“Oh, this is perfect, Spellman,” she said, looking around. “A Tibetan massage parlor. Last time I caught a whiff of incense was 1969 and Mama Cass had yet to choke on her chicken bone.”
“You and your urban legends. It was a ham sandwich.”
“Whatever. You and your freaky joints. I suppose you’re into holistic home medicine, too. Acupuncture. Aroma therapy.”
“Good manners.”
“Bullshit responses.”
Roberta shot him a glance. Marty returned the look and stood. “Linda,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Roberta Buzzinni. She’s one of the owners of the café.”
Unfazed, Patterson turned to Roberta and blinked. “You a psychic or something?”
Roberta nodded.
“And you admit it,” Linda said. “Now, that’s interesting.” She said ‘interesting’ as though it were the least interesting thing in the world. She lowered her shiny leather handbag onto the table and put her hands on her hips. “Okay,” she said, “I’m game. Tell me my future.”
Roberta lifted an eyebrow at Marty, then pushed back her chair and stood. “Ms. Patterson,” she said, “something tells me you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“I’ve been a detective with the NYPD for eight years,” Linda said. “Before that, I was an assistant at the M.E.’s office. You have no idea what I can handle. Try me.”
Roberta’s face became set, expressionless. It was the face of a woman addressing a problematic child. Marty saw tolerance in her eyes, but also a hint of something else. Mischief? “All right,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
Linda held out her hand, which Roberta took and just as quickly dropped. “You won’t live to see your fiftieth birthday. You’ll be shot dead in the street--a hole right through that Botoxed forehead of yours. The number of people who show up at your funeral will reveal just how cruelly you’ve lived your life.” In the silence that fell, Roberta excused herself and swung sideways into the kitchen. Marty heard her bark out a laugh as he sat back down.
Patterson took the chair opposite him. “What the hell kind of a woman is that?” she said angrily. “Won’t live past my fiftieth birthday. What kind of a thing is that to say to someone? I’m forty-nine now, for Christ’s sake. My birthday’s in a few months. She saying I’ll be dead by then?” She shook her head. “No wonder this dump is empty.”
“Can’t handle it, Linda?”
“I wanted to know something nice,” Linda said. “I wanted to hear something good, just like we all do. I didn’t need to hear that crap. That woman’s got nerve.”
“I believe she could say the same about you. You insulted her and her business.”
Patterson ignored the comment and rummaged inside her handbag--blunt red fingernails clicking, hands grasping and pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. She shook one out, lit it with the strike of a match and inhaled, holding the smoke before blowing it above their heads. “Look,” she said. “I meant it when I said I was busy. I’m giving you fifteen minutes. What do you want from me?”
He looked at her cigarette. “Smoking isn’t allowed in here.”
“I’m a cop.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll see. I’m seeking information.”
“Surprise, surprise. What about?”
“A couple of things. But let’s start with Maria Martinez and her daughter.”
Patterson drew on the cigarette and sat looking at him, her eyes and face betraying nothing. “Maria Martinez?” she said. “Since when are you interested in the welfare mothers of the world, Marty? Martinez didn’t live in a penthouse on Fifth. She was no murdered socialite. Why would you of all people be interested in her and her daughter?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Linda.”
“That may be,” Linda said. “But it’s up to me whether I answer them, isn’t it?” She took another pull off her cigarette and paused, her face hardening, jaw tightening, wheels turning. “Look,” she said. “I’m not giving you shit until you’ve handed over that check you promised me.”
Marty removed the check from his shirt pocket and pushed it face-down across the table.
Patterson picked it up, glanced fleetingly at the amount and tucked it in her handbag. “That’s less than before,” she said. “You’re getting cheap. But seeing as though I’ve only got a couple months to live, I’ll take it. What do you want to know?”
“For starters,” Marty said, “I’d like to know about the people who saw them being dumped in that Dumpster on 141st Street.”
Patterson started nibbling her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d picked up in rehab. “Aren’t you the clever one, Marty. How’d you find out about that?”
“I get around.”
“Yeah,” Linda said. “Like the clap.”
The kitchen door swung open and Roberta appeared with a steaming cup of tea on a metal tray. She put the cup and the saucer down in front of Linda, plucked the cigarette from her hand and said with her eyes lifted to the ceiling, “This will help even you out. It’s my own special blend. It’s my suggestion that you drink it while thinking positive thoughts, if that’s possible. There’s no charge. Don’t smoke in here again.” Without another word, she went back to the kitchen. Linda looked at the cup of tea--which had a faint ammonia scent to it--moved to pick it up, but instead pushed it away. “She took my fucking cigarette.”
“That’s because it’s against the law to smoke here.”
“Whatever. About Martinez. Only one person came forward. The other disappeared.”
“I assume we’re dealing with a prostitute here?”
“You assume correctly.”
“And her john took off.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Who’s the hooker?”
“LaWanda Jackson,” Patterson said. “Twenty-seven. Been on the streets since she was fifteen and is angry as hell because of it. Until last night, she lived behind that Dumpster. Had a mattress stained with blood and crawling with God-knows-what. Now I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”
“What did she see?”
