so the press could photograph her.
 
They called out her name and actively
singled her out.
 
But why?
 
What had she done?
 
Carmen scanned the room for
Jean-Georges.
 
He didn’t appear to
be anywhere in the crowd, which still was filing in, making it so impossibly
tight, it was becoming difficult to move.
 

There
was a sudden rush of applause.
 
Carmen looked back at Leana and her lips parted in surprise.
 
She was stepping forward to give
Jean-Georges Laurent a hug.
 

Alex’s
attention was on those who were pressing in.
 
She reached for his hand and motioned to
the windows across from the pool.
 
“Look.”

“About
time.
 
Who’s he with?”

“Leana
Redman.”

“Why do
I know that name?”

“She’s
infamous in this city.”

“What
makes you infamous in New York?”

“Having
a billionaire for a father helps.
 
For her, what sealed the deal is that she was the victim of a murder
plot that ended in the death of her sister and another billionaire.”

“So many
billionaires,” he said.
 
“Maybe the
people occupying Wall Street should occupy the Four Seasons.
 
What’s with the photos?”

“No
idea.
 
Do you have a make on
security?”

“Throughout
the crowd.
 
No drinks.
 
Not smiling.
 
Moving too much.
 
Edgy.
 
Some aren’t as obvious.
 
They’re good.
 
But most won’t be a problem.”

“We
don’t know what any of them will be, so keep your eye on them.”

He put
his arm around her.
 
“Looks like
someone’s getting ready to speak.”

Addison
Miller, the closeted gay husband of Tootie Staunton-Miller, was handed a
microphone and tapped the top of it as he walked to the right of Jean-Georges
and Leana.
 

Tootie,
who wore her many diamonds as if they were a suit of armor that braced herself
against the poor, formed her mouth in the way the very rich do when they knew
they were under the microscope by their peers.
 
Her lips were barely lifted.
 
Her face, either frozen due to plastic
surgery or through sheer force of will, was otherwise expressionless.

Alex
lowered his head to Carmen’s ear.
 
“You know,” he said, “we might want to reconsider.”

“Reconsider
what?”

“Our
plan.
 
I wasn’t expecting the crowd
to be so dense.
 
It’s almost
impossible to move and because of that, the three exits are mostly blocked.”
 

Discretely,
he motioned toward them.
 
“One is up
those stairs to the right.
 
The
second is through that door, which looks as if it leads to the kitchen.
 
The third is how we entered--down the
corridor.
 
There, they can either
escape through the doors that lead to the front of the building or run down to
the stairs where we came in.
 
For
them, the trouble is that escape won’t be so easy.
 
Look at it in here--it’s bordering on
chaos.
 
If we created some kind of a
panic, I could shoot Jean-Georges from here, the crowd around us would scatter
and before they even knew what to do, we could cut through the corridor, hit
the first set of doors on the right, run out of the building and be on the
street before anyone made their move.”