From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set (11 page)

CHAPTER THR
EE

When they arrived at the Waldorf Astoria’s Peacock Alley Bar,
each ordered a martini and a glass of water, though they’d only touch the
water.
 
They bought the drink to
satisfy the bartender.

“They won’t think to look for us here,” she said.
 
“Let me make a phone call.
 
Give me a few minutes and I’ll be back.”

She maneuvered her way out of the bar, took a right, walked
down a corridor lined with Art Deco brass elevators on one side and restrooms
on the other before she entered the massive lobby.
 

It was a Thursday night and it was late.
 
The few chairs along the periphery were
empty.
 
She chose one just beneath
the grand piano, which was elevated above her on the mezzanine, and sat down.

There was only one person she knew who might be able to help
her through this—her colleague, Vincent Spocatti.
 
He was the best in the business.
 
He had more skills, instincts and
contacts than anyone she knew.
 
After working with him a year ago on a Wall Street job, she hoped he
wouldn’t mind a call from her now.
 

She found his number on her cell and dialed.

If anyone knew anything about Katzev, how she could get close
to him or find out where he lived, it was Spocatti.
 
And if he didn’t know, he probably knew
someone who would.

“Carmen,” he said when he answered.
 
“A midnight call from you.
 
What am I to read into that?”

“That I’m in trouble.”

“I heard about Alex,” he said.
 
“Sorry.
 
I liked him.
 
I also hear that you liked him.”

She didn’t reply.

“Where are you now?”

“At a hotel in Manhattan.
 
You?”

“Behind some curtains at a house in Capri.”

“I see.”

“What you should see are the views.
 
Stunning.”

“If this isn’t a good time, Vincent—”

“The owner will be here soon, but we’re fine for now.
 
They said he might run late.
 
What do you need?”

“I need you to help me find someone.
 
If I’ve worked for him, you certainly
have.”

“Who is it?”

“Katzev.”

“The fake Russian?”

“Katzev isn’t Russian?”
 

“Scottish.
 
He’s got
the accent down, though.
 
I’ll give
him that, even if he is a bastard.
  
Same goes for his former associate, Jean-Georges Laurent, who I hear is
dead now.
 
Bullets to the face at
the Four Seasons in a room filled with people that included the likes of my old
friend, Leana Redman.”
 
He let a
beat pass.
 
“Firing a gun into that
crowd must have been quite a sight.”

“It was.”

“Nice job on that, by the way.”

“I didn’t do it alone.”

“So, I hear.”

“You hear a lot.”

“I think I’m becoming something of a guru,” he said.
 
“People tell me things.
 
That was just one conversation out of
many that day.
 
I can’t remember who
told me, so there’s no use in asking.”

She knew better.
 
But she appreciated his discretion even if it meant she wouldn’t learn
who told him and why.

“So, what’s going on?” he said.
 
“How are you in trouble?”

She told him.

The syndicate she and Alex worked for targeted them for
death.
 
She wasn’t sure why, but
Jean-Georges Laurent nearly tricked her and Alex into killing each other.
 
Did Laurent do it because he felt she
and Alex knew too much about the organization?
 
Impossible.
 
She only knew what he and Katzev told
her, which was minimal.
   

In an effort to send a message that threatening them wasn’t an
option, they retaliated by killing Laurent.
 
Then, weeks later, Alex was
murdered.
 
She herself barely escaped
death.
 

Now she was back in Manhattan to seek her revenge.

“The people who killed Alex,” Spocatti said.
 
“Why are you convinced it had anything
to do with the syndicate?”

“Because we killed Laurent.”

“So?
 
You and Alex
have taken down dozens of people over the course of your careers.
 
It could have been anyone.
 
Why them?”

“Because for whatever reason, Laurent wanted us dead.
 
I’m sure there are others who’d like to
see that happen, but I’m not directly aware of them.”

“Just because you’re not aware of them doesn’t mean someone else
isn’t targeting you.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“I usually do,” Spocatti said.
 
“But not this time.
 
Just keep your options open.
 
Anyone could have it in for you.
 
In fact, plenty do.
 
But for now, let’s go with the obvious
and say it is Katzev and the rest of the syndicate.
 
They’re hell-bent on revenge because you
killed Laurent.
 
You’re hell-bent on
revenge because they killed Alex and nearly you.
 
How can I help?”

“I need to know where Katzev lives.”

“I have no idea.”

“Best guess?”

“Probably Manhattan.
 
Maybe Milan.
 
Could be
Paris.
 
Hell, it could be Russia,
since he obviously loves the Motherland enough to associate himself with
it.
 
Or Scotland, since he is, after
all, Scottish.
 
What I’m saying is
that he could be anywhere.
 
Whenever
I’ve dealt with him, it’s been through a secure line.
 
I was offered the job, we negotiated the
price, I received half the money the next day and the rest of money was wired
to me when the job was done.
 
I
assume it’s been the same for you.”

“It has.
 
But you have
connections, Vincent.
 
Everywhere.
 
You must know
someone who knows where he lives.”

“I know a few people who might know, but I can’t give you their
names, Carmen.
 
