Read Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Online
Authors: Christopher Smith
Lady Ionesco, a tall reed of a woman with dark hair pulled
back so tightly that it assisted her facelift, visibly blanched when she
recognized Leana.
She was holding a
martini, wearing her trademark Chanel and standing with a couple whose money
was so old, it had pushed down roots in New York centuries ago and had helped
to build the city into what it was today.
Just looking at them made Leana long for Harold.
She wished he was here because he knew
the secrets these people kept as well as she did.
At every party they attended together
before his suicide, they made it a point to sit alone and dish about New York
society, how ridiculous it was and generally, who was sleeping with whom.
Beside Lady Ionesco was Tootie Staunton-Miller and her banker
husband Addison, or Addy, whose family money began in New York before it
stretched deep into Philadelphia.
Everyone knew that Tootie was Addy’s well-compensated beard.
Their sham of a marriage began decades
ago in a mutually beneficial celebration that had nothing to do with love and
everything to do with concealment.
Tootie would marry into one of the country’s most prominent families and
enjoy all it offered, including secretive affairs on the side with a host of
Italians—her favorite—while Addy would save face for his family by
tucking his true sexuality into Tootie’s ever-loving arms.
The men Addy had gone through were legendary, but nobody said
anything about his dalliances because every major family had their Addy, that
one person who brought them shame and humiliation and had to be “dealt” with so
nothing spoiled the family name or the illusion that the family itself was
nothing less than perfect.
For that
reason, few dared to throw the first stone at the Miller family lest another
stone be thrown at them.
Leana actually adored Addy, but then she liked most gay men
because she shared a lot in common with them.
For much of her life, she also had been
an outcast, which was certainly something her gay friends felt at some point in
their lives, whether from family members who thought they were going to burn in
hell, or just from society in general.
She ignored the too-blonde Tootie, who gave her the chills because of
that tight, quick-flash smile of hers, and instead nodded at Addy.
“You’re looking handsome tonight, Addy,”
she said.
“And you look like you’ve come to cause trouble.
Those are some diamonds, Leana.”
“A gift from my fiancé.
Have you met Mario?”
Mario came forward and shook Addy’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine,” Addy said, and Leana was amused by
the fact that Addy obviously meant it—the man had flushed.
Nobody mentioned the event that took place a year ago at the
Four Seasons, when Jean-Georges Laurent was shot in the face at an event Tootie
and Addy held to honor Leana’s work in suicide prevention.
In this world, which was mum about
things like murders because such events tended to shatter the illusion of the
gilded world in which they lived, she would be surprised if the subject was
ever raised.
“Those diamonds,” Lady Ionesco said.
“Yes,” Tootie said.
“The diamonds.
I’ve never
seen them worn in such an interesting way.”
“Interesting?” Leana said.
“Well, I mean at a formal event such as this.”
She was aware of Addy’s arm tightening around his wife’s
waist, but Leana wasn’t going to let her off the hook.
“I guess I’m not sure what you mean,
Tootie.
This is exactly the sort of
event where one would wear diamonds.”
“It is,” Addy agreed.
“But not with denim,” Tootie said.
“And not at a social event where the
main purpose is to raise money to rid the world of disease.
I was just curious if this was a new
trend.”
“Trends are set every day,” Leana said.
“Take your dress, for example.
Or all of the carbon copy dresses like
it that I see around you.
Imagine
if someone hadn’t made that brave first effort to step out in sequins.
It could have gone either way, but
obviously, it set fire to an entire movement. Because really, even though it’s
out of fashion, you still see it.
As for me, I was just photographed by dozens of reporters for dozens of
media outlets.”
“Dozens?” Lady Ionesco interrupted.
Leana leveled her with a glance.
“At least.”
She turned back to Tootie, whose smile
had tightened into a thin line.
“Those images will be splashed everywhere.
People will weigh in.
Then we’ll see what the reaction is and
also what people will be wearing a month or two from now.”
She leaned forward.
“Being safe is boring, don’t you think, Tootie?
Going with the flow?
Being what people expect you to be?
I’ve done that in the past for my mother
and father, and found it stifling.
Now, I’d rather be who I am.
My fiancé has been a great support to that end.”
“Hear, hear,” Addy said.
Whether it was due to Tootie’s enthusiastic use of Botox,
Leana didn’t know, but the woman managed to keep her expression neutral even
though Leana could sense her hatred of her.
It was as clear as her eye job and as
obvious as her implants.
And then Tootie went for it.
“I wonder what Celina would think?”
Leana shrugged.
“I have no idea what my sister would think.
As you know, she was murdered.”
