Marty pushed the napkin in front of her. She looked down and read: “Get him to reveal something only the two of you would know.”
“My parents know what’s happening. They’ve known from the beginning. Wolfhagen is killing everyone who testified against him. When I was running in Pamplona, I was stabbed by an American. He was dark. Maybe of Italian or Spanish descent. Before he stabbed me, he told me that Wolfhagen wanted to thank me for ruining his life.”
Something was wrong. His voice wasn’t right. It sounded like him--but there was something off about it. Something raw. “This isn’t you. This isn’t Mark’s voice.”
“I’ve had several operations, one on my larynx. I’m still healing, Maggie. I’m in rough shape.”
“Answer a question for me.”
“Anything.”
“What’s my cat’s name?”
“Baby Jane.”
Anyone could know that. The real test was if he answered her next question correctly. If he did, there would be no doubt in her mind that this was Mark because it was their private joke. “But what do you call her?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Blanche,” he said. “She’s always been Blanche to me.”
She put a hand to her mouth.
“She’s never been as tough as you think she is. She’s a wimp. She’s always been a wimp. You got it wrong. You should have named her Blanche.”
How many times had he said just that to her? She looked up at Marty and nodded. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s him.”
“Find out where he is.”
Her whole body started to shake. “Where are you?”
“I was in a Spanish hospital for a week before I was able to reach the FBI and tell them what happened. I’ve been under their protection since. Their doctors have been treating me for the past several weeks.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be alright. But right now I’m shit--I’m filled with steel rods. I’ve got new knees. They had to rebuild my nose. I’ve got a long road ahead of me, Maggie.”
She was fighting back tears. “When can I see you.”
“Tonight,” he said. “But only briefly. The FBI knows you’re working with Marty Spellman on this. They want you both to come in and talk, tell them what you know. Can you do that? I need you to do that.”
She told Marty, who nodded.
“Where are you?”
He gave her directions, but the directions didn’t make sense.
“Why are you there?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in a hospital?”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “I’m supposed to be dead. If they put me in a hospital, the media would be all over it and my cover would be blown. The FBI has safe houses all over New York. I was put in one of them. It’s critical that I appear dead. It’s critical that no one sees me until this is over.”
It made sense.
“When can you be here?”
She asked Marty.
“An hour,” he said.
She looked confused. They were only twenty minutes away. She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “An hour,” he said firmly.
“We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Why so long?”
Marty moved a hand across his throat, signaling that he wanted her to cut the conversation short. But Maggie didn’t want to. She wanted to keep talking to him, but she’d made a deal this evening to trust Marty and to do as he said, and so she did.
“Peter Schwartz was murdered,” she said. “We found him in his living room and now we need to make sure we have a safe exit before we leave. Give us an hour. We’ll do our best to be there by then.”
“I love you,” he said.
Her throat closed at the sound of those words. Never did she think she’d hear them from him again. Never did she think she’d talk to him again. It was wonderful and it was surreal. She’d been fighting all this time to find answers, to somehow bring down Wolfhagen for what he’d done. The fact that he hadn’t succeeded in killing Mark filled her with an elation that was impossible to describe. “I love you, too. You don’t know what it’s been like. You don’t know how hard it’s been.”
“It’s almost over,” he said.
“I need to believe that.”
“It ends tonight.”
“Can you promise me that?”
“Whatever information you and Spellman have culled is important. The feds are ready to act, but they need to know what you know. You need to tell them everything. And then you need to stay here with me and be safe. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Before she could reply, the line went dead. She held the phone in her hand for a moment and then clicked it shut. She looked up at Marty, who was staring at her intently. “He’s alive,” she said.
“You’re certain that was him?”
“Only one person would know what he called my cat and that’s me. It was our thing. It was our joke.”
“Calling her Blanche was nothing he said in front of your friends?”
“No.” She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t know. How could I know that?”
“You couldn’t,” he said. “That’s the point.”
“Why are we waiting an hour? Why not go now?”
“Because I have to call people. I need to cover our asses. We don’t know if that was him. We’re not going alone.”
He looked across the room, where Roberta was cleaning glasses at the bar. She was looking straight at him. Concern was a mask that covered her face. She took each glass, gave it a thorough wipe and clinked it above her on the rack. She was standing there but she wasn’t there. She was reading him. He knew that face, knew when she slipped away. Wipe, wipe. Clink, clink. Her eyes boring into his. He motioned her over. She stopped beside the table.
“I’m going to say a name to you,” he said.
“Is this the name of the person she was just on the phone with?”
“It is.”
“Then give me the phone.”
He gave it to Roberta, who turned it over in her hands and then lifted it to her breast.
“What’s the name?” she asked.
