Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (36 page)

Just below them and to
the right, was the handsome face of Peter Horrigan, the Wall Street lawyer Ryan
hired to advise his board of directors of their rights and duties when he tried
to buy Redman International when it was at its weakest.
 

As far as Louis was
concerned, Horrigan failed him every bit as much as Charles Stout and Florence
Holt, especially since he asked Horrigan to speak privately with each board
member before they reached their consensus and persuade them to consider the
inherent potential of owning Redman International.
 
Horrigan refused, claiming it was
illegal, which it was.
 
But James
knew that Louis didn’t see it that way.
 
He considered Horrigan to be one of the key reasons his takeover attempt
of Redman International was shot down by the board, thus robbing him of a key
element of his revenge against Redman.

And now Horrigan was dead
after being struck by a van while crossing Park Avenue on the downside of
dusk.
 
From prior news reports,
Cullen knew the van hadn’t stopped—some witnesses said it actually sped up—and
that police were searching for the vehicle and its owner.

Finally, on the left side
of the page was an obituary without a photo.
 
Earlier, he had to hunt for it, but
eventually he found it.
 
It was so
brief that it appeared to suggest a life of no significance.
 

It was for a woman named
Rowena Clark, who died at her Brooklyn home four days earlier after a fall down
her staircase.
 
The obituary said
that Clark was sixty-two, the widow of Nicolas Clark, and the mother of two adult
children.
 

Cullen knew exactly who
she was—Louis’ former mistress, who left him years ago for Nicolas
because she no longer wanted to continue an eleven-year affair if marriage
wasn’t in the equation.
 
Cullen
remembered the situation and the arguments that ensued between Louis and
Rowena, whom Louis genuinely loved even though marriage was out of the question
for him.
 
A year after their
break-up, she married a “fucking teacher,” as Louis put it, and he apparently
never got over the slight.

“Because there you are
now, Rowena,” Cullen said to her obituary.
 
“A life truncated into one hundred-fifty words.
 
Give or take.”

He closed the newspaper
and went over to the wall of windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue.
 
Charles Stout, Florence Holt, Piggy
French, the Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Peter Horrigan and Rowena Clark
were dead.
 
Spocatti and Carmen had
been busy since Leana’s recovery in the hospital.
 
Successfully busy.

Three more to go
, he thought.
 
Michael Archer, George Redman and
Leana Redman.
 

And when they were gone,
James Cullen would finally realize what had driven him to follow Louis’ request
to make certain all died.
 
His
motivation wasn’t just out of loyalty to his good friend, whom he loved as if
he was his own brother.

 
It also was the one hundred million
dollars he would secretly receive from Ryan’s estate when once all was said and
done.

CHAPTER
FIFTY

It was evening when
Spocatti and Carmen arrived at Cullen’s office to discuss next steps.

“You’re bald,” Cullen
said to Spocatti when they entered the room.
 
He came around his desk and leaned
against it as they walked toward him.
 
“When did that happen?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably the night of
Anastassios’ party.
 
You would have
been recognized.
 
After all, Leana
Redman was there.
 
She would have
known you in a minute.”
 

He looked at Carmen, whom
he had yet to meet in person.
 
“So
this is Carmen?” he said, appraising her.
 
“Beautiful.
 
And by the way,
nice job on everything you’ve been doing to help Vincent.”

“What makes you think
that he’s not the one who’s been helping me?
 
Piggy French met her end because of a
choice I made.
 
I killed the baron
and baroness—not Vincent.
 
He
was busy running over Peter Horrigan.
 
We share the work equally, Mr. Cullen.”
 
She shot Spocatti a sideways
glance.
 
“Just not the pay.”

“You
are
a tiger,”
Cullen said.
 
“No wonder Florence
Holt didn’t stand a chance against you.”

He extended his hand,
which she shook.

“Did she put up much of a
fight?”

“I believe Vincent filled
you in on everything.”

“But I’d like to relive
the scene through you,” Cullen said.
 
“I hear she was scrappy.”

“She was.
 
And stronger than you’d expect.”

“Those dykes can
fight.
 
What was it like shooting
her in the face?”

Carmen looked coolly at
him.
 
“I sent you the photos.
 
You saw what it was like.”

“But if you could expand
upon the situation and give me a sense of what it was like, I’d enjoy
that.”
  

“Why?”

“Because of how she
treated Louis.
 
Because I also
didn’t like her, and I’m glad that she’s dead.”

“Let’s just say that if
I’d used hollow-point bullets, her face would have looked a lot worse.”

“How?
 
After what you did to her, her face
looked as if it went through a meat grinder.
 
She didn’t have a closed casket for
nothing.”

“True.
 
She needed one.
 
But if I’d gone with the hollow-points,
her casket would have been a foot shorter because she would have been missing
her head.”

“Well, that’s gruesome.”

“Our lives wallow through
pools of gruesome, Mr. Cullen.”

“You don’t need to
convince me of that—I read today’s obits.
 