Tootie charged forward as if the fact that Celina Redman was
murdered had no effect on her.
“She
was more conservative than you, wasn’t she?”
“On the surface, you know she was.
But you never really knew Celina, did
you, Tootie?”
“We certainly talked.”
“I’m sure Celina took time to give you a smile and a
hello.
She was nothing if not
kind.
Everything about her was
spot-on.
But remember, she was
murdered while bungee jumping.
My
sister had an adventurous side few knew, including me.
I miss her terribly.”
She cocked her head at Tootie.
“Her death is still fresh.
It still hurts even to hear her
name.
I’m surprised you’d bring it
up.”
“I miss Celina, too,” Lady Ionesco said, finishing the rest
of her martini in one fell swoop.
“The last time I saw her was right here, on this yacht.
We talked of Turkey.
Not the bird, but the country.
Better yet, we talked of Turkey in the
fall and how divoon it is there.
I
invited her and her suitor to come to my little cottage there along the
Mediterranean.
You know, the one
with fifty rooms.
But it wasn’t to
be.
Soon after, she was gone.
Like a bird.
Fluttering.”
“We’re sorry about Celina, Leana,” Addy said.
“She loved you as much as I do, Addy.
She spoke of you often.”
Leana looked at Tootie and Lady Ionesco,
each of whom had expectant looks upon their faces.
“She never mentioned either of you to
me, but I’m sure she at least admired your manners.
Now, if you’ll excuse us, we
Californians are hungry for a drink.”
When she turned, she was met by a woman standing behind
her.
She was wearing a simple yet
elegant black dress.
No jewelry.
Her dark hair hung down her back.
Around her neck was a thin piece of
twine, on the end of which was a tag that said “PRESS.”
In her left hand was a tape recorder and
her purse.
“Miss Redman, I’m Maria Leonard from the
Times
.”
They shook hands.
“I was wondering if you had a few
moments to talk about your new hotel and if you’d be open to a feature story on
it and on you?”
“I’d be honored,” Leana said.
“If I could just have ten minutes now to gather some quick
information, we could meet up at another time to complete the interview and set
up a photo shoot, perhaps of you at the hotel.
It’s too noisy here, so the
Times
reserved a stateroom for all of the interviews we’re holding tonight.
Do you mind?”
Leana looked up at Mario.
“I could meet you at the bar?”
“The bar it is,” Mario said.
“Have fun.”
He
watched them walk off and then looked above the crowd for the bar.
The reporters said it was off to the
right, which it was.
Ten minutes
?
he thought.
See you in thirty,
babe.
Carmen led the way to a bank of elevators that were at the
far end of a long hallway.
“We’re
just three floors down,” she said to Leana.
“I’ll try to make this as quick as possible
as I’m sure others would like to talk to you tonight.”
“No hurry,” Leana said.
“How long have you worked for the
Times
?”
“Six months?” Carmen said.
“After seven years of writing clipped
sentences for
USA Today
, I managed to land my dream job.”
The door whisked open and they stepped inside, away from the
party’s din.
Carmen pressed the
button marked “B3” and the elevator doors slid shut.
“What’s your beat?” Leana asked.
“Business.”
“So, you don’t plan on sleeping?”
Carmen smiled.
“That’s an understatement.
But I’m fine with it.
Look
where I am tonight.”
She admired
Leana’s necklace.
“That’s
stunning.
And I love how you’ve
mixed it with jeans and a casual, open-collared shirt.
I’ve never seen anything like it
before.”
“There are plenty here who wished they hadn’t.”
“Even with those shoes?”
They laughed.
“I love clothes,” Carmen said.
“Even if people can’t afford your
jewelry, there are chunky, inexpensive options out there for people like me
that could offer the same look.
I
saw you being photographed tonight.
I’m going to suggest that we run one of the photographs in the society
pages.
And then we’ll see how long
it takes before people are wearing versions of that outfit.”
The doors slid open.
“We’re just over here,” Carmen said.
“I’m afraid I’ve already eaten up five
of our ten minutes.”
“Really, there’s no rush,” Leana said.
“Take your time.”
They stepped into one of Fondaras’ smaller boardrooms.
It was well known that while this ship
hosted its share of parties, business was its primary use.
Here is where Fondaras wooed wealthy
widows, industry leaders and heads of state, and made it all happen.
They sat down at an oval table.
Carmen held up her digital recorder.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
She put it in front of them.
“All I need tonight is information so we
can properly cover the opening of The Park, which is coming up fast.
In our next interview, we’ll get to the
bigger picture—you.
In the
meantime, I was wondering if you could tell us a bit about the hotel and what you
have in store for your guests?”
