Martinez’s apartment was at the end of the hall, last door on the right. Spocatti moved past it and stepped into deep shadow. He drew his gun, cocked the trigger and tapped his foot.
Carmen knocked twice on the door and waited. There was a silence followed by a woman’s voice, so high and thin that Carmen questioned whether it belonged to the heavyset woman who just emerged from the cruiser.
“What?” the woman called. “What is it?”
Carmen checked the hallway, saw in a thin tunnel of light a cat strolling in her direction-golden eyes flashing, white paws padding, tail held high against the stained wall. Dangling from the cat’s jaws was a mouse, its wiry gray tail flicking at the very tip.
“Mrs. Martinez?”
Silence.
“It’s the police, Mrs. Martinez. Could you please open the door? We need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“Me and my kid are tired.”
Kid…? “Please.”
Martinez started unbolting the locks.
Carmen glanced over her shoulder at Spocatti, but couldn’t see him in the shadow. She turned back as the door parted on its slender metal chain. Maria Martinez peered out, her mocha pudding face and bloodshot eyes stamped with fatigue.
In the room behind her, Carmen saw a pretty young girl sitting at the brightly lit kitchen table. The sight caused her to pause. She didn’t know Martinez had a daughter. The child had dark hair and dark skin, a narrow nose and a delicate build. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her eyes closed, face on the table, dead asleep. If Carmen had a daughter, it might resemble this child…
“Who are you?” Martinez asked. “You wasn’t just here.”
Carmen showed Martinez the badge Spocatti gave her upon leaving the van. “I’m Detective Martoli,” she said. “Chief Grindle sent me to speak with you.” She looked the woman full in the face and waited for some sign of recognition. There was none and Carmen questioned whether this woman had ever seen her. “May I come in?” she asked. “It’ll take just a minute.”
“Your minutes take hours. I wanna get some sleep.”
“It’s only a few questions.”
“I already told you people what I know.”
“The chief has a new lead. He wants me to discuss it with you. I promise this won’t take long. Three questions and I’m gone.”
Martinez glanced past Carmen to the very place Spocatti stood in shadow. She hesitated, moved to speak, but then shook her head and removed the metal chain. She opened the door. Carmen watched her face, tried to read her expression. Had she seen Spocatti? Wouldn’t she have slammed the door shut if she had? “All right,” Martinez said. “But only a second. I’ve got jobs tomorrow.”
Carmen stepped inside and glanced fleetingly at the child, who now was sitting up, her head bobbing, then lifting to dip again. She seemed oblivious to Carmen’s presence, as though she already was lost to the vague world of sleep.
***
Martinez closed the door and went to her daughter, moving easily, fluidly, not self-conscious at all. “Before we talk, my kid’s going to bed.” She scooped the girl into her arms. “She’s had it worse than I have tonight.”
Carmen nodded, pleased. She didn’t want the child here. Things would go smoother without her. “That’s fine,” she said. “Take your time.”
Martinez murmured something and left the room.
Carmen was about to follow but decided against it-Martinez only could go so far. She reached into her shirt pocket and removed the heroin-filled syringe. There was enough here to kill Martinez. But her child? No way.
And Carmen was happy for that. She’d never admit it to Spocatti, but she liked children. One day, she wanted to have a child of her own. There was no reason for this girl to die. Carmen was certain she hadn’t seen her. Unless she missed something, the girl appeared to be asleep the entire time.
She wondered if Spocatti would take that risk? If he were here, would he be willing to take the chance that Martinez’s daughter had seen him in the few moments they had shared the same space? Probably not. He’d kill her, too.
But how would the police view this? If Martinez’s death was to look like an overdose, she wouldn’t have given her daughter the drug. So, the girl could live.
She held the syringe at her side and moved to the center of the small kitchen, looked around and appraised the details that made up Maria Martinez’s life. Photos of herself and her daughter decorated the refrigerator door; a rainbow of dirty dishes rested against one another in the stained sink; a large plastic crucifix was nailed slightly askew to the wall above the kitchen table; and on the sweeping orange countertop, paperback books were stacked three deep, some so frequently read, their covers were torn or missing.
Carmen chose one of the books and turned it over in her hands. Her brother had been a voracious reader, sometimes finishing several novels in a week. But years ago, when AIDS stole his eyesight, it was Carmen who read to him, Carmen who sat at his bedside, Carmen’s voice that rose and fell along with the respirator that had become his lungs. Though twelve summers had passed since she buried him, she missed him fiercely.
She put the book down and stepped to the refrigerator. In one of the photos, Martinez was laughing, her smiling face wide as the sky. Did she know things that could ruin Wolfhagen? Was there something she wasn’t telling the police? Only a moment ago she had been reluctant to let Carmen inside.
Had she seen Spocatti waiting in the hall?
Carmen glanced at her watch, then turned to the doorway through which Martinez had carried her daughter. Ten minutes to put a child to bed?