That’s not how I
work.
 
You know that.”

“Then leave it up to them,” she said.
 
“Would you call them and give them my
number?
 
If they choose to help me,
that’s their decision.
 
This way,
you haven’t compromised anyone.
 
It’ll be on them to call and decide if they wish to get involved.
 
You know I won’t say anything if they
agree to help me.
 
That’s not how
I
work.”

“I know it isn’t.”

“Will you make the calls?”

“I’ll make the calls.”

“I appreciate it, Vincent.”

“It might not be Katzev or the syndicate, Carmen.
 
You need to consider every job you’ve
ever done.
 
I know that’s a daunting
task, but you need to do it and you need to think who else might be targeting
you.
 
You have to figure out how
someone suddenly found you in Bora Bora, of all places, when you’ve had a place
there for years.
 
After all this
time, how did they find you now?
 
This stinks of something recent.
 
Have you looked into Alex’s life?
 
Did he slip up and talk to someone?
 
If he did, who did he talk to?
 
And who did that person talk to?”

She felt a chill and looked down the long corridor that led to
the bar, where Jake was waiting for her.
 
He mentioned that he spoke to Alex before they left for the island.
 
Who did he speak to after that?

“I have to go,” she said.
 
“I’ll take everything into consideration.
 
You’ll make the calls?”

“I said I would.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Watch your back, Carmen.
 
Keep an open mind.
 
And stay
in touch.
 
I’ll do what I can from
afar.”

CHAPTER F
OUR

She hurried down the corridor, hoping she was wrong but knowing
in her gut that she was right.
 
She
rounded the corner and looked for him at the bar.
 
He was gone.
 
So were their drinks.
 
The bartender caught her eye and held up
a piece of paper for her.

She had no time for this.
 
She had to get out of here now, while she still had a chance, but she
needed to know what he wrote to her since it might inform what she did
next.
 
She walked over to the
bartender, a stocky man somewhere in this thirties whose dark hair was slicked
back in such a way that it revealed a handsome face.
 

“My husband,” she said.
 
“How long ago did he leave?”

“Ten minutes?
 
He
wanted me to give you this.”

She took the note and opened it.
 
Five words inside:
 
“Sorry.
 
I had no choice.”

She looked behind her, saw nothing out of the ordinary then
turned back to the bartender.
 
“Did
you happen to see him use his phone?”

“I did.”

So, he called ahead.
 
Or they called him.
 
Either
way, he told them she was here.
 
But
why?
 
If they wanted her dead, he
could have shot her an hour ago.
 

Because they want to bring you in.

It was possible, but why?
 
She was partly responsible for Laurent’s death.
 
Did they want to have their way with her
before they killed her?
 
Katzev
might want to do the job himself.
 
She could see that happening.
 
Or they might think she has information she shouldn’t have access to,
though she didn’t know what that could be.

She needed to leave, but she couldn’t go out the front
entrance.
 
Not even the side.
 
Soon, this place would be surrounded by
them, if it wasn’t already.

“Your husband said you had fifteen minutes,” the bartender
said.
 
“I’m not sure what he meant
by that, but it might mean something to you.”

“It does.”
 
Why was
he tipping her off?
 
Was he forced
into this?
 
Or was it to make her
feel a false sense of security?
 
With five minutes on her side, she might think she could get out now and
escape them, when in reality, they’d be right outside waiting for her.
 
This could be a trap.
 
“I didn’t see him leave.
 
Which way did he go?”

“He asked if he could use the service exit.
 
Sounds strange, but I’ve had stranger
requests.
 
We accommodated
him.”
 

Trap.
 
“I see.”

He paused.
 
She
could feel him studying her.
 
“Are
you in some sort of trouble, Miss?”

Use him.
 

“I am.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I told my husband I was leaving him tonight.
 
He told me I wasn’t and that he’d make
sure of it.
 
I know what that
means.
 
He’s abusive.
 
He’s had me dealt with before and he’s
going to do it again.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you get me into a room?”

“You’d need to check in—”

“You asked if you could help.
 
I need to get into a room right
now.
 
He’s called people to come here
and reason with me, if you get my drift.”

“Miss—”

“It’s important.”

“I don’t have that authority.”

“Then do you have some place I could hide?
 
A storage area?
 
A conference room I can step into?”

“For how long?”

“An hour?
 
Men are
going to come here.
 
They’re going
to ask if you’ve seen me.
 
I need
you to tell them that I left the moment you gave me the note.
 
If they harass you, tell them you’ll
call the police.
 
They’ll leave if
you say that.
 
They won’t want any
trouble.”

“Why don’t we just call the police now?”

“Because they won’t get here in time.
 
My husband left quickly for a
reason.
 
He used the service exit
for a reason.
 
This note is a
threat.”

He looked at the note in her hand, then down the length of the
bar, where another bartender was restocking glasses while glancing in their
direction.
 
“Phil, give me a minute,
OK?”

The man looked at Carmen, then back at the bartender.
 
“We’re closing in forty-five, Jon.”

“I said a minute.
 
