Billy opened one of the big side doors, the wood thick and heavy, ancient and reluctant to move, and he slipped out.
Here he saw the waitstaff clustered in the hallway area, waiting for the show inside to be over, ready to the hit the floor again with drinks and munchies, a long night ahead.
He turned to them. All of them were chatting, enjoying their respite. A few looked up, perhaps recognizing him.
“Um gonna . . . head up . . . get some air?” he said with a smile. “Getting stuffy in there, if you know what I mean.” A few grinned at that.
Then he turned to the wide marble steps, starting up, the stone worn into a depression from a century and a half of people using these stairs, wanting to enjoy the city skyline from the great patio.
At the top of the stairs were more doors. But these were already thrown open wide to the night air. The patio outside looked dark. Not much light here, save for the glittering city that surrounded it.
But when Billy slowed his pace and walked out—New York City in all its skyscraper wonder around him—he saw . . . he was not alone here.
Small clusters of people, two, three . . . here, there. Someone even smoking a forbidden cigarette.
People up here were apparently not interested in whatever announcements were happening down in the ballroom below.
And Billy had to think . . . Maybe the other people up here, in the shadows, are here for other purposes?
He stopped for a moment, thinking, I have never felt so damn exposed in my entire life.
And then he started walking again, spotting a corner of the patio with no one else there.
Good spot to stand as if taking in the sights.
And wait.
To see what happens . . .
* * *
Which for a while was absolutely nothing. A few people wandered off the patio, perhaps in search of a refill.
A few more people, all shadowy in the scant light, came out, finding their own private spot along the stone wall that girded the expansive patio.
And so far, nothing else happened.
Had this plan begun to unravel already? The people supposedly lured by whatever Billy knew, deciding to pass on the invitation?
Which certainly meant, he grimly understood, that they would have other, probably more dangerous plans for him.
But then—just as Billy pivoted from looking uptown, chunks of the dark Central Park visible, back to the patio—he saw someone walking toward him.
A woman. And she walked cautiously. Not rushing, but there could be no doubt . . . she was headed straight toward him.
And when she was just feet away, her face picking up the little light, he recognized her.
Without a thought of what he should do, he forced a smile.
Which he hoped didn’t look . . . forced.
The woman, only a foot away, simply said, “Hi, Billy.”
And he saw that this was the woman who had started him down this dangerous rabbit hole—chockablock with dead people and secrets and apparently so much money at stake—and she wasn’t smiling.
Her face was quite serious.
“Hi,” Billy said.
“So, alright. I’m here, you’re here. You said you could talk, hmm? Time to see what you have learned about my father.”
Well, that was one thing he would be telling her right away. That it wasn’t her father who had gone missing.
Not at all sure how that would be received. Most people probably didn’t like being told they had been discovered lying.
He cleared his throat. He suddenly wished some of those waiters, with their silver trays with their rows of bubbly neatly lined up, would magically appear.
He nodded. Ready to begin.
Knowing that—if all went according to plan—this chat was only the start.
But plans are only plans, he knew.
And things often don’t go . . . according to any plan.
* * *
“What I learned? Well, funny thing is I have learned a lot.”
He felt the woman’s eyes on him. Those dark eyes locked on him, and it was—quite simply—disconcerting. But he continued: “First, well, I learned that you are not Jack Landry’s daughter . . .”
She smiled at that, apparently not alarmed by the revelation.
“Then, I learned that Jack Landry is not the man’s real name. Actually, his name, it turns out—surprise, surprise—is Paul Steiner. And my guess is you’re still not his daughter.”
He paused to see how this was going down. But the woman simply stood there, the moment chilling.
“And, well, I’ll just continue, I guess? Your real name is Celia Kole, and I guess, obviously your someone’s daughter?”
He grinned at this bit of cheekiness. This was a dangerous game, but at the moment . . . kinda fun.
“Maybe someone named Max Kole?”
But at that, the woman shot up a hand. “That—might be a good place to stop, Billy Blessing. You seem to have found out a good deal about everything, except about what the hell I asked you to look into—”
She actually took a step closer, now inches away, voice lowered though there was no one within earshot.
Billy did a sideways glance: Where the hell is that damn protection that is supposed to be in place?
Because there didn’t seem to be anyone up here, looking out for him . . . anywhere.
“What I asked for—and was going to pay a lot for—was any information that told me what happened to this . . . okay, Paul Steiner. And I’m afraid I must say, right now? I sure the hell hope you do know something about that.”
Was that a threat? Billy wondered.
Sure sounded like a threat, he thought. This steely-eyed woman alone up here . . . or . . .
Maybe not alone? After all, he could see those little clusters of people, all dark in the shadows of the patio.
Just hanging out? Or—?
But at this point, he had no choice but to continue with the plan.
