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?”
“As a matter of fact, you haven’t. But you can tonight. Should I take that as a ‘yes’?”
“You can take that as a definite yes. Dinner sounds great. I’ll see you later. It’s a madhouse here.”
He took a cab to a travel agency on Third Avenue.
“I need two tickets to Madrid,” he said to the agent. “Leaving tonight, on the red eye.”
The agent, a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and impossibly long eyelashes, started typing information into her computer. “It’s going to be expensive,” she said. “And tough to get seats. The airlines might be booked…”
“I don’t care about the cost,” Michael said. “And it doesn’t have to be Madrid. It can be anywhere in Europe, but the flight must leave tonight-after midnight.”
“After midnight,” the woman repeated. “Right. Gimme a second…”
He looked through the agency’s great expanse of windows, saw tourists and businessmen hurrying by on the sidewalk, well-dressed women carrying shopping bags, a homeless man pushing a rusty shopping cart. There was no sign of Spocatti.
“Madrid’s out,” the agent said. “So is London and Paris. Have you ever been to Milan?”
“Several times,” Michael said. “And I love it there, especially in the summer. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Her fingers danced over the keys. Michael looked back out the window-and this time saw a woman, standing at the curbside, leaning against a mailbox, flipping through a newspaper. She seemed familiar to him, as if he had seen her somewhere before. He couldn’t remember where.
“Bingo,” the agent said. “I can reserve two first-class seats for you to Milan.” Michael’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward in his seat and continued looking at the woman on the street. “Leaving when?” he asked.
“12:34 this morning.”
Michael reached for his wallet. The woman on the street tossed her newspaper into a metal wastebasket and now was using her cell phone. She started punching numbers. She looked over at him. Their eyes met and she looked casually away.
Michael gave a start-he knew that face. Earlier, when he and Leana left their apartment to flag a cab, this woman had been walking toward them, a newspaper tucked beneath her arm. She had glanced at him as she passed.
At the time, Michael thought how striking she was, her dark good looks classically European. Now, he sensed with a cold needle of fear that she worked for Spocatti.
He looked at the agent, his heart pounding. “How much are the tickets?” he asked. “I’m in a hurry.”
The woman told him. “I’ll need your name,” she said. “Along with the name of the person you’re traveling with.”
“I’m traveling with my wife,” Michael said, handing her the cash. “Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ryan.” He looked back out the window and saw with a start that the woman was gone. He left his seat, went to the windows and searched the crowds on the street.
But there was no sign of her. It was as if she had disappeared.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
Michael felt heavy with dread. He turned away from the windows, faced the puzzled agent and saw that she had placed a receipt for their E-tickets in an envelope.
“As a matter of fact, something is wrong,” he said. He crossed to her desk, pocketed the tickets and removed his wallet, handing her a hundred dollar bill.
“If there’s another way out of here,” he said, “that’s yours.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Leana moved swiftly across the busy lobby, checking each table as she passed it, Zack Anderson at her side. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Why haven’t the flowers been delivered?”
“Good question,” Anderson said. “I called the florist an hour ago, gave them hell and was told that they’re on their way.”