The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  “I’m going out for the night,” Wolfhagen said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out four checks he’d retrieved earlier from the checkbook buried deep in one of his bags. The goons drew closer. “Yes, I am.”

  The hot one looked down at the checks. “You can’t bribe us, Mr. Wolfhagen.”

  Wolfhagen knew better. “But I have $1 million for each of you.”

  The hot one cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mrs. Wolfhagen pays us well. She offers nice, steady employment. Why don’t we just take the checks and shut the fuckin’ door in your face?”

  “Because that would be cheating yourselves out of more,” Wolfhagen said. “And everyone wants more. It’s what the world is made of—craving more. Dying for more. Wanting to be more. And besides, I just want to go out for two hours. That’s all. Carra won’t know. I’ll be quick. When I return, each of you will receive another million for your trouble. And the secret stays with us.”

  “Why do you need to go out?”

  “Can’t say. Sorry. Lot’s of secrets, some going to my grave. But time is running out. Carra is a late night kind of gal, but let’s face it, she’s putting on the years and I doubt she can go as deeply into the night as she used to. So, to minimize risk, I need to leave now so I’m back here before she returns.”

  He held out his hands and, as he did so, each man glanced down at the unsigned checks. Then, they looked at him. “All I need is one of your cars, a cell phone and two hours. That’s it. If you agree, I sign these checks alone in the car, give them to you and then I’m off.”

  They all looked at each other.

  And Wolfhagen’s shoulders sagged in frustration. “Oh, stop looking so tense, you big lugs—you’ll see me again. It’s all part of the goddamn plan.”

  * * *

  The car they offered was surprisingly sweet—a black Audi TT. He felt a little rush as he slipped into it. Snug yet comfortable. Beautifully appointed and made specifically for one’s lost youth. He couldn’t be sure yet, but he bet it was fast, which was perfect for his needs.

  “Do you have a pen?” he asked.

  The goons were waiting outside the car. The hot one reached into his jacket to retrieve a pen and, when he did, Wolfhagen saw his gun resting inside its holster beneath the folds of fabric.

  “Can I borrow that?”

  “Borrow what?”

  “Your gun.”

  “You’re not borrowing my gun.”

  Wolfhagen started signing the checks on the steering wheel. “What are your names?”

  They told him.

  “Make sure they’re your real names.”

  “They are.”

  He signed each name with a flourish, then stopped at the last check. He looked at the hot one and wished he could reach out a hand to see if he was really packing. But that wouldn’t be good form. “$500,000 for the gun. That’s $250,000 per hour, plus the million I’m giving you now. Good money, if you ask me. It’ll put your kids through college.”

  “I don’t have kids.”

  “Then think of your wife.”

  “I don’t have one of those, either.”

  “Then you and I need to talk. Later. My bedroom. When it’s just the two of us and a harness.”

  The man screwed up his face and the goons looked at each other. The tallest of them said in a low voice to the hot one, “If you don’t do it, I will.”

  “Okay,” the hot one said. “Write the check for one five.”

  “Of course.” He winked at him. “And what a business sense. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. I like that.” Wolfhagen filled out the amount and then, turning slightly to the window, he said: “First the gun.”

  The man hesitated, but then he handed to him.

  No stranger to a gun, Wolfhagen checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He gave the men their checks, rolled up the window so they couldn’t pull anything on him, cut into traffic and roared off to the very place he knew Carra would be.

  It was Saturday night. She’d be at her version of The Bull Pen. The club he created all those years ago was back in operation and apparently thriving—the few people who remained friends with him during his awful fallout with the world were members of it. They told him that Carra and Lasker were there once per month on a Saturday night. Though they’d moved the club to a new building after the federal crack down, Carra and Lasker had kept it going in his absence, obviously for the money it brought in, but more likely for the connections it offered.

  He wondered if they videotaped the crowd as he used to do. If they did, he wondered how many favors they were sitting on now.

  The address he was given would take him to West 83rd Street, which told him all he needed to know. While the location had changed, what was happening inside that club hadn’t. These people needed their playtime, but they also needed to play in a location that was safe, upscale, unsuspecting and in which they could do anything they wished in complete privacy. Whether the club was extreme as it was when he ran it was doubtful—Carra was a conservative little cunt. But she also was bright and he knew she wouldn’t be stupid enough to tamper with what once had worked so well.

  The Bull Pen offered certain expectations.

  Tonight, it would see those expectations lifted when he himself murdered Carra and Lasker in front of those who were there. Some would get off on it. Others would wonder why they did. And a few would be repelled.

  That is, of course, if anyone was there. It wasn’t even 11 p.m. yet. It might be that only a few stragglers would enjoy the show, because like most of the darker clubs in New York, few got started before 3 a.m., which was just fine with Wolfhagen. In this case, the fewer people, the better.

