“It was Gloria,” he said.
“Gloria?”
“Just got off the phone with her.”
“But I thought you were pissed at her.”
“I am,” Marty said. “But I knew she could get me inside so I said to hell with it and called her.”
“She really does know everyone, then.”
“She makes it her business to,” Marty said. “It’s what she does.”
“Think they saw something?”
“It’s what I’m hoping.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, there is,” Marty said. “What are you doing after this?”
“Bob was going to buy me a drink but I can get out of that,” she said. “Bob’s a pushover. He loves me, too.”
“Enough to Tweet you?”
“Oh, please. He’d Tweet the hell out of me if he was straight.”
Marty smiled. “Too much information. If he’s willing to take a rain check, I was wondering if you’d drive over to Carra Wolfhagen’s and keep tabs on her husband. He’s staying with her.”
That was enough for Jennifer. She took him by the arm and led him farther down the street, away from the other reporters. “Wolfhagen’s there?” she said in a low voice. “But they can’t stand each other.”
“You think?”
“Why would she let him stay with her? She’s divorcing him. Everyone knows how they feel about each other. You’d think he’d find some other place to stay.”
“It is interesting, isn’t it?”
“What else do you know? You’re holding back-I can tell.”
“I’ll tell you everything later,” he said. “But only if you’ll watch him.”
“Of course, I’ll watch him.”
They walked back toward the crowd of reporters.
“Bring your cell,” Marty said. “Call me on mine and follow him if he leaves. I don’t know when I’ll be able to join you, but I’ll get there eventually.” He looked at her. “You’re okay with this?”
She frowned at him. “Oh, please. It’s not like I haven’t pulled surveillance before. Remember Gotti?”
How could he forget? At that early point in her career, she may have been a young reporter, but she’d tailed the mob boss for three weeks without getting caught. She’d gone undercover and dated the man’s son to extract information about the family. She won a Peabody for her report, which exposed sides to Gotti he never wanted made public. And it made her a star.
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you after you interview DeSoto and Adams. It’ll be fun, like old times.” She winked at him. “And do me a favor-wear those tight jeans I like so well, the ones that show off your ass. You never know. You might just get lucky again.”
With that, she crossed the street, stood in front of the camera, skimmed her notes and took a breath as the camera’s floodlights flashed on. Bob pointed a finger at her and Jennifer began speaking to half of New York, as did the other reporters around her.
***
Marty turned to the building behind him.
Emilio DeSoto’s home was tall and narrow and painted bright white-bright white door, bright white bricks, bright white awnings over the wide white windows. The steps were painted white, the trim was painted white, the wrought iron railing that ran alongside the house was painted white. The only hint of color here was on the door-the number “21” in pearl gray. Marty knocked twice and waited. Experience told him that gaining entrance to this home might take awhile.
E, as he was known in the New York art circle, was one of Manhattan’s premiere minimalist artists. A close friend of Gloria’s, his mere presence at her first showing had given her career the kind of boost every debut artist desires. He had purchased the smallest of her paintings-a tiny stamp in a collection of sprawling canvases-and whispered in her ear all evening. When asked by the media what he thought of this new artist’s work, E surprised them all by answering in a complete sentence: “Her work is arresting.”
Her work is arresting. Those four words helped Gloria and the gallery net seven figures in sales by evening’s end.
The door opened slowly, carefully, finally exposing a sliver of E in white silk pajamas, white satin slippers, his head and eyebrows shaved clean. He was a thin slip of a man with skin so pale, it was almost translucent. They’d met only once-here, for tea with Gloria-but E hadn’t spoke to him, only stared when Marty commented on the man’s paintings.
Now, Marty wondered how in hell he was going to get this odd man to talk to him about Judge Wood and what he may have seen over the years as her neighbor. But Gloria promised he would talk. “Death fascinates him,” she said. “It’s a major force in his work, especially during his black period, which coincidentally coincided with mine. And he’s different when he’s alone. He’s different when he doesn’t have an audience. You’ll see. You won’t be able to shut him up.”
But looking at E squinting at him, frowning at all of the colors that made up Marty’s clothes, he couldn’t be sure. “Thanks for seeing me, E,” he said. “I know you’re busy and I appreciate it.”
E said nothing. He looked past Marty to Wood’s home, moved to speak, but then pursed his lips into a tight pale line and said nothing. He lowered his gaze and with an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, invited Marty inside.
A long white corridor stretched before them like a tunnel of snow. Strategically placed lights were hidden in the ceiling, concealing shadows, casting others. There was no furniture, no paintings on the walls, no signs of life present or past. E locked the door behind them and wordlessly turned to walk down the blinding hallway.
Intrigued, Marty followed.
How did this little, peculiar man survive in New York? Was it all an act, as Gloria suggested, or was it something deeper, some unexplained disturbance he had never resolved?
As they moved forward, Marty watched the man list left, then right. They reached the end of the hallway and E’s shoulder struck the edge of the doorway. The blow took him by surprise and he lurched sideways, almost falling into the room but righting himself at the last moment.