“Mark Andrews.”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, defeat had settled in. “You’re going to ask me what I saw, Marty, but it’s the same thing. Nothing’s changed. It’s the same thing I saw when you were here last. It’s the same thing I saw when I touched her hand earlier. It’s so overwhelming, I can’t tell you a thing about Mark Andrews. All I see is your death. Over and over, that’s what I see. I’m too close to you to see anything else. I wait on customers and watch you disappear. I clean glasses and see you vanish. While you’ve been sitting in this booth, I’ve watched your spirit leave you. I’ve watched someone murder you.”
She turned to Maggie. “It’s her.”
~~~~
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
10:12 p.m.
Theresa Wu ran.
She ran down East 82nd Street, ran past the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center and then she stepped it up when she saw that the traffic light ahead of her was green and in her favor.
She burst across Madison Avenue, ran past the Adelson Galleries and kept going until she reached Fifth Avenue and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which cast a magnificent halo of gold against the darker backdrop of Central Park.
She took a hard left and ran down Fifth, her black hair snapping behind her in a ponytail as she weaved through the few people on the sidewalk. The evening air was so humid, she was drenched in sweat, but the run was exhilarating, particularly at this time of night, when the side streets were mostly quiet and it was just her and the city she loved.
Fifth Avenue was another story. Here, the traffic was moving briskly downtown, but she kept pace with it. She passed 79th Street, the Ukrainian Institute of America and checked her watch. She pressed a button and the dial lit up. She was doing well, but not that well, and so she ran faster, determined to beat her best time.
> Earlier that morning, Helena had too many errands for her to complete before noon so she could enjoy her meeting with Marty Spellman, so Theresa had to forfeit her run until this evening. But now Helena was asleep and Theresa was free.
And she felt free. And it felt good. She had an opportunity to go out with the girls later that evening and she might just take it. It had been weeks since she’d been out. There was a new club people were raving about downtown. It would be good to have a few drinks and to let her hair down. It would be good to set herself loose on a dance floor. Last week, she’d splurged and bought a hip new dress at Prada, so why not go out?
She decided she would.
She darted left again, this time onto 76th Street. She moved swiftly and easily, crossed Madison again, and then kept running for the final turn that would bring her onto 75th and home. She’d been running for 50 minutes now. When she ran in the morning, she liked to do at least ninety minutes, but it was late and at the very least, she was getting some exercise. If she didn’t, given Helena’s frequent demands, she wasn’t sure how she’d stay fit.
When she turned onto 75th Street, she noted on the other side of the Madison throughway that a van was parked in the middle of the street, near Helena’s home and across from Judge Kendra Wood’s house. Its lights were on. Though she couldn’t hear it at this distance, she assumed its engine was idling.
A woman stepped out of the passenger’s side with a large satchel over her shoulder. She moved to the left side of the sidewalk as the van drove ahead. Theresa stood at the corner of Madison and East 75th, jogging in place until the light turned.
Meanwhile, she watched the woman move down the sidewalk. She watched her dip her hand into the satchel, watched her remove something that Theresa couldn’t see, and then watched her dip into the shadow cast by one of the many cars parked curbside. She reappeared again, reached into the satchel and bent beside one of the cars. In an instant, she was back up again and walking casually.
Rinse and repeat.
After what had happened to Wood, Theresa took no chances on these streets, regardless of how exclusive they were--and especially when there was something as odd as this going on. Now, the beat-up van was at the end of the street and about to turn onto Fifth. It sat there for a moment, then it maneuvered around the corner and left the woman to reach, dip, stand, continue.
She was attaching something to those cars.
The light turned, but Theresa didn’t cross. Instead, she looked left, saw no one coming down 75th and started running toward 74th Street. She made it in time to catch the light and crossed Madison there. She moved down 74th at a slower pace, just a jog, her mind trying to process what she’d seen, her heart catching in her throat when she saw the van turn onto 74th and start moving toward her.
Theresa kept a steady pace. All business, she pumped her arms. The van drew closer. Its high beams flashed on. Theresa lifted a hand to shield her eyes. She kept jogging. The van was upon her. As she started to pass it, she kept her focus ahead of her even though it was difficult to see. She turned to look at the driver in annoyance and absorbed the details. Male, forty-something, good looking, dark hair, turning to look at her from his open driver’s side window. They passed each other.
And then, in a shock of red light that illuminated the buildings surrounding her, he hit the brakes.
“Excuse me,” he called out.
No single woman at this time of night would stop for that call. Theresa quickened her pace even as the man called after her again. “I just need directions.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she broke into a run while behind her, the brake lights turned to white and the van’s engine roared to life.
He was backing up.
Theresa sprinted toward Fifth. She jumped over a cat as it strolled from between two cars parked along the street and sauntered onto the sidewalk. She flew over it. The cat looked up at her and hissed.