She slipped the syringe back into her shirt pocket and left the kitchen. The living room was tiny, so dim it seemed almost gaslit. The brown, threadbare carpet was unyielding beneath her feet. There was a door in front of her, another off to her right. Both were closed. The air was slightly cooler here, as though somewhere there was a breeze. She listened but heard nothing in the adjoining rooms, no sounds of a mother comforting her child, no soft, murmuring voices. Just the breeze.
And Carmen knew.
Martinez had known who she was all along.
She lifted her pant leg and removed the gun strapped to her calf, opened the door to her right and glimpsed the empty bathroom before charging forward to the next door, which was locked. Locked!
She slammed her fist against it in frustration. She stepped back and kicked the door once, twice, but it wouldn’t give, it wouldn’t open, she wasn’t strong enough and it infuriated her.
Behind her, the front door crashed open and Spocatti rushed in. He called out her name, ran into the living room with his gun drawn, listened to her, glared at her and drew back a foot, slamming it hard against the metal knob.
The door gave easily-splinters flew like confetti.
Carmen groped for a light switch and turned it on. The bedroom was empty, sucked free of life. Beside the unmade bed was an open window, its pale yellow curtains lifting to expose a rusty black fire escape shining blue in the light of a waxing moon.
Martinez had taken her daughter and run.
CHAPTER NINE
DAY TWO
The telephone was ringing, endlessly ringing, pealing throughout the apartment with the stubborn determination of an alarm that wouldn’t stop. Marty turned his head and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 6:32 on a Saturday morning in New York City. Who the hell was calling him at this hour?
Finally the machine picked up and his disembodied voice instructed the caller to leave a message after the tone. Then a woman’s voice, high and clear despite the machine’s walnut-sized speaker:
“Marty, it’s Maggie. Are you there? It’s important.”
He grabbed the phone from his bedside table. “What’s important?”
“Have you seen the Times?”
“Generally, I don’t see anything this early.”
“Gerald Hayes is dead.”
Marty sat up in bed. “Who is Gerald Hayes?”
“Wolfhagen’s former business associate and friend. He helped Wolfhagen make his fortune, then turned against him on the witness stand.”
“How did he die?”
“He fell from his office window. The police are thinking suicide.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Apparently. But it doesn’t end with Hayes. Last night, Judge Kendra Wood was found dead in her townhouse on 75th and Fifth.”
Marty closed his eyes. He knew Wood, had met her over the years at private parties and political functions. She sentenced Wolfhagen and two others to prison for securities fraud. “What happened?” he asked.
“She was decapitated. Someone broke into her home and took an ax to her throat.”
Now, he was up and pacing on the cool floor. “What time was she found?”
“Just after one in the morning.”
“And Hayes?”
“Just after 10 p.m.”
For a moment, they were quiet.
“So, what do you think?” Marty asked.
“Anyone could have killed Wood. The woman had a reputation for being tough, especially on minorities. Whoever broke into her home could have been sitting in prison for years, just waiting to be released. But Hayes’ death is off. Yesterday afternoon, I called to ask him for an interview for the book. He was in good spirits. Now this. Why would he kill himself? He was making a fresh start. People were calling him again. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What does?”
“Seven months ago, Edward and Bebe Cole were shot dead in their apartment. Last month, Mark was trampled by bulls in Pamplona. And now, on the same night, Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood are found dead. All of those who’ve died-with the exception of Wood-were once close to Wolfhagen. And yet they betrayed him. Wolfhagen must have been furious.”
“You’re thinking he’s behind this.”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “He’s such a smart son of a bitch, I can’t see it because it’s too obvious. He’d be more subtle. He’d know that sooner or later, people would start suspecting him.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants people to think.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes, if something appears too obvious, it can work in your favor. Wolfhagen has been out of prison for only two years. Common sense says he wouldn’t want any attention like this, and yet he’s getting it. It’s something he could make an argument for if anyone questioned him.”
“I’d buy that.”
“What are our other options?”
“My mind keeps coming back to Ira Lasker and Peter Schwartz. They were partners with Wolfhagen about a year before everything fell apart.”
Marty knew the names, had read about them. Ira Lasker was the young investment banker Wolfhagen hired to be a mole at Linder, Gleacher and Loeb. Book smart but greedy, Lasker was so taken by Wolfhagen, he agreed to sift through the partners’ files and look for hints of possible mergers.
Peter Schwartz, a veteran investment banker in his forties, had done the same for Wolfhagen at Stein, Goldsmith. In hopes of a lighter sentence, Wolfhagen quickly turned each into the SEC before either could strike immunity deals. Each did his time, just as Wolfhagen had.
“Where is Lasker living now?” Marty asked.
“In a penthouse on Fifth.”
Oh, to be an ex-felon, Marty thought. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much,” Maggie said. “I’ve never met the man. Last I heard he’s working out of his home as a financial consultant.”
“And Schwartz?”
