He read the Wood article. As he suspected, the story offered few details that could help him. By the time they went to press, her story was still unfolding.
No problem.
Marty reached for the phone and dialed the one person in Manhattan who would know as much about this case as the cops--Jennifer Barnes at Channel One.
She answered on the third ring, her sleepy voice a reminder of things better left forgotten. “Jennifer, it’s Marty. I think it’s time we have that breakfast.”
There was a silence. He heard her turning over, the bed creaking as she shifted position. “Who is this?”
“It’s Marty.”
“Marty?”
“That’s right.”
“And you want breakfast?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You’ve got to be kidding....”
“I’m not kidding.”
“All right,” she said sleepily. “I’ve got food here. You know where to get the coffee.”
“Perfect.”
“What’s this about, anyway? I thought you needed more time?”
“This isn’t about us, Jennifer.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
~~~~
CHAPTER TEN
Jennifer Barnes lived four blocks south on 67th Street.
Marty crossed over to Sal’s on 66th, bought two large coffees and left thinking of all the mornings he came here after spending a night with her. It was a brief, six-month affair and it didn’t end well. But in many ways, the time they spent together was a necessary distraction from a marriage that had fallen into disrepair.
The doorman recognized him on sight.
Marty nodded and strolled past him into the building. He stepped into the dark warmth of a mahogany-paneled elevator and pushed a button until it glowed. Channel One paid its star reporter a salary so handsome, it allowed her to live on the eighteenth floor, just high enough to offer a glimpse of Central Park.
Jennifer met him at the door with a gun.
She pointed it straight at his heart, took a step forward and pulled him inside by the arm. “I ought to put a hole straight through you,” she said.
Marty moved past her and put the coffee down on a side table. He took the gun from her hands, checked the barrel, saw that it was loaded, snapped it shut. “Cute,” he said. “What if it had gone off?”
“You probably would have died.”
“And if I had?”
“One less bastard walking the streets of New York.”
“Just the one?”
“I’ll find the others. They always seem to come to me.”
She took one of the coffees and started into the living room, her curtain of blonde hair swinging. “I don’t know why you’re here,” she said. “But it had better be good. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to see you, especially after I read your blog and Netflixed that movie you raved about. Second biggest waste of time in my life.”
“You read my blog?”
“Apparently, everyone does. People talk about it at work. It’s their go-to source for finding a good movie. I’m not nearly as enthusiastic.”
“Which movie did you watch?”
“‘The White Ribbon.’ And can you just tell me what you were smoking when you wrote that review? That was the bleakest, darkest movie I’ve seen in years. And it had subtitles. I hate subtitles.”
It was a fantastic movie, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. With raised eyebrows, Marty took his coffee and followed her into the living room, where she stood at the great window, her back to him, coffee on a side table, hands on her hips.
He loved this apartment. Much like his own home, books, magazines and newspapers were piled everywhere--on the floor, leaning against tables, towering alongside each end of the sofa. There was nothing pretentious about it, nothing that suggested a designer’s stamp. Marty always felt that he could breathe here, high as he was above the congested streets of Manhattan.
“Why are you here?”
They had met nine weeks after his separation from Gloria. He was just shaking off the cobwebs of a deep depression when the call came from Paul, his good friend from college, asking him to dinner. “There’s someone Laurie and I want you to meet.” The dinner was small and informal--an eclectic group of eight people eager to have fun and to be themselves. Jennifer Barnes was seated at his right. Her quick wit and easy laugh was like a tonic. Soon they were falling into conversation. For the first time in years, Marty found himself flirting.
“Don’t just stand there, Marty. Tell me why you’re here.”
For a while things were good. They dated steadily for three weeks before Jennifer asked him to spend the night. “Look,” she said. “I’m thirty-five years old, do what I want, choose whom I like. Can’t we get this out of the way?”
Sleeping with her was like throwing away the ghosts of his past. Unlike Gloria, who rarely enjoyed sex, Jennifer was sexy and fun, uninhibited and wild, her aggression a welcome reprieve from Gloria’s disinterest. Marty had never met anyone like her--professional, healthy, happy, remarkably settled considering her position at Channel One--and to this day, he regretted hurting her the way he had. She wanted a relationship and, naturally, he didn’t. End of their story.
Or was it?
“I need your help,” he said after a moment. “A favor.”
She turned away from the window, her eyebrows arching.
“Gerald Hayes and Kendra Wood. Are you covering their story?”
She reached for her coffee and peeled off the plastic lid. She sipped and gazed across the room at him. “This really is about business, then?”
He nodded.
“You didn’t come here for another reason?”
“No.”
The disappointment on her face was unmistakable. “Then you should already know the answer to your question. Of course, I’m covering what happened to them. Didn’t you see my piece last night?”
“I didn’t.”
“Naturally, you didn’t. Probably withdrawing into another movie.”
She left the window and sat down in the middle of the overstuffed sofa. “You need a favor from me?” she said. “Well, I don’t give favors. In my business, favors are a commodity, exchangeable on the open market. But I’d be willing to trade.”