The man pressed harder on the gas. She could feel him rushing up behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was leaning partly out of the window and looking backward as he closed the distance between them. But Theresa was an athlete and there was nothing stopping her but her own endurance. She bit down hard and pressed herself as she fled to the street corner and cut right, almost into oncoming traffic.
Car horns blared.
Theresa righted herself and ran toward 75th.
Behind her, a car made an effort to turn onto 74th Street from Fifth, but the van was blocking its way. More horns. The man in the van had no choice but to stop and go forward, where she was certain she would find him again, this time speeding up 75th.
There were people on Fifth. “Call 911!” she shouted as she shot past them. “Tell them to get to 75th and Fifth!”
She stopped just short of the street and pressed her back against the building at the corner. Slowly, she looked around and saw nothing, no sign of the woman or the van. She looked at the car parked directly next to her and saw what appeared to be a medium-sized white brick stuck to the back near the gas tank. For a moment, Theresa couldn’t move. Every part of her told her it was an explosive.
Heart pounding, she weighed her options. She should leave here, save herself, but she couldn’t. Helena meant everything to her and her home was only five houses down the street. If she could somehow get inside before the van or the woman appeared again, she could call the police herself, take Helena deep into the basement and into Cecil’s fortress of a wine cellar, which was well away from the street. They could hide in there. The walls were so thick, they’d be safe from any intruders or explosions.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, got the correct one ready, and peaked around the corner again.
Nothing.
This time, she carefully scanned the block, but there was no movement. The woman was gone. So far, there was no sign of the van.
And so Theresa Wu rolled the dice and ran.
When she did, she was running the fastest she’d ever run. Fear propelled her forward. With each car she passed, she made an effort to look down to see if the same brick was attached to the rear bumper. From what she could see at this speed, in most cases, it was. The woman was rigging the street with explosives. She was planning some kind of terrorist attack.
But why here?
Focus. Just two houses to go. She sprinted. But then, just as the cat had done moments ago, the woman she’d seen earlier slipped between two cars, stood, moved to the sidewalk and stopped in front of her. Blocking her. In her hands was a gun with an extended silencer. She raised it while, at the end of the street, headlights rolled around the corner and shined against the woman’s back. It was the van. Its engine roared.
Theresa was running quickly, but not too quickly to think. In an instant, she dropped hard to the ground and rolled toward the woman’s feet. Surprised, the woman fired and the bullet went deep into a confetti of concrete. She made an effort to jump but Theresa was faster. She collided with the woman, who went down like a ten pin and fell hard on her chest.
Theresa leaped to her feet. Helena’s house was just up the stairs to her right. In her hand, she still clutched the key. But the van was nearly upon her now. And the woman was on her feet, though one look told Theresa that she was dazed and obviously hurt, though not badly enough to keep her from raising her gun.
Ducking, Theresa scrambled to Helena’s house. She ran up the steps and pressed the key into the lock just as the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head.
It was the man from the van. She could smell his breath. It was over in an instant. There was a click. A soft “goodbye.” A sudden jolt as a bullet bore through her brain and left part of her face stuck to Helena’s door. But molecules were still working, still making an effort to connect. She was aware of herself tumbling backward down the steps. She saw bricks rise up in front of her, a fan of tree limbs, a moving sky.
When her head struck the sidewalk, it did so with a sickening THWACK--and the
n Theresa Wu saw lights of another sort.
~~~~
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
10:18 p.m.
In his town house on East 75th Street, Emilio DeSoto admired himself in the full-length wall mirror and realized that at last, he had created his master work.
He was now a retro piece of living art. Minimalism was dead to him. In its place was classic severity and brash beauty delivered through the driving force of haute couture.
He held out his arms and then lowered them, allowing the scalloped polyester fabric to flutter in pretty waves. He did it again and then turned in such a way that air funneled up through the garment to create the illusion of weightlessness. He had smoked a joint earlier and his glaucoma was tolerable. Though he had only tunnel vision, if he looked directly at himself, he could see his reflection, and he was thrilled by what he saw.
After months of work on his latest piece--which used his own slender, angular body as its catalyst--he now embodied two art forms, each of which enjoyed a spellbinding link separated by centuries.
When that Spellman person left, he started going through the motions of at last bringing the influences together. And it worked, just as he knew it would months ago, when the idea struck him that soon, minimalism would no longer define who he was as an artist or a person.
After a long gestation of artistic incubation, that day was now.
He always had been a creature unlike any other--it’s why they loved and celebrated him--but now he had taken his talents to a new, defining level of greatness.
His face was a shield of Kabuki makeup that consumed his features--there was no trace of them beneath it. While his skin always had been pale, now it was painted pure white. The only other color was bright red, which he’d applied to the corners of his eyes--and to the lower lids--in an effort to make them appear as if they were about to spill over with blood.
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