Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (12 page)

“I have this,” Spocatti said.
 
He pulled the knife from his pocket and
in one blistering arc, he carved it across their throats, severing them deep as
fans of blood spattered across his face.
 

Each man collapsed, their hands at their throats as they
twisted and writhed on the dock, gurgling for air as they sputtered up blood,
and drowned in it.
 
Spocatti took a
step back and watched the blood flow in jetted torrents across the dock.
 
He was about to take their photograph
for Coleman when another guard came around the corner, flashed his light toward
them and saw what was happening.

Spocatti couldn’t let the man get a read on his face or his
build.
 
With no way out other than
the river itself, he hunched over to appear smaller and sprinted toward the end
of the dock while the guard took flight and started to run after him.
 

“Stop!”

With the city’s lights dancing along the river rippling
surface, the otherwise dark water glimmered ahead of Spocatti like a
mystery.
 
Because he was in a harbor
suited for ships, the water would be deep.
 
He’d need to escape from here first and then find his way to dry ground.
 

He ran faster, knowing the impossible was upon him.
 
Soon, helicopters would be called into
action.
 
They’d be alerted of what
he’d done and they’d search the waters with lights that would cut deep enough
to see him if he wasn’t out of the water in time.
  

Behind him, he heard others shout for him to stop.
 
A sound of a gun went off, but given the
poor lighting, the guard missed.
 
With everything he had in him, Spocatti bolted to the end of the dock
and dived into the water.
 
He
scraped away his glasses and dropped his knife as he did so.
 
Now, they and his fingerprints would
sink to the bottom of the Hudson, where currents would carry them adrift.

The water was cold, but not biting—it still carried a
trace of late summer’s warmth.
 
He
could see nothing as he swam down into the deep, but he could hear gunshots
being fired into the water, some of which came too close for comfort, so he
dived deeper.
 
He could hear the
roaring sound of a muddled frenzy unfurling above him and then he heard the
unexpected splash of someone diving in after him.
 

At first, he was incredulous that someone would take that
chance, but this city was nothing if not a city of heroes and here was just
another chance for someone to shine in the newspapers, on websites and on television
if they caught him.

But
Spocatti was nothing if not in shape.
 
He lived his life planning for moments such as this.
 
He worked out relentlessly because he
never knew when a job would go wrong.
 
He kicked and he kicked hard.
 
He cut his way through the murk and toward a path he hoped would lead to
the promise of his own escape.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Florence Holt is dead,” Anastassios Fondaras said to Leana
and Mario after he closed the door behind him.
 
“She was shot in the face in one of the
lower bathrooms.
 
Whoever did it
left wearing Florence’s dress.
 
What’s worse is that one of my own men escorted her off the ship to
safety.
 
How she did so is
complicated and embarrassing—for me, yes, but even more so for two males
guests of mine, who were having sex at the time.
 
I’ll leave it to the papers to give you
their names and tell you the rest.”

Leana looked at Mario, who was seated beside her.
 
His focus was on Fondaras.

“Charles Stout and a member of my security team are also
dead.
 
Their throats were slashed on
a dock that separates two smaller ships just down the pier.
 
We tried to catch the killer, but he
dived into the ocean.
 
Now, police
are searching for him by air and along the banks that lead to dry land.
 
There’s a good chance we’ll find him.
 
The woman we have on video.”
 
He looked at Leana.
 
“I’ve seen the tapes, including the one
where you were taken to one of the boardrooms below ship.
 
It’s the same woman who said she was
from the
Times
.”

“Does anything link the three deaths?” Mario asked.

“The police found a note in the bathroom where Holt was
murdered.
 
On it was a list of ten
names, including Holt and Stout’s.
 
They’re looking into the other eight now to find connections.
 
Of course, the note could be bogus.
 
A means to mislead.
 
Still, they need to take it seriously,
because everyone on that list was here tonight.”

“Holt and Stout sat on the board of Louis Ryan’s Manhattan
Enterprises,” Leana said.
 
“There’s
one connection.”

“I also thought of that,” Fondaras said.
 
“But on that list are names that have
nothing to do with Ryan.
 
One of the
film stars here tonight was on the list.
 
An author was on it.
 
So was
that fat contessa from one of those food shows, whom I overheard criticizing
the food.
 
I actually heard her say
that the “blinis are bunk.”
 
That’s
when I introduced myself to her.
 
From my expression alone, she knew I heard what she said.
 
She looked shattered and stricken.
 
Poor, fat contessa.
 
On that list was a bizarre, random mix
of people.
 
The police have their
work cut out for them.”
 

Leana started to speak, but Fondaras interjected.
 
“Louis Ryan is dead, Leana.
 
I understand what you went through was
traumatic.
 
But that was years
ago.
 
This is something else.”

“Was I on that list?”

“No.”

“Because after what happened tonight at my hotel, I wouldn’t
be surprised if I was.
 
I don’t
believe in coincidences, Anastassios.
 
