Running of the bulls wst-2

by Christopher Smith

  “Far as I see it, we got three ways we can look at this,” Hines said. “One-Wolfhagen’s guilty as hell. He killed Hayes, chopped off Wood’s head and sent it to himself for the alibi. Two-he’s being framed. Somebody thinks he didn’t spend enough time in the hole and wants him to spend the rest of his life rotting there. Three-Wolfhagen’s next. Whoever killed Hayes and Wood wants Wolfhagen dead, too. But they’re going to play with him first, send him squashed heads to scare the shit out of him, break him down before his own head winds up in a cardboard box.”

  “It’s all possible,” Marty said.

  “I’ll know more when I’ve checked Wolfhagen’s alibi and talked to him and Carra myself. I can’t get you into see him, but I can get you a copy of everything he says to Grindle, along with a copy of Wood’s surveillance tape and the call to 911. Tomorrow morning all right?”

  “Tomorrow morning’s fine. I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Hines said, cruising across Ninth. “It’s part of the deal. Remember?”

  Marty remembered. Soon, Hines would be expecting Marty to deliver something relevant to Wood’s case, or Marty would be on his own.

  “If you want to know about Hayes, you’d do better to talk to the First P yourself,” Hines said. “It’s their case.”

  “Who’s assigned to it?”

  “Linda Patterson,” Hines said, smiling. “Know her?”

  Hines knew damn well that he knew her. Marty tried working with her in the past on the high-profile murder of Emma Wilcox, the mayor’s sister, but Patterson’s cocaine addiction was so out of control at the time, her work so sloppy, he found the help he needed elsewhere and cracked the case himself. Patterson never forgave him for it. That case was her ticket to detective first grade.

  “If you ask nice, she might be willing to help you,” Hines said. “Maybe even tell you what happened last night to Maria Martinez and her daughter.”

  Not before helping herself to my wallet, Marty thought. Unlike Hines, Patterson helped no one without first being handed a check. “I’d rather you tell me about Martinez.”

  They were on West End Avenue now, moving Uptown at a speed that was twice the legal limit. “What little I’ve heard ain’t gonna help you, my friend. Right now, my life is Wood and will be until I find the pervert that took her head. Just talk to Patterson. She’ll know what’s up with Martinez and Hayes. Patterson might be dirty, but she’s sharp. If you play her right, she might help.”

  Hines cut right, narrowly missed the side of a delivery van, and cruised to a stop in front of Gloria’s building.

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “No problem, man.”

  Marty left the car and pushed through the building’s revolving doors. The doorman rose as Marty stepped past his desk. “You just missed them, Mr. Spellman. They left ten minutes ago.”

  Marty felt a sinking in his gut. He promised the girls that he’d be here. He knew what his absence would mean to them. “Did they say where they were going?”

  The man shook his head. “Just that they were going out.”

  “Were they alone?”

  “They were with Ms. Spellman’s new friend. They left in his car.”

  Marty felt a rush of anger. He had never been late picking up the girls. Gloria knew that. She could have waited for him. “Would you leave her a message for me, Toby?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Tell her I’ll be here next weekend at noon to take my daughters to lunch.”

  The man wrote the message down on a yellow slip of paper. “Anything else?”

  There was plenty Marty wanted to say to Gloria, but it would be to her face, not through this man. He turned to leave. “Just tell her I won’t be late,” he said. “And thanks, Toby. I appreciate it.”

  ***

  At home, there were two messages left on his machine-the first from a Sister Mary Margaret asking for a handout, the second from his ex-wife informing him that he was late, but not to worry, Jack was taking them all to lunch. Marty went into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, cracked it open, knocked it back.

  Unbelievable.

  He’d call Mary Margaret back with a contribution, but as far as Gloria was concerned, she could go to the very place the good Sister feared most.

  He was hungry. He went to the refrigerator, took out the fixings for a turkey sandwich, carried it all to the counter. He sliced and he spread and he stacked. He was cutting the sandwich in half when the service telephone rang. He licked mayonnaise from his fingertips and reached for the phone. “Carlos,” he said. “Talk to me.”

  “Jennifer Barnes to see you, sir.”

  Marty laid the knife on top of the sandwich. He and Jennifer had agreed to talk at eight. What was she doing here now? “All right,” he said. “Send her up.” He hung up the phone and waited for the doorbell to ring.

  It didn’t.

  The front door clicked shut and Marty heard the familiar sound of her heels clicking down the hallway. Jennifer stopped in the kitchen’s arched doorway and simply stared at him, her face flushed, as if she’d taken the stairs.

  “How?” he asked.

  She reached into her purse and removed the key he once gave her in a rush of affection. She held it up, a winking curve of metal. “I never gave it back,” she said. “I just held on to it. Don’t ask me why, I’d only lie. Do you want it back now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said tentatively. “Why are you here?” He knew why she was here. He could see it on her face.

  “Oh, Marty,” she said. “Why do you have to ask so many damn questions?”

  She came over to where he was standing and kissed him hard on the mouth. Still kissing him, she tugged at his shirt and started unbuttoning it, her fingers brushing his nipples, skimming his chest, smoothing the thin trail of light brown hair that snaked down his stomach to his groin.