Always the shrewd one. But then he knew this wouldn’t be easy. “What do you want?”
She stretched out her legs and eased back against the sofa. “You’re obviously investigating their deaths for someone,” she said. “And while I don’t necessarily care who that person is, I’d hope you’d be willing to share any insights you might come across during your travels. You’re good at your job, Marty. We both know that. But we also know that Hayes didn’t kill himself. At least I know that. Especially after what happened last night. As for Wood, don’t you find it interesting that whoever chopped off her head also left with it? Why would someone do that? What are they planning to do with Kendra Wood’s severed head?”
She paused, the Styrofoam cup pressed against her bottom lip as she watched Marty’s brows draw together. “But I see you know nothing about that. Maybe, we can help each other.”
He’d be a fool to turn her down. In many ways, they were equally well connected, only in different circles. “All right,” he said. “Fair enough.”
She smiled, her blue eyes shining. “So sensible,” she said. “And so unusual. I’m impressed. Are you a new Marty, or are you still the Marty who can’t make a commitment and who leaves when things are just starting to make sense?”
“Jennifer....”
She held up a hand. “What’s the favor?”
“Wood and Hayes,” he said. “What wasn’t written about them in the Times?”
“Plenty.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what was smeared in blood above Wood’s bed. But Hines asked me not to include that in my report. You know our deal--he gives me exclusi
ve information that won’t compromise the investigation, I put him in front of the camera and make him a star. Blah, blah, blah. Last night, all I was allowed to mention about Wood is that her head was missing at the scene and that the job was done professionally, whatever the hell that means. Are their professional rules for cutting off someone’s head?” She shrugged. “Despite a sophisticated security system that included a video camera hooked to a DVR, someone got inside.”
Marty sat down beside her. Detective Mike Hines was obviously working Wood’s case. Good, Marty thought. They were friends. “Has anyone checked the DVR?”
“That’s all I know.”
“Who has access to the apartment other than Wood?”
“Far as I know, no one.”
“No husband? Ex-husband? Lover? Children? Relatives? Friends?”
“Kendra Wood wasn’t close to anyone, Marty. She was a loner, protective of her privacy, consumed with her work. You two would have loved each other. And you should have seen her home. Shit piled everywhere, books stacked to the ceiling. She never married, never had children, doubtful if she ever took a lover. I think she was a hoarder.”
“Apparently, being a hoarder is in vogue.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you saying I’m a hoarder?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I may not be the neatest person in the world, but I’m no hoarder.”
“I was referencing my girls’ bedroom, which is a wreck.”
“Whatever. As for Wood’s friends, where are they now? By the looks of that townhouse, something tells me that Wood never got close to anyone. But here’s the most interesting part, perhaps even the most telling--her family hates her. They live in northern Maine, have nothing, literally nothing, and they don’t want a thing to do with Wood or with her funeral arrangements. Seems that Kendra wrote them off years ago. They haven’t seen her since 1982 and they certainly don’t mind that they won’t be seeing her again.”
Marty thought about that for a moment, thought about the dynamics of hatred within a family, and sipped his coffee. “What was written above the bed?”
“I can’t tell anyone that.”
“But you’ll tell me.”
“And lose a contact because of it? Forget it.”
Later, he’d call Hines and ask him. “Anything else on Wood?”
“That covers it.”
“Then what about Hayes? Why are you convinced he was murdered? The Times hinted at suicide.”
“The Times also went to press about an hour before Maria Martinez and her daughter were found dead in a Dumpster on 141st Street.” She lifted her head. “You do know who Maria Martinez is, don’t you?”
Marty could guess. “She the woman who saw Hayes hit the sidewalk?”
“She’s the one.”
“Christ.”
“Gerald Hayes wasn’t suicidal, Marty. His business was doing well. The man was on his way back, even if it was through international markets. The only way he would have jumped is if it was onto a bed of blue-chip bonds. Somebody murdered him.”
Earlier, Marty came to the same conclusion. He sat down on the couch.
“Martinez’s death is obvious,” Jennifer said. “Whoever shoved Hayes through the window must have known that Martinez was a possible witness. Somehow, they found out where she lived and murdered her and her daughter. Why the bodies were dropped in a Dumpster four blocks away is beyond me. But I do know this--whoever killed Maria Martinez has one less witness to worry about in the death of Gerald Hayes.”
They fell silent.
Jennifer finished her coffee, crumpled the paper cup into a tight ball and hurled it across the room to the overflowing wastebasket beside her writing table. She hit the top of the towering paper heap and smiled despite the avalanche of old notes and passé story ideas that tumbled to the floor. She rose from the couch.
But Marty remained seated. “Just a minute,” he said. “I’ve got another question. Edward and Bebe Cole. Did you cover their deaths?”
“Of course, I did. But that was months ago.”
“They were murdered over a painting, weren’t they? Something by van Gogh?”