  To pull this off, he needed help. And so he took the cell phone the goons had given him and tapped out a number. As the line rang, he rolled down the window and sped uptown, the warm breeze stirring his hair. In the distance, he could see the orange, fiery glow hovering above the city’s Upper East Side.

  When it came to murder, Wolfhagen had the best help in the city.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  10:42 p.m.

  For Carmen and Spocatti, time was smashed by the chaos of what they’d created.

  With the clock running against them, they now needed to beat the media, who soon would go public with connections that had become so obvious, it would start what they feared all along—a running of the bulls as Wolfhagen’s former bulls left the city.

  And when that happened, it would prevent them from finishing their job and collecting the millions in bonuses that came along with it.

  And so they moved. They had their distraction. There were people to kill. No time to lose.

  They were now four blocks east of 75th and Fifth, where the Escalade ignited and leveled the buildings surrounding it. With only a fleeting exception, they hadn’t stopped running until now, when Spocatti slowed beside a car Carmen didn’t recognize and popped the trunk.

  Sirens sounded everywhere. The night was so heavy with humidity, the smoke from the explosions hung low, choking the air.

  Carmen looked at the end of 75th and Fifth, where buildings had fallen into the streets. Fires were burning. Helicopters circling. People were rushing past her and toward the damage in an effort to help those likely trapped beneath the rubble.

  She was aware of people screaming. She was aware of her own heart racing. She kept hearing the word “terrorists” being shouted in a cacophony of fear and outrage. She watched Spocatti click the cap off his video camera and offer Wolfhagen a final shot of the devastation. Right now, he was everything she wasn’t. He was an automaton. He was cool. He was composed.

  But Carmen? She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t shaken.

  Spocatti stood next to her on the sidewalk. The video camera was poised in front of him, pointing down the street. She looked at him and swore she could see the hint of a smile on his face. He was getting Wolfhagen his money’s worth, but
they needed to leave before the streets were closed. She’d give him 30 seconds.

  Earlier, when Carmen called Pamela Dean, the woman did exactly what they hoped she’d do—she answered her phone, confirming she was home. For the last time in her life, she said “Hello” and listened to Carmen as she sent her Wolfhagen’s best. “You knew this day would come, Pamela. You ruined his life, and now he’s taking yours. He’ll be listening to this. Can you tell him how it feels?”

  Before Dean could reply—but not so quickly that she couldn’t process what was happening—the cars parked curbside lifted from the pavement and started to flip in a fiery rush. Like dominoes, one car exploded and it set off the next car, and the next.

  It was so engrossing, they hadn’t wanted to leave. Hollywood should have been there to see it if only because it would have understood that it got it wrong every time—this is how it looked. Better yet, in the midst of all of it, they’d watched a person in a white caftan turn into a funnel of flames as he stumbled toward Fifth. A hail of burning debris rained down on him and those running past him. When he fell, they each turned to run, knowing that the Escalade was about to explode and blow the surrounding area into nothingness.

  They raced toward Madison, clipped around the corner and pressed their backs against the buildings just as the street flashed white, the buildings shook and somewhere behind them, other buildings fell. There was a rush of searing wind and then the fireball Carmen feared most whooshed past them down the street, incinerating those caught in its path. Then, with no tunnel to propel it, it lifted in the middle of Madison, rolled high in the wide-open space and evaporated.

  There was no question that Dean was dead, so they continued to run, this time cutting through the traffic until they stopped at the getaway car.

  She nudged Spocatti. “That’s it. We’re out of here.”

  He clicked off the camera and put it in his bag in the trunk. She walked around the car as he pulled out his keys and unlocked the doors. “Who’s first?”

  “Cohen is closest. We do him, then Dunne, then Casari.” His cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He removed it and looked down at the number, which he didn’t recognize. He hesitated, but answered it, anyway. Wolfhagen.

  “It would help if you told me when you have a new phone, Max. I almost didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry. Where are you now?”

  “We just did Dean. We’re getting ready to do the others.”

  “They’ll need to wait.”

  “That’s a mistake.”

  “There are two other people I need your help with first.”

  “We don’t have time for two other people. Have you seen the news? Have you looked out your window? We told you this was happening tonight. They’ll be blocking the streets. If they haven’t already, the media will make the connections and report them. And when they do, the rest will run. If you want them dead, we’ve got a narrow window to make it happen.”

  “And you will make it happen. You never fail, Vincent. That’s why I hired you and your sweet little conchita. And besides, this one will be quick, it has to be done for critical reasons and I can’t do it without you.”

  “You’re going to be there?”

  “That’s right,” Wolfhagen said. “At last, we’ll meet.”

  “You shouldn’t be there. It’s too much of a risk. Let us handle it.”

  “Sorry to keep saying sorry even when I don’t mean it,” Wolfhagen said. “But that old itch is back and with these two, I’m in the mood to watch what happens when someone is stupid enough to fuck with me, to cross me, and to think I won’t do anything about it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  9:45-10:42 p.m.

