Spocatti pushed forward to the street.
The limousine pulled away from the curb, took a left on 8th, drove straight past him. Vincent leaned down, but the tinted windows were so dark, he couldn’t see inside. He searched the street for a cab, glimpsed one halfway down 8th, and swore to himself.
So far away and yet he needed that cab. He couldn’t lose her now. He cut through the flock of pigeons dawdling on the sidewalk and ran in the wake of their beating wings.
* * *
Carmen stood just outside Maggie Cain’s living room, looking across to the black cat poised on the edge of the grand piano. It was staring at her, its golden eyes gleaming. She stomped her foot at it, hissed at it, but it made no effort to move. She switched the phone to her other ear and said impatiently: “Are you there, Vincent?”
But he wasn’t. He’d hung up.
She snapped the phone shut and glared at the cat. It would have to be black. In this business, luck was as important as skill and Carmen, raised by parents who instilled in her a fear of broken mirrors and the otherworldly, was superstitious enough to know with certainty that her luck was being challenged.
Time.
She had to move. She wanted to be out of here in twenty. She did another surveillance of the living room, but there was nothing for her here. She went back into the hallway, grabbed the knapsack she left at the front door, tossed the phone inside, and took the staircase to the second floor.
To the right of the bedroom was Cain’s office, a large space that overlooked 19th Street--tall shelves lined with books, heavy damask curtains that pressed out the sun, an acrylic cylinder filled with tropical fish that stretched from floor to ceiling and cast blue flares of light along the pale hardwood floor.
At the far end of the room was a desk.
Carmen went to it and sat down on the brown leather wingback. At last, a writer’s world--stacks of papers and thick green folders; a computer, printer, a telephone sitting atop a modem; books leaning against books; an ashtray overflowing with crushed cigarette butts; a dented can of Diet Coke, half-full.
With gloved hands, Carmen started opening the folders, flipping through the papers, skimming the pages for anything on Wolfhagen. But all she found here were letters from fans, bills Cain had yet to pay, several letters to her editor, three notes from Cain’s mother, an old shopping list slashed with red marks, coupons that had expired.
She put the folders back, turned on the computer and while waiting for it to start up, she swept the room again. There had to be something here.
She leaned back and opened the desk drawers, found Cain’s address book tucked beneath a sheath of plain white papers, tossed it onto the desk, and then swung around to look through the file cabinets behind her. Nothing. Not even a file on the man.
She stood and rummaged through the rolltop desk next to the bubbling aquarium. She checked the trash can beside the bookcase. There was a closet at the far end of the room, but nothing helpful within it. As much as Carmen looked, she came away with not so much as a scrap of information on Wolfhagen. She went into the bedroom, searched everywhere, but it fruitless.
Was Cain even writing a book?
Carmen returned to the office, knowing she couldn’t leave here without something.
She crossed to the desk and removed a flash drive from her knapsack. She connected it to Cain’s computer, downloaded the contents of her hard drive, and reached for Cain’s address book, soaking the pages into memory. She put it down and, as she did, her hand brushed against the telephone.
And Carmen felt a rush. She hadn’t checked this phone.
She hit the redial button and listened through the loud speaker as the machine on the opposite end picked up. A man’s voice, brisk, all business: “This is 555-2641. Leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you.”
Carmen severed the connection and searched for the man’s number in the address book. She found it toward the back of the book: Marty Spellman, Private Investigator. The ink was dark red and appeared fresh. There was an address beneath it and the number to his cell, which she called on her own cell.
“Hello?”
She hung up.
A private investigator--and Maggie Cain was in contact with him.
Carmen smiled.
Bingo.
~~~~
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stretched out naked in the center of the bed, Jennifer lifted her head from Marty’s chest and looked up at the telephone. “All right,” she said. “First your telephone, now your cell phone. Who’s calling and hanging up on you? What’s her name? You break her heart, too?”
He looked at the number on his cell, but didn’t recognize it. “Very funny.”
“You must be seeing someone.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re so good looking,” she said. “So charming. So intelligent. So much money.”
“So full of shit,” he said. “And besides, I don’t know anyone with enough courage to date me.”
Jennifer laughed. “Sweetheart, are you kidding? This is New York. Here, the women have bigger balls than yours.”
“In the right parts of town, they do.”
She put a finger to his lips. “I really don’t want to know how you knew that,” she said, wiggling down the bed. She tiptoed her fingers down the length of his penis, cupped her hand around its base and smiled as it swelled. “Amazing,” she said. “I mean, look at it grow. I bet Brian Williams’ cock doesn’t do this.” She winked at him. “Or Katie Couric’s. If I had one of these, I’d never leave it alone.”
Marty watched as she slowly masturbated him. “There was a time when I didn’t leave it alone.”
“Let’s not talk about those months you were without me.”
“I was talking about when I was a kid.”
“Of course, you were.”
“I’m serious.”