“Plenty.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Linda shrugged. “I’ll give you your money’s worth. Jackson said she was giving some sleazoid suit the blowjob of a lifetime when Martinez and her daughter ran into the alley, followed by some man with a gun. Before Jackson could react, the man had Martinez against a wall and was pumping two bullets into her brain. He pushed her to the ground and snapped the little girl’s neck. Jackson said she’d never seen anything like it, which I doubt. In sixty seconds, the man murdered two people and tossed their bodies in a Dumpster. He never broke stride. The friggin’ end.”
“What did he look like?”
“Jackson didn’t get an ID,” Linda said. “Too dark.”
“She saw nothing?” Marty said. “Oh, come on, Linda. She must have seen something. Even the color of the man’s hair.”
“She didn’t see anything, Marty. Zero. I believe her.”
And you’re a goddamn liar. “How can I get in touch with her?”
Patterson laughed. “Are you serious, Spellman? Did you hear anything I just said? Jackson lives on the street, not in the sort of glitzy Park Avenue high-rise you’re used to. Do you get the distinction? She’s a homeless whore. I’d be lucky to find her again.”
Suddenly impatient, she glanced at her watch. “Look,” she said. “I’ve given you your fifteen minutes. I’ve told you what I know about the Martinezes. You got something else you want to ask me? Because if you don’t, I’m out of here.”
“Then let’s talk about Gerald Hayes.”
Patterson leaned back in her chair as Roberta came through the door with a clutch of sage. She lit it on fire and walked past the table in great swirls of smoke. “Gets rid of the negative energy,” Roberta said. “I should be more thorough, but I don’t want to interrupt, so I’ll make this quick.”
She said something beneath her breath and waved
the sage near Linda. Then, with a final shake that released a plume of smoke, she left.
“What the fuck is this place?” Linda said. “Now I smell like Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Can we talk about Hayes, please?”
Linda shook her head. “No, Marty, that’s something I’ll never give you. Did you really think I didn’t know where this was going? Did you really think I’d give you anything on Hayes after the way you screwed me over on Wilcox?”
She smiled at him. “I had you pegged for an idiot, but this is ridiculous. You burned me once. I gave you everything I had on Wilcox and you went public with her murderer. You broke your promise. You said you’d give me the son of a bitch and you didn’t. I’m going all the way with this case. Hayes’ death was a high-profile blessing from God. I’m getting Detective First Grade out of it.”
“I doubt that,” Marty said. “But I am curious. If you knew I was fishing all along for Hayes, why’d you give me anything on Martinez? Their deaths are obviously related. You’ve helped more than you know. So why talk?”
Patterson patted her handbag. “Because I wanted the money,” she said lightly. “Pure and simple. And, besides, what I gave you wasn’t worth shit compared to what I know about Hayes. Certainly nothing you couldn’t have found out without me. So, it was an easy two grand. Lucky me.”
She rose from her seat, all cool lines and silky curves. She reached for her handbag and looked down at him. “Here’s something else, Spellman, a little advice. If you interfere in any way with this case, if you cross me, I’ll bust your ass for obstruction. This case is NYPD property. Do you understand me?” Her voice was absolutely calm. “You’re not a cop. You have no authority. Screw with my case, and I’ll get a court order that’ll nail you to the wall.”
Marty smiled up at her. “Sweet, Linda. Really, I’ll keep it in mind. But I’m a registered private investigator, and that also gives me rights. Before you leave, there’s something you should know. That check I gave you? It isn’t signed. I gave you an unsigned check. You did just what I knew you’d do. You only looked at the amount. You never even thought to look for a signature. Too greedy. Too predictable. Too much like the old Linda. So, unless you forge my name, which I wouldn’t suggest since it’s a crime, it looks like it’s you who’s just been nailed to the wall.”
* * *
“I don’t like that woman, Marty. She’s evil. She’s no good. And it’s not because she insulted my place. She’s got a darkness in her that even I won’t go near. Why do you hang around people like that? They sour your soul.”
Marty reached in his pocket for his cell and tapped out Hines’ number at the 19th. Roberta, busy making tea for the party of five that had just stepped in, shot him a sideways glance. “And I’ll tell you something else,” she said. “My prediction is right. That woman will be dead by fifty. Just you wait and see.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Roberta. You’ve got me on the list, too.”
“But you can do something about it,” Roberta said. “You can drop the case now, before it goes any further. You could listen to me.”
“Roberta, if I listened to you, I’d be penniless. Do you realize that every time I take a new case you’re telling me I’ll be dead.”
“This time you might be.”
“Whatever happened to optimism?”
“Oh, please,” she laughed. “Are you serious? When they legalize pot, I’ll be optimistic.”
Hines answered. “Can’t talk,” he said. “Just busted the perp on another case. Son of a bitch drove stakes through his wife and kids. Thought they were vampires. Admitted to all of it. Said Stephanie Myers told him to do it. In there smiling at me, like he’d do it again if he had the chance. Call me back later.”