That woman who took me to your boardroom questioned me for a reason.
 
I once worked for Louis, just like Holt
and Stout.”

“I get it.
 
And I
understand your concern.
 
But if she
was here to kill you, you’d already be dead, Leana.
 
She would have done it in that
boardroom.”
 
He shook his head in
frustration.
 
“I don’t know.
 
It could be coming later for you.
 
You told her about the opening-night
specifics for The Park, which now must completely change.
 
You, me and Mario will work on a new
plan, not the one you were going with.
 
They might be planning something.
 
If you want to speak to the detective assigned to the case, his name is
Mike Hines.
 
I wouldn’t recommend
talking to him now because of the media.
 
There can be no pictures of you taken with police or detectives.
 
Nothing that might harm the opening of
your hotel.
 
If you want, call him
tomorrow and express your concerns.”

Leana kept her mouth shut.
 
She had other plans.

“What’s the best way off the ship?” Mario asked.

“My helicopter,” Anastassios said.
 
“I’ve talked to Detective Hines and he
agreed to let me use it.
 
It’s
waiting for you.
 
You won’t be
bothered by any members of the press.”

“Thank you, Anastassios,” Leana said.

“Focus on your hotel.
 
Don’t let this get in the way of it.
 
Plan for your party, but by tomorrow, I
want you to have a security team in place that will be onsite until the hotel
and the party are finished.
 
Have
them vet your current construction crew.
 
Until your hotel is open for business, nobody enters it without having
clearance or permission.”

“Who should I hire?”

“I have a crew in mind.
 
Tomorrow morning, I’ll contact them and see if they’re available, but
that’s a long shot.
 
They’re among
the best and if you’re lucky enough to get them, you’ll pay dearly for their
services, but they’re worth it.
 
If
they’re booked, you always have your husband’s family.
 
If you’ll forgive me, Mario, it’s no
secret that your father is capo di capi of the New York syndicate.
 
I would imagine that using him and his
men would be equally effective.”

Mario said nothing.

When they rose to leave, Leana kissed Fondaras on the cheek,
Mario shook his hand and they thanked him before climbing to the top of the
yacht, where the helicopter was waiting for them, its blades chopping and
stirring the air.
 
Once inside the
machine, it lifted into the air and swung above the water, which caught the
city’s lights and tossed them back like shards of glass.
 
Leana couldn’t help pressing against the
window to watch the three police helicopters searching the pier and the ocean
with spotlights.

Somewhere below was the man who murdered Charles Stout and
one of Fondaras’ guards.
 
There
would be others.
 
She could feel it in
her bones.
 
But who?
 
Who would be next, who was doing this
now and what was the reason?

And when will it be my turn?
she thought.

*
 
*
 
*

When she and Mario returned home, they sat and watched the
news coverage on television.
 
It
dealt mostly with the deaths at the Fondaras party, but since Leana had been
there too, they also reported on her, focusing first on her arrival and then on
the tarp covering the front of her hotel.
 
With the exception of the first letter, the offensive word was blurred
out in shots of the scene.
 

“That’s thoughtful of them,” Leana said.

“What did Anastassios say to you?”

“That the publicity would be great for the hotel.”
 
She looked at the screen and shook her
head.
 
“I’m having a difficult time
believing that now.”

When the footage returned to her, she was addressing the
group of reporters she met at Fondaras’ ship, but instead of allowing viewers
to hear what she said to them, the commentator spoke over her and reminded
viewers that three years ago, Leana Redman and her family had come under attack
by Louis Ryan, and that a year ago at the Four Seasons, it was unclear whether
she also was a target when the businessman Jean-Georges Laurent was shot dead.

Leana clicked through other channels but it was just more of
the same.
 
She turned off the
television and leaned into Mario.
 
“I didn’t check the messages.
 
Were there any on the machine?”

He shook his head.

“So, no word from my father?”

“He’ll probably call in the morning.”

“Probably.
 
He’s
up to something.”

“He was OK earlier.
 
I know you have your reservations, and I don’t blame you for them.”

“Tomorrow, the papers will hit hard.
 
Television’s already on it.
 
I’m sure the Internet is alive with
it.
 
So, what am I going to say to
my investors?
 
I have to call and
reassure them that everything is fine and on track.”

“That’s exactly what you’ll do.
 
You didn’t create this.
 
When you call them, stick to the
facts.
 
What was written on the tarp
was a prank.
 
You dealt with it and
moved on.
 
Tell them you’re hiring a
security team and hope to have one in place by tomorrow afternoon.
 
They’ll see you’re on top of this.
 
It should lessen their concern.”

“Who called me, Mario?
 
Who told me I should go and have a look at my hotel?
 
How did they get my number?
 
You know I don’t give it out to just
anyone.”

“That’s why Anastassios wants you to vet your construction
team.”
 
He looked at her.
 
And unless you erased it, the number of
the person who called you is still on your phone.