“Collins dusted this place twice,” Hines said, referring to Sharon Collins, the chief fingerprints examiner. “She found nada, nothing, zip. Wood must have been a fucking recluse by the looks of things. Except for a few partials, her prints were the only ones lifted.”
Marty stepped inside and shook his head. “Wood was no recluse,” he said. “She may have lived here alone, she may have refused company, but people don’t party alone, especially if they’re shooting heroin. On that crap, you want to be seen.”
He looked around the bedroom. It was here that Wood must have spent most of her time while at home. Her computer was here, as were her law books, a photocopier, a printer and a flat-screen television. There were two telephones, an exercise bike and even a small refrigerator, which sighed at him from the far corner of the room.
“All right,” Hines said. “Give it your best shot.”
“Wood was into kink,” Marty said. “We know that from the tattoo and the piercings. But where did she go at night? Why did she take every third Friday off from work? To recoup from every third Thursday night? That’s a no brainer.”
“So, she belonged to a club.”
“Absolutely,” Marty said. “But which one? This city is filled with underground clubs that feature an a la carte menu of anything you want. Some are public, others are private. Some even take food stamps, but you probably don’t want to go to those. Or maybe you do. The problem is that most are mobile—they rarely meet at the same place twice. They rent a space, have their fun, shut it down when they’re finished. Have you talked to Vice?”
“Not yet.”
“When you do, mention the tattoo. See if they can match it to anything in their files. If they can, you might get your club.” He nodded at the message scrawled in blood above Wood’s bed. “Maybe even the person who can’t forget November 5, 2007.”
Hines’ cell went off. He slipped his hand into his pocket and answered.
While he spoke, Marty looked at the bloody mattress that had become Wood’s final imprint on the world, thought of the tattoo and the piercing, and wondered how a federal court judge, that bastion of morality and justice, could have become engaged in something so far on the fringe. When had the balance of her personal judgment tipped?
He looked around the large room with its heavy velvet curtains and sturdy iron bed, its bookcases brimming with law books Wood either had memorized or written, the pale yellow wall smeared with its mysterious message, and wondered what secrets it held. What did this room know about Judge Kendra Wood that the world was only just now finding out?
Hines clicked the phone shut, turned to look at Marty. “Now this is getting interesting,” he said. “That was the chief. Remember Maximilian Wolfhagen? The guy who was busted a few years back for insider trading? The guy Wood sent to prison? Guess whose head just showed up at his room at The Plaza Hotel?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hines’s Charger was as neat as Marty had come to expect from a man who demanded order in everything. Together, they got inside, shut the doors and drove across town.
“All right,” Hines said. “Who’d send Wood’s head to Wolfhagen? Who’d know he was at the Plaza? Grindle said he just got in last night.”
“What time last night?”
“A little past seven.”
“Why’s he in New York?”
“Chief didn’t say.”
Marty nodded and looked out the passenger window. He wasn’t comfortable with any of this. Already, the investigation was turning into more than Maggie Cain had promised, more than he had planned. But was it more than Maggie planned? Had she sensed from the beginning that Boob Manly had nothing to do with the Coles’ deaths? And if that was the case, why was she keeping quiet about it now?
Look at the facts, he told himself.
This morning, she had sounded upset—not surprised—when she phoned to tell him about Wood and Hayes. It was as though she had been anticipating their deaths, or, at the very least, expecting someone else to wind up dead who was connected to the others. He wondered again why she lied about her relationship with Wolfhagen. What happened between them that she was covering up?
“What do you know about Wolfhagen?” Hines asked. “You two ever meet?”
“No.”
“But I thought you and Gloria knew everyone.”
“Gloria knows everyone. She just took me along for the ride.”
Hines lit a cigarette. “Wolfhagen comes to town and two people from his past wind up dead—the first a man whose testimony sent him to prison, the second the judge who put him there. You heard about Gerald Hayes?”
“I was going to ask you about that later.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have an interest in his death, too.”
“Think there’s a connection?”
Maggie Cain certainly did. “I don’t know. Why would Wolfhagen cut off Wood’s head, send it to himself and directly associate himself with the case? Either he’s next or somebody is setting him up.”
Hines shot across the Park. “If I had plans to kill Hayes and Wood, sending myself Wood’s head might be exactly something I’d do.”
“Why?”
“Because, if I did do it, I’d need an alibi. Sending myself the very head the cops are accusing me of chopping off is the perfect one. Actually, if it turns out to be true, it’s brilliant. Wolfhagen wasn’t caught with her head. Instead, it was sent to him. Big difference. It makes it look as if he’s being targeted.”
Marty chewed on that for a minute and decided it made sense.
They turned onto Fifth and pulled behind one of several television remote-broadcast vans parked in front of the Plaza. The entrance was peppered with reporters, among them Jennifer Barnes, who joined the rest of the crowd by surrounding the car and shouting questions Hines wasn’t prepared to answer.
