Running of the bulls wst-2

by Christopher Smith

  Theresa returned with a silver tea service. She put the tray down on the table between Marty and Helena, poured Marty a cup of the steaming tea, offered him milk, sugar, NutraSweet, the works, and then asked Helena if she would like another cup.

  But Helena shook her head and waved her hand expansively. “I’m fine, dear, fine. Really, you’re like a well-paid, attentive nurse, rather than an assistant. Why don’t you sit down and join us? Mr. Spellman here is about to ask me to help him with something important-I can see it on his face-and I’m curious to know what on Earth that could be.”

  Theresa sat in the chair beside Marty and crossed her legs. She was a fit, beautiful distraction with hair that dipped past her shoulders and a face that reflected intelligence and something else. A mild flirtation? She tilted her head and smiled at him, her eyes lowering a bit.

  Helena straightened. “Well?” she said. “Come on, Marty, you know I hate suspense. What’s this all about? Somehow, you managed to get Gloria involved, so it has to be good if you were willing to go there. Are you reviewing one of my movies? Did you want an exclusive interview? Is that what you’re seeking?”

  Marty looked away from the smiling Theresa Wu and said: “Actually, it’s about Judge Wood. Did you know her?”

  Helena touched the diamond brooch fastened to the pocket of her white silk blouse and looked disappointed. “This is about that Wood woman?”

  Marty nodded.

  “Nothing else?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Not even one of my movies?”

  “You know I love your movies.”

  “Obviously, not enough to review them. I read your blog, you know. The young people who leave all those enthusiastic comments should know about my work, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” he said. “‘Private Affair’ is coming out on Blu-ray next month. I plan to cover it.”

  “That would be nice. And, you know what? It’s held up well. I was nominated for it, of course, but lost to that Crawford bitch when she started her smear campaign against me. Meanest person I ever met and there she was winning for being slapped across the face by that brat in ‘Mildred Pierce.’ Davis and I used to talk about her for hours. We’d rage against her. Bette would say that she wanted to snatch her bald, whatever that meant, though I expect it had to do with the fact that Crawford had trailers filled with wigs.” She waved her hand again. “But that’s all in the book and obviously my career isn’t why you’re here. Why are you interested in Wood?”

  “I can’t say, Helena.”

  “Not even to me?”

  “Not even to you.”

  She shrugged. “Well,” she said. “It was worth a try. Don’t you think, Theresa, dear? Always try. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter, anyway, because I know nothing about the woman. I told the police that this morning. A very tall detective with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen came here to question me. Beautiful. What was his name, Theresa?”

  “Hines.”

  “That’s right. Hines. Those shoulders of his were incroyable. I wanted to make up things just so he’d stay, but that would have been illegal and I’ve broken enough laws in my life, as you’ll soon find out. So, I played it smart and told him the truth. I didn’t know her.”

  And you also didn’t want to get involved in an investigation, Marty thought. Especially one of this magnitude. He sipped his tea, wondering how best to play this. Meanwhile, Theresa tilted her head to the other side and recrossed her legs.

  “Whatever you say to me will be kept private,” he promised. “It’ll never come back to you. You will only ever be known as a source. I give you my word on that, Helena.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Helena said. “But it changes nothing. I still didn’t know that woman. Like everyone else in New York, she kept to herself. Oh, there was a time when I tried to get to know her, but that was years ago, after she became famous for sentencing those men to prison for securities fraud. But it came to nothing.”

  “Would you tell me about that?”

  Helena shrugged. “It was Cecil,” she said dismissively. “He spoke about that woman every day for three weeks. When Wood became popular, he asked me to invite her to dinner. The stupid man was fascinated by her, had a little crush on her, wanted to know everything about her. But she never returned my calls or answered my invitations. The woman would have nothing to do with us. Nothing. It was as if we weren’t-us. You couldn’t imagine how that upset Cecil. He wasn’t used to being refused anything and went on about it for days.”

  “Did you ever notice anything unusual in Wood’s behavior?”

  “Like what?”

  “You two were neighbors,” Marty said. “You must have seen her coming and going at some point.”

  “Well, of course, I did,” Helena said. “But that was hardly an everyday event.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Marty said. “You saw her. You were able to draw conclusions, even if you were unaware of it at the time.”

  Helena looked away and finished her tea. She fingered her brooch and said nothing. Theresa Wu shot him a concerned glance, which Marty ignored. Like Emilio DeSoto, Helena knew something. He saw it the moment she turned away from him.

  “Come on, Helena,” he said. “This is important. Did you ever see anything unusual? Wood leaving late? Or maybe coming home drunk the next morning?”

  “Now you’re describing half of New York,” Helena said, but it wasn’t with any real conviction. She turned to the window beside her and looked across the way. The reporters were packing up and leaving Wood’s home. Helena watched them go and her thin, narrow shoulders drooped a little. She sighed. “Oh, all right, Marty,” she said. “I’m too old for this and you’re too good. Yes, I know something. I was even considering putting it in the book, but I give up. I’ll tell it to you.”

