an anonymous tin box she kept nestled behind an antique armoire in their attic. Could it be that their love had been so imperfect? Could it be that she really doubted his love for her?
The book was small and delicate. Its black-and-gray marbled cover was torn and faded with age, its binding was cracked, the pages were threatening to come loose.
Carefully, Louis brought the journal to his desk and opened it to Anne’s final entry. Just seeing her handwriting again was like a pain in his chest.
The entry was dated just two days before her death. It was the day George Redman lost his last appeal in court. As Louis reread it, her damning words ignited like a fire in his gut, a dark rage overcame him, he saw what would be and he ripped the page free.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Spocatti’s cell phone rang as Leana alighted from the cab. She had a glittering black dress draped over her shoulder, a pair of black silk pumps dangling from her hand. It was early afternoon and the sun was as hot as she apparently planned on looking later this evening.
He looked at the phone, considered ignoring it but then reached for it and clicked it on. “What is it Louis?”
“It’s Michael,” he said. “He’s not answering the phone and the doorman says he’s not in his apartment. I told you to keep an eye on him. Where is he?”
Spocatti waited for Leana to enter the hotel before he pulled away from the curb and followed the cab down Fifth. “Everything’s under control, Louis.”
“Everything isn’t under control. I told Michael yesterday not to leave his apartment until he heard from me. Now, he’s gone and I want to know where he is.”
Spocatti’s jaw tightened-the man was losing it.
“Well?” Louis said. “Where is he?”
“He’s in front of me.”
“In front of you?” Louis said. “What do you mean he’s in front of you? Are you with him?”
“No,” Spocatti said in an agitated voice. “I’m following him. He just dropped Leana off at the hotel and now he’s sitting in the back of a cab. Would you like to know what he’s wearing, Louis? Would that ease your mind? Would you like to know what he had for breakfast, whether he showered, when he took his last shit? Jesus, you’re beginning to annoy me.”
“I gave you $15 million for this job. I’ll annoy you all I want.”
Something in the rearview mirror caught Spocatti’s eye and he jerked the wheel to the left, pressed hard on the gas and nearly struck the Lincoln limousine that had been trying to pass him. He busted a red light and lurched into the center lane-but not before two other cars swerved in front of him, for an instant severing his view of Michael, who was now three cars ahead of him.
“All right,” Louis said. “Just get his attention and pull him over. I want him here, in my office, before the party begins.”
But the cab was picking up speed. It darted into the center lane, passed a stationary line of traffic and shot right, disappearing behind a bus that was lumbering into traffic.
Spocatti was incredulous. He was losing him.
“Shit!” he said aloud. He tossed the phone aside, squinted into the blinding sun, and ignored Louis’ voice as it wavered angrily from the phone. For a moment, he couldn’t tell which cab was Michael’s-there were dozens of them.
Then, well ahead of him, he saw the cab, saw Michael looking out the rear window-and saw with cold disbelief the triumphant smile on the man’s face.
He was rapidly approaching a yellow light. Michael’s cab was sailing through a string of green. Betting against the odds, Vincent floored it, cut into the center lane and watched the light turn red.
Time seemed to stop.
He glanced at the halted lines of traffic on 48th, saw that they were being held up by a man crossing in a wheelchair. He pushed the van faster. He would make it.
The U.S. mail truck came out of nowhere.
He hit the brakes and spun the wheel sharply to the left. Spocatti watched the enormous rig loom toward him, its horn blaring, tires screaming. The city spun in the windows. He lost control of the wheel and felt the van tipping, tipping…
And then it righted itself.
He grasped the wheel, jerked it to the right and winced as the mail truck whizzed past him, horn still sounding as its huge, eighteen wheels rumbled across 48th Street. Faintly, he heard someone screaming-and then he realized it was himself. He closed his mouth, sat there grinning madly, his legs tingling, his white-knuckled hands still clutching the leather wheel.
He felt suddenly euphoric, his whole body surging with a vitality he hadn’t felt in years.
He looked down the avenue, saw people rushing toward him.
But there was no sign of Michael. He was gone.
The cab zigzagged through traffic, hurtled down Fifth and twice nearly grazed the side of a car.
Michael continued looking out the rear window, not turning away until he was convinced they’d lost Spocatti. He looked at the cabbie, a young black woman who seemed perfectly at ease as she lit her third cigarette and busted her third red light. “You were incredible,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and removing his wallet. “Absolutely incredible. Where’d you learn to drive like that?”
The woman looked over her shoulder at him, smoke jetting from her nose as her eyes widened. “Baby, are you kidding?” she said. “We’re in New York City. Everybody drives like this.”
Michael laughed. “Not quite,” he said. “But I like your modesty. How much do I owe you for the favor?”
“How much you got?”
Enough to get my ass out of this city, Michael thought. And start over someplace else with Leana. “How about a hundred?” he said.
The woman drew on her cigarette, braked as another cab cut in front of her. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve read your books, seen your movies. You were hot in that last one,” she said, gazing at his chest. “You’re probably worth millions. Hundreds of millions. Let’s say you give me three bills and if anyone asks, I’ll say I never saw your fine white ass.”
Michael couldn’t help a smile. “You got a deal,” he said and handed her the money. He looked once more through the rear window, saw no sign of Spocatti’s van in the torrent of traffic and felt peculiarly, unreasonably safe. “You can let me off here,” he said. “I think we’ve lost him.”
The woman pulled to the curb, where another fare was waiting to be picked up. Cars whooshed past in a rush of exhaust. “Oh, honey, I know we lost him,” she said as Michael stepped out. “I was watching. Fool was almost hit by a mail truck. Trust me. If he’s anywhere in the vicinity, I’ll pull out my damn weave.”
He pulled out his cell phone and called Leana at her office.
“It’s me,” he said. “What do you say about a late dinner tonight, after the party? There’s this small French restaurant in the Village that’s open late. The food’s great and so is the house wine. I know it’s late notice, but a little romance might take your mind off things.”
Leana was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Michael looked down the busy street, his gaze sweeping the crowds on the sidewalk, the traffic on Fifth. And then he saw Spocatti’s van, black as the night, moving slowly down the avenue.
Absolutely unmoving, Michael watched the van until it faded from sight. Leana said, “Have I told you recently how terrific you are?”