You’re intriguing, Carmen.
 
Isn’t it unusual for a woman to get into
this sort of profession?”

“This sort of
profession?”

“Killing people.”

“Women have been killing
people for years, Mr. Cullen.”

“It’s James.
 
And what a memory you just evoked.
 
The moment you said that women are
killers, I thought of Elizabeth Redman shooting Anne Ryan all those years
ago.
 
She just flashed before my
eyes.
 
Poor thing.
 
Down on her knees scrubbing toilets in
prison while trying to dodge the dykes.
 
It must be unbearable for her in there, especially given the life she
was used to.
 
But she isn’t an
assassin—just a good shot.
 
For you, killing is a profession.”

“Why are you so hung up
on my gender as it pertains to my profession?”

“I just find it unusual
that a woman would do this.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure why.”

“You think women should
just be soft, subservient kittens, don’t you?”

“Carmen,” Spocatti said.

“No, no,” James
said.
 
“Let her have her say.
 
I enjoy banter.”

“That’s kind of you,” she
said.
 
“You know, to allow me to
speak.
 
But I’ve probably said
enough.
 
Can I see your bum leg?”

“Can you see my what?”

“Vincent told me that you
lost your leg to cancer, which happens to intrigue me.
 
Most men I know can’t bear any sort of
pain because they don’t go through as much pain in their lives as women do.
 
We bleed, James.
 
Every month.
 
Just like clockwork, come the blood and
the cramps and the headaches and the bloating and the nausea.
 
And if we choose, we also give birth,
which I would imagine tears apart a woman’s body.
 
Though I wouldn’t know myself because
I’m barren.”

“Barren?”

“Barren.
 
So when I heard that you lost your leg
to cancer, I thought that it must have been a particular sort of hell for a man
to experience that kind of pain.
 
For women, I would imagine it would be different.
 
Maybe another level of
pain—severe, sure—but still somewhat in their wheelhouse, if that
makes sense.”

“None of this makes
sense.”

“But it does.
 
What I’m trying to say is that women are
tougher than men.
 
They always have
been, always will be.
 
Take, for instance,
Florence Holt.
 
Now, there’s a woman
who went down fighting.
 
So did
Celina Redman when Spocatti killed her.
 
I hear she fought like the devil when he drowned her.
 
But some of the men I’ve killed over the
years?
 
Sure, a few stepped up to
the plate and gave me a challenge, but most are pussies whereas women are
crafty.
 
Women will go for your eyes
with their fingernails and claw at your throat.
 
Men will just try to punch their way out
of a situation, which is a joke when you’re up against someone like me.
 
Now, may I see your leg?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Is it plastic or wood?”

“It’s neither.”

“Titanium steel?”

“Carmen.”

“Aluminum alloy?”

Spocatti moved to speak
again, but Carmen held up her hand.
 
“Let’s all lighten up.”
 
She
looked at Cullen.
 
“It’s just banter,
right?
 
Harmless banter that some
men and any woman could take.”
 
She
leaned toward him.
 
“You should see
me in action with hotel receptionists.
 
They’re the best.
 
There was one woman at a Holiday Inn Express
—”

“Holiday Inn Express?”

“You make it sound like a
disease.
 
But you probably only stay
at the best hotels, don’t you, James?
 
I’m a woman, and you wouldn’t believe where I’ve had to lay my head.”

“I’d believe it.
 
But back to the hollow-points.
 
If you have a chance, use them next
time.
 
I’d like to see the
outcome.
 
Maybe with Michael Archer?
 
He’s up next, isn’t he?
 
You’ve followed him twice now, right?”

“I have.”

“Spocatti said Archer
might have seen you the first time.”

“It’s possible.”

“And it probably doesn’t
matter.
 
He probably thought you
were just a fan.
 
A creepy one
lurking about, but I’m sure at this point in his life he’s had his share of those.
 
You know, his death would crush Leana,
which I know Louis would have enjoyed.
 
In the days leading up to her own death, having her in misery over the
loss of her brother would have delighted him, God rest his soul.
 
She’d be an emotional wreck.
 
Don’t you think it’s a good idea that we
kill him now so she suffers?
 
Or do
we do her new husband first?
 
That
would really get her.”

“You haven’t paid us to
kill De Cicco, James,” Spocatti said.
 
“Just the seven people who already are dead, as well as Leana, Michael
and George, who soon will be dead.
 
If you want to negotiate Mario’s death, we can.”

“You’d charge me for an
extra person?”

“Of course.
 
This is business.”

“But I’m paying you fifty
million dollars.”

“For the ten people we
agreed upon.”

“How much for another?”

“Mario De Cicco, son of
Antonio De Cicco, is not just another person.
 
He’s a member of a powerful crime
family.
 
For him, ten million.”

“That’s an obscene
amount.”

“It’s wholly up to you.”

Cullen thought about it
for a moment, then he had another idea.
 
He told them and waited for their reaction.
 
When none came, he felt disappointed.
 
“You two are like icicles,” he said.