Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (40 page)

As shaken as he was,
Michael looked at her with a smile.
 
He knew she was as concerned as he was.
 
Her glib tone was meant to diffuse the
situation.
 
He’d seen her do it
before with his publisher, generally when she went after more money.

One of the managers came
to Michael’s side.
 
Michael had
spoken to him earlier and filled him in on the situation.
 
“We still can call the police, Mr.
Archer.
 
We’d be happy to get
additional assistance to make certain you’re safe.”

Sean stopped beside them
and the manager craned his neck up.
 
“I was just telling Mr. Archer that we’d be pleased to call the police.”

“No need for that,” Sean
said.
 
“But thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“But it would cause
problems.”
 
He turned to
Michael.
 
“Three of my men are
outside, either in cars or on the sidewalk.
 
They’re armed, as I am.
 
They’ve done a quick surveillance of the
area.
 
Things look quiet, but
nothing is absolute.
 
There is a car
waiting for you just beyond the door.
 
A driver is inside, ready to move.
 
Keep your heads down, walk quickly and slide into the back seat.
 
When you’re in, tuck your heads between
your knees.
 
I know this is
stressful, but we have you covered.”

“I appreciate it, Sean.”

“I appreciate you,”
Meredith said.

*
 
*
 
*

They went tensely into
the night, all aware that Michael had been recognized and that some diners had
followed them out to get a look at the movie star and best-selling
novelist.
 

“They’re like wolves,”
Meredith said.

“They’re fans,” Michael
said.
 
“Like you said, it comes with
the job.”

“I don’t know how you do
it.
 
I’d scare them off with a
broom.”

From the bistro’s
entrance, Michael heard the manager ask that his guests come back inside at
once.

“There’s been a
situation,” he said.
 
“Please.
 
Come inside where it’s safe.”

“It’s unsafe?” a woman
asked.

So much for discretion
, Michael thought.

Ahead of them was the
car.
 
A black Mercedes.
 
A brute of a man was standing beside the
rear door, holding it open for them.
 
Another man was at the wheel.
 
Michael glanced around him.
 
Manhattan at night.
 
Light
reflected off glass.
 
Cars raced by
on the street.
 
On the sidewalk,
pedestrians either strolled or walked at a quick clip.

They were nearly at the
car when gunshots rang out.

“Rifle,” Sean said.

Meredith was propelled into
the car.

Another gunshot sounded,
ripping into the sky.
 

Behind them, a woman
screamed.

Sean shouted something to
one of his men, who broke into a run down the sidewalk.

But something was
wrong.
 
Something had connected with
Michael’s chest.
 
Winded, he
collapsed onto Meredith just as the door slammed shut behind them.

Sean got into the front
seat, swung around, and reached out a hand to grab Michael’s arm.

“Were you hit?”

It was difficult for him
to breathe.
 
He felt hands on his
body.
 
Meredith’s hands cupped his
face.

“He’s hurt,” she said.

The car
sped away.

CHAPTER
FIFTY-SEVEN

“Were you shot?” Sean
asked again.
 

Michael blinked and tried
to catch his breath.
 
He pressed his
hand against his chest, which hurt like hell, but his shirt was dry, not wet
with blood.
 
“No,” he said.
 
“When you pushed me inside, I think my
chest connected with the edge of the door.
 
It knocked me off balance and I fell on top of Meredith.”
 
He sat up and Meredith put her hand on
his knee.
 
“Sorry,” he said to
her.
 
“It knocked the wind out of
me.”

“Are you sure?” she
asked.

“I’m sure.”

She turned to Sean and
any trace of the warmth she showed him earlier dissolved into the Meredith few
wanted to tackle.
 
“What the hell
was that?” she said.

“A scare tactic.
 
They were using a rifle.
 
If they wanted to shoot him, they would
have.”

“What’s this about?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“When are you going to
know?
 
How long has this been going
on?”

“For a while,” Michael
said.
 

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It hasn’t directly
affected me.
 
Leana’s been under
fire.
 
You’ve read the news.
 
You know about her eye.
 
Now apparently someone’s eyes are on
me.”

“Whose?
 
Why?”

“We don’t know.”

“You went through this
years ago.
 
So, it’s happening
again?
 
How can this be happening
again?”

“Louis Ryan is dead,
Meredith.
 
This is something else.”

“People like the Redmans
and Mr. Archer—”

“Call me Michael.”

Sean nodded at him.
 
“The Redmans and Michael always will be
targets, whether because of their money or their fame, or both,” Sean said to
Meredith.
 
“This could be a copycat
crime.
 
And it’s easy to see why
that could be.”

“Please enlighten me.”

“Michael has a new movie
coming out.
 
The exposure
surrounding its release is significant.
 
