Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (61 page)

They moved into her bedroom.

While Elizabeth stepped into a closet, George glanced around the room, noticing that the bed had been left unmade and that the shades were still drawn, shutting out an overcast sky.
 
Behind him, he could hear the sharp clatter of wire hangers sliding rapidly across a metal bar.

"I think she should wear red," Elizabeth called.
 
"Celina always loved red.
 
It was her best color."
 
Her voice was oddly light.
 
It clashed against the sound of the clacking hangers.

George turned toward the closet, his brow furrowing as he said that he remembered.

"Or white," Elizabeth said.
 
"I always liked her in white."

"Elizabeth...."

"I had no idea Celina had so many clothes," Elizabeth said.
 
"She's not like me or her sister.
 
I always thought she was a minimalist.
 
But this?
 
This rivals anything Leana or I have in our closets."

He stepped behind her.

"I thought it would take only a moment to find something appropriate, then we could leave."
 
She pushed a rack of dresses aside--the metal scraped.
 
"This is harder than I imagined it would be."

"Why don't you let me help?"

"That isn't necessary."
 
She pushed more clothes aside, moving quickly, then stopped and lifted a white dress from the bar.
 
She turned to him.
 
"How's this?"

"It's fine, Elizabeth."

"Are you sure?
 
I want her to look perfect."

An image of Celina as he'd last seen her forced its way into his mind.
 
She had been stretched naked on a cold metal table in the basement of the M.E.'s office, her skin pale blue, her damp hair curling around a face that was strangely swollen.
 
A part of George died in that moment, dissolving into something darker, uglier.

"She'll look perfect," he said.

Elizabeth raised the dress and inspected it quickly.
 
Without looking at her husband, she said, "I won't come here again, George."

"You won't have to.
 
I'll take care of everything."

With a last look around, they left the apartment, the door locking shut behind them.

*
 
*
 
*

Elizabeth said nothing on the drive uptown.

Their daughter's dress folded like a barrier between them, her hands clasped neatly in her lap, she looked out the window beside her, oblivious to the two unmarked police cars following them, the sun occasionally glinting in her eyes, her breathing as quiet as the limousine's virtually soundproof interior.

She was fifty-four years old and she was beautiful, the fine lines around her mouth and beneath her eyes somehow enhancing, curiously enhancing.
 
Watching her, George found himself thinking back to a time when they both were young and happy, the time when they first met and neither knew the storms that lay ahead.

He remembered their chance meeting at a mutual friend's dinner party and how he told her at the end of that evening that he was going to marry her.
 
He remembered stealing a kiss with her on her father's doorstep and he remembered the way his heart used to quicken when she alighted from her home to greet him.
 
Then, she was the most important thing in his life.
 
But where were they now?

If someone had asked George that question two months ago, he would have had an answer.
 
But now?
 
Now, he was moving uptown to meet with the undertaker friends had suggested.
 
Now, whoever murdered their daughter and caused the spotlights to explode was still out there, free.
 
He had no answers for any of it.
 
As the limousine stopped for a red light, George closed his eyes and began wondering who was behind everything that was happening to them.

He wasn't given the chance.

In the limousine, there was a disturbance in the air, a change in the silence.

Beside him, he sensed Elizabeth bristle.

George looked at his wife, saw her looking out the window beside her and followed her gaze with his own.

There, at the crowded street comer, was a newspaper stand.
 
On the front page of the Post was a picture of Celina and Eric Parker, both standing outside Redman International's gilded entrance, arms intertwined.
 
They were alive, in love and smiling.

The banner headline was huge.
 
One simple word:

COINCIDENCE?

George reached for Elizabeth's hand.

As the light turned green and the car lurched forward, his gaze moved to the rack next to the Post.
 
On the front page of the Daily News was another picture, this one of him, Elizabeth and Leana.

The banner headline screamed out at him.

ARE THEY NEXT?

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

When Leana left to meet her parents, the morning was warm and overcast.
 
She stepped onto the sidewalk and into the waiting limousine.
 
“Redman International,” she said to the driver, and felt her stomach tighten as they pulled away from the curb.

