“If she’s in your files, do you think I could have a background by this evening? Find out where she got her money. The woman has a goddamn Matisse in her entryway. I know, right? Next time the pasta’s on me.”
When he hung up the phone, Gloria was standing behind him. “You’re investigating Maggie Cain?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stepped past her and moved down the hallway to the girls’ bedroom. His professional life was the one thing he shared with no one--and Gloria knew why. Too many times in the past he had been threatened by someone who learned of his surveillance. Marty didn’t take the repercussions lightly, especially after what happened to his parents.
“I can’t believe it,” Gloria said. “Maggie Cain! She’s one of my favorite writers. You know I love her books. What’s she done?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, please.”
“Leave it alone, Gloria.”
“Just give me something.”
Behind them, the service telephone rang.
Gloria stopped mid-stride and went to answer it. When she returned, she was all business. “That’s Jack and he’s early. I need you to leave. This is a night for art, not ex-husbands.”
“Define art.”
“You wouldn’t understand it.”
“See how little you know about me? Consider what you’ve done with your makeup. Now, that’s art.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve still got ten minutes to see my daughters.”
* * *
“Mom’s got a new boyfriend. Met him yet?”
Marty closed the door behind him and entered the one room Gloria had been banned from redecorating when she overhauled the rest of the house. Large and dim, the purple- and green-striped walls peppered with posters of that month’s hottest teen idol, his daughters’ bedroom had become in the year since his second divorce from Gloria a sort of battleground for Katie and Beth.
Clothes were missiles that had exploded on the floor, desks and bureaus. The beds were fortresses piled high with tapes and magazines, books and stuffed animals. In a large glass container, three hamsters raced frantically through an alarming network of scratched yellow tubes--perhaps seeking exercise, but maybe, Marty thought, trying to escape. Guilt had prevented Gloria and him from demanding the girls keep their bedroom clean.
Beth’s question lingered in the air.
“Have you two become hoarders?” he asked.
“You’re dodging the question.”
Seated in the middle of her bed, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles, she looked at her father with the same level gaze she had inherited from him but had perfected by imitating her mother.
In an effort to buy time, Marty kissed her on the forehead, turned to where Katie was sitting on her bed and kissed her on the cheek, then looked around the room for a place to sit. Since divorcing Gloria, he had never been comfortable discussing her private life. While he knew she dated, it was somehow easier living under the illusion that Gloria’s life revolved solely around her painting, this apartment, the two girls. But he sensed Beth needed to talk and so he sucked it up, despite the sinking sensation he felt in his gut.
“No,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I haven’t met him. I wasn’t aware your mother was seeing someone.”
“She’s more than just seeing him,” Beth said. “He practically lives here. Last night, they woke Katie and me up. It was fucking embarrassing.” She caught the look on his face. “Sorry, but it was. Mom kept saying his name over and over. Jack this and Jack that. Please, Jack, please. Oh, Jack, oh. I just wanted to die.”
What, Marty thought, was he supposed to say to that?
“Like, I don’t mind if Mom sees someone,” she said. “But if she can’t keep it down, Katie and I are thinking of moving in with you. Is that all right?”
He’d take them in a minute, but each time he tried to get custody, he failed. “You know what the judge said.”
“Weekends and holidays, I know. But what about what we think?”
“The judge thinks you’re better off with your mother.”
“Why? That’s sexist. We’d rather be with you.”
“And I’d rather have you with me.”
“Can I talk to the judge?”
“You can certainly write him a letter. Both of you can.”
“Great. We’ll get on that.”
In the growing silence, Katie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She had stopped flipping through a magazine and now was nibbling the inside of her cheek. Nine years old and almost as tall as Beth. Blonde hair to her shoulders and lips as full as his. She looked at him now with an impatience he had never seen in her before.
He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, I’ll speak to your mother about her... behavior.”
Beth rolled her eyes. “What good’ll that do? She doesn’t listen to you anymore. If anything, she’ll put on more of a show just to spite you.”
At what point, Marty wondered, had Beth become so comfortable talking about sex? She was thirteen years old, for God’s sake. What had happened to the child?
“You leave your mother to me,” he said. “I pay the rent on this place, not her.”
Beth looked amused. “Oh, Dad, please,” he said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Mom’s going to be famous. She’s going to make a lot of money and won’t need you anymore. She told us so this morning.”
* * *
There had been a time when the sound of Gloria’s laughter had left him feeling whole and well, fit and strong. Her smile, broad as the map of America, could get him through the worst of days. But now, as he left his daughters’ room and moved toward the living room, the sound of her laughter unleashed feelings in him he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Gloria was moving on. He was losing her to another man. And what that touched in Marty was an emotion he hadn’t felt in years--a sudden, deep jealousy.
He entered the living room.
