Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (14 page)

Earlier, Marty came to the same conclusion.
 
He sat down on the couch.

“Martinez's death is obvious,” Jennifer said.
 
“Whoever shoved Hayes through the window must have known that Martinez was a possible witness.
 
Somehow, they found out where she lived and murdered her and her daughter.
 
Why the bodies were dropped in a Dumpster four blocks away is beyond me.
 
But I do know this--whoever killed Maria Martinez has one less witness to worry about in the death of Gerald Hayes.”

They fell silent.
 

Jennifer finished her coffee, crumpled the paper cup into a tight ball and hurled it across the room to the overflowing wastebasket beside her writing table.
 
She hit the top of the towering paper heap and smiled despite the avalanche of old notes and passé story ideas that tumbled to the floor.
 
She rose from the couch.

But Marty remained seated.
 
“Just a minute,” he said.
 
“I’ve got another question.
 
Edward and Bebe Cole.
 
Did you cover their deaths?”

"Of course, I did.
 
But that was months ago.”

“They were murdered over a painting, weren’t they?
 
Something by van Gogh?”

“Among other things, but, yes, the van Gogh was the item hyped by the press.
 
Cole paid $40 million for that painting.
 
He and his wife were celebrated for it.
 
God knows where Boob Manly was going to sell it.”

And then Marty remembered.
 

Robert “Boob” Manly was the small-time crook who had been tried and convicted of second degree murder in the Coles’ deaths.
 
After initially pleading not guilty, he was advised by his lawyer to plead guilty to the reduced sentence when the van Gogh and the murder weapon were discovered in a storage area rented under his name.
 

Manly maintained his innocence, said he’d been framed.
 
But when he learned that his prints were on the gun and on the painting--and that there was a witness who could place him at the crime scene--he followed his lawyer’s advice and reluctantly changed his plea to guilty, thus avoiding an expensive trial and a jury that could have sent him to prison forever.
 
Instead, Manly was now serving twenty-five years to life at Riker’s.
 
Parole in eight to twelve years.

Marty was intrigued.
 
Maggie Cain must have known that Manly admitted to killing the Coles, so why hadn’t she mentioned him this morning?
 
Why did she deliberately overlook him to suggest that Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker or Peter Schwartz were the murderers?
 
Did she believe in Manly’s pleas of innocence?
 
Did she have reason to?

Jennifer shot him a quick, knowing look.
 
“I get it,” she said.
 
“You’re thinking the deaths are related.
 
And actually that would be a neat fit.
 
But I covered Manly’s hearing, Marty.
 
I saw the creep.
 
Manly had a penchant for stealing art.
 
He had a rap sheet that would have impressed even you.
 
He confessed.
 
He did it.”
 
She paused to study his face.
 
“You might as well forget Mark Andrews,” she said.
 
“He was trampled by bulls.
 
Thousands of people saw it happen.
 
Murder’s unlikely.”

“Unless he was pushed.”

Jennifer held his gaze.
 
“He died last month, didn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Marty said.
 
“And now Wood and Hayes are dead.
 
See the pattern?
 
There was a time when all of their lives collided in Wood’s courtroom.
 
Now they’re dying.
 
Coincidence?”

“But those people have been out of the public eye for years,” Jennifer said.
 
“If someone wanted to bump them off, they would have done so years ago.
 
Why wait all this time?”
 

"Sometimes, it's best to wait."

She shook her head at him.
 
“I don't know.
 
It doesn’t feel right.
 
In any given week--never mind over a period of seven months--I could find something that would link five of the city’s unexplained homicides, but that doesn’t mean that one person did the killings.
 
And what about Manly?
 
If you were innocent of murder, would you ever have pled guilty?
 
I wouldn’t have.
 
I’d fight to the death, regardless of what my lawyer said.”
 

She held out her hands.
 
“But what do I know?
 
If I’ve learned anything it’s that in this city, anything is possible.
 
Even a hunch.
 
Look into it.
 
Maybe something else connects their deaths.
 
Something that can’t be explained away.”

She walked him to the door.

“If I were to tell you that I've missed you, what would you say?” she asked.

At first Marty wasn’t sure if he heard her right.
 
She was standing in front of him, her back to the closed door, her face partly concealed by shadow.
 
Marty could see the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.
 
He told her the truth.
 
“I'd say that I've missed you, too.”

“Would you mean it?”

“I'd mean it.”

“Then you’re smarter than I thought."
 