Leana looked confused.
“Didn’t the
Times
receive the press packet?”
“We did,” Carmen said.
“But PR pieces can be stale or things can change at the last
minute.
The
Times
would
prefer to hear it all directly from you, especially since this will be part of
a larger piece.”
Leana nodded and began to tell Carmen Gragera all the details
about The Park’s opening night.
Carmen sat listening with interest.
What Leana Redman didn’t know is that
she was unwittingly offering critical information that few knew, such as where
she would be standing when she delivered her speech, how many guests had been
invited, the general size of the lobby and how much security would be on
hand.
Given what happened to the
Redmans three years ago, that last part was especially important to know.
It was something the
Times
would
ask.
All of
this would inform how she and Spocatti would go forward that evening when they
murdered Leana Redman in front of her guests.
Upstairs on the main deck, where society was whirling in
flashes of color and faux smiles to a high-end orchestra Fondaras flew in from
St. Petersburg, Vincent Spocatti stood in a corner sipping a glass of sparkling
water and observing the crowd.
He looked nothing like he had earlier and that’s because he
couldn’t.
Leana Redman knew exactly
what he looked like, as did a few others who might be here tonight, so he had
shaved his head bald and wore tinted aviator sunglasses.
Time spent in a tanning booth that
afternoon had turned his olive complexion brown.
The key was not to stand out, but to
blend in, which he did, particularly since this crowd had just returned from
their summer vacations in the Hamptons, Hancock Point and Northeast
Harbor.
All around him were dozens
of men his age who looked similar.
There were two people on Ryan’s lists who he and Carmen were
here to murder.
Among them was
Charles Stout, the former chairman of American Express who once sat on Ryan’s
board at Manhattan Enterprises.
Stout was the chief reason Ryan had been cheated out of taking over
George Redman’s Redman International when it was at its most vulnerable.
Now, Stout was on the deck dancing with his Mexican-born
wife, Epifania Zapopa, a gorgeous young woman thirty-five years his
junior.
She had once run the Stout
household for Binkie, his first wife and the mother of his estranged children,
before falling into an affair with Charles one evening when he asked Epifania
to bring him two scoops of ice cream in the library.
When Binkie caught them doing it
doggy-style on the priceless Aubusson rug she inherited from her great-grandfather,
which was ruined by smeared ice cream and bodily fluids, she filed for divorce
and took Charles for over $250 million.
But now, at the age of sixty-eight, Charles Stout was free
and obviously enjoying himself with the enthusiastic Epifania Zapopa, who
somehow was managing to shimmy around Stout to Felicia Sander’s cabaret version
of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
It was a treat to watch, if only because of the startled
faces she and Charles whipped past.
Most of the crowd looked horrified and uncomfortable.
But if you really looked into some of
their eyes, as Spocatti did, there were those who were amused.
If Epifania Zapopa was anything in these
circles, she wasn’t just the slut who broke up the Stout household.
In a cheap way, she also could be the unexpected
life of the party, especially if given the right platform and enough tequila
laid bare on an empty stomach.
Spocatti wondered how she’d fare as a widow and decided that
if she could shimmy like that in a crowd like this to a song like that on a ship
like this, Epifania Zapopa, armed with Stout’s money and her good looks, could
probably fly herself to the moon.
He looked to his left and sought out Florence Holt, another
former board member of Manhattan Enterprises who also voted against Louis Ryan’s
takeover of Redman International and thus was on his list to die for her
decision.
She was across the dance floor at one of the bars.
Beside her was her French partner,
Victoire Poisson, a butch lesbian who rolled her own cigarettes and who, in a
former life, had been married to a member of the Dupont family.
In her divorce settlement, she received
plenty of their old millions and turned them into new millions.
Instead of wearing a gown, Victoire wore what she always wore
at social events—a gender-bending tuxedo.
People were so used to it by
now—and so bored by it—they barely paid attention to it.
Victoire was Victoire and with her money
and her girlfriend, there were more than a few people here who long ago had
decided to just look the other way and call her an ‘eccentric.’
Florence Holt was something altogether different.
Fine-boned and elegant, her red hair curling up from her
shoulders as if she had sprayed the tips with happiness, Holt was a longtime
civil rights leader and New York lawyer who led one of the oldest and most
impressive law firms in Manhattan.
At first glance, she appeared delicate, but Holt was nothing
if not aggressive and she delighted in a good fight.
For twenty years, she had proved herself
time and again in the courtroom to many in attendance on this ship, which is
one of the reasons her lifestyle was tolerated by a society that often was
closed to it.
Spocatti looked away from her and took in his
surroundings.