Gloria and Jack were standing across the room, in front of the painting of a red wheelbarrow she’d hung on the north wall. Their backs were to him and they were discussing the painting. While Marty stood there, watching, Edwards reached out a hand and lightly brushed the nape of Gloria’s neck.
Marty cleared his throat.
Edwards dropped his hand casually to his side and turned with Gloria, whose pale skin now had a rosy glow. From laughing?
“You must be Marty,” Edwards said.
Marty came across the room, his mind like a camera, photographing this moment. Immaculately dressed in tan silk trousers and a white button-down shirt, Edwards was taller than he expected, in decent physical shape, his balding head tanned, his smiling mouth bright as the moon. Forty years old, Marty thought. Maybe forty-two.
He shook Edwards’ smooth, manicured hand and noticed the carat diamond glimmering on the man’s little finger. With raised eyebrows, Marty looked at the ring. Then, with disappointment, he looked at Gloria, who was standing behind Jack, looking brave but uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “I’m Marty.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Edwards said. “Gloria’s told me a lot about you.”
“I haven’t heard anything about you.”
“She says you’re a private investigator,” Edwards said. “And a movie critic. How does that happen?”
“Magic.” He turned to Gloria, whose decorated lips had drawn into a thin line of discomfort. “Can I talk to you?”
They walked toward the twin glass doors that opened onto the terrace and stepped outside. Marty closed the doors behind them. His voice was low when he spoke. “I’ll keep this brief.”
“You’ve got no choice.”
“Are you aware that Beth can’t sleep at night? All she can hear is you and Edwards having sex. Same goes for Katie. Now, look. You know I won’t tell you how to live your life, but when you sleep with this guy, at least show some respect for the girls and keep it down.”
Gloria
lifted her eyes to his, Manhattan’s Upper West Side sparkling behind her in the late-afternoon sun. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle this,” she said.
The coolness in her voice took him off guard. “Handle what?”
She paused to tap out a clove cigarette from the rumpled pack she’d brought with her. “My seeing Jack.” She lit the cigarette with a match. “You can’t handle it. He’s intimidated you and you feel threatened. Admit it.”
“The man wears a goddamn diamond on his pinky, Gloria. He doesn’t threaten me.”
“That’s a lie. You can’t stand seeing me with another man.”
“You’re probably right,” Marty said. “But what I hate even more is what you’ve become. Look at yourself. You’re not even the same person anymore. You’ve redefined yourself. You’ve sold out and become the very kind of person you and I used to mock when we were young. Who are you, Gloria? Do you even know?”
She shook her head sadly, the gesture somehow condescending. “You’re asking me if I know who I am, Marty? Let me ask you this. Since your parents were murdered, how many times have you asked yourself that very question?”
He turned to leave and when he did, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was below the belt. But I’m happy. I’ve met a man who’s got his act together. I’ve found a man who’s willing to put me first. Don’t blame me for wanting this. Don’t blame me for being angry because you couldn’t give it to me.”
“Just keep it down in the bedroom,” he said.
And he was gone.
* * *
Later, in his own apartment, Marty poured himself a glass of Scotch before calling Roz. “Tell me you hit the jackpot.”
“Still working on it. Give me thirty and I’ll call you back.”
He clicked off the phone and went to his study, which offered one of the better views of Central Park. On his desk was his computer. On the screen was his blog. In his spare time, he reviewed movies. It was just a sideline meant to clear his head and retain his connection to his first love--film--but it had become an unexpectedly popular sideline, with tens of thousands of people visiting the site daily.
Right now, he was working on the review of the Blu-ray release of Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity.” Just a few additional paragraphs and it would be finished.
While he waited for Roz to call back, he sat down to have a look at the review. Last night, he pulled his favorite scene from the movie so he could discuss it. He read it again.
NEFF
Look, baby, you can’t get away with it.
PHYLLIS
Get away with what?
NEFF
You want to knock him off, don’t you, baby?
PHYLLIS
That’s a horrible thing to say!
NEFF
Who’d you think I was, anyway? A guy that walks into a good-looking dame’s front parlor and says, “Good afternoon, I sell accident insurance on husbands. You got one that’s been around too long? Somebody you’d like to turn into a little hard cash? Just give me a smile and I’ll help you collect.” Boy, what a dope I must look to you.
PHYLLIS
I think you’re rotten.
NEFF
I think you’re swell. So long as I’m not your husband.
PHYLLIS
Get out of here.
NEFF
You bet I will. You bet I’ll get out of here, baby. But quick.
Marty smiled at the passage, admired the dialogue and was about to reflect on its importance in the movie when the telephone rang. He reached for it. Roz.
“Learn anything?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve learned something,” she said. “But it’s not going to be enough for your tired white ass. If I’d had clearance to her file, I would have learned more.”
