When it was over and the bulls had passed, the thing that was Mark Andrews lay in the street--its body bruised and broken beyond recognition, its breathing a slow, clotted gasp. It looked up at the narrow slit of blue sky that shined between the buildings on either side of it.
In the instant before its mind winked out, its failing eyesight focused on Lady Brett Ashley herself. She was standing just above on one of the building’s wrought-iron balconies, smiling as she filmed its death with the video camera held in her outstretched hand.
~~~~
CHAPTER ONE
Day One
New York City
One Month Later
At the Click Click Camera Shop on West 8th Street, Jo Jo Wilson cranked up the dial on the dented green oxygen tank between his legs and eyed the camera in Marty Spellman’s hands. “Beauty, ain’t it?” he said through the mask covering his mouth. “Just hit the market. Knew you’d want it. Called you first. The strings I pulled.”
Marty looked over the camera. It was the latest digital Nikon--the best and latest in their series--and it was impressive. God only knew how Wilson got hold of it. It had the sort of lens that was so powerful, it could capture a cheating husband’s contented look four football fields away. Holding it made his heart melt.
The problem was that it had been used before. There were hairline scratches on the black casing. Oily smudges on the lens. Marty gave it another once-over and shook his head. There was no way he was paying twenty grand for this camera.
“Too bad it’s hot,” he said.
Wilson looked surprised, genuinely offended. He sat back on the stool and blinked, his great round belly expanding before him like a comic strip balloon. Seventy years old and he’d eaten himself into a three-hundred-fifty-pound birthday suit. It was a medical wonder his heart continued to pump. “What the fuck you talkin’ about?” he said. “That camera ain’t hot.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Marty said.
“I’m not lyin’ to you.”
“Then show me the invoice.”
That silenced him.
“And where’s the box?”
Jo Jo looked away.
“You can’t keep lying to me, Jo Jo. You’re no good at it. I’ve been onto you from the first day we met, when you were stupid enough to try and sell me a directional microphone that had no direction. Why haven’t you smartened up by now?”
Wilson snapped his fingers on either side of his head. “Can’t hear you, Spellman. Emphysema’s eatin’ away my ears, too.”
Marty removed fifty $100 bills from his pants pocket and fanned them out on the dirty glass counter that separated them. “Five thousand and you pay to have it delivered to my apartment tomorrow. That’s a fair price, Jo Jo. We both know it.”
Wilson had no trouble hearing that and he looked at the cash as though it were a great pile of stinking shit. He gulped air and shook his pale moon of a head. “You got more money than God, and this is what you offer me? Five fucking grand?” He pushed the mask aside and spat imaginary spit. “Ten grand or nothing.”
Marty put a finger on one of the $100 bills and dragged it to the left. “And my offer dwindles. Your call.”
“That camera’s worth twenty grand and you know it!”
“And you probably got it for two grand.” He dragged another bill aside. “Look at that. It’s magic. The money just disappears.”
“Look,” Wilson said. “Give me a break. Doris went to the doctor last week. She’s gotta have an operation. I need the cash.”
Even if this were true, Marty knew for a fact that Jo Jo Wilson was far too clever a man to have reached seventy without having secured health insurance. This was just another ploy.
“Times are tough for all of us, Jo Jo. Have you seen the economy? It’s in the shitter. Just yesterday, I saw an elderly woman roasting a pigeon over a metal trash can in the South Bronx.” He pulled another bill away, crumpled it in his fist. “Imagine what she’d do with this money.”
“I can’t even imagine you in the South Bronx.”
Marty put a finger on another bill.
And Wilson caved. He took the money and counted it twice before stuffing it in his shirt pocket. “Generosity ain’t your middle name, Spellman, I’ll tell ya that. What do you need a camera like that for, anyway? You workin’ another case?”
“I’m always working another case, Jo Jo.”
“What’s this one about? Another murder?” He sucked air. “Or are you hangin’ some society slick for cheatin’ on his wife?”
Marty didn’t know. The call came yesterday morning from Maggie Cain, a best-selling novelist whose books were currently enjoying critical acclaim. She was his ex-wife’s favorite writer. In their brief conversation, Cain asked if they could meet today at six but offered nothing more. “I’d rather speak to you in person,” she said. “I have lots of reasons for not trusting telephones or cell phones.”
That interested Marty. You got jaded at this job. He got her address, said he’d be there and hung up the phone.
Six o’clock was forty minutes away.
He looked at Wilson, who was turning off the oxygen. “Well, at least leave yourself a trickle,” Marty said. “I want you alive so that camera is delivered tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Love ya, buddy.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
“Then recommend a movie for me. The wife wants a heartwarmer.”
“In your condition? It better be ‘Cocoon’.”
“Fuck you, Spellman.”
With a grin, Marty left his camera sitting on the countertop, stepped out of the store and took a right on Fifth.
* * *
Maggie Cain lived on West 19th Street.
