“Right. Where’s Wolfhagen?”
“Downtown with the chief.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I was first on scene.”
“So, talk.”
“He’s scared. Freaked out. When I got here, he was standing in the middle of the room, starin’ at that box like it held the truth to every one of his nightmares.” He pointed beside the unmade bed, where there was a dark stain on the carpet. “He lost it after opening the package. Tried to make it to the bathroom but couldn’t. After washing out his mouth, he called the front desk, who called us. We got here in ten.”
“Along with the press,” Hines grumbled. He started toward the box. Marty and O’Hara followed. “Wolfhagen happen to mention what he did last night? Where he went? We know he checked in around seven. I assume he didn’t stay in.”
“He didn’t,” O’Hara said. “He ate dinner in his room, then left to visit his wife. Or is it his ex-wife? They divorced yet?”
“On the verge,” Marty said. He looked at Hines, then at O’Hara as Skeen’s camera flashed. They stopped just short of Wood’s head. “What time did he get back in?”
“This morning,” O’Hara said. “About an hour before he received the package.”
“He spent the night with her?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Has she confirmed that?”
“We haven’t contacted her yet.”
“Don’t,” Hines said. “I’ll talk to her myself.” He looked at Skeen, who was standing behind the table, writing something down on a note pad. “Mind if we take a look, Carlo?”
Skeen shrugged. “Why not? Green’s your color.”
“Shit like this don’t bother me.”
“We’ll see.”
Hines peered inside the box. Marty hesitated, then did the same.
Wood’s neck had been severed at such a steep angle that her head leaned back against the stained cardboard, her ruined face lifted to his. In a flash, Marty saw the sagging curve of her grayish right cheek, the fleshy hook of her twisted nose, the torn lips drawn back in horror over teeth that had been smashed to dust.
Wood’s skull no longer had the gentle curve of the living--it had been crushed by something blunt. Blood and bits of bone peppered her face in a swirl of scarlet. Her light blonde hair was now a deep reddish brown and matted in thick, coagulated clumps. Her eyes were missing. Someone had gouged them out.
Marty looked away. Wood had been dead nine hours and still someone had done this to her. She cheated them of murdering her, so they smashed her face, ripped off her head and sodomized her to satisfy their rage.
This was personal.
But would Wolfhagen have done this? The man had motive, but would he have gone this far after so much time?
Hines turned to O’Hara. “Why’s Wolfhagen in New York?”
“Never said.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“No,” O’Hara said. “I didn’t. The guy wasn’t exactly in one piece when I got here.”
“Neither was Wood,” Skeen said, and the young officer at the front of the room barked out a laugh.
Hines wanted to smack the kid. “He thought the box was a gift?”
“It had pretty ribbons on it. Wouldn’t you?”
“He must have smelled it.”
“Her head was sealed in plastic,” Skeen said. “Likely to prevent leakage, but also to conceal odor.”
“Who’d he think it was from?”
“He didn’t know,” O’Hara said. “People like him are used to getting gifts.”
“What was his reaction when he opened the box?”
“I told you,” O’Hara said. “The man freaked. Seeing Wood’s head scared the shit out of him.”
“And it’s your opinion that his reaction was genuine? Not rehearsed?”
“Why? You think he’s behind this?”
“I’m not thinking anything yet. It’s just a question.”
“It really don’t matter what you think,” O’Hara said. “I know people. I know what I saw. Wolfhagen didn’t get anything past me. He was telling the truth. There’s no way in hell he knew what was inside that box.”
~~~~
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Once out of the Plaza and away from the press, Hines offered Marty a lift to Gloria’s. “I can get you there quicker than any cab.”
They climbed into the Charger. Marty checked his watch. He’d promised his daughters he’d be there at noon to take them to lunch. Now, it was 12:30. “I owe you one.”
Hines pushed a button and the windows receded, sucking warm air and exhaust fumes into the car as they sped away. “You owe me more than that,” he said, “but we’ll discuss that later.”
For awhile, they were quiet. Marty closed his eyes and leaned back against the hot seat. He tried to clear his mind, but it was impossible. All he could see was Wood’s smashed head staring up at him from the tight confines of the Tiffany-blue box.
“Far as I see it, we got three ways we can look at this,” Hines said. “One--Wolfhagen’s guilty as hell. He killed Hayes, chopped off Wood’s head and sent it to himself for the alibi. Two--he’s being framed. Somebody thinks he didn’t spend enough time in the hole and wants him to spend the rest of his life rotting there. Three--Wolfhagen’s next. Whoever killed Hayes and Wood wants Wolfhagen dead, too. But they’re going to play with him first, send him squashed heads to scare the shit out of him, break him down before his own head winds up in a cardboard box.”
“It’s all possible,” Marty said.
“I’ll know more when I’ve checked Wolfhagen’s alibi and talked to him and Carra myself. I can’t get you into see him, but I can get you a copy of everything he says to Grindle, along with a copy of Wood’s surveillance tape and the call to 911. Tomorrow morning all right?”