  In the hour that had passed since Maggie spoke to Mark Andrews, Marty made a round of phone calls that began with Gloria, who already had talked to the girls and to the Moores, and who was on her way to them when he called.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  He was surprised by the concern in her voice. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “That’s an entirely different question.”

  “I don’t know what this is about,” she said. “But I know it has to do with Maggie Cain. Whatever she’s gotten you into isn’t worth your life, Marty. You need to know that. You can back out of this right now, just walk away from it, and be safe. Those girls need their father. You and I may be divorced and have our differences, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you, too.”

  “So, it’s just you, me, Jack and the girls?”

  “And whoever comes into your life. We can make it work. If you’ve gone this far to protect your daughters, I know you’re in a bad spot. I’m asking you to get out of it.”

  But he wouldn’t. That’s not how he operated and she knew it. Each job was a risk. It always had been. It always would be. He looked across the table at Maggie, who was looking across the room at Roberta. Just moments ago, Roberta had said to Maggie’s face that she was going to kill him. While he loved Roberta, he’d never bought into her belief that she was psychic. He’d always believed that it was part of her shtick, a way to appeal to her customers, another way to make money.

  But now things were different. Another part of him couldn’t deny what he’d seen in her face—genuine fear, real concern, a premonition of sorts, if that was possible. There was no question in his mind that Roberta believed what she was saying. She believed Maggie was going to kill him.

  “What did the girls say to you?”

  “They’re scared,” Gloria said. “They don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “How long before you’re there?”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “And you won’t leave the Moore’s?”

  “I know the drill.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “You don’t need to do this.”

  It was as if he was talking to the old Gloria again. For once, she’d dropped her artist bullshit facade and was just talking to him. “Keep an eye on the girls,” he said. “Bring Jack with you. Nothing’s going to happen on your end. I’ll make certain the same is true on my end.” He paused. “And thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what.”

  He severed the connection and, after trying to absorb what had just transpired between him and Gloria, whom he hadn’t had a civil conversation with in months, he called Jennifer Barnes. By now, she would be at Peter Schwartz’s house with a full crew and soon would go live with her story. She answered on the second ring.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Ted Yates is dead.”

  Marty ran a hand through his hair.

  “It came over the scanner a few minutes ago. He was having a drink at The Townhouse and collapsed at the bar.”

  Marty knew The Townhouse. He and Gloria were once members—she’d insisted upon it. He was about to tell Maggie the news when Jennifer said, “There’s more. Alan Ross was found in an alley in the South Bronx thirty minutes ago. His neck was broken.”

  Marty saw the questioning look on Maggie’s face and told her the news.

  “They testified against Wolfhagen,” she said.

  Marty held up a hand. “How did Yates die, Jennifer?”

  “They’re thinking heart attack.”

  “I’m thinking coincidence. Yates and Ross testified against Wolfhagen. Was Yates with anyone?”

  “That’s all I’ve got. You’re positive they testified?”

  “Is this for your report?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you’re about to break the story of the year. I am positive. Start making the links. Mention the Coles, Andrews, Ross, Yates, Schwartz—all of them. Google the others who testified and are still alive. Get the word out now. If you have to go to the Channel One site to report this first, do it so AP picks it up. If they’ll give you a news break for a special report, even better. This is going national. You’ll be everywhere. Be prepared.”

&nbs
p; “I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He looked at Maggie, who was looking intently at him. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll find out soon enough. Are Hines and Patterson on the scene?”

  “They’re standing next to me.”

  “Are they working together?”

  “Put it this way, they’ve agreed to go on camera together.”

  “The end of the Cold War.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Do you want me to give them a message?”

  Always the sly reporter. “No,” he said. “I need to talk to them myself.”

  “You’re not holding back on me, are you?”

  He didn’t want her to know anything about Mark Andrews or the safe house until he was certain it was legit and that he and Maggie weren’t being set up. “There’s more to the story, but I can’t share it with you yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might be dangerous.”

  “And your point? I dated Gotti’s son, for God’s sake. What else do you have?”

  “I meant it might be dangerous for me.” She started to apologize, but he pushed forward. “You’ve got a great story to lead with. Let’s roll it out with exclusives delivered by you. Once I know more, you’ll have more. This story is yours—all of it—just give me time. If I gave you the wrong information, you’d look like a fool. I’ll call the moment I know something.”

  She was nothing if not competitive. A silence passed while he waited for her to say something. She didn’t.

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll wait for your call,” she said, but the way she said it, he already knew she wouldn’t. She’d look for other angles. She’d try something. “I’ll talk to you later. And please be careful. I need you around, okay?”

  “Jennifer—”

  The line went dead.

  He called Roz, his contact at the FBI, and hoped she was at her desk and working late. She wasn’t. He tried her cell. No answer. He called her home. Nothing. He wanted to ask her if she knew anything about Andrews and a safe house, but obviously she was out and not taking calls. And so he called Skeen to see if he did a postmortem on Andrews. He found him at home.