When Marty arrived at the narrow brownstone, he noted at a glance the boxed summer flowers at each window, the bronze knocker on the carved mahogany door and what must have been a freshly swept walk.
He knocked.
When she met him at the door, he was faced with a mere slip of a woman in her early thirties with shoulder-length brown hair. She wore clothes that suggested someone too busy to care about frills--faded jeans and a white T-shirt. She wore no make-up, which Marty thought was unusual because if she had, it would have helped to conceal the faint scar that stretched from the corner of her left eye to the side of her mouth.
She extended her hand, which Marty shook. “It’s nice of you to come,” she said.
Her grip was strong and firm, as self-assured as her voice. “It’s a pleasure,” Marty said. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“So have I.” She stepped aside and revealed an entryway that stretched before them in varying degrees of light and darkness. “I know you’re busy,” she said. “Come in and let’s talk.”
He followed her down a hallway lined with bookcases, paintings, drawings that caught his eye, and into the living room, which smelled of roses in their prime. He noted a grand piano in the corner of the room, photographs framed in silver on its lowered lid. On the windowsill behind it, a black cat sat poised and alert, gazing out at the city.
“That’s Baby Jane,” Maggie said, indicating the cat with a nod. “Rescued her from the street years ago. She’s the real woman of the house.”
“So, I should be talking to her?”
Maggie laughed. “Actually, she’d probably answer back, but I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me. Would you like something to drink? I have just about everything, but if you’d prefer something cool, I just made a pitcher of iced tea.”
“That would be perfect.”
In her absence, he took the opportunity to look around. While he knew she was a successful writer, he also knew enough about the publishing business that few writers, regardless of their success, could afford the drawing by Matisse he glimpsed in the entryway.
He crossed to the piano and looked at the photographs. A little girl with blonde hair; an older couple posing in front of a tropical su
nset; a handsome man stacking wood beside a snow-covered cottage. The rest were of Maggie Cain.
In each photo, she was younger, perhaps in her late twenties at best, and as Marty studied them, he saw that in none of these photographs was her left cheek scarred.
He wondered again why she made this appointment.
Her voice came from behind him: “How much do you know about Maximilian Wolfhagen?”
She was walking toward him, the light from the surrounding windows catching the red highlights in her hair. He took the glass of iced tea she held out to him. “The arbitrageur?”
“You know another Maximilian Wolfhagen?”
Marty smiled. Wolfhagen wasn’t exactly an unknown, and his name certainly wasn’t common. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
Maggie leaned against the piano, her narrow frame fitting neatly in its gleaming curve. “I remember a time when everyone wanted to be him,” she said. “People dressed like him, wore their hair like him, went to the same restaurants as him. You couldn’t turn on a TV or open a newspaper without seeing those crowded teeth of his. You know what happened to him?”
“He was indicted by the SEC for insider trading.”
“That’s right,” Maggie said. “And five years ago, he spent three years in Lompoc because of it.” She nodded across the room. “Would you like to sit down?”
“I’d rather stand.” He watched her step to the gold brocade sofa in the center of the room, where she put her glass down on the table beside her. “When we spoke on the phone, I think I told you I’m a writer.”
Marty nodded. He’d stayed up late the night before skimming through two of her four novels, remembering those characters Gloria had loved and hated, cheered for and despised, recalling those times he’d fallen asleep with his head on her stomach while she turned the pages. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about now. “My ex-wife’s a big fan.”
“Just your ex-wife?”
She was teasing him. Most of his clientele had airs about them. She didn’t seem to have any. “I’ve read some of your books. In each one, you seem preoccupied by humiliating men of power. Exposing men like Wolfhagen. There was a time when Gloria and I wondered if there was a reason for that.”
“Gloria’s your ex-wife?”
“She is.”
She shrugged. “I guess a writer always has a reason for writing. That reason could be as simple as making money or as complicated as finding out some truth about themselves or the world in which they live.”
“What’s writing for you?”
“A little of both. Five years ago, when I wrote my first novel, I learned more about myself, my strengths and my weaknesses, than any counselor could have unearthed.”
Marty looked at her scar and wondered how much of that was true.
“The reason I asked you here is that I’m writing a book about Wolfhagen. A biography, which is new for me. Too new for me. The problem is that my publisher is expecting the first draft by November, which is nuts but I agreed to it, so the blame is on me. Still, there’s no way I’ll be able to finish it in time without someone to help me do the research.”
“And you need my help?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“What do you need?”
“While I’m interviewing people here in New York, I’d like you to fly to California and watch Wolfhagen. He’s been out of prison for two years, and he’s done a fine job keeping a low profile. I want to know everything about his life after prison. I want to know how he spends his time, who his friends are now--the lot of it. If you give me basic information--and by basic information, I mean dull, everyday stuff--I’ll pay you your standard fee. But if you give me something the world can sink its teeth into, something that’ll push this book onto bestseller lists, I’ll double your fee--and throw in a bonus. Does that sound fair?”