George Redman is about to open the city’s largest residential high-rise
and a hotel that is going to compete directly with his daughter’s hotel.
 
Lately, everyone involved has been
generating press—a lot of it.
 
This city has a long memory.
 
People remember what happened to the Redmans and Michael.
 
The keyword here is ‘copycat.’
 
What if someone with an ax to grind
against George Redman is just picking up where Louis Ryan left off?
 
George has plenty of enemies.
 
You don’t become a billionaire without
pissing off your share of powerful people.
 
I think he’s the key.
 
Whoever is behind this wants Leana dead,
they want Michael dead, and they want George dead.
 
They want every Redman dead.
 
And you’re a Redman, Michael.
 
At least partly.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.
 
Why did Louis Ryan do what he did?
 
Because he wanted revenge.
 
Does someone else want it?
 
Obviously.
 
But for what reason?
 
That’s what we need to figure out.”

“How do you explain what
happened to Charles Stout and Florence Holt?
 
They aren’t Redmans.”

“We don’t know if their
murders are connected.”

“They’re connected by
Louis Ryan,” Meredith said.
 
“They
sat on his board.
 
It was in the
papers.
 
That can’t be a
coincidence.”

Sean studied her for a
moment while the car rocked through the city.
 
“So, maybe it isn’t a coincidence,” he
said.
 
“But how do you link the two
together?”

“You
hire a professional,” Meredith said.
 
“No offense to you or your team, Sean, but it would seem to me that
having another skilled person on this couldn’t hurt.
 
Wouldn’t you agree?”
   

CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT

“How is he?” Mario asked
as Leana came into the living room, where he stood waiting for her next to the
sofa.
 
Michael had arrived forty
minutes ago, and they discussed the details of what happened.
 
Leana insisted that he not go home, as
he wanted to, but instead stay in one of their guest bedrooms.
 

“Tomorrow morning, Sean
will assign someone to you,” she said to him.
 
“After tonight, you need protection, so
suck it up—as I have—and let Sean help you.
 
I won’t take no for an answer, so just
do it.”

He relented.
 
She showed him to his room and told him
to get some sleep.
 
“You’re too
important to me,” she said before she left him alone.
 
“Without you, all I have is our father,
and what good is that going to do me?
 
I’ll see you in the morning.
 
And don’t think about leaving in the night.
 
The doorman has instructions to call us
if you try to leave.
 
Mario will
just come and collect your ass.
 
Believe me, you won’t want that.
 
Yes, I’m being demanding, but only with the best of intentions.”

Now, she needed
answers.
 
Michael told her about
Meredith’s idea of hiring a professional to find out what was happening, that
another person on the job couldn’t hurt.
 
Leana agreed.

She looked over at
Mario.
 
“He’s in his room.
 
I need to make a call.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Gloria Spellman.
 
She’s an artist friend of mine.
 
I’ve known her for a few years and I
like her a lot.”

“What is an artist going
to do in this situation?”

“She’ll give me the
number of her ex-husband, who happens to be one of the best private
investigators in the city.”

“Who is that?”

“Marty Spellman.”

“I think I’ve heard of
him.”

“He’s probably tailed
your father.”

Mario didn’t react.

“Sorry,” she said.
 
“That was uncalled for.”

“It’s probably true.”

“Give me a minute,
OK?
 
It’s late, but not too
late.
 
Hopefully, she’ll
answer.”
 
She went into the kitchen,
grabbed her cell on the island, and dialed Gloria’s number.
 
To Leana’s surprise, she answered.

“Hello?”

“Gloria, it’s Leana
Redman.”

“Leana!
 
I’ve been worried about you.
 
Did you receive my flowers at the
hospital?”

“I did.
 
They were beautiful.
 
Thank you so much.”

“Are you all right?”

“This eyepatch of mine
can go to hell, but I’ll manage.”

“When does it come off?”

“Not soon enough.”

“But you’ll be able to
see?”

“That’s what they say.”

“What’s happening to
you?
 
First the tarp on your hotel,
now this.”

“We don’t know what’s
happening, which is why I’m calling.
 
I was wondering if you could give me Marty’s number?
 
I think I need him.”

“I think you do,
too.
 
Call him.
 
He’s in Vegas now with Jennifer, so
you’ll be able to catch him.
 
It’s
early there.
 
Do you have a pen?”

Leana grabbed one from
the island and wrote down his number on a scrap of paper.
 
“I owe you one, Gloria.”

“For his number?
 
You owe me nothing.
 
But between us—and don’t ever tell
him I said this to you—he really is very good.”

“I’ve never met him.”

“He’s charming.
 
And he will be able to help you.
 
We’ve had our differences, but he has
talent.
 
And he’s a good man.
 
He’ll work hard for you.
 
He’ll help sort this out and finish it.”