“He lives on 77th and Fifth. Mark and I had dinner there once. Unbelievable home. You’d think the Met had opened a new wing there. Word’s out he’s writing his autobiography.”
“Were they called to testify against Wolfhagen?”
“They were and they did.”
“And I suppose since he turned them in, Wolfhagen also testified against them?”
“That’s right. And Wood worked each case. She sentenced them all to prison. Do you have the paper in front of you?”
“I can get it.”
“Don’t bother. You can read the story when we hang up. Some cleaning woman from Harlem saw Hayes fall from his office window and smash onto the sidewalk. She may know something the police haven’t told the press. Is there any way you can find out?”
It was his Saturday to be with the kids. He intentionally chose an evening flight to California to watch Wolfhagen so he could have lunch with them. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Are you going to be at home?”
“I’ll be here until noon. The rest of the day, I’ll be tied up in interviews. Any way you can get back to me before then?”
He was supposed to meet Katie and Beth at noon. Gloria would have a field day with this if he canceled. “I can try.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll do my best.” He hung up the phone, went to the front door and got the paper. Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood were on the front page of the Times, not for the first time-and certainly not the last.
He focused on the Hayes article. Though suicide was probable, murder wasn’t being ruled out. Marty finished the story and sat in thought, his mind picking over the facts. Gerald Hayes had been trading successfully in the foreign markets. Investors were coming to him again for advice. He must have been fueled by the renewed sense of power.
So why jump out a twenty-story window and end it all?
He read the Wood article. As he suspected, the story offered few details that could help him. By the time they went to press, her story was still unfolding.
No problem.
Marty reached for the phone and dialed the one person in Manhattan who would know as much about this case as the cops-Jennifer Barnes at Channel One.
She answered on the third ring, her sleepy voice a reminder of things better left forgotten. “Jennifer, it’s Marty. I think it’s time we have that breakfast.”
There was a silence. He heard her turning over, the bed creaking as she shifted position. “Who is this?”
“It’s Marty.”
“Marty?”
“That’s right.”
“And you want breakfast?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You’ve got to be kidding…”
“I’m not kidding.”
“All right,” she said sleepily. “I’ve got food here. You know where to get the coffee.”
“Perfect.”
“What’s this about, anyway? I thought you needed more time?”
“This isn’t about us, Jennifer.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jennifer Barnes lived four blocks south on 67th Street.
Marty crossed over to Sal’s on 66th, bought two large coffees and left thinking of all the mornings he came here after spending a night with her. It was a brief, six-month affair and it didn’t end well. But in many ways, the time they spent together was a necessary distraction from a marriage that had fallen into disrepair.
The doorman recognized him on sight.
Marty nodded and strolled past him into the building. He stepped into the dark warmth of a mahogany-paneled elevator and pushed a button until it glowed. Channel One paid its star reporter a salary so handsome, it allowed her to live on the eighteenth floor, just high enough to offer a glimpse of Central Park.
Jennifer met him at the door with a gun.
She pointed it straight at his heart, took a step forward and pulled him inside by the arm. “I ought to put a hole straight through you,” she said.
Marty moved past her and put the coffee down on a side table. He took the gun from her hands, checked the barrel, saw that it was loaded, snapped it shut. “Cute,” he said. “What if it had gone off?”
“You probably would have died.”
“And i
f I had?”
“One less bastard walking the streets of New York.”
“Just the one?”
“I’ll find the others. They always seem to come to me.”
She took one of the coffees and started into the living room, her curtain of blonde hair swinging. “I don’t know why you’re here,” she said. “But it had better be good. I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to see you, especially after I read your blog and Netflixed that movie you raved about. Second biggest waste of time in my life.”
“You read my blog?”
“Apparently, everyone does. People talk about it at work. It’s their go-to source for finding a good movie. I’m not nearly as enthusiastic.”
“Which movie did you watch?”
“‘The White Ribbon.’ And can you just tell me what you were smoking when you wrote that review? That was the bleakest, darkest movie I’ve seen in years. And it had subtitles. I hate subtitles.”
It was a fantastic movie, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. With raised eyebrows, Marty took his coffee and followed her into the living room, where she stood at the great window, her back to him, coffee on a side table, hands on her hips.
He loved this apartment. Much like his own home, books, magazines and newspapers were piled everywhere-on the floor, leaning against tables, towering alongside each end of the sofa. There was nothing pretentious about it, nothing that suggested a designer’s stamp. Marty always felt that he could breathe here, high as he was above the congested streets of Manhattan.
“Why are you here?”
They had met nine weeks after his separation from Gloria. He was just shaking off the cobwebs of a deep depression when the call came from Paul, his good friend from college, asking him to dinner. “There’s someone Laurie and I want you to meet.” The dinner was small and informal-an eclectic group of eight people eager to have fun and to be themselves. Jennifer Barnes was seated at his right. Her quick wit and easy laugh was like a tonic. Soon they were falling into conversation. For the first time in years, Marty found himself flirting.
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