  Marty moved to speak, but Jennifer put a finger to the lips. “Don’t,” she said. “Why ruin it? Just let it happen. We both want this.”

  ***

  Later, in bed, exhausted and sucking air, Marty looked up at Jennifer as she slowly slid off him. “My God,” she said. “The neighbors must be looking for wolves right now. You didn’t hold back at all. You actually let yourself go.”

  “I was horny.”

  “That wasn’t it,” she said. “You’re different. I saw it this morning. You’ve changed. You’ve never come like that.”

  Marty smiled at her. “I am different,” he said, patting his flat stomach. “About ten pounds different, right around my middle.”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “You’re more relaxed. Your guard is down. You seem more settled. It’s as if you’ve let something go.” She lifted the damp hair off his forehead and combed it back with her fingertips. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  At some point, he knew she’d ask that question, but he was surprised by the suddenness of it here. “I don’t know if I can answer that,” he said tentatively.

  “Can you try?”

  He owed it to her, but how to get it out properly? “I needed to get my act together,” he said. “When I met you, I was still in love with Gloria. We had two kids together. I love my kids. I miss them every day. I thought maybe there was another chance for us-even a third chance. Until I straightened my head out, I decided it was cruel to be in a relationship with you if all of me wasn’t here for you.”

  “Where do you stand with Gloria now?”

  “We’re finished,” he said. “We have been for a while.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  Marty thought about that, thought of all the years and all the guilt and all the love won and all the love lost, and wondered what it all had meant. Was he a better man now for having loved Gloria? Besides his daughters, had anything good come out of those thirteen years together?

  “I’ll always love her,” he said. “She gave me Kati
e and Beth. We have a history that I can’t just swipe away. But she’s changed into somebody I don’t recognize. She wants to be something else. She wants to be a celebrity, which I don’t understand. It’s a different kind of love I feel for her. It’s not sexual, but based on our past. We made two fantastic girls together, and that’s about all we got right. Does that make sense?”

  Jennifer bent to kiss him on the lips. “I always knew you were a good man. I waited for you, you know?”

  “You waited for me?”

  She shrugged. “I love you,” she said. “I’ve always been in love with you. Of course, I waited for you. I knew at some point you’d come around and we’d give it another try.” She paused. “If that’s what you want.”

  Marty was still for a moment. He felt overcome and grateful, but not confined. He realized he also loved her. And for the first time since he’d known her, he told her so.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Spocatti threaded through the crowds on lower Fifth, Maggie Cain so close he could reach out and slice her throat.

  He’d been tailing her since early afternoon and he was enjoying it. She was attractive. Dark brown hair falling to her shoulders and swinging like scarves. Olive green shorts, white shirt, matching green shoes, legs tanned and shining in the sun. The scar on her cheek made him go weak with the mystery of it. He wondered how she smelled and how she tasted. She reminded him of the only woman he had ever loved, dead now ten years by his own hands.

  He cut left and hung back to give her some room. On the street, a city bus rumbled past, its joints squealing like stuck pigs, a flood of yellow cabs pooling around it like an impatient school of fish.

  Maggie Cain paused to look behind it. The sun hit her square in the face and lit up her eyes. Spocatti thought she was striking. In the past hour, he’d followed her to two bookstores, her agent’s office on 13th Street, and the post office.

  At the first bookstore, a trio of young women recognized her, pulled her books down from the dusty brown shelves and tentatively surrounded her, their mouths split wide and smiling. Spocatti watched her sign her name. She listened and nodded and laughed with them, but none of it was real-her thoughts were elsewhere. And that intrigued him.

  But not as much as her scar.

  She stopped on the corner of Fifth and 8th, and waited. The light turned, traffic stopped, the WALK sign flashed, but she didn’t move. She didn’t cross and Spocatti had no choice but to stroll past her. It would be too obvious if he didn’t. He walked by and caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, saw what might have been a smile on her lips. For him?

  He moved to the other side of the street, lost himself in the crowds, shielded himself on the other side of a hot dog kiosk and turned back to look at her. Now she was facing uptown. He followed her look and saw only the crush of a thousand cars bearing down on Washington Square.

  Carmen.

  He removed his cell and hit her number. Two quick rings. Her voice: “What?”

  “Are you inside?”

  “Of course, I’m inside.”

  “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Her security system’s good, but not that good.”

  “What have you found?”

  “Nothing. Not even a hint of something on Wolfhagen.”

  “Not even a hint,” Spocatti said. “That certainly seems strange for someone writing a book about the man, wouldn’t you say?”

  Carmen didn’t say.

  “Maybe she isn’t writing a book,” Spocatti said. “Maybe you got that wrong, too.”

  “You heard what Hayes said, Vincent. I wasn’t imagining it.”

  “So you weren’t,” he said, and paused. Cain was checking her watch. “You’ve checked her phones?”

  “I’ve hit the redial button on every one I’ve come across.”

  “And?”

  “A call to her agent, one to her dry cleaner, another to someone in L.A.”