She squeezed harder. “I’m sure you are. And let me tell you, Marty, the idea of you locked away in a bathroom with some skin magazine propped on your lap is certainly going to get my coals burning this afternoon.” She tugged and pulled and thumped the head of his penis against her chin. “How big is this thing, anyway?”
“How big is a mile?”
“A hell of a lot longer than this.” She flicked her tongue along the very tip. “I’d say it’s a good three inches. Maybe four.”
He patted her ass. “Aren’t you sweet. Care for me to guess your weight?”
“I’ve got your balls in my hands. You sure you want to go there?”
“Probably not.”
She continued to play with it. “It is big,” she said.
“Your weight or my cock?”
“So clever.”
She put her mouth over the head and reached up to pinch his nipple. Her tongue extended and curled, fluttered and did things to him that made him moan. He put his cell down and got on top of her. It occurred to him that this would be the third time in less than ninety minutes that they’d made love.
It occurred to him again just how much he had missed her.
* * *
“I’m supposed to be in editing,” Jennifer called from the bathroom. “My producer is going to kill me.”
She came out of the bathroom and crossed to the bed, where she’d laid out her clothes and started to dress. She leaned down to kiss Marty on the forehead, then on the lips, then on the nose and on each cheek. Her skin was free of makeup and it glowed from the heat of the shower. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, was damp and smelled of shampoo.
“Voice-overs?” he asked.
“Ad nauseam.”
She started down the hall. Marty dressed and followed her into the entryway.
“We’ll talk tonight at eight,” she said, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. “You can tell me everything then.”
Almost everything, Marty thought. He wasn’t telling her about the tattoo and the piercing until he knew more.
&nbs
p; * * *
When she left, he showered, brushed his teeth and dressed in a fresh change of clothes. He didn’t know where his relationship with Jennifer was going or what the past few hours had meant, but he knew better than to second-guess anything. Right now, he was simply happy to have her back in his life. Whatever came of it.
He went to his office.
Maggie Cain asked him to call at noon, but now it was 3:30. Time to get focused. He tried her number, got her machine and left a message, saying he’d call her back as soon as he got the chance.
He sat at his desk, opened his address book and looked up Linda Patterson’s extension at the First P. He didn’t want to call her, didn’t want to deal with her crap, but he had no choice. He picked up the phone and tapped out her number. She answered on the third ring. “Patterson.”
“Linda,” he said. “It’s Marty Spellman. How are you?”
“Busy.”
“Too busy to meet somewhere for a drink? I’m buying.”
“You’d have to get me to sit down with you.”
Coming from anyone else, Marty would have been insulted. But Patterson was such a wreck, so infinitely troubled, he couldn’t help being amused by her little dig. And so he dug back, reaching back to her past when she’d been busted for drug abuse. “The reason I’m calling is that I just learned from a friend that IA is about to bust your ass for trafficking. All I wanted to do is buy you a drink before they finally kick your ass off the force. A parting gift of sorts to make up for the pension you’ll be losing.”
“Fuck you, Spellman.”
“Charming as ever, Linda.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“I’d never be able to afford to.”
She slammed down the receiver.
Marty called her back. “Do you think we can behave like adults now? Or is that out of the question?”
She didn’t answer.
“All I want is to do is ask you a few questions.”
“Why the hell should I bother talking to you?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question, Linda.”
He heard what sounded like her pushing back her chair and closing her office door. “What questions?” she asked.
“Not over the phone,” Marty said. “In person. How’s 4:00 sound?”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m working a big case. Gotta be here. Gotta be now.”
He had no time for this. He’d have to be blunt. “I can’t exactly hand you a check over the phone or in your office, now can I, Linda?”
She went silent for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “My birthday isn’t until next month. But what the hell? I haven’t eaten lunch, so let’s make it the earliest dinner New York has ever seen. Where do you want to meet?”
* * *
The Tarot Café was in the partitioned basement of an old warehouse on Prince Street. Owned by three psychic sisters from Flatbush, the café served imported coffees and herbal teas, ginseng extracts and mushroom shoots, exotic-looking desserts and homemade breads, soups, sandwiches, as well as glimpses into their clients’ futures.
It was through Gloria that Marty came to this narrow, dim place that often smelled of patchouli oil, and it was through Gloria that he had met the three sisters Buzzinni--Roberta, Carlotta and Gigi.
Not a superstitious man, Marty had come to view the Buzzinnis’ psychic powers as little more than a gimmick that had turned into a comfortable career of tea leaves and tarot cards, face readings and character analyses. Gloria, however, swore by them. “They’re good,” she said, after her first visit. “One of them held my hand and told me I have two daughters. Another read my cards and learned that I paint. They said I’m going to be famous.”
Now it was Gloria who was saying that.
Roberta Buzzinni, his favorite of the three sisters, had taken the cafe’s reins while Carlotta and Gigi worked to open their new satellite café on Christopher Street.
