Carmen picked up her cell and hit Spocatti’s number. The line rang, but he didn’t answer. She hung up the phone and opened another file, this one marked “Marty Spellman.” She read quickly and then stopped at one paragraph. She read it again--and again.
Could this be true?
Again, she tried Spocatti and this time he answered. She told him what she knew and Spocatti told her where to meet him. “His name is Marty Spellman?”
“That’s right.”
“And he’s working with Cain?”
“They’re investigating Wolfhagen. They’ve already involved the police.”
“Run a check on him. Find out where he lives.”
“I already know.”
“That’s resourceful, Carmen, good for you. What do you recommend?”
“It’s no longer just Cain. We take both out. Now.”
“Agreed. Let me call Wolfhagen and tell him our priorities have shifted.”
~~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The light in Manhattan had changed to the deeper glow of late afternoon when Marty left Roberta’s. The sun had dipped below the jagged skyline and now deep shadows were stretching across the city, thick fingers reaching out, perhaps in search of a breeze.
Or a neck.
He walked on auto pilot to Washington Square Park, his own shadow dancing before him on the pavement. He watched people he didn’t know step all over him, cars race over his head, a city bus cut him in half, a kid on a skateboard sever his legs. His invincible shadow collided with all of New York and it didn’t hesitate or flinch. It simply charged forward without feeling, rippling over curbs, growing slowly by inches.
Wolfhagen.
Now this was an interesting turn of events. Marty had to smile. So the man might not be out, after all. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the park’s wide expanse of cracked cement. Had Wolfhagen really flown 3,000 miles to attend a party given by the woman he was suing for thousands a week in alimony?
Marty read the Post. Like the rest of New York, he knew the Wolfhagens were in the middle of a bitter divorce battle. Carra was fighting him with a team of lawyers hell-bent on giving him nothing of her personal, inherited fortune. She had publicly spoken out against him. Editors continued to showcase the unfolding story with headlines that demanded attention. Had they come to some sort of reconciliation in the few days that had passed since he read the last story? Unlikely. But even if they had, would Carra really have invited him to come cross country to one of her parties? To spend the night at her home? That he couldn’t believe.
He left the park and started up Fifth, allowing his thoughts to wander around the possibilities. If Carra hadn’t invited Wolfhagen to her party, then why had he flown to New York? To confront her face to face about their divorce? That was a possibility. But if it was the case, then why had Carra allowed him to stay with her now?
Did she have a choice?
He turned onto West 8th Street. Ahead of him and to the right, the Click Click Camera Shop reared its ugly face to the world. Marty stepped inside.
A shirtless Jo Jo Wilson looked up as Marty strolled toward him. He dropped the tattered issue of Big Jugs he was holding and scowled, his pitted lips parting in protest. “This better not be about your camera,” he said. “I sent it to you, just like you asked.”
“The camera’s fine,” Marty said. “I need to use your phone.”
“You need to use my what?”
He continued across the narrow, dingy little store and put his hands down on the dusty glass countertop. Jo Jo leaned back on his rusty metal stool. “Your phone,” Marty said. “I need to use it. My cell is almost dead.”
Wilson’s hand skidded left, behind a stack of boxes that had the words “POISON” and “!DANGER--LIVE ANIMALS!” stamped in red all over them, and came back with a dirty gray cordless phone that once had been beige. He handed it to Marty, who dialed Maggie Cain. Again, he got her machine. Still, she wasn’t home. He left another message, this time asking her to call his cell immediately. He hung up the phone and stood there, wondering where she could be. He needed to speak to her. She knew the Wolfhagens.
“Trying to reach somebody?” Jo Jo asked.
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Jo Jo. That’s smart.”
“Tense as usual?”
“I’m not tense.”
“Right. And I’m not sittin’ here dyin’ right in front of you.” He paused to take a breath. Even the shortest conversation could leave him winded. He glanced down at the oxygen tank beside him and put a hand on the cloudy mask. “So, what’s the problem? Ex-wife givin’ you shit again?”
“You could say that.”
“Sorry you divorced her?”
“She divorced me, Jo Jo. Twice. Remember? And no, I’m not sorry. In fact, today I’m particularly happy that she did.”
“Miss your girls, don’t you?”
Marty looked at him.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re missing your girls.”
How could this unfeeling, sloppy grotesque be so intuitive? It made no sense, but it was one of the reasons Marty had come around for the better part of fifteen years. Every once in a while, Jo Jo Wilson tapped into whatever worldly experience he had and was able to see straight through him, cutting right to the core of whatever was bothering him. But Marty wasn’t willing to go there now. “I think you need a hit of oxygen, Jo Jo.”
Jo Jo took a hit. “I’ll show you what else I need.” He reached down and retrieved the half-empty bottle of Scotch from the open drawer at his feet, put it between them on the cluttered counter. “Want a drink?” He unscrewed the bottle cap and clicked it down on the glass counter. “I guarantee you this little honey will take care of all your problems.”