  “Who’s the someone in L.A.?”

  “I have no idea. No one picked up. No answering machine.”

  “You’ve scanned the numbers?”

  “No, Vincent, I’ve ignored them. Jesus, give me some credit. Where is Cain now?”

  “Corner of Fifth and 8th.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “I have no idea. She’s just standing there.”

  “You have no idea,” Carmen repeated. “Has she spotted you?”

  He smiled. “She might have.”

  “Think you can handle this, Vincent?”

  “Touche, Carmen.”

  He lowered the phone from his ear as Maggie Cain stepped to the street. He watched her lift the strap of her handbag higher onto her shoulder and finger her hair away from her face. She waited and Spocatti saw what she was waiting for.

  A black limousine pulled sharply to the curb and the rear passenger door shot open. Looking tense, Cain leaned down, said something, shook her head, glanced at him and then stepped inside.

  Spocatti pushed forward to the street.

  The limousine pulled away from the curb, took a left on 8th, drove straight past him. Vincent leaned down, but the tinted windows were so dark, he couldn’t see inside. He searched the street for a cab, glimpsed one halfway down 8th, and swore to himself.

  So far away and yet he needed that cab. He couldn’t lose her now. He cut through the flock of pigeons dawdling on the sidewalk and ran in the wake of their beating wings.

  ***

  Carmen stood just outside Maggie Cain’s living room, looking across to the black cat poised on the edge of the grand piano. It was staring at her, its golden eyes gleaming. She stomped her foot at it, hissed at it, but it made no effort to move. She switched the phone to her other ear and said impatiently: “Are you there, Vincent?”

  But he wasn’t. He’d hung up.

  She snapped the phone shut and glared at the cat. It would have to be black. In this business, luck was as important as skill and Carmen, raised by parents who instilled in her a fear of broken mirrors and the otherworldly, was superstitious enough to know with certainty that her luck was being challenged.

  Time.

  She had to move. She wanted to be out of here in twenty. She did another surveillance of the living room, but there was nothing for her here. She went back into the hallway, grabbed the knapsack she left at the front door, tossed the phone inside, and took the staircase to the second floor.

  To the right of the bedroom was Cain’s office, a large space that overlooked 19th Street-tall shelves lined with books, heavy damask curtains that pressed out the sun, an acrylic cylinder filled with tropical fish that stretched from floor to ceiling and cast blue flares of light along the pale hardwood floor.

  At the far end of the room was a desk.

  Carmen went to it and sat down on the brown leather wingback. At last, a writer’s world-stacks of papers and thick green folders; a computer, printer, a telephone sitting atop a modem; books leaning against books; an ashtray overflowing with crushed cigarette butts; a dented can of Diet Coke, half-full.

  With gloved hands, Carmen started opening the folders, flipping through the papers, skimming the pages for anything on Wolfhagen. But all she found here were letters from fans, bills Cain had yet to pay, several letters to her editor, three notes from Cain’s mother, an old shopping list slashed with red marks, coupons that had expired.

  She put the folders back, turned on the computer and while waiting for it to start up, she swept the room again. There had to be something here.

  She leaned back and opened the desk drawers, found Cain’s address book tucked beneath a sheath of plain white papers, tossed it onto the desk, and then swung around to look through the file cabinets behind her. Nothing. Not even a file on the man.

  She stood and rummaged through the rolltop desk next to the bubbling aquarium. She checked the trash can beside the bookcase. There was a closet at the far end of the room, but nothing
helpful within it. As much as Carmen looked, she came away with not so much as a scrap of information on Wolfhagen. She went into the bedroom, searched everywhere, but it fruitless.

  Was Cain even writing a book?

  Carmen returned to the office, knowing she couldn’t leave here without something.

  She crossed to the desk and removed a flash drive from her knapsack. She connected it to Cain’s computer, downloaded the contents of her hard drive, and reached for Cain’s address book, soaking the pages into memory. She put it down and, as she did, her hand brushed against the telephone.

  And Carmen felt a rush. She hadn’t checked this phone.

  She hit the redial button and listened through the loud speaker as the machine on the opposite end picked up. A man’s voice, brisk, all business: “This is 555-2641. Leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you.”

  Carmen severed the connection and searched for the man’s number in the address book. She found it toward the back of the book: Marty Spellman, Private Investigator. The ink was dark red and appeared fresh. There was an address beneath it and the number to his cell, which she called on her own cell.

  “Hello?”

  She hung up.

  A private investigator-and Maggie Cain was in contact with him.

  Carmen smiled.

  Bingo.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Stretched out naked in the center of the bed, Jennifer lifted her head from Marty’s chest and looked up at the telephone. “All right,” she said. “First your telephone, now your cell phone. Who’s calling and hanging up on you? What’s her name? You break her heart, too?”

  He looked at the number on his cell, but didn’t recognize it. “Very funny.”

  “You must be seeing someone.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you’re so good looking,” she said. “So charming. So intelligent. So much money.”

  “So full of shit,” he said. “And besides, I don’t know anyone with enough courage to date me.”