Although security
appeared tight, it actually was embarrassingly loose.
Fondaras hired thirty men to stand watch
over tonight’s gala and, as far as Spocatti was concerned, each was an amateur,
which pleased him because they only would make his job easier.
He checked his watch.
Carmen would be finished soon with Leana Redman, whom he was eager to
see again.
When he first met her,
she was the one Redman he actually liked, in an odd sort of way, probably
because of her defiance and the trouble she caused within her family.
It was a shame he had to kill her, but
fifty million was fifty million and to Spocatti, Leana Redman, for all her
charms, wasn’t worth a penny to him.
He
receded from the crowd and waited for his moment.
He already had scoped the ship and its
surroundings, and knew how it would go down for Miller while Carmen handled
Holt.
Timing was critical, but even
if circumstances changed, as they tended to, he’d be ready when the time came.
Leana Redman emerged from the elevator, walked down the long
hallway to meet Mario at the bar, but instead came face-to-face with
Anastassios Fondaras and his entourage.
The moment he saw her, he broke into a smile and held out his arms to
her.
“Leana,” he said, holding her hands.
“I’m glad you came.”
He winked at her.
“And that you decided to stay.
I heard you were here.”
He clucked his tongue in mock distaste
at her outfit.
“And the stories
I’ve heard, especially from that boorish Tootie Staunton-Miller.
Who knew clothes could create such a
scandal?”
“Have you ever met Madonna?
Or a Kardashian?”
“Well, there’s that...”
“But bad news travels fast,” she said.
“And since the universe wouldn’t have it
any other way, I’m usually at the front end of it.”
She noted that he was wearing a black
suit, not a tux.
His hair, while
dyed dark brown, was so skillfully done, it looked real.
“You look terrific.”
He took a step back to admire her.
“And you look beautiful.
What I’ve always admired about you,
Leana, is that you do things your way.
To hell with formal wear.
Those diamonds are formal enough and there are plenty here who wish they
had them themselves.”
“I had my doubts.”
He waved a dismissive hand to those standing behind him so he
could be alone with Leana.
“What
doubts?
Ever since I’ve known you,
you’ve always made an entrance.
Why
should tonight be any different?
You have your new hotel opening soon and you wore the right thing to get
the press’ attention.
What you’ve
done is savvy.”
“It was my fiancé’s idea.”
“We’ll keep that between us.
You want people to think it was
your
idea.
And by people, I mean the
media.
Image is everything, my
dear.
Take a piece of advice from
me and own what you’re wearing.
This is my party and I say you look fantastic.”
“You’ve always been good to me, Anastassios.”
“That’s because you got a raw deal from your father.
Everything went to Celina.
Nothing to you.
I enjoy your father to a point and I
love competing with him, but how he’s treated you over the years makes me
question him.
I’ve never understood
him.”
She wasn’t about to disagree with him and she certainly
wasn’t going to defend her father, who deserved it.
He looked behind him at the dance floor, which had mellowed
into a waltz.
“You know,” he
said.
“It’s lore that I never dance
at my parties because I’m always working them.
Women try to get me to dance because
they know it’ll mean press for them, but I always turn them down.
What do you say you and I break that
tradition and cause a stir?
You’ll
be the first woman I’ve danced with publicly in forty years.”
She shook her head at him.
“I’m not sure you want to be seen
dancing with me tonight, Anastassios.”
“Why’s that?”
She told him what was written on the tarp outside her hotel
and that the press covered it.
“Now,
that’s
publicity,” he said.
“And I mean that.
You’ll see.
Forget what the tarp says.
Only good will come from it.
Right now, with your hotel on the
horizon, you want people talking about you, which is another reason we should
dance.”
He took her by the hand and led her through the crowd to the
dance floor.
Leana took a breath as
she fell in line behind him and felt everyone’s gaze settle upon them.
She heard people talking.
She sensed people following them.
She rarely felt nervous about anything
but right now, she was scared to death because she knew the enormity of what was
about to happen.
He was publicly going to give her his blessing.
She passed Addy Miller and his seething wife, Tootie. She
focused only on Addy, who saw what was about to happen and nodded at her with
affection as Anastassios led her to the center of the dance floor.
Fondaras held her left hand in his right and placed his free
hand on her waist.
Cameras started
to flash.
The music stopped, a
murmur shot through the crowd and the floor began to clear.
She heard her name mentioned repeatedly
in ways that weren’t as kind as Fondaras was being to her now.
She felt faint.
“My eyes,” he said quietly.
“Focus on them.
You’ve always known these bastards mean
nothing and you’re right.
Let’s
show them how it’s done.
Let’s sell
this hotel of yours.”