He stepped out of the car.
“Can you give us a statement?”
Towering over the crowd, he pushed forward. “On what? I haven’t even gone inside yet.”
“Word’s out she died of an overdose.”
“Can’t confirm that.”
“What can you confirm?”
“Nothing. Now, please let me through. I’ll brief you when I know something.”
But these people weren’t budging. Like a smashed nest of hornets, they rose up and enveloped him.
* * *
While Hines fielded the press, Jennifer emerged from the crowd and put her hand on Marty’s elbow. “So, maybe your hunch was right. Wolfhagen clinches it. These deaths are connected.”
“Seems that way.”
She moved closer to him, her voice a whisper he had to strain to hear. “Have you discussed this with anyone else besides me?”
He could smell her perfume. “Just Hines.”
“What’s he thinking?”
Marty told her about Hines’ alibi theory.
“That’s a twist,” Jennifer said. “But I don’t buy it. Wolfhagen would have to be nuts to send himself Wood’s head. He’s not stupid.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Of course, we’re probably wrong, Hines will bust this case wide open, he’ll get a promotion and we’ll look like fools.”
“It’ll be good for his esteem,” Marty said dryly. “I’m happy for him already.”
“You’ve been to Wood’s?”
Marty nodded.
“Anything I might have missed?”
Despite the agreement they’d made earlier, Marty was keeping quiet until he knew more about Wood’s case. He wasn’t saying a word about the tattoo or the piercing until he knew more. “I doubt it,” he said. “You don’t miss a thing.” He paused. “What do you make of the date smeared above her bed?”
“Two of my assistants are looking into that now. One’s Goggling, the other is going through old newspapers and court records. Before this happened, I was thinking Wood may have sentenced somebody on November 5th. Maybe they just got their wa
lking papers and decided to pay her a visit.” She shrugged. “Or not. I don’t know what to think.”
“Good,” Marty said. “Because it didn’t happen that way.”
She folded her arms. “Then how did it happen?”
He decided he could tell her a little. “Wood wasn’t murdered,” he said. “She died of an overdose. Her head was severed approximately nine hours after death. Whoever wrote that date and severed her head knew her. That much we know.”
Jennifer scribbled in her notebook.
Marty lowered his voice. “Our agreement is the same,” he said. “You don’t use any of this until I give you the word. If the wrong information gets out, it could ruin this investigation and after what I saw today, I’m not letting that happen. Agreed?”
“Agreed. But I can’t keep quiet forever. Every reporter in town is on this case. If I feel somebody is ready to scoop me, I’m going live with it.”
“That’s fair.”
“What else do you know?”
He looked up at Hines, who was pressing closer to the Plaza’s entrance. If Marty was going to get inside, he needed to join him fast. “I’m about to find out. I’ll call you tonight if I have anything.” With Wolfhagen in New York, he wouldn’t have to go to California. He could watch him here.
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we meet at my place tonight?”
He was surprised by the invitation. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m busy.” If Wolfhagen went out, Marty planned on tailing him, just as Maggie Cain would expect him to do. “It’ll have to be by phone.”
“Then call me at eight. You know the number. And try not to be late. With Wolfhagen here in New York, I might be going out myself.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On the Plaza’s fourth floor, a young officer nodded at Hines and Marty as they approached room 406. Sunburned and thin with an easy smile and an easier laugh, he was leaning against the door with an attitude that suggested none of this touched him, the fact that he was guarding a federal court justice’s head in one of the world’s most exclusive hotels. He didn’t know Marty and stared openly at him.
“Who’s this?” he asked Hines.
Hines looked down at him, his patience still short from his run-in with the press. “What the hell do you care?”
“I’m supposed to ask.”
“Is that so?” Hines said. “Well, how about that. You asked.”
He opened the door and they looked inside. Carlo Skeen, the M.E., was standing at the far end of the room, changing the lens on his camera with gloved hands. His eyes flicked up and met Marty’s. They nodded at each other.
“You might want to plug your noses,” the kid said with a grimace. “It’s pretty bad in there. Smells like she’s been dead for weeks.”
Hines leveled him with a look. “Remember that smell,” he said as they stepped past him. “One of these days, it’ll be you.”
Despite the warning, nothing could have prepared them for the smell. The air reeked of death. Hines expelled a rush of air through his nose; Marty caught his breath and held it. He was about to move farther into the room when a sergeant he’d known for years came forward to enter their names, time of arrival and Hines’ shield number into the crime scene log.
He nodded at Marty. “How’s it goin’, Spellman? Long time no see.”
“No offense, O’Hara, but I could have waited longer.” He looked across the room to Skeen, who now was taking photos of the large blue Tiffany box placed in the center of a shiny round table. In it, Marty could just make out the top of Judge Wood’s head.
“What time did it arrive?” Hines asked.
