memories could. And so he pressed on.
“Were you friends?” he asked.
The sadness on George Redman’s face was unmistakable. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose Anne and I were friends. There was a time when we were even close. But things changed and I never saw her again. That was years ago.”
Michael’s heart was pounding. He was conflicted. If what his father said was true, George Redman murdered his mother. He’d taken a shotgun, blown out her tires and sent her over that bridge to her death. But he also knew that George couldn’t understand the complexity of what was unfolding here. And since George might tell him more about his mother than his own father would, he decided to take this as far as he could, regardless of the repercussions.
“What was she like?”
“We don’t need to talk about this.”
“Leana could be hours,” he said. “I’m interested.”
“There are other subjects to discuss, like your marriage to my daughter.”
“Leana and I agreed that we’d discuss that with you and Elizabeth together.” He held out his hands. “What can I say?” he said. “You’ve made me curious about her.”
George seemed to understand that and so he acquiesced. “She was beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t know her long and I only saw her on occasion, but there were times when I would have done anything for her.”
“Were you two involved?”
The boldness of the question caught George off guard. He saw the rapt attention on Michael’s face and finished his drink. “Anne was married when I met her and I respected that,” he said. “I wanted to remain friends with her but her husband decided against that. We didn’t get along.” He lifted his empty glass. “Would you mind?”
Michael went to the bar and fixed him another drink. He replaced the bottle and listened to Redman shift in his seat. “Are they still married?”
“Anne’s dead, Michael.”
And there it was. Michael stood at the bar, a thousand questions tumbling through his mind, but he chose to ask only one because only one mattered-and Redman’s reaction to it was almost as important as his answer.
He came across the room and handed George his drink. He saw the discomfort on his face and what might have been grief in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How did she die?”
It was as if those words dropped an invisible veil. George straightened in his chair. He collected himself. Whatever world he had allowed himself to travel to was gone. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “Today has been difficult enough.”
“Of course.”
The phone rang.
“That might be Leana,” George said.
Michael excused himself and left for the foyer, not wanting to talk in the library. He had a feeling it was his father calling and he was right.
“What are you doing, Michael?” Louis said. “Why are you with him?”
Michael looked back into the library and saw that Redman had left his seat. He now was standing in front of the Vermeer, in which a woman was holding a balance. And Michael thought, Did you kill my mother?
“Answer me, Michael. Why is he there?”
There was a sudden jangling of keys beyond the locked door and Michael turned as Leana stepped into the apartment. Their eyes met and Michael immediately sensed by the expression on her face that things had not gone well at the hospital. His father’s voice was a sharp jolt on the phone. “Get him out of that apartment, Michael. Get him out now or I’ll pay Santiago nothing.”
With a firm hand, Michael replaced the receiver and walked over to where Leana stood. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”
Leana pressed her face into the warmth of his chest. She didn’t answer.
Michael rested his chin on the top of her head. He could feel her trying to keep herself under control and his heart went out to her. “How is he?” he asked.
“Not good,” she said. “It was awful. I fought with the doctor and Mario’s father wouldn’t let me see him.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. Three of his ribs were crushed. He lost a lot of blood. The doctor says we have to wait.”
Michael pulled back and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. He had fallen in love with her. He didn’t know how or when it had happened, but the feeling was there and he realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “I promise. But right now you have to pull yourself together.” He nodded toward the library. “Your father’s here.”
Leana’s eyes widened. She looked behind her and came face to face with her father, who had stepped away from the painting and now was standing in the center of the library, near an ormolu writing table, his hands at his sides.
He smiled at her and it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” he said. “But I guess I was too late. Are you all right?”
Leana was confused. Her father hadn’t come here to tell her about Mario-George hated the man. Years ago, he had forbidden that she see him. Something else was wrong. “What are we talking about?” she said, alarmed. “Is Mom all right?”
George was unmoving. “Your mother’s fine.” He looked at Michael. “I thought you said she knew?”
Michael was as bewildered as George. “She does know,” he said. “She just came from the hospital. We saw what happened to De Cicco on the news.” But Michael saw by the change in Redman’s expression that his coming here had nothing to do with Mario De Cicco or with the explosion that nearly cost the man his life.
He looked at Leana, saw the cold fear on her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and thought, What has my father done now…
The next few moments passed in a haze.
George came into the foyer, told Leana about the death of their best friend, a man he thought he had known but never truly had. He caught his daughter when her knees buckled and she began to cry in a shrill of grief. Over and over again, she asked why Harold had done it. George said he didn’t know. He remained at her side, comforting her, his arms enveloping her in a way they hadn’t since she was a child.
He pressed his face against hers and closed his eyes. When he did, he once again saw the haunting image of a train hurtling into a shadowy tunnel, bearing down hard toward an impatient crowd and then Harold inexplicably leaping from the platform and jumping to his death.
The helicopter soared over the city and moved slowly down Fifth, its spotlight shining along the mirrored facades of tall buildings, illuminating their interiors with quick bursts of light.
In the dark silence of Louis Ryan’s office, Spocatti watched the machine, watched it glide steadily toward them, its multi-colored lights blinking, steel blades flashing, chopping the heavy air with a smooth, measured fierceness.
Ryan was sitting opposite him, glass of Scotch in hand, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He had not spoken since Michael severed the connection and, in a sense, blatantly told Louis to go to hell.
In an odd way, Spocatti was proud of Michael. Standing up to his father took guts. Perhaps Michael wasn’t the man he assumed he was. Perhaps he was stronger.
The roar of the helicopter grew louder.
Ryan stamped out his cigarette. “Things have changed,” he said. “I threatened Michael with Santiago and he hung up on me. I think he knows.”
Spocatti could barely see the man’s face. It was as if a net of shadows had been cast against it. “I doubt that,” he said. “If anyone told him, we would have heard.”