He tripped across the living area, bumped into one of the few white chairs arranged in the center of the room, sent it toppling and pushed forward, toward the table along the far white wall.
Marty couldn’t tell if the man were sick, drunk or simply unable to make out the subtle shading that defined where this chair was, that couch, that table. He stood in the doorway and watched E grasp the small white urn at the end of a table. He unscrewed the lid, reached inside and removed a short white stick.
The stick was a joint. Marty stepped inside and watched E fire it up with the white lighter beside the urn. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the blue smoke rising before him in thick little clouds. It wasn’t until after he had exhaled that he finally looked at Marty and said to him in a thin, exasperated voice: “Glaucoma.” He sighed and for a moment, Marty thought he understood him.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” he said. “But if now isn’t a good time, I can come back when you’re feeling better.”
E screwed up his face and sucked harder. He coughed and brought a hand to his chest, which he gently patted once.
Marty looked at the fingernails on that hand. With the exception of the thumbnail, which was clipped close, the nails on the remaining four fingers were long and slender, curving and yellow. Marty glanced at the nails on the other hand and saw that they had been chewed to the skin.
And E sucked.
“Did you know Kendra Wood?” Marty asked.
E finished the joint, snuffed the roach in a clean glass ashtray and put a finger to the very tip of his narrow nose. His eyes were clouded and unfocused. His body occupied space, but his mind was far away. He coughed again and gazed across the room toward Marty. His upper lip twitched.
Marty wasn’t sure if the man had heard him. “You’ve been her neighbor for six years. It would be helpful if you could tell me anything
you might know about her.”
E turned his head and traced a finger along the urn’s curving white lid. He gave no indication of pending response.
“Perhaps I should be more blunt,” Marty said, keeping the frustration from his voice. “Last night, Judge Wood was found dead in her bedroom. Her head was severed and, until this morning, was missing. The evidence suggests she lived two separate lives. I’d like to know if you’ve seen anything unusual in her behavior over the years.”
“Yes,” said E.
Finally, thought Marty. “Could you tell me about that?” he said. “What have you seen?”
“Things,” said E.
“Such as?” asked Marty.
“People,” said E.
“Who?” asked Marty.
“Rodents,” said E.
And that stopped Marty.
He watched a wave of disturbance flash across E’s face, which was somehow paler than before. The air in the room seemed to shift and turn in on itself. Marty could sense it tightening. “I need you to be more specific,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”
“No.”
“She was decapitated, E.”
“Life lops heads.”
“Please, tell me what you know.”
“I know they’ll be looking for a new judge.”
“And I know your routine is an act.”
E recoiled.
“Gloria told me that you were a good man. She told me that you would help me. She said that death fascinates you.”
“Life is the new death.”
“What did you mean by ‘rodents’?”
E’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Rodents eat their young.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rodents eat their own.”
“You’re saying Judge Wood was a rodent?”
“Yes.”
“Who ate her, E?”
But E had spent his words. Like a child, he turned his back on Marty, folded his arms around himself and behaved as if he’d offer nothing more.
But Marty was having none of it. He’d be damned if minimal Emilio was going to dangle a carrot in front of his face and snatch it away.
“The police will be here, E. Kendra Wood was a federal court justice and they’re going to question everyone on this block. They’ll question you and they won’t be as understanding as I am. They’ll harass you. They’ll make you talk. They’ll know you’re hiding something and they’ll force you to tell them what you know. They’ll humiliate you. They’ll get subpoenas. They’ll bring in the FBI. They’ll call you a freak. Everything will be leaked to the media. It will be a circus. You’ll have to talk to everyone.”
E lifted his head toward the ceiling.
Marty lowered his voice. “But if you tell me what you know and I solve the case, you’ll never even have to deal with the police.” Which was a lie, but time was short and Marty needed answers.
“You don’t know me,” said E.
“I don’t need to,” said Marty.
“You’re not an artist.”
“What does that have to do with a dead woman?”
“Artists see things differently.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You and I can’t communicate.”
“I believe we are now.”
“Communication isn’t harassment.”
“No one is harassing you.”
“Life harasses me.”
“I’m trying to solve a crime.”
E turned to him. “It wasn’t a crime.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rodents eat rodents.”
“Cut the bullshit, E.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I know you were a bad husband.”
“You’re hiding something.”
“I hide everything.”
Marty pulled out his cell. “One call and your life changes.”
“One call to Gloria and so does yours.”
He dialed Hines’ number.
“This is what I know.”
He listened to the phone ring.
“I know you hurt your family.”
He refused to let this man in.
“I know your daughters will never have a normal life.”
Hines’ answering service picked up.
“I know you’re a shitty critic.”
Marty focused on Hines’ voice.
“And I know you need to get out of my house.”
Marty snapped the phone shut. “You’ll regret this, E.”
“I never regret truth.”
“Have a look at yourself and tell me that.”
“I’ll tell you this. I’m incubating. Tonight, I change.”