“Two questions,” Marty said. “That’s it.”
“Make ‘em fast.”
“Where’s Wolfhagen?”
“Not at The Plaza,” Hines said. “Checked out this afternoon. Said the place gives him the creeps.”
“Where’s he staying?”
“With his wife.”
“With his wife?” Marty said. “Then his alibi checked? He was with her last night?”
“He was at a party of hers last night,” Hines said. “A big deal that lasted until two in the morning. Thirty people can and will vouch for his presence. I talked to Carra Wolfhagen myself and she confirmed everything. She says he spent the night with her and there’s nothing I can do about that. Now, I gotta go. Call me later. You know, when you’ve got something.”
The line went dead.
Marty hung up the phone and caught Roberta’s concerned glance. She was standing beside him, slicing a lemon, adding the curving yellow wedges to the steaming pot of tea.
Slice, slice, slice.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said.
But Roberta, whose face now reflected a sadness he had never seen in it before, shook her head. “No, Marty, this time it isn’t.”
~~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY
Spocatti stood between the heat of two double-parked vans, looking across to the grimy brick building Maggie Cain had just entered. He was in the roughest part of the South Bronx--Hunts Point--where the haze of poverty and decay was so strong here, it clung to his clothes and cut off his breath.
He knew this neighborhood.
When he was a boy, several family members lived here. At that time, his father owned a successful restaurant in Little Italy, and so, because they had money, it was Spocatti’s family who drove here on Sundays to visit the relatives. Then, Spocatti would sit next to his father and listen to his two uncles discuss their hopes and dreams to find better jobs and move their families out of this place.
It didn’t happen. Though they wished for a better future, his uncles’ alcoholism and drug abuse prevented them from having it.
That was thirty years ago. And while this place had seen a push in the ‘80s in an effort to revitalize it, the attempt failed. Looking around, Spocatti thought it looked worse than ever, particularly after the recession.
Even now, on the cusp of sunset, transvestites and prostitutes were working the streets and street corners, drug deals were being made in backrooms, private clubs were thriving in shadowy basements--and disease was running rampant.
With the Meatpacking District now bright with boutiques and trendy restaurants, the South Bronx, in a sense, had taken its place among those areas in the city where the fringe could thrive. Were you a trucker in need of a blowjob? Come to Hunts Point. Married businessman into a bit of kink? Come to Hunts Point. The area was morphing even deeper into the corrupt underworld some craved.
Spocatti was amused to find how comfortable he was here.
He looked at his watch. Cain had been inside three minutes. Whoever had dropped her here was gone. He looked across to the two scantily clad transvestites clicking toward the building and watched them walk down the narrow cement steps. They rapped on a door he couldn’t see, screamed something above the sudden roar of music, and were let inside.
Private party.
Password protected.
He’d seen it before. The people who threw these parties gave every queen and whore working these streets a password that allowed them entrance. If business was slow, they could come to a party, perform for the guests, earn that night’s dinner. Maybe even a taste of whatever drug was circulating that day.
So, why had Maggie Cain come here?
He left his shiny metal enclave and stepped into the street. Trucks rumbled past. At the street corner, four transvestites were leaning against a black Mercedes. They tapped on its hood, shook their asses in front of the darkened windows, bent down to blow kisses, circled and posed. One of them looked up at him and smiled.
Spocatti smiled back.
The easiest way inside that building was on her arm.
* * *
She said her name was Diva Divine.
She was taller than him and black, her platinum blonde hair
worn in a teased flip. The long white gloves that stretched up her emaciated arms hid the veins she’d ruined with needles, but her makeup--heavy and smeared in the moist August heat--couldn’t conceal the day’s growth of beard that shadowed her face in a dusting of black. Spocatti thought she had the exhausted, sunken look of someone who had seen every rotten thing twice--and remembered it.
He led her behind a large truck and listened as she spoke.
“You got the fiercest queen in the city, baby. Fiercest. Diva’s gonna rock your world.”
Her drag was a tight white tube dress that was fraying at the hem, stained with food, blotched with sweat. Her four-inch heels--red as her lipstick but more even in color--were badly in need of repair. She snapped her fingers above her head and swayed slightly, as if she were drunk. But she wasn’t drunk. She was coming off a high. Her eyes were the same as his brother’s had been just before the high left him--bright brown panes of glass.
He pointed to the building Maggie Cain had entered. “I need to get inside that building,” he said. “As in now. Can you do it?”
Divine fluffed her wig with long, chipped-black nails. “You got enough cash, Diva D. can take your beautiful ass anywhere you want to go.”
“How much?” he said.
“Lots.”
“Be specific.”
She sank against the truck and reached up inside her tube dress, eyelids fluttering as she scratched something he couldn’t see.
A limousine swung in front of the building. Spocatti turned and watched a well-dressed couple leave the car and hurry down the cement steps. A rap on the door, a firestorm of music, silence.
Ten minutes had passed. Maggie Cain could be anywhere.
He gripped Divine’s arm. “How much?”
Startled, she reared back.
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