I’ll be back.”

*
 
*
 
*

He led her to an area behind the bar.
 
They started walking down a short hallway
that led to a set of swinging doors.

“Just go with this,” he said.
 
“Act natural.”

They entered the kitchen, which was large and shiny due to the
bright lights glinting off the stainless steel tables, racks and appliances.
 
Carmen glanced around for cameras in the
ceiling, but it was so vast and Jon was moving so quickly, she didn’t notice
any.
 
She counted six people in the
kitchen.
 
They turned a corner and
she counted a seventh, all of whom were either cleaning up for the night or
doing prep for the following morning’s breakfast service.
 
Another sweep of the room.
 
It unnerved her that she saw no cameras
because she knew better.

“Everybody,” he said.
 
“This is my girlfriend, Lisa.
 
She just got some bad news and needs a space where she can be
alone.
 
My shift is up in
forty-five.
 
Does anyone mind if she
hangs out in the stairwell until I’m finished?”

“I thought you were gay.”

“Funny, Mac.
 
Are we
good, everyone?”

Shrugs all around.

“Thanks.”

He took her by the hand, they cut left and pushed through
another set of doors.
 
Below her was
a staircase.
 
Is this where he
brought Jake?
 
She turned to him and
asked.

“It is, but don’t worry about it.
 
The door below is bolted shut.
 
No one can get in here and they won’t think
you’re back here.
 
So, stay
here.
 
I’ll work on getting you a
room.”

“Threaten them with the police when they come.
 
Get them out.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’ll be fine.
 
If
they’re coming, they’re going to want to see me behind the bar.
 
I’ll be back.”

He turned to leave.

Each door had a small square window that looked into the
kitchen.
 
As she watched him go,
every set of eyes in that kitchen turned to her.
 
Carmen stepped away from the windows,
incredulous that she was in this position.
 

A simple walk in Manhattan to clear her head had turned into
this?
 
She was thinking how unreal
the past two hours had been when her cell phone rang.
 
She reached into her coat pocket and
pulled it out.
 
A number she didn’t
recognize.
 
Private caller.

She hesitated before she answered it.
 
“Hello?”

A man’s voice.
 
Soft, almost fragile.
 
“Carmen Gragera?”

She didn’t respond.

“It’s all right, Carmen.
 
I’m a friend of Vincent’s.
 
He called a moment ago and told me you are in something of a bind.”

She closed her eyes in relief.

“Would you like some help?” he asked.

“I would.”

“Are you able to come to me now?”

“I’m in the middle of a situation.”

“I see.
 
Is there
anything I can do?”

“I can handle this.
 
Would you be able to meet tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure.
 
I’m old, Carmen.
 
You
probably can hear it in my voice.
 
I
don’t leave the house much anymore, but don’t let that deceive you.
 
I live for my calls from Vincent.
 
He keeps me alive with them.
 
Reminds me why I once was on top and
still matter now.
 
Name your time.”

“Morning?”

“Ten?”

“Perfect.”

He gave her his address.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The line went dead.

*
 
*
 
*

When his shift was over and the bar was closed, the bartender,
Jon, returned.
 
He looked tense and
on edge, but also in control.
 
His
eyes reminded her of her Alex’s—big and blue.
 
Intelligent and intense.

“Did they come?” she asked.

“They came.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“What happened?”

“They asked for you.
 
I told them that you left.
 
They said that was impossible.
 
I told them you returned five minutes before your husband left and that
you probably went to find him.”

“Did they buy it?”

“I don’t know.
 
But
they left.
 
And I have this for
you.”
 
He held out a card for
her.
 
It was a key to a room.
 
“Follow me.”

*
 
*
 
*

“We’ll use the service elevators,” he said as they pushed
through the swinging doors.
 
They
went to the rear of the kitchen, crossed through another set of doors and came
upon a bank of elevators.
 
“These
are used for room service.
 
We can
access any room from here.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

He pressed a button.
 
“My mother went through the same sort of shit with my father.
 
I was too young to do anything about
it.
 
I’m glad to help.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

The doors slid open and they stepped inside.
 
He pressed the button marked “29,” the
doors whisked shut and the elevator started its ascent.

“The room wasn’t free,” she said.
 
“I plan to pay for it.”

“Actually, it is free.
 
I had it comped for you.
 
I
told them that I spilled a drink on you and that you asked for a room so you
could clean up.
 
We’re not
full.
 
It’s not a big deal.
 
They’ll treat this like any
check-in.
 
You’ll need to be out by
noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be long gone by then,” Carmen said.

The elevator slowed.
 
The doors slid open and they stepped into a small waiting area before
they turned into a warmly lit hallway.
 

Her room was at the far end of the hall.
 
When they reached it, he slid the key
into the slot, unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
 
Carmen was expecting something
nice—it was the Waldorf, after all—but she wasn’t expecting a
corner suite with two stunning views of the city.

She went over to the windows and looked down at Park, where
traffic was light.
 
At some point,
it had started to rain.
 
The streets
were shiny and bright.
 
Jake’s face
flashed before her eyes.