And without another word, E went to one of the plain white chairs in the center of the room and sat down. He put his face in his hands and positioned his body in such a way that his limbs drew close to his body and appeared to make him even smaller. The lines of his body shortened. His will to vanish quickly became the strongest statement he’d made thus far.
There would be nothing more forthcoming.
Marty turned to leave. But when he reached the door, E’s voice lifted and carried down the hall. “Those rodents are going to eat you, too, Spellman.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
6:26 p.m.
Helena Adams’ home was four houses to the left of DeSoto’s and almost directly across from Wood’s. It was three stories of bricks and shiny casement windows, black shutters pressed with winding ivy, a carved mahogany door with stained glass and reinforced, Marty suspected, with at least two inches of steel.
He looked down the street, toward the Park that was so close at the end of it, and watched the dozens of people rushing by on the sidewalk. They were either hurrying up Fifth or hustling to move down it. He pressed the glowing buzzer and waited while trying to clear his mind of the scene he’d just had with DeSoto.
“Those rodents are going to eat you, too, Spellman.”
As he played their conversation over in his head, there was a part of Marty that now thought DeSoto told him more about Wood than he’d originally thought. The man spoke in code. Who were the rodents?
A young Asian woman answered the door.
“Mr. Spellman?” she asked. By her expensive, fitted pale blue suit, Marty guessed she was Adams’ secretary.
“Yes,” Marty said.
“I’m Theresa Wu, Mrs. Adams’ personal assistant. We’re having tea in the library. Mrs. Adams would like you to join us there.”
She stepped aside so he could move past her, then closed the door and motioned for him to follow her down a cool hallway lined with delicate antique tables and paintings on the walls. Marty looked at the tables and saw without surprise the silver-framed, black and white photographs of film stars from another era. Most were signed with love or affection, and none were studio shots. These were from Adams’ personal collection. Somewhere, a central air conditioner whirled cool air into the room.
They turned right at the end of the hall and entered a library whose walls were filled from floor to ceiling with books.
At the far end of the room, where the light was flattering, sat Helena Adams. She rose from her seat to greet him. “Marty,” she said. “God, it’s good to see you. Please, come in.”
Except for her hair, which was now a shorter, elegant silver bob that hugged her famous face, she looked no different from the woman he’d spent an evening with two years ago, at a fundraiser for AIDS research. Tall and slender, still striking in her eighth decade, she had the kind of grace and elegance that could only be natural, not learned or practiced. He took her hands in his own and squeezed them gently. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“I had little choice,” Helena said. “Gloria told me this was important. Have you ever turned that woman down? Awful. All that tense silence. I don’t have that kind of courage anymore.”
But of course she did, and they both kne
w it. Throughout the 1940s, Helena Adams starred in nearly three dozen films, two of which earned her Academy Awards for Best Actress and turned her into a legend. Hollywood occasionally courted her, but Helena turned her back on them forty years ago to marry Cecil Chadbourne, the billionaire investor. In the few interviews she’d given since, she never explained why she gave up a career as promising and as powerful as hers was then.
“Theresa,” Helena said, turning to her assistant. “Would you please get this kind man some tea?”
“Of course.”
Helena smiled at Theresa and they watched her leave the room. “She’s a super girl,” Helena said. “I’d be lost without her.” She turned to Marty and asked him to sit in the embroidered chintz chair opposite her. “I’m dictating my autobiography to her,” she said casually, sipping from her own cup of tea. “Now that Cecil’s gone, I can finally tell everything. We’re nearly finished and I can say this, Marty-I’ve had one hell of a life.”
“I don’t think anyone would question that, Helena.”
But Helena shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said gravely. “I’ve done things no one knows about. I know things about Hollywood and New York society that everyone is going to question-especially the FBI.” She raised her hands. “Oh, I can’t wait till they get their greedy paws on this book. That’ll be an especially trying day. But I’m old and I don’t care. Keeping secrets can be a terrible burden, don’t you think?”
He nodded.
“Yes, in your business, I thought you might. It can ruin you, make you give up your dreams, throw away your life for one that doesn’t matter. It can even make you marry someone you hate. I’m ending that cycle now. I’m telling the truth about both towns. I’m burning my bridges and I love it. It’s something I should have done years ago. This is my ‘60s liberation five decades later. I’ll never eat lunch in either town again.”
She smiled at him, mysterious as ever. “You’ll have to read my book to know what I’m talking about, dear. I’m being vague on purpose. Part of my charm, I’m told, this vagueness of mine. Cecil told me that just before his accident.”
She stared openly at him and Marty had to wonder. Cecil Chadbourne died in a freak fall late last winter. Broke his neck after slipping on a patch of New York ice. Helena the widow had been too upset to attend her husband’s funeral. After all, right in front of her, she watched Cecil bleed out through his smashed head, take his last few breaths and die. Friends understood her absence, particularly when the business and entertainment media started camping outside her door. In an effort to get away from them, she flew to Paris to comfort herself in the lush confines of their apartment overlooking the Seine.
Running of the bulls wst-2 Page 15