  She looked at him, her eyes suddenly and surprisingly hard. “But this goes nowhere. If it comes back to me, I’ll deny it all and make you look a fool. People believe old women like me. It’s one of the few treasures of being my age, this universal belief that the elderly are too sweet to lie. And even though I haven’t made a movie in decades, I haven’t lost my bag of tricks. I’m still one hell of an actress. Understood?”

  Marty understood.

  “When Cecil died, I had trouble sleeping. He was a big man in every way-this home became a vacuum without him in it and I wasn’t used to the silence. So I would wander around the house at all hours. I’d read or I’d phone friends in Europe or I’d watch television. Sometimes, I’d even turn on the radio and listen to music while thinking about the past and all I gave up for one man.

  “One night, about a month after Cecil’s death, I was standing at my bedroom window thinking about that piece of ice that killed him when I saw a car pull up in front of Wood’s house. It was big and black and expensive, the kind of car you’d expect in this neighborhood, the kind of car Cecil would have bought for himself.”

  “What time was this?” Marty asked.

  “Late,” Helena said. “Past three.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes. It was winter and it was cold.”

  “Could you see who was inside the car?”

  “Just let me talk, Marty.”

  He listened.

  “No,” she said. “I never saw who was inside that car. But when Wood came rushing out of her house and swung open the passenger door, I saw from the interior light that the car was filled with people.” She lowered her voice a notch. “And all of them were naked, just as Wood was.”

  Theresa excused herself and left the room.

  Marty watched her go and felt the moment stretch. At first he wasn’t sure he had heard Helena right, but of course he knew he had. He thought of Wood’s tattoo, of the date smeared in blood above her bed, of her missing head, and wondered again where all this was leading. “She came out of her house naked?” he asked.

  Helena nodded.

  “You’re certain of this?”

&n
bsp; “I think I know a naked woman when I see one, Marty. Kendra Wood wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. And neither was anyone in that car.”

  ***

  Later, as Marty was leaving, it was Theresa Wu who stopped him in the entryway.

  She pressed a manila envelope into his hand and said in a quick, nervous whisper, “Early yesterday morning, while Mrs. Adams was still asleep, I saw this woman leaving Judge Wood’s home. I’m positive it was her. I’d know her anywhere.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You’ll see. And you mustn’t tell anyone I told you this. I’ll deny it all, just like Mrs. Adams. Neither of us wants a scandal right now. Neither of us can afford being connected in any way to this. But you’ll look into it, won’t you? I think she might be involved in what happened to Judge Wood. She was carrying a large box when she left that house. She looked frightened. Terrified. But there was something else on her face-rage, I think.”

  Wu opened the door and asked Marty to leave. “Mrs. Adams mustn’t know,” she began in earnest, but Marty never heard the rest. By then, he had already opened the envelope and shaken out the paperback book Wu had placed inside it.

  He turned it over and looked at the photo on the back cover. And when he did, his skin shrank away in chill.

  The familiar, scarred face of Maggie Cain was smiling back at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  6:49 p.m.

  Maggie Cain.

  She had lied about her relationship with Wolfhagen. She was under investigation by the FBI. She must have known that Boob Manly had pleaded guilty to the Coles’ deaths, and yet she had overlooked him for Wolfhagen, Lasker, Schwartz. And now this. Now Marty had an eyewitness who could place her at Wood’s home on the day of her death. An eyewitness who had seen her leaving with a box big enough to house a head. An eye witness who had seen fear on her face. Rage.

  Maggie Cain was the biggest mystery in this investigation.

  As many questions as he had about Wood and Gerald Hayes, the Martinezes, the Coles and Mark Andrews, his thoughts always returned to Maggie and to everything she wasn’t telling him. Had she hired him to research a book on Wolfhagen? Or did she have other motives?

  He thought of Roberta and her warning about the three women. Was Maggie Cain the woman with murder in her heart? Or was that Linda Patterson?

  He looked across the street to Wood’s home.

  The crush of reporters was gone and now only the birds remained, dozens of them, roosting in the pale white eaves, swooping down in twos and threes to pluck insects from the umbrella of trees that canopied the shady street.

  Despite all the streetlamps and all her neighbors-and knowing she might be seen-Kendra Wood had left her house naked, joined her naked friends in their dark car and was driven off into the night. But where did they go? To which club?

  Did they all have the same tattoo?

  Marty pulled out his cell and called Skeen’s private number at the M.E.’s office. It was late. Chances are he wouldn’t be in.

  But Carlo answered. “Skeen.”

  “It’s Marty. Got a minute?”

  “For you, I’ve got three. What do you need?”

  “Gerald Hayes. Have you done him yet?”

  “Finished him two hours ago.”

  “Tell me he had a tattoo. Tell me it was like Wood’s.”

  “He had a tattoo. It was like Wood’s.”

  Marty closed his eyes. “Where was it located?”

  “On the head of his penis.”

  The deaths were connected. Things were moving. Patterson and Hines would be comparing notes, consulting Vice for a list of possible clubs. “What was the tattoo a picture of, Carlo?”

  “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 di
d 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.”