She was dressed casually yet professionally.
 
When she met them, she didn’t want to appear as if she was trying too hard to make the statement that she had made it and moved on, even though she knew she was.

She had changed since the opening of her father’s building.
 
She’d moved out of their home, found an apartment of her own, landed a job with her father’s rival, married Michael Archer.

She was independent.
 
She had accomplished her goals and she’d done it without her their help.
 
Never again would she need her parents to back her financially.
 
Never again would she have to rely on them.
 
There was freedom there, but a kind of sadness as well. Why did she feel that only she would recognize her accomplishments and not her parents, the very people she most wanted to recognize them?

The Redman International Building came into sight.
 

Leana saw a large group of reporters gathered outside its entrance.
 
She hesitated, knowing that if she was going to see her parents, she would have to go through this pool of sharks and take the brunt of their questions.
 
Resisting the thought of turning back, she asked the driver to pull as close to the entrance as possible.
 
When the car stopped, she didn’t wait for the driver.
 
She opened the door, lowered her head and stepped out.

She pushed forward, ready for the assault.

But it didn’t come.
 
As she neared the crowd, a sleek black limousine, followed by two unmarked police cars, pulled to the curb.

Leana stepped back and watched in surprise as the doors to the two unmarked cars shot open and several men stepped out.

Holding the crowd of reporters at bay, creating a human shield around the limousine’s rear passenger door, the men protected her mother and father as they left the car and began moving toward the entrance.

The crowd was relentless.
 
Microphones raised, cameras flashing, voices rising above the increasing din, they pressed forward, shouting at her mother, screaming at her father, trying in vain to gain some insight into Celina’s death, on the takeover of WestTex, on their reaction to Eric Parker’s death.

The police were losing control.
 
The place was erupting.
 
In horror, Leana watched the crowd shift suddenly and knock her mother to the ground.
 
George tried to help his wife to her feet, but the photographers knew a shot of her on the pavement was gold.
 
They swarmed, making it virtually impossible for him to help her.
 
Their cameras snapped, flashed and captured the moment for a world hungry for more.

Leana sprang forward, forcing her way through the crowd.

There was a moment when no one recognized her, when she was able to squeeze through and help her mother to her feet--and then, for an instant, everything went still as realization crossed the faces of seventy-five people.
 
The outcast was here.

Elizabeth looked at her daughter in wide-eyed disbelief.
 
A camera went off.
 
George said Leana’s name just as the situation blew.

The crowd started jumping, thrashing, taking photo after photo, knowing what an opportunity this was and refusing to miss it.
 
The police pushed the crowd back, threatened them, determined to gain control.

When a path finally cleared, Leana grasped her mother’s hand and they charged toward the entrance with George at their side, not stopping until they were safely inside and the doors were closed behind them.

For a moment, nothing was said.

Mother and father and daughter looked at one another, still shaken by what had just happened.
 
Outside, the press were jammed against the windows, vying for position, recording everything that was happening inside.

“I thought you were hurt,” Leana said to her mother.
 
“I thought they were hurting you.”

“I’m all right,” Elizabeth said.
 
“I’m fine.”

“But they pushed you,” Leana said.

Elizabeth glanced down at the tear in her black dress, at the scrape on her leg and then looked back at Leana.
 
She seemed to hesitate, then she walked over and held her youngest daughter tightly.

Leana felt overwhelmed by her mother’s embrace.
 
She looked at her father, but sensed a cool distance.
 
George was staring at her.

“I’m sorry,” Leana said to her mother.
 
“Michael and I came as soon as we received Harold’s call.”

Elizabeth pulled back, brushed a lock of hair from her daughter’s forehead, but she didn’t acknowledge Leana’s marriage.
 
Instead, she held Leana’s face in her hands.

“Have they learned anything yet?”

Elizabeth shook her head.
 
“Not yet,” she said.
 
“But they will.”

“When I saw you fall, I didn’t know what to think.
 
First the spotlights, now Celina.
 
I thought someone got to you.”
 
Her voice thickened.
 
She looked over at her father.
 
“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt either of you.”