She opened the door and was about to let him pass when she said:
 
"I’m going to give you another chance.”

A part of him froze.

"Oh, for God’s sake, relax.
 
It has nothing to do with us, and everything to do with a good movie.
 
It’s Saturday night and I’m staying in.
 
I know, I lead a thrilling life.
 
I want to Netflix something, but obviously it needs to be something I can stream.
 
What do you recommend?"

"What are you in the mood for?"

"Right now?
 
Something about a doomed couple."

"I've got something, but it has subtitles."

"I told you earlier that I hate subtitles."

"That's because you're broadcast, not print.
 
Of course, you hate subtitles.
 
It involves reading."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"Great.
 
And besides, the movie will make up for it.
 
'Let the Right One In.'"

She screwed up her face.
 
"I hear that's bloody."

"Bloody brilliant."

“Isn’t there an English version out?”

“There is, and it’s good, but watch this one first.”

"Alright," she said.
 
"'Let the Right One In' it is."
 
She stepped aside so he could move past her.
 
"You'll call me when you have something?"

"I will."

She started to close the door.
 
"And maybe even if you don't?"

Once again, she caught him of guard.
 
Marty was about to speak, but was saved when the door clicked shut.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Carmen heard the rat before she saw it.

She was in the safe house on Avenue A, curled up with her cheek to the hardwood floor, and she could hear it.
 
Rummaging, chittering, pushing its luck.
 

She opened her eyes and saw it sideways.
 

Ten feet away, larger than she had anticipated, eating the remains of the pastrami sandwich she bought last night at an all-night deli in the Village.
 
Slate gray whiskers twitching, jaw chewing, eating her breakfast.
 
Without a sound, Carmen lifted the gun nestled beneath her ribcage, checked the silencer and took aim.
 

“Hey," she said.
 
"Rat."

Their eyes met--and suddenly the rat was a dripping gray-red smear on the crumbling brick wall.

She sat up and looked around the spare room, the floor of which had an angle steep enough to cause concern even among the most jaded of New Yorkers.
 
Her skin was damp, sticky.
 
Her dark hair clung to her neck in crisscrossing webs.
 
She’d stripped down to her underwear sometime in the night, but it hadn’t helped.
 
Despite her efforts to shut it off, the ancient iron radiator tucked beneath the open window had continued to tick off the seconds with quick bursts of steam.

She wondered if Spocatti had returned.

She got up, slipped into shorts and a T-shirt, and went into the flat’s only other room, which was small and dim in the shade-drawn light.
 
There was a gas stove and a refrigerator here, a dirty metal sink with exposed pipes and a square metal table, on which sat Spocatti’s computer, printer, modem and a spray of red tulips arranged in a pale blue plastic water jug that hadn’t been there when she went to sleep.

She looked up and saw Spocatti hanging from the ceiling.
 

He’d screwed two U-shaped metal bars into one of the three exposed rotting beams and he was doing pull-ups.
 
Save for the pair of black nylon shorts that hugged his ass, he was naked.
 
His back was to her.
 
Splinters of wood fell down on top of him, collecting in his hair and on the rounded curve of his shoulders.
 
His muscles rippled with each pull and he did the exercise quickly, with absolute ease.

Carmen didn’t know what to say to him or where she stood with him.
 
Last night, he’d been so furious with her, he'd sent her back here and left to take care of Martinez himself.
 
In the time that had passed, she didn’t know what had happened or if he’d even found her.
 
She'd waited until dawn for him to return before giving up and going to sleep.
 

She went to the refrigerator, pushed aside his clouded bag of vitamins and removed the carton of orange juice.
 
She unscrewed the cap and drank, watched him go up, down, up.
 
She wouldn’t be surprised if he asked her to leave.

He dropped from the ceiling, stretched, shook the splinters from his hair, twisted his back, cracked the spine.
 
He turned, acknowledged her with a nod, came over to where she stood and took the carton of juice from her hands.
 
As he drank, he looked at her over the dew-drop gleam of sweating cardboard.
 
She was almost convinced she could feel the heat of his body pulsing straight through her own.

“What time did you get back?” she asked.

He emptied the carton and crushed it, raised his dark eyebrows and said nothing.

“Did you find Martinez?”

“I did more than just find her, Carmen.
 
I killed her and her daughter.”
 
He tossed the carton into the trash and nodded at the newspaper lying on top of the computer.
 
“Take a look at the front page of the Times,” he said.
 
“There’s a story that might interest you.”