Running of the Bulls

by Christopher Smith

  “My best guess?”

  “Your best guess.”

  “I think it was a bull. There was a tiny gold hoop going right through the center of it, just like Wood’s.”

  Marty lowered the phone from his ear. Cars shot by on the street. He looked behind him and saw, at the street corner, a man in a wheelchair blowing kisses at the sky. “I need you to do me another favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Edward and Bebe Cole. Did you do their posts?”

  Skeen was silent for a moment. “That was what? Eight, nine months ago?”

  “Seven.”

  “I don’t think so,” Carlo said. And then, remembering: “No, I know I didn’t. I was at a conference when they were murdered. Hatlen did them.”

  “All right,” Marty said. “Would you mind pulling their files? See if they had the same tattoo?”

  “Will do.”

  “And thanks, Carlo.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He clicked the phone shut, stepped to the curb and flagged a cab. The driver was straight out of the Third World, with a bright red turban wrapped around his head and a grisly black beard that hugged his pock-marked face in thick dark coils. Marty gave the man his address, repeated it, and hoped he’d get there before nightfall.

  He looked out the side window and watched the city skate by. Skeen was right. Though crudely rendered, Wood’s tattoo had been a picture of a bull. What looked like a smudge with points on the top, actually was a bull with horns. The tiny hole had gone clean through its snout.

  A Wall Street bull.

  Marty leaned back against the seat and thought of Gerald Hayes. There was a time when he had been one of the most prominent men on Wall Street. A time when hedonism and greed had marked an era. Then, the bulls on Wall Street had known no limits. They had stolen and cheated and deceived a nation. So why not push things beyond the boardroom and the DOW and prove themselves elsewhere? Screw hedge funds. Why not hedge your life, take things farther and create the ultimate club, where the price of initiation was a tattoo, a tiny gold hoop and God knows what else?

  But the membership wasn’t exclusive to only those who controlled the money on Wall Street--Wood’s involvement proved that--which led Marty to believe that this club was more about power than anything else. And what better symbol of power than a bull?

  So, who else was involved? Wolfhagen, Lasker and Schwartz? How many people in how many different positions of power?

  The cab stopped for a red light and Marty looked out the front window. The crowds at the street corners were beginning to cross. His gaze lingered on the profiles of people he didn’t know while his stomach tightened.

  This case was bigger than him. The people involved in this club obviously were aware of the murders and the police involvement. They knew their cover was threatened and Marty knew they’d go to any length to protect that cover. This was the kind of case that destroyed careers.

  This was the kind of case where people murdered to keep others quiet.

  * * *

  At home, he dropped the mail and Maggie’s novel onto the kitchen table, checked his answering machine and found no messages. He went to the refrigerator, grabbed an apple from the top shelf and wondered about Maggie. With Wood’s security system disabled, she’d been able to walk straight into the woman’s house.

  He went to his office, sat at his desk, reached for a pen and a pad of paper, and started to outline the facts as he knew them.

  Wood came home yesterday at 5:00 a.m. Hines said she’d been a mess and forgot to reset the alarm. Then, at some point, she went upstairs to her bedroom, overdosed on meth and died in bed between three and four o’clock that afternoon. Theresa Wu had seen Maggie leaving Wood’s home that morning, though she hadn’t given Marty a specific time.

  Marty took a bite of the apple and chewed. He opened his address book, looked up Helena Adams’ telephone number and called her. It was Theresa Wu who answered. “Theresa, it’s Marty Spellman. Can I ask you a question?”

  “If you’re quick.”

  “What time did you see Maggie Cain leaving Wood’s home?”

  “6:30.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  “That’s because, I am. I take my run at that time each morning. If I miss it, like I did today, I run at night. I was leaving when I saw her.”

  “Did she have a car?”

  “She did. She put the box in the trunk and took off.” Wu paused and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What do you suppose was inside that box?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out,” Marty said. He thanked her and hung up the phone.

  All right. Wood was alive when Maggie made her visit. But why the visit? Was it an interview for the book? Marty dismissed the idea. Wood never would have scheduled one that early. She’d know she’d be coming home high. So Maggie must have come unannounced. But why so early? What was she seeking? Wood with her guard down?

  Marty finished the apple, went back to the kitchen, tossed the core into the trash, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge.

  Maggie knew about that club. He could feel it. She knew about Wood’s involvement and had gone to her home on that specific day and at that specific time so she could catch her at her worst. She wanted the upper hand. She needed something from Wood and she left with it in that box.

  Marty was wondering what it could be when the telephone rang.

  He picked it up, expecting Jennifer, but it was Maggie Cain. “I’m being followed,” were her first words to him.

  There was fear in her voice, an edge of panic.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. “This was all a mistake,” she said. “I never should have involved you. I had no idea so many people would be involved.” Her voice was unsteady. Marty could sense that she was shaking. “Kendra Wood committed suicide because of me, Marty. She did it because of me.”

  Marty felt a river of questions rise up within him but he stamped them down. Now wasn’t the time to ask questions. First, he had to get her to a safe place and then talk.

