Fifth Ave 02.5 - From Manhattan With Love (5 page)

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?