“Tomorrow morning’s fine. I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Hines said, cruising across Ninth. “It’s part of the deal. Remember?”
Marty remembered. Soon, Hines would be expecting Marty to deliver something relevant to Wood’s case, or Marty would be on his own.
“If you want to know about Hayes, you’d do better to talk to the First P yourself,” Hines said. “It’s their case.”
“Who’s assigned to it?”
“Linda Patterson,” Hines said, smiling. “Know her?”
Hines knew damn well that he knew her. Marty tried working with her in the past on the high-profile murder of Emma Wilcox, the mayor’s sister, but Patterson’s cocaine addiction was so out of control at the time, her work so sloppy, he found the help he needed elsewhere and cracked the case himself. Patterson never forgave him for it. That case was her ticket to detective first grade.
“If you ask nice, she might be willing to help you,” Hines said. “Maybe even tell you what happened last night to Maria Martinez and her daughter.”
Not before helping herself to my wallet, Marty thought. Unlike Hines, Patterson helped no one without first being handed a check. “I’d rather you tell me about Martinez.”
They were on West End Avenue now, moving Uptown at a speed that was twice the legal limit. “What little I’ve heard ain’t gonna help you, my friend. Right now, my life is Wood and will be until I find the pervert that took her head. Just talk to Patterson. She’ll know what’s up with Martinez and Hayes. Patterson might be dirty, but she’s sharp. If you play her right, she might help.”
Hines cut right, narrowly missed the side of a delivery van, and cruised to a stop in front of Gloria’s building.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“No problem, man.”
Marty left the car and pushed through the building’s revolving doors. The doorman rose as Marty stepped past his desk. “You just missed them, Mr. Spellman. They left ten minutes ago.”
Marty felt a sinking in his gut. He promised the girls that he’d be here. He knew what his absence would mean to them. “Did they say where they were going?”
; The man shook his head. “Just that they were going out.”
“Were they alone?”
“They were with Ms. Spellman’s new friend. They left in his car.”
Marty felt a rush of anger. He had never been late picking up the girls. Gloria knew that. She could have waited for him. “Would you leave her a message for me, Toby?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Tell her I’ll be here next weekend at noon to take my daughters to lunch.”
The man wrote the message down on a yellow slip of paper. “Anything else?”
There was plenty Marty wanted to say to Gloria, but it would be to her face, not through this man. He turned to leave. “Just tell her I won’t be late,” he said. “And thanks, Toby. I appreciate it.”
* * *
At home, there were two messages left on his machine--the first from a Sister Mary Margaret asking for a handout, the second from his ex-wife informing him that he was late, but not to worry, Jack was taking them all to lunch. Marty went into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, cracked it open, knocked it back.
Unbelievable.
He’d call Mary Margaret back with a contribution, but as far as Gloria was concerned, she could go to the very place the good Sister feared most.
He was hungry. He went to the refrigerator, took out the fixings for a turkey sandwich, carried it all to the counter. He sliced and he spread and he stacked. He was cutting the sandwich in half when the service telephone rang. He licked mayonnaise from his fingertips and reached for the phone. “Carlos,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“Jennifer Barnes to see you, sir.”
Marty laid the knife on top of the sandwich. He and Jennifer had agreed to talk at eight. What was she doing here now? “All right,” he said. “Send her up.” He hung up the phone and waited for the doorbell to ring.
It didn’t.
The front door clicked shut and Marty heard the familiar sound of her heels clicking down the hallway. Jennifer stopped in the kitchen’s arched doorway and simply stared at him, her face flushed, as if she’d taken the stairs.
“How?” he asked.
She reached into her purse and removed the key he once gave her in a rush of affection. She held it up, a winking curve of metal. “I never gave it back,” she said. “I just held on to it. Don’t ask me why, I’d only lie. Do you want it back now?”
“I don’t know,” he said tentatively. “Why are you here?” He knew why she was here. He could see it on her face.
“Oh, Marty,” she said. “Why do you have to ask so many damn questions?”
She came over to where he was standing and kissed him hard on the mouth. Still kissing him, she tugged at his shirt and started unbuttoning it, her fingers brushing his nipples, skimming his chest, smoothing the thin trail of light brown hair that snaked down his stomach to his groin.
Marty moved to speak, but Jennifer put a finger to the lips. “Don’t,” she said. “Why ruin it? Just let it happen. We both want this.”
* * *
Later, in bed, exhausted and sucking air, Marty looked up at Jennifer as she slowly slid off him. “My God,” she said. “The neighbors must be looking for wolves right now. You didn’t hold back at all. You actually let yourself go.”
“I was horny.”
“That wasn’t it,” she said. “You’re different. I saw it this morning. You’ve changed. You’ve never come like that.”
Marty smiled at her. “I am different,” he said, patting his flat stomach. “About ten pounds different, right around my middle.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “You’re more relaxed. Your guard is down. You seem more settled. It’s as if you’ve let something go.” She lifted the damp hair off his forehead and combed it back with her fingertips. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you leave?”