For a moment, Marty believed it would. But right now, he needed to keep his head clear and so he declined. “No, thanks,” he said.
“Shit’s good.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me.”
“Trust you? Spellman, if anyone needs a drink right now, it’s you. You look like shit. And I know that look because I see it on my wife’s face every time she turns to look at me. It’s like she just saw a horror movie. But whatever. Your call.”
And so Jo Jo, seldom a generous man, wasn’t about to ask again. Instead, he reached for a dirty glass hidden within arm’s reach behind the towering stack of boxes. He picked up the bottle of Scotch and began to pour, his gnarled, unsteady hand causing the amber liquid to slosh. When he drank, he did so in little gasps that fogged the glass.
“I’ll see you later, Jo Jo.”
“Right on, brother.”
* * *
He left the store, caught the E-train at West 4th, and shot uptown to 53rd and Third. As the train rocked, he thought of Judge Wood and her high-brow neighbors on 75th and Fifth.
Even if someone hadn’t seen Wood being dropped off yesterday morning, wasn’t it likely that over the years someone had seen something unusual in her behavior? Wood leaving late every third Thursday night? Wood coming home drugged out of her mind the next morning?
Marty knew. This was New York. Here, prying eyes missed nothing, knew everything, collected information like a computer. If only the mouths would speak. But how to get them to talk?
Think.
Who did he know on 75th who lived near Wood? There must be someone--Gloria would have made sure of it. She cultivated friendships on Sutton and Beekman, Fifth and Park. She was the ultimate address snob, the quintessential climber. Live in a penthouse on Fifth? Come on over for a cocktail. Have an apartment overlooking the Park? Let’s do dinner. Marty never understood it.
Gloria.
Right now, she was the last person he wanted to speak to. But there was no question she would know a neighbor or two of Wood’s. No question she was still friends with those people and could get him inside.
Her influence could make all the difference.
He needed
to call her. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell. He was down to one bar, but if he was quick, it might be enough.
Gloria picked up on the fourth ring, her cool voice an absolute change from the woman he once loved.
Gloria, his latest contact.
Gloria, helping him out on a case.
Sweet Jesus.
* * *
“You want me to do what?” Gloria asked.
“A favor,” Marty said. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“Let me get this straight,” Gloria said. “You miss lunch with your daughters and you want me to do you a favor? Oh, that’s rich, Marty. That’s perfect.”
“I didn’t miss lunch,” Marty said. “I was a few minutes late.”
“You were thirty minutes late.”
“It was unavoidable.”
“It was inexcusable. Obviously, the excuses won’t end with you.”
She paused and Marty could feel her mind working.
“Why were you late? Does it have to do with Maggie Cain?”
He could hardly lie to her--Gloria would know. “Yes,” he said. “She’s also the reason I need your help now.”
“Is she in some sort of trouble?”
“She might be.”
“You know she’s my favorite writer. You know I love what she does with words. She paints with them. She creates landscapes, murals, art. She has an ability to generate entire fields of engrossing characters. Her plots are something to be studied and admired.”
Marty said nothing.
“You’ve never asked me for help before,” she said suspiciously. “Why now?”
“Because you’re the only one who can help me.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either. At home, Marty had a list of names and addresses of all their friends and acquaintances. He could have gone there, skimmed the list himself for someone they knew on 75th, called them up, and hoped they’d agree to see him.
But it was too much of a risk. These people adored Gloria and her rising star. They’re the ones who put her on a pedestal and applauded first before the rest of the art world followed suit. He had been her absentee husband, writing his little movie reviews and bringing down wealthy people not unlike themselves. That’s what he was known for--being hired by the rich to take down the rich. If he was going to break into this crowd, he’d need her influence.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
He told her.
“No way.”
“Come on, Gloria.”
“They don’t like you, Marty. None of my friends like you. I’m not risking my reputation because of you.”
“What about for Maggie Cain?”
“This will help her?”
“This could change everything for her. It could save her.”
“The situation is that dangerous, then?”
He laid it on thick. “It’s worse.”
A silence passed. Marty could feel her weighing her options.
“Alright,” she said. “But there’s a condition.”
Of course, there was. “What is it?”
“I want the girls for Christmas.”
He almost hung up the phone.
~~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Carra Wolfhagen stood to the right of her third-story bedroom window, a sleeve of red curtain pressed against her cheek as she looked down at the street, where the media and the curious had come to catch a glimpse of her and her murdering thief of a husband.
What were they thinking, knowing he was here with her now? That she’d had a change of heart, supported him, welcomed him into her home and taken him back?
If only she had the courage to tell them what she’d kept secret for years.
She moved away from the window and glanced across to the locked bedroom door. Fear of him rooted her here. She thought of the gun sitting ten feet away in the top drawer of her nightstand and knew if she could kill Max--right now--and get away with it, she’d do it. She’d find him in this house and take his life for the one he continued to steal from her.
Where was he now? In his guest suite? On the phone with his lawyers? Or maybe he was watching that disc.