She was seated at the rear of the empty café shuffling a deck of cards when he stepped into the quiet gloom. She looked up at him with raised eyebrows and immediately cut the deck, drew the top card and held it as high as the hair on her head. “This,” she said, smiling, “is your future.” She looked at the card and her smile faltered. She drew the next card and her frown deepened.
Amused, Marty threaded his way through the many tapestry-covered tables and wispy, gray-blue slips of incense smoke. Today, the café smelled of tomato soup and myrrh. “That bad?” he asked.
Roberta buried the cards at the bottom of the pile and put the deck away. “What the hell do I know?” she said. “I’m just a psychic.” She stood up and enfolded him in heavy arms. “Where have you been?” she asked. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been working,” he said. “What else?”
“I can feel your bones,” she said, squeezing him. “You’re not eating. You’re too thin.”
“It’s all muscle, baby.”
“Yeah,” she said, stepping back. “Kinda like me.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and inhaled the sweet scent of plums in her thick, curly black hair. “Sorry it’s been so long,” he said. “But I did stop by three Sundays ago. The place was closed.”
“We had a little fire in the kitchen,” Roberta said as they sat down. “Carlotta saw it coming two weeks before it happened, but couldn’t zone in on the exact date. Gigi and I tried like hell to tap into it, but our own Information Superhighway was on the fritz. Too much static in the summertime--too many souls buzzing in and out of our lives. But the fire turned out to be great. No one got hurt and we got a new kitchen out of the blaze, courtesy of Fabrizzi’s Insurance. Gigi’s in heaven. No more rats!”
Marty laughed. “How’s the new place?”
“Opening next month. And wait until you see it. Spirits speak to you in there. The place is brimming with energy.”
“Just be careful who you tell that to.”
“What are you talking about? I’m telling everyone.”
“How are you?”
“Fatter than ever, but happy as hell. It’s you I’m worried about. Where have you been? Two months I haven’t seen you. Gigi was asking for you the other day. I told her I didn’t know anything, which surprised all of us because, you know, I tend to know things without knowing how I know them. Gloria disappeared years ago, but you, you hung in there. You came to see us. You cared. Then, poof! You’re also gone.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now, so you might as well eat. I’m feeding you. Lotta made a tomato soup this morning that’ll make you cry. It’s on me.”
“Bring tissues.”
“You’ll need them.”
She got up from the table with a bit of a struggle. She was a large woman with hips like barrels and breasts so heavy they rounded her back. She pushed sideways through the swinging set of kitchen doors and returned a moment later with soup, bread and chilled herbal tea on a wooden tray. “Enjoy,” she said, placing the food in front of him. “There’s more where that came from.”
He knew better than to argue. He started to eat and became aware that she was studying him.
“You’re giving off a helluva lot of energy, sweetie, and that either means you’ve met someone, or you’re working a new case. I think it’s both, but let’s start with the new case.”
Marty spooned soup and evaded the subject. “I meant to tell you that I’m meeting someone here.”
“I knew that,” Roberta said, sitting in the chair opposite him. “Now, give me your hand.”
“Let’s not start that crap, Roberta.”
“Just give me your hand,” she said. “I had a bad feeling when you came in. I need to make sure of a few things.”
“I’m not superstitious.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “Just gifted. So, humor me. Something’s off.”
Reluctantly, Marty gave her his hand. Roberta held it for a moment, then turned it so the palm f
aced the tapestry-covered ceiling. She closed her eyes and massaged the soft center with her thumb and index finger. She was silent for a moment before she spoke. “This new case of yours,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”
Marty sipped his tea.
Roberta’s forehead creased with thought. Her dark eyebrows stitched together and became one. “You’re in over your head. You’re being lied to. You’re in danger and you don’t even know it. Someone’s not what they seem.”
“Few people are,” Marty mused. “Take Gloria, for instance.”
“No,” Roberta said, looking at him. Her eyes were serious. “Don’t be flip. I drew the Death card when you came in. You’re at risk. I’m sure of that. For once in your life, listen to me. It’s possible you might not come out of this alive.”
Marty tried to pull his hand back, but Roberta hung on.
“Three women,” she said. “One of them loves you, one of them resents you, the third is keeping secrets from you. They’re in danger, too, but only one knows it and she doesn’t care. She’s got murder in her heart. She wants someone dead. I don’t know if it’s you, but you’re involved. She might kill you.”
She released his hand.
“You’ve got to listen to me,” Roberta said. “This is real.”
At that moment, the front door swung open and Linda Patterson stepped inside.
~~~~
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Linda Patterson was not the woman Marty remembered from two years ago.
Dressed casually in beige linen pants and a white top, her light blonde hair just reaching her shoulders, she moved toward Roberta and Marty with the air of a professional, which was a radical difference from the last time he’d seen her.
Where was the hardened, strung-out cop he once caught freebasing coke in the back of a tenement on Avenue C? Where were the deeply rouged cheeks, brittle red hair and dumpy looking clothes that once aged her? Today’s Linda Patterson looked nothing like her past and instead gave the clever illusion of city chic--until she opened her mouth.
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