Marty stood and went to the windows overlooking the Park. Two helicopters were sailing toward one another, their blades glinting in the fiery light of the setting sun. For a moment, it looked as if they were going to collide. “Clearance to her file,” he said. “She has one?”
“She has two files, sugar, and one of them’s top secret. Can’t lay my pretty black hands on it. But I do know this much--since 2006, Maggie Cain has been under surveillance by the FBI.”
~~~~
CHAPTER THREE
Marty hung up the phone and sat at his desk. He went to his computer, began a file on Cain and entered everything Roz had told him.
Years ago, Maggie Cain had been in a relationship with Mark Andrews. Mark Andrews had been one of Wolfhagen’s bond traders. His testimony helped to send Wolfhagen and two others to prison.
He died last month. Trampled by bulls in Pamplona.
Maggie Cain’s relationship with Andrews explained the Matisse Marty glimpsed in her entryway. With the money Andrews had at his disposal during the height of the stock market, he easily could have bought her that drawing--and maybe even her home in Chelsea. And if they were involved during the time the FBI was watching Wolfhagen and those closest to him, wouldn’t she have been under surveillance as well?
Marty would have.
But none of this explained why she was under surveillance now. Why did the FBI still have an interest in Maggie Cain? It had been five years since the trial. Her connection to Mark Andrews was severed with his death. What could they possibly suspect her of doing that was considered top secret? And since Cain had been in a relationship with Andrews, obviously she knew Wolfhagen.
So, why had she lied to him?
He got up from his desk and went to the window. There was so much smog and haze, he barely could see the sun set beyond the trees of Central Park. He wondered what a sensible man would do with this information.
The answer came at once.
A sensible man would confront the source.
* * *
In thirty minutes, he was at Maggie’s townhouse and Manhattan was lost to the night.
Marty looked across the deserted street to the building’s façade, where inside it seemed as though she had left on every light. The windows, shielded by lace curtains, punched bright bands of gold into the darkness.
He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, noticing as he crossed the street that the living room window was open. The curtains moved in the air, parting slightly, giving brief, frequent glimpses into the room beyond.
Maggie was sitting at the piano. Her back to him, she appeared to be studying the many photographs framed in silver on the piano’s lowered lid. In her hand was a glass of wine. Curled beside her on the bench was Baby Jane. If it weren’t for the movement of the cat’s tail, Marty also might have been looking at a photograph.
He went to the lighted door and rang the glowing buzzer.
It was a moment before Maggie answered. “Yes?”
Marty watched the peephole darken, felt himself being watched. “It’s Marty.”
He heard her say his name before unlocking the door and opening it wide. There was a mixture of surprise and curiosity on her face. “I thought you were going to call.”
“I decided to stop by instead. Is it all right if I come in? There are a few things I’d like to ask you.”
She gave him a puzzled look, but stepped aside so he could move into the living room.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” he said.
“Not at all. Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She motioned for him to sit down on the gold brocade sofa and took her own seat in the chair opposite him. She crossed her legs and for a moment simply studied him, her index finger tracing the rim of the wine glass she held in her hand. “Have you made a decision?” she asked.
“I haven’t,” Marty said. “First I need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
Maggie hesitated, and Marty sensed she wasn’t at all comfortable with the prospect of being questioned. But then, perhaps seeing no way out of the situation, she finished her wine and placed the empt
y glass down on the table between them. “You can ask me anything.”
“That Matisse in your entryway. Did you buy it?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
He turned in his seat and looked at the sculpture of a ballerina that stood on the mantle above the fireplace. Her feet in fifth position, the original pink ribbon in her hair, the sculpture was one of Gloria’s favorites and had been sold at auction a year ago, after the suicide of its previous owner. Marty noticed it when he walked in. “And the sculpture by Degas? Did you buy that?”
Maggie smiled.
“I know about your relationship with Mark Andrews,” he said.
“It’s no secret. I loved Mark. He was everything to me.”
“Did he buy you the Matisse and the Degas?”
“I do well, but not that well. He also bought me the piano.”
“How about this house?”
Maggie shook her head. “I bought the house--Mark just helped me furnish it.”
“I want you to tell me about your relationship.”
“I want you to tell me why it’s important.”
“It’s important because I’ve just learned from a friend that for years, you’ve been under surveillance by the FBI. I have a feeling you do know Wolfhagen. I have a feeling you’re writing this book for reasons other than insight or commercial success. I don’t like being lied to, and if I’m going to work for you, I expect you to tell me the truth.”
Maggie looked at him for a moment, the expression on her face wavering between anger and resentment. She stood and went to the piano, where there was a pack of cigarettes on the padded bench. She shook one out, lit it with a gold lighter. “You’ve run a check on me?”
Running of the Bulls Page 3