Which he hoped to hell was really a plan.
And not a dangerous fiasco on a nice Manhattan night in October about to turn deadly . . . specifically, for him.
* * *
“Okay. And have to say, I’m guessing some of this that I am about to say to you . . . maybe you already know?”
She said nothing back to that.
“Paul Steiner went to sea, as he did most days . . . and he was tracked by some people. Who shot up his boat. Then they shot him up—and then made sure no one would find the body.”
“But you did?”
“Not me. I mean, I was there but—but yeah. The body was found.”
“And these people, you know who they are?”
Billy shook his head. About to tell her the truth and hoping that she believed it.
“No. To my knowledge, I have not had the pleasure of meeting them. Least I don’t think so! But I’m thinking they got from Steiner what they thought they wanted, then killed him. And I guess—that’s it.”
Another pause from the woman, eyes still on him. Billy thought, This woman . . . she’s good at that.
“I doubt that’s . . . it, Billy. So, I’m going to ask you a few more questions and—Billy—”
Her saying his name slowly, with emphasis, seemed to carry its own threat.
“—I really encourage you to tell me everything that you know. Leave nothing out. Because as you may guess—with bodies buried at sea?—why, absolutely anything can happen in this game.”
And Billy then realized that—just maybe—she might know about the person killed with Steiner, this Luis.
But as he had discussed with ADA Williams and Lola, back in Northold—which now seemed so terribly far away—at this point, on this night, endgame in play? He should hold nothing back.
“Okay. I found bank statements. Lots of money in, out.”
The woman nodded.
“Tracked that to a hospital. Then to someone who—oh, you will like this part, unless you already know this—was really Steiner’s daughter. Though, she saw little of him. But that money paid for her education as a doctor, a cancer specialist . . .”
“How touching.”
Celia Kole gave no indication that she might have known this.
“And . . . ?” she said.
At this point, Billy dug out his phone, swiped to Photos. And then—the right picture on display—handed it to the woman.
“This right here? It was on the back of a photo of Steiner and his daughter when she was a baby. And I thought: the name, those numbers . . . must mean something? A clue to the stolen money maybe?”
The woman staired at the photo intensely. And Billy suddenly had a queasy feeling in his stomach. His first lie coming. A big one. Pretending he didn’t know what they meant.
And if this person knew it was a lie, well, that could be really bad.
But she looked up. She smiled. Looked as if she was about to say something.
Billy tried to hide his gulp.
Which is when, from across the other end of the patio . . . three people now made their way, heading directly to them.
Company coming.
* * *
The woman turned, Billy wondering who was coming their way.
Was the plan actually working? People showing up, bad people, thinking the path to a big payday led to this beautiful outdoor patio on a balmy New York night.
Then the man in the middle kept coming forward, while the two men flanking him stopped. And now Billy finally recognized the trio.
My old pal, Marco Pierce of the Hamptons, he thought. And behind him, the two goons from the night before.
Pierce wasted no time. “Celia Kole? Well, I did not expect you to be here, hmm? And Billy—must admit, little disappointed that you are not alone. And if you don’t mind?”
The man put his hand out, indicating to Celia that the phone should be handed over. But she hesitated.
Then Pierce did the slightest tilt of his head, gesturing to the two men a few feet back.
“My people here are armed, by the way. Their weapons silenced, of course. Hate to have to make it seem like—maybe—you have somehow fainted? Too much of that cheap champagne? When you actually have a nasty hole in your chest.”
A pause, then his hand rose, palm up . . .
“Give!”
And then this Celia Kole, not looking happy even in the dim light, handed the phone over to the man. He stared at it for a few minutes, then looked up to Billy.
“What the hell is—? Er, I don’t understand this. What is it? What does it mean?”
Billy hoped people somewhere were listening to all this, ready to pounce. So he said, “Well, I can explain what I think it might mean. That is, if you like?”
Billy suddenly realized the absurdity of that bit of politeness . . . since he was obviously facing people that would have no problem killing him if he didn’t tell them all he knew.
None at all.
And the man gave a nod to the two goons, who came close to Billy, one on each side. Billy felt something hard jab in his ribs. And he could well guess what that was.
“Okay. Easy, huh? Everyone stay calm? Right so—”
And that was about as far as Billy got, when someone else started walking toward the group.
Yet another new addition to this party.
Billy had hoped it might be ADA Williams, with a well-armed group of associates. Or maybe Lola?
Anyone but the person whom he now saw and recognized as all the tumblers—and the players—clicked into place.
The man called ‘Tony Hill’ at the SoHo meeting just days ago, who, like all these mobsters—funny about that—was really someone else.
Sammy Rose walked slowly toward them.
The people in front of Billy took note that he had noticed someone new was coming to the party. They turned as well.
While apparently everyone waited for what was to come next . . .