  He listened to the silence for clues. She wasn’t outside--no sounds of traffic. Wherever she was, it was quiet. Good, he thought. She isn’t on the street. “I can help you,” he said calmly. “But you’ll have to trust me. Can you do that?”

  Silence.

  “Maggie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you try?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “It won’t work any other way. You’re going to have to trust someone. I’m a third party. I’m impartial to all of this. I think you hired me for that reason.”

  It was a moment before she spoke. “All right,” she said. “I’ll trust you.”

  “Who is following you?”

  “A man.”

  “Have you lost him?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll come for you.”

  Silence.

  “Tell me where you are, Maggie.”

  “They’ve murdered someone else,” she said.

  Marty felt a needle of ice dart up his back.

  “I’m standing over his body.”

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  7:52 p.m.

  Marty went to his office, removed his gun, a stainless steel Walther PPK, from the top drawer of his desk, loaded it and slipped it into his shoulder rig, which he put on along with a lightweight blazer.

  He pocketed his cell, left his apartment, hailed a cab at curbside and gave the driver the address Maggie Cain gave him. He did all this with automatic efficiency. The cab swung through the city, lurched through traffic, but he paid no attention. He was not aware of anything but Maggie’s words, still sounding like an alarm in his head: “His blood is everywhere.”

  The building was on 77th Street, not far from Fifth. Large and gray with wide stone steps t
hat led to the heavy black door, the building reflected wealth, security, establishment.

  In spite of the fact that the sun had slipped below the Manhattan horizon, there was not one light on in the building, not one sign that a frightened woman was waiting inside for him. The cab made three passes and Marty saw no one on the sidewalks, no one in the cars parked at the curbsides, nothing that suggested Maggie Cain was being watched or followed. He asked the driver to drop him at the end of the block, handed her a ten and stepped out.

  The sidewalk that stretched before him was lined with great black sacks of trash piled high between the slender trees. The air here was heavy and sour, shot through with rot, laced with the exhaust of the city, so rancid it was almost nauseating. Despite being one of Manhattan’s more elegant neighborhoods, when it was trash day, there was no escaping how fair the city could be to everyone, regardless of class.

  Save for the sound of the air conditioners cooling the town houses he passed, the street was quiet. Marty kept left, moved down the sidewalk and looked into every shadow, every stairwell, anywhere a person could dip out of sight. Twilight was pressing down on New York and casting everything into its faintly surreal glow.

  He moved at a brisk clip, his head slightly lowered.

  When he reached the building, he discretely checked the sidewalks, saw nobody peering at him through the windows of the surrounding houses and climbed the steps. He tapped once on the door, but it didn’t open. Maggie wasn’t waiting for him. He felt a spark of anger, tried the handle, found it unlocked, pushed and stepped into an arctic blast that revealed a dark entryway. No sign of Maggie, only shapes that loomed left and right, objects he couldn’t make out clearly.

  He closed the door behind him and listened. He could hear nothing but the insistent whirring of air conditioners he couldn’t see. The house was an icebox. The unmistakable, coppery scent of blood was everywhere.

  He drew his gun and called out Maggie’s name, got no response, said it louder, heard nothing and wondered if he was too late. Was the smell of blood also hers?

  He reached into his pants pocket and removed the small penlight attached to his keychain--a gift from Katie. He turned it on, shined the weak amber light down the narrow hallway and saw a table lying on its side--late eighteenth century, intricately carved sides, clawed tiger paws at the end of the gently curving legs. A spray of roses past their prime fanned out around the table in a half-moon, their dark red petals resting not in spilled water, but in broken glass.

  Marty’s heart beat a little faster. He knew he should call Hines, knew by being here he was destroying a crime scene, but he was in too deep. If he called the police now, he’d have to go to Hines again for information. And that was something Marty wasn’t willing to do. Still, he knew protocol and so he reached into his pocket and pulled out paper shoe coverings. He slipped them on and then put on rubber gloves.

  He looked around, spotted the alarm console on the wall to his right and saw by the flashing red light that it was disengaged. Again he called out Maggie’s name but there was no answer, nothing that suggested she was in this house.

  He moved down the hallway, keeping the penlight on the upended table, listening for clues in the dark. To his left was an arched doorway that opened to a room facing 77th Street. Marty stepped over the table, the roses and the broken vase, shined the light once more down the hall, saw the staircase that lifted to the second floor, the coiled end of the brown banister, and quietly entered the room.

  An air conditioner blew cold air and the smell of something rotten from the window opposite him. Outside, on the sidewalk, streetlamps flickered to life and started to burn, casting crisp slants of gold into the otherwise dark room.

  Marty stood just inside the doorway and listened. His gun was held at arm’s length. He wasn’t sure what to expect but he was ready just the same. The scent of blood and decay was stronger here. He panned the room with the tiny flashlight but it was useless. The beam wasn’t strong enough. All he could make out were glimpses of cloth, splashes of color, the sharp edge of something solid, shadows in the light. A van was approaching on the street. Marty waited for it to pass.