“Among other things, but, yes, the van Gogh was the item hyped by the press. Cole paid $40 million for that painting. He and his wife were celebrated for it. God knows where Boob Manly was going to sell it.”
And then Marty remembered.
Robert “Boob” Manly was the small-time crook who had been tried and convicted of second degree murder in the Coles’ deaths. After initially pleading not guilty, he was advised by his lawyer to plead guilty to the reduced sentence when the van Gogh and the murder weapon were discovered in a storage area rented under his name.
Manly maintained his innocence, said he’d been framed. But when he learned that his prints were on the gun and on the painting--and that there was a witness who could place him at the crime scene--he followed his lawyer’s advice and reluctantly changed his plea to guilty, thus avoiding an expensive trial and a jury that could have sent him to prison forever. Instead, Manly was now serving twenty-five years to life at Riker’s. Parole in eight to twelve years.
Marty was intrigued. Maggie Cain must have known that Manly admitted to killing the Coles, so why hadn’t she mentioned him this morning? Why did she deliberately overlook him to suggest that Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker or Peter Schwartz were the murderers? Did she believe in Manly’s pleas of innocence? Did she have reason to?
Jennifer shot him a quick, knowing look. “I get it,” she said. “You’re thinking the deaths are related. And actually that would be a neat fit. But I covered Manly’s hearing, Marty. I saw the creep. Manly had a penchant for stealing art. He had a rap sheet that would have impressed even you. He confessed. He did it.” She paused to study his face. “You might as well forget Mark Andrews,” she said. “He was trampled by bulls. Thousands of people saw it happen. Murder’s unlikely.”
“Unless he was pushed.”
Jennifer held his gaze. “He died last month, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” Marty said. “And now Wood and Hayes are dead. See the pattern? There was a time when all of their lives collided in Wood’s courtroom. Now they’re dying. Coincidence?”
“But those people have been out of the public eye for years,” Jennifer said. “If someone wanted to bump them off, they would have done so years ago. Why wait all this time?”
“Sometimes, it’s best to wait.”
She shook her head at him. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. In any given week--never mind over a period of seven months--I could find something that would link five of the city’s unexplained homicides, but that doesn’t mean that one person did the killings. And what about Manly? If you were innocent of murder, would you ever have pled guilty? I wouldn’t have. I’d fight to the death, regardless of what my lawyer said.”
She held out her hands. “But what do I know? If I’ve learned anything it’s that in this city, anything is possible. Even a hunch. Look into it. Maybe something else connects their deaths. Something that can’t be explained away.”
She walked him to the door.
“If I were to tell you that I’ve missed you, what would you say?” she asked.
At first Marty wasn’t sure if he heard her right. She was standing in front of him, her back to the closed door, her face partly concealed by shadow. Marty could see the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. He told her the truth. “I’d say that I’ve missed you, too.”
“Would you mean it?”
“I’d mean it.”
“Then you’re smarter than I thought.”
She opened the door and was about to let him pass when she said: “I’m going to give you another chance.”
A part of him froze.
“Oh, for God’s sake, relax. It has nothing to do with us, and everything to do with a good movie. It’s Saturday night and I’m staying in. I know, I lead a thril
ling life. I want to Netflix something, but obviously it needs to be something I can stream. What do you recommend?”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Right now? Something about a doomed couple.”
“I’ve got something, but it has subtitles.”
“I told you earlier that I hate subtitles.”
“That’s because you’re broadcast, not print. Of course, you hate subtitles. It involves reading.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Great. And besides, the movie will make up for it. ‘Let the Right One In.’”
She screwed up her face. “I hear that’s bloody.”
“Bloody brilliant.”
“Isn’t there an English version out?”
“There is, and it’s good, but watch this one first.”
“Alright,” she said. “‘Let the Right One In’ it is.” She stepped aside so he could move past her. “You’ll call me when you have something?”
“I will.”
She started to close the door. “And maybe even if you don’t?”
Once again, she caught him of guard. Marty was about to speak, but was saved when the door clicked shut.
~~~~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carmen heard the rat before she saw it.
She was in the safe house on Avenue A, curled up with her cheek to the hardwood floor, and she could hear it. Rummaging, chittering, pushing its luck.
She opened her eyes and saw it sideways.
Ten feet away, larger than she had anticipated, eating the remains of the pastrami sandwich she bought last night at an all-night deli in the Village. Slate gray whiskers twitching, jaw chewing, eating her breakfast. Without a sound, Carmen lifted the gun nestled beneath her ribcage, checked the silencer and took aim.
“Hey,” she said. “Rat.”
Their eyes met--and suddenly the rat was a dripping gray-red smear on the crumbling brick wall.
She sat up and looked around the spare room, the floor of which had an angle steep enough to cause concern even among the most jaded of New Yorkers. Her skin was damp, sticky. Her dark hair clung to her neck in crisscrossing webs. She’d stripped down to her underwear sometime in the night, but it hadn’t helped. Despite her efforts to shut it off, the ancient iron radiator tucked beneath the open window had continued to tick off the seconds with quick bursts of steam.
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