That disc. If she phoned the police now and they came, she knew Max would somehow find a way to destroy the DVD before they made it to him. He’d burn it or smash it or crush it and flush it. He’d find some way to get rid of it. Still, at some point, she’d have her opportunity. When the time was right and she felt safe, she’d grab that disc, contact the police and be rid of him forever.
But now? Now she wanted out of this room.
She went to the door and pressed her ear against it, heard nothing, unfastened the lock and opened the door. She looked into the hallway and saw only her cat, Sasha, strolling by.
Carra went after it, scooped the animal into her arms, listened. The house was quiet. The cat purred against her breast.
Behind her, a door opened and clicked shut.
Though the hallway was generous in width, Carra pressed her back to the wall as her husband, naked save for the shaving cream dripping from his body, stepped out of the bathroom with the gold straight razor clutched high in his hand.
He was bleeding from the peak of each nipple, but he didn’t seem to notice. Too angry and too high to notice. He did a little jig in the middle of the hallway and twirled around twice, glaring at her each time, fanning out his sopping arms, nearly knocking off a side table the expensive vase she’d bought at auction with his stolen money. With his arms pinwheeling, he came over to where she was standing, stopped and then scraped the razor down the length of his stomach. With his head cocked, he flicked the blade hard and sprayed her face with a mixture of stubble, shaving cream and blood.
Carra turned her head and gasped.
She dropped the cat, ran the back of her hand across her face and smeared her lipstick with the cool pink foam. She tasted his blood on her lips and thought of HIV as she frantically wiped her sleeve across the tight line that was her mouth.
Furious, repelled, she reached out to slap him but he snagged her wrist first. She raised her other hand to strike, but he dropped the blade and grabbed it before she could. He stuck his face in hers. His pupils were tiny islands of black sand drowning in rough blue waters. His eyelids trembled from the nerves he’d fried with meth. There was nothing she could do when he was like this, only pray to God he wouldn’t beat her as he had in the past.
His lips curled back to expose the uneven, crowded yellow teeth he’d never had fixed because he knew how they could intimidate. “Remember,” he said. “I’ve got a video of you, too, Carra. Burn me, and everyone in this town will know the real Carra Wolfhagen.”
“Get your hands--”
“What was that?”
“You’re hurting--”
“What was that?”
She struggled against him, but he only tightened his grip on her wrists, cutting off the circulation to her hands, hurting her more.
“I didn’t do it!” he shouted.
“You killed the Coles! You killed Gerald!”
“I’m being set up!”
“You had them murdered!” she screamed. “It’s on that disc! You’ve murdered before! You know I know that. How could you ever think I’d forget that night? How could you expect anyone to forget what you did? You killed--”
The first blow sent her to the floor. The kick to her stomach sent her to the gray edges of unconsciousness. Her head fell to the side and she saw through the whirlwind of black flies now clouding her vision that the middle toe on each of his feet was missing. He’d had them removed.
Now, his feet resembled hooves.
“If I am responsible,” he said angrily, leaning close to her ear, shaving cream and blood dripping onto her nose and cheek and lips, “you can be damned sure you’re next.”
And with that, she violently swung her body around, swept her legs under his feet and sent him toppling to the floor, where he fell face-fi
rst on the marble floor.
Her only chance was flight.
He was stronger than she was, but right now, he wasn’t moving. She pushed herself up just as he rolled onto his side. He was bleeding from the mouth. He’d split his lower lip. He blinked at her in confusion and put a hand over his mouth in an effort to stop the blood, which was pooling on the floor.
Behind him, in the bedroom he was using, would be the disc and a telephone. He’d been shaving. He would have kept them close. They’d be in the attached bath.
Youth had left her years ago, but she’d kept in shape, and so she leaped over his body, though not high enough. He lifted a hand as she jumped, tripping her. She went down hard, sliding across the floor.
For a moment, she was dazed, but adrenaline was as powerful as the sound of him making an effort to stand. She looked over her shoulder and watched him push himself to his feet and lean against a wall. He was naked, he was bleeding and he was vulnerable, but rage was at the forefront and that’s what propelled him toward her now.
As quickly as she could, she was on her feet.
Wolfhagen reached out a hand and swung toward her head. She could feel his fingers brush through her hair as she lurched toward the table beside her.
On it was one of her prize possessions--an original crystal Lalique Bacchantes vase that could send fifty New Yorkers into early retirement. It was thick and it was heavy, but Carra was able to grab it and smash it in tiny piece at his bare feet. She did so as he was still coming toward her, but the moment the broken glass lodged into the bottom of his feet, he stopped in pain and looked incredulously at her. All around him was a circle of sharp glass. He was trapped and he knew it.
“You’re going down,” she said, backing away from him and toward his bedroom. “You’re out of my life now.”
She darted into the room, slipped into the bath, saw the disc on the vanity and grabbed it along with the cordless phone on the wall beside the sink. She took each back into the hallway, the phone poised above her head and ready to strike in case he was waiting for her.
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