At some point, he knew she’d ask that question, but he was surprised by the suddenness of it here. “I don’t know if I can answer that,” he said tentatively.
“Can you try?”
He owed it to her, but how to get it out properly? “I needed to get my act together,” he said. “When I met you, I was still in love with Gloria. We had two kids together. I love my kids. I miss them every day. I thought maybe there was another chance for us--even a third chance. Until I straightened my head out, I decided it was cruel to be in a relationship with you if all of me wasn’t here for you.”
“Where do you stand with Gloria now?”
“We’re finished,” he said. “We have been for a while.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Marty thought about that, thought of all the years and all the guilt and all the love won and all the love lost, and wondered what it all had meant. Was he a better man now for having loved Gloria? Besides his daughters, had anything good come out of those thirteen years together?
“I’ll always love her,” he said. “She gave me Katie and Beth. We have a history that I can’t just swipe away. But she’s changed into somebody I don’t recognize. She wants to be something else. She wants to be a celebrity, which I don’t understand. It’s a different kind of love I feel for her. It’s not sexual, but based on our past. We made two fantastic girls together, and that’s about all we got right. Does that make sense?”
Jennifer bent to kiss him on the lips. “I always knew you were a good man. I waited for you, you know?”
“You waited for me?”
She shrugged. “I love you,” she said. “I’ve always been in love with you. Of course, I waited for you. I knew at some point you’d come around and we’d give it another try.” She paused. “If that’s what you want.”
Marty was still for a moment. He felt overcome and grateful, but not confined. He realized he also loved her. And for the first time since he’d known her, he told her so.
~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Spocatti threaded through the crowds on lower Fifth, Maggie Cain so close he could reach out and slice her throat.
He’d been tailing her since early afternoon and he was enjoying it. She was attractive. Dark brown hair falling to her shoulders and swinging like scarves. Olive green shorts, white shirt, matching green shoes, legs tanned and shining in the sun. The scar on her cheek made him go weak with the mystery of it. He wondered how she smelled and how she tasted. She reminded him of the only woman he had ever loved, dead now ten years by his own hands.
He cut left and hung back to give her some room. On the street, a city bus rumbled past, its joints squealing like stuck pigs, a flood of yellow cabs pooling around it like an impatient school of fish.
Maggie Cain paused to look behind it. The sun hit her square in the face and lit up her eyes. Spocatti thought she was striking. In the past hour, he’d followed her to two bookstores, her agent’s office on 13th Street, and the post office.
At the first bookstore, a trio of young women recognized her, pulled her books down from the dusty brown shelves and tentatively surrounded her, their mouths split wide and smiling. Spocatti watched her sign her name. She listened and nodded and laughed with them, but none of it was real--her thoughts were elsewhere. And that intrigued him.
But not as much as her scar.
She stopped on the corner of Fifth and 8th, and waited. The light turned, traffic stopped, the WALK sign flashed, but she didn’t move. She didn’t cross and Spocatti had no choice but to stroll past her. It would be too obvious if he didn’t. He walked by and caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, saw what might have been a smile on her lips. For him?
He moved to the other side of the street, lost himself in the crowds, shielded himself on the other side of a hot dog kiosk and turned back to look at her. Now she was facing uptown. He followed her look and saw only the crush of a thousand cars bearing down on Washington Square.
Carmen.
He removed his cell and hit her number. Two quick rings. Her voice: “What?”
“Of course, I’m inside.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Any problems?”
“Her security system’s good, but not that good.”
“What have you found?”
“Nothing. Not even a hint of something on Wolfhagen.”
“Not even a hint,” Spocatti said. “That certainly seems strange for someone writing a book about the man, wouldn’t you say?”
Carmen didn’t say.
“Maybe she isn’t writing a book,” Spocatti said. “Maybe you got that wrong, too.”
“You heard what Hayes said, Vincent. I wasn’t imagining it.”
“So you weren’t,” he said, and paused. Cain was checking her watch. “You’ve checked her phones?”
“I’ve hit the redial button on every one I’ve come across.”
“And?”
“A call to her agent, one to her dry cleaner, another to someone in L.A.”
“Who’s the someone in L.A.?”
“I have no idea. No one picked up. No answering machine.”
“You’ve scanned the numbers?”
“No, Vincent, I’ve ignored them. Jesus, give me some credit. Where is Cain now?”
“Corner of Fifth and 8th.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I have no idea. She’s just standing there.”
“You have no idea,” Carmen repeated. “Has she spotted you?”
He smiled. “She might have.”
“Think you can handle this, Vincent?”
“Touché, Carmen.”
He lowered the phone from his ear as Maggie Cain stepped to the street. He watched her lift the strap of her handbag higher onto her shoulder and finger her hair away from her face. She waited and Spocatti saw what she was waiting for.
A black limousine pulled sharply to the curb and the rear passenger door shot open. Looking tense, Cain leaned down, said something, shook her head, glanced at him and then stepped inside.
Running of the Bulls Page 10