He liked that she was direct. What he wasn’t sure of is whether she’d like his rates. “I get $250 an hour,” he said. “Plus expenses. If you double my fee, that’ll come to $500 an hour. I should probably be asking you how fair that is.”
Maggie came over to where he was standing. Watching her, he wondered if she knew of how attractive she was and decided that once--before the scar that drew a line down her face--she must have known.
“If there’s any book I can’t screw up, it’s this one. My publisher paid a lot for it and I need to deliver. I asked you here only after I learned from friends that you’re the best. I know you’re worth those rates and I’m happy to pay them if you’ll take the job.”
“Do you mind if I think about it?” he asked. “I have two daughters. Usually, I work here in New York so I can be close to them. They mean everything to me.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Is tonight too late to call with a decision?”
“Not at all,” Maggie said. “It’s just me and the cat. We’ll be home all evening.”
They moved into the foyer and Marty stepped outside. When he turned to say goodbye, he saw just behind Maggie that the cat, Baby Jane, was sitting on the very edge of a hand-carved table, her tail flicking as she looked at herself in the dim glass of an enormous beveled mirror.
There was a moment when Marty thought the cat was studying him, appraising him. And then it leaped onto the floor and Marty suddenly was looking at himself--a tall man with sandy brown hair and shoulders so wide, they suggested a swimmer’s build.
“I do have one question,” he said. “Wolfhagen--have you two ever met?”
Maggie tilted her head and started to close the door, her hair spilling over the scar on her left cheek. “No,” she said. “Never.”
~~~~
CHAPTER TWO
Half an hour later, Marty stood in the hallway outside his ex-wife’s apartment.
He removed a set of keys from his pants pocket, knowing--but not really caring--that Gloria would be angry that he hadn’t called before coming by.
He’d already taken care of the doorman. In the lobby, he asked Toby not to call Gloria and tell her he was here. Better to just walk in, make the call to Roz and visit with his girls. Gloria might even be out.
He stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Soft music, soft lights and Gloria met him in the entryway. She was standing at a curving chrome side table, a glass of bubbling champagne in one hand, a spray of tulips in the other.
Without so much as a glance at Marty, she put the glass of champagne down beside a framed photograph of her dead mother and started placing the tulips one by one into the vase filled with water. Her voice was cool when she spoke. “What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t the response he was hoping for, but he’d certainly heard worse.
Nudging the door shut with his elbow, he stood looking at the woman he had married twice, divorced twice and unfortunately still loved. Tall and slender, her skin as pale as the cream silk suit she wore, Gloria Spellman had the contented look of a woman enjoying life. “Sorry, I didn’t call,” he said, looking past her into the living room. “Are you with someone?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mind if I come in?”
“You are in.”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“It’s just a question, Gloria. You look nice.”
She turned to him. “That’s sweet. Jack Edwards is coming by to look at my paintings. He feels I’m ready for another showing. He should be here soon. Why are you here?”
It was interesting, Marty thought, to note how much she had changed in the six months that had passed since her first showing. This wasn’t the shy, introspective woman he’d fallen in love with fourteen years ago. Success had freed her. Rarely one to voice her opinions, Gloria now looked people in the eye and shared those opinions with confidence. Her hair, once light brown and shoulder length, was now black, angular and severe. She wore makeup and narrow glasses, smoked clove cigarettes and spoke of reincarnation. She was an evolvi
ng woman in a constantly changing shell.
“I’d like to see the girls,” he said. “They around?”
“Of course, they’re around. But now isn’t a good time to see them.”
Nevertheless, she glanced at her watch and stepped aside so he could move past her. At least she understood how much they meant to him. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. “And not a second more. They’re in their bedroom.”
“Can I use your phone first?”
“It’s your fifteen minutes,” Gloria said. “I could give a rat’s ass how you use it.”
She certainly was a bitch tonight.
But as Marty walked down the hallway and picked up the telephone, he understood. His choice to focus more on his job than on their relationship had twice cost them their marriage. Psychiatrists and psychologists all gave him the same textbook reasons about why he was so screwed up now--his parents were murdered when he was a boy. They’d lived in a rough section of Brooklyn. His father was a cop who paid too much attention to the local gangs. When he was on the verge of bringing down a gang leader, three gang members shot him and his wife dead in their apartment while Marty, seven at the time, hid under a bed.
A cascade of sketchy foster parents ensued. At eighteen, he was able to go to university on scholarship, where he received a film degree because, as a boy, movies were the one thing that offered escape.
And better yet, they didn’t require the sort of commitment a relationship required.
The phone was answered by a friend of his at the FBI. “Roz, it’s Marty. Got a minute? Great. I was wondering if you’d run a check on someone for me. Name is Maggie Cain, otherwise known as Margaret Cain, the writer.”
Gloria turned to him with interest.
Running of the Bulls Page 2