“Ten thirty,” O’Hara said. “By messenger.”
“I don’t suppose anyone got an ID on the messenger?”
The man looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right? The stuck-up pricks at the front desk say they know nothing. Couldn’t even give us the color of the perp’s hair. May have been brown, may have been black. Some chick with a stick up her ass thought it was a woman, her hair pulled up in a cap. Who knows? Just dropped it off for Wolfhagen and took off out the door. It’s not like they’re trained to notice these things, Mike. They check people in, they check people out. That’s their job. That’s their miserable fucking lives.”
“They have surveillance cameras here,” Hines said. “Did you get the footage?”
The surprise in the man’s eyes gave him away. “Working on it.”
“Right. Where’s Wolfhagen?”
“Downtown with the chief.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I was first on scene.”
“So, talk.”
“He’s scared. Freaked out. When I got here, he was standing in the middle of the room, starin’ at that box like it held the truth to every one of his nightmares.” He pointed beside the unmade bed, where there was a dark stain on the carpet. “He lost it after opening the package. Tried to make it to the bathroom but couldn’t. After washing out his mouth, he called the front desk, who called us. We got here in ten.”
“Along with the press,” Hines grumbled. He started toward the box. Marty and O’Hara followed. “Wolfhagen happen to mention what he did last night? Where he went? We know he checked in around seven. I assume he didn’t stay in.”
“He didn’t,” O’Hara said. “He ate dinner in his room, then left to visit his wife. Or is it his ex-wife? They divorced yet?”
“On the verge,” Marty said. He looked at Hines, then at O’Hara as Skeen’s camera flashed. They stopped just short of Wood’s head. “What time did he get back in?”
“This morning,” O’Hara said. “About an hour before he received the package.”
“He spent the night with her?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Has she confirmed that?”
“We haven’t contacted her yet.”
“Don’t,” Hines said. “I’ll talk to her myself.” He looked at Skeen, who was standing behind the table, writing something down on a note pad. “Mind if we take a look, Carlo?”
Skeen shrugged. “Why not? Green’s your color.”
“Shit like this don’t bother me.”
“We’ll see.”
Hines peered inside the box. Marty hesitated, then did the same.
Wood’s neck had been severed at such a steep angle that her head leaned back against the stained cardboard, her ruined face lifted to his. In a flash, Marty saw the sagging curve of her grayish right cheek, the fleshy hook of her twisted nose, the torn lips drawn back in horror over teeth that had been smashed to dust.
Wood’s skull no longer had the gentle curve of the living—it had been crushed by something blunt. Blood and bits of bone peppered her face in a swirl of scarlet. Her light blonde hair was now a deep reddish brown and matted in thick, coagulated clumps. Her eyes were missing. Someone had gouged them out.
Marty looked away. Wood had been dead nine hours and still someone had done this to her. She cheated them of murdering her, so they smashed her face, ripped off her head and sodomized her to satisfy their rage.
This was personal.
But would Wolfhagen have done this? The man had motive, but would he have gone this far after so much time?
Hines turned to O’Hara. “Why’s Wolfhagen in New York?”
“Never said.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“No,” O’Hara said. “I didn’t. The guy wasn’t exactly in one piece when I got here.”
“Neither was Wood,” Skeen said, and the young officer at the front of the room barked out a laugh.
Hines wanted to smack the kid. “He thought the box was a gift?”
“It had pretty ribbons on it. Wouldn’t you?”
“He must have smelled it.”
“Her head was sealed in plastic,” Skeen said. “Likely to prevent leakage, but also to conceal odor.”
“Who’d he think it was from?”
“He didn’t know,” O’Hara said. “Peopl
e like him are used to getting gifts.”
“What was his reaction when he opened the box?”
“I told you,” O’Hara said. “The man freaked. Seeing Wood’s head scared the shit out of him.”
“And it’s your opinion that his reaction was genuine? Not rehearsed?”
“Why? You think he’s behind this?”
“I’m not thinking anything yet. It’s just a question.”
“It really don’t matter what you think,” O’Hara said. “I know people. I know what I saw. Wolfhagen didn’t get anything past me. He was telling the truth. There’s no way in hell he knew what was inside that box.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Once out of the Plaza and away from the press, Hines offered Marty a lift to Gloria’s. “I can get you there quicker than any cab.”
They climbed into the Charger. Marty checked his watch. He’d promised his daughters he’d be there at noon to take them to lunch. Now, it was 12:30. “I owe you one.”
Hines pushed a button and the windows receded, sucking warm air and exhaust fumes into the car as they sped away. “You owe me more than that,” he said, “but we’ll discuss that later.”
For awhile, they were quiet. Marty closed his eyes and leaned back against the hot seat. He tried to clear his mind, but it was impossible. All he could see was Wood’s smashed head staring up at him from the tight confines of the Tiffany-blue box.
“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?”
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 53