  He’d have to turn on a light.

  The Tiffany lamp on the table beside him punched rainbows of blue, purple and green onto his face and the paneled walls. He turned to look across the room and saw the body of Peter Schwartz sitting upright on the blood-soaked sofa, his legs crossed at the knees, his hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer, his head tilted back to expose the gaping wound at his throat.

  Save for the pair of black rubber underpants and knee-high black leather boots he wore, he was naked. His skin was greenish-red and streaked with blood. As Marty walked over to him, he noticed with revulsion the maggots crawling into and out of the man’s nose and open mouth.

  The smell was cutting, like boiled pork gone sour and bad. He forced a sharp rush of air through his nose but it was useless. The smell had settled in for the long haul. He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to settle. A fly buzzed past him, heading straight for Schwartz, where it dived into the man’s open mouth and disappeared down his throat, where it would plant a new clutch of eggs.

  Schwartz didn’t seem to mind.

  Looking at the man and the maggots consuming him, Marty was repelled but not surprised. This was the middle of summer in New York. Outside, on the sidewalk, the piles of trash were roasting in the August heat. Flies had wended their way into this house and laid thousands of eggs in Peter Schwartz’s eyes, nose and mouth. The eggs had hatched and now maggots were feasting on the rotting tissue of a dead man. When a forensic entomologist was let loose on this scene, they’d be dizzy with elation.

  If he was going to do this, he’d have to pull a Skeen and follow his advice--look at Schwartz as though he were nothing more than an object. Resolved, Marty took his gun and pushed the barrel underneath the man’s right hand. It lifted easily--no rigor, which was expected since Schwartz obviously had been dead for awhile.

  He holstered his gun and pressed the inside of his wrist against the man’s forearm. The flesh was cold and clammy, as if Schwartz had broken into a sweat. With the air conditioners running on high, it was difficult to say just how long he had been dead, but Marty had learned enough from Skeen to take an educated guess. The color of Schwartz’s skin, the presence of insects feeding on his body, the smell of decay and the lack of rigor all suggested at least 48 hours, likely more.

  He looked down at the dead man and saw beneath the layer of blood what his family and friends eventually would be seeing--Schwartz as beautiful corpse.

  He was a small, powerfully built man who had never married--his handsome good looks were apparent even in death. The face that had photographed so well in the press after his indictment by the SEC would now be forever young--firm jaw, narrow nose, high cheekbones, curly dark hair matted only slightly at his forehead with blood. Marty looked at the man’s careful pose of folded hands and legs, the rubber underpants and high black boots, and knew without question that Schwartz would have that tattoo, that picture of a bull imprinted on his penis, that same shiny gold hoop going clean through its snout.

  He looked closer at the body and at all the inconsistencies it offered. Schwartz hadn’t been wearing these clothes when he was murdered. His carotid artery had been severed. Fountains of blood had sprayed onto the floor and sofa, covering the man’s arms, torso and legs. But his underpants and boots were untouched, suggesting they had been put on after death.

  After death.

  Schwartz hadn’t died in this position. He wouldn’t have gone down without a struggle. Someone murdered him on this sofa, dressed him up and posed him pretty. Someone wanted him to be found in these clothes.

  His cell sounded, cracking the silence in three piercing bleats. The sudden intrusion sent a jolt through Marty and he took a step back, away from Schwartz. He removed the device from his side, glanced down at the number flashing in the illumined window and knew who it was before M
aggie Cain answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “Three blocks away.”

  “Why aren’t you here?”

  She was out of breath, her words clipped and shortened from lack of air. “Why do you think? I was scared. I didn’t know how long you’d be. I got the hell out of there.” She paused and Marty could hear the traffic rushing past her. Car horns sounded in the distance. “Have you found the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been dead?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe two days. Maybe longer.”

  “That’s three people today, Marty.”

  He walked over to the Tiffany lamp and clicked it off. In the darkness, the buzzing of the flies and the humming of the air conditioner seemed to grow louder. He looked once more at Schwartz and saw the moon of his face glowing in the dark. It seemed oddly separated from his body, frozen yellow in the city light.

  His body--bloody save for his clothes.

  And Marty wondered.

  “It was you, wasn’t it, Maggie?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Schwartz. He wasn’t murdered wearing those clothes. There’s no blood on them and God knows there should be. Someone dressed him after he was dead. I want to know if it was you.”

  “Are you saying I murdered him?”

  “Did you?”

  She barked out a laugh. “Are you serious?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, Marty, I didn’t murder him. I found him. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Not a thing. I’m just tired of being lied to. Why were you here?”

  “I had an interview with him,” she said tightly. “And what do you mean you’re tired of being lied to?”

  Marty ignored the question. “Schwartz was dead when you got here. I want to know how you got inside.”

  “The door was unlocked. I rang the buzzer twice and then tried the handle. I called out his name and got no response. The air stank. I saw the table lying on its side and knew that something was wrong. I found him in the living room. I called you and then his telephone started to ring. It scared me. I got out.”