Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (42 page)

"Anything."

"What's my cat's name?"

"Baby Jane."

Anyone could know that.
 
The real test was if he answered her next question correctly.
 
If he did, there would be no doubt in her mind that this was Mark because it was their private joke.
 
"But what do you call her?"

He didn't hesitate.
 
"Blanche," he said.
 
"She's always been Blanche to me."

She put a hand to her mouth.
 

"She's never been as tough as you think she is.
 
She's a wimp.
 
She’s always been a wimp.
 
You got it wrong.
 
You should have named her Blanche."

How many times had he said just that to her?
 
She looked up at Marty and nodded.
 
"It's him," she said.
 
"It's him."

"Find out where he is."

Her whole body started to shake.
 
"Where are you?"

"I was in a Spanish hospital for a week before I was able to reach the FBI and tell them what happened.
 
I've been under their protection since.
 
Their doctors have been treating me for the past several weeks."

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be alright.
 
But right now I'm shit--I'm filled with steel rods.
 
I've got new knees.
 
They had to rebuild my nose.
 
I've got a long road ahead of me, Maggie."

She was fighting back tears.
 
"When can I see you."

"Tonight," he said.
 
"But only briefly.
 
The FBI knows you're working with Marty Spellman on this.
 
They want you both to come in and talk, tell them what you know.
 
Can you do that?
 
I need you to do that."

She told Marty, who nodded.

"Where are you?"

He gave her directions, but the directions didn't make sense.

"Why are you there?" she asked.
 
"Why aren't you in a hospital?"

"You're not thinking clearly," he said.
 
"I'm supposed to be dead.
 
If they put me in a hospital, the media would be all over it and my cover would be blown.
 
The FBI has safe houses all over New York.
 
I was put in one of them.
 
It's critical that I appear dead.
 
It's critical that no one sees me until this is over."

It made sense.

"When can you be here?"

She asked Marty.

"An hour," he said.

She looked confused.
 
They were only twenty minutes away.
 
She was about to speak when he held up a hand.
 
"An hour," he said firmly.

"We'll be there in an hour."

"Why so long?"

Marty moved a hand across his throat, signaling that he wanted her to cut the conversation short.
 
But Maggie didn't want to.
 
She wanted to keep talking to him, but she'd made a deal this evening to trust Marty and to do as he said, and so she did.

"Peter Schwartz was murdered," she said.
 
"We found him in his living room and now we need to make sure we have a safe exit before we leave.
 
Give us an hour.
 
We'll do our best to be there by then."

"I love you," he said.

Her throat closed at the sound of those words.
 
Never did she think she'd hear them from him again.
 
Never did she think she’d talk to him again.
 
It was wonderful and it was surreal.
 
She'd been fighting all this time to find answers, to somehow bring down Wolfhagen for what he'd done.
 
The fact that he hadn't succeeded in killing Mark filled her with an elation that was impossible to describe.
 
"I love you, too.
 
You don't know what it's been like.
 
You don't know how hard it's been."

"It's almost over," he said.

"I need to believe that."

"It ends tonight.”

“Can you promise me that?”

“Whatever information you and Spellman have culled is important.
 
The feds are ready to act, but they need to know what you know.
 
You need to tell them everything.
 
And then you need to stay here with me and be safe.
 
I'll see you in an hour."

Before she could reply, the line went dead.
 
She held the phone in her hand for a moment and then clicked it shut.
 
She looked up at Marty, who was staring at her intently.
 
"He's alive," she said.

"You're certain that was him?"

"Only one person would know what he called my cat and that's me.
 
It was our thing.
 
It was our joke."

"Calling her Blanche was nothing he said in front of your friends?"

"No."
 
She thought for a moment and then shook her head.
 
"I don't know.
 
How could I know that?"

"You couldn't," he said.
 
"That's the point."
 

"Why are we waiting an hour?
 
Why not go now?"

"Because I have to call people.
 
I need to cover our asses.
 
We don't know if that was him.
 
We're not going alone."

He looked across the room, where Roberta was cleaning glasses at the bar.
 
She was looking straight at him.
 
Concern was a mask that covered her face.
 
She took each glass, gave it a thorough wipe and clinked it above her on the rack.
 
She was standing there but she wasn't there.
 
She was reading him.
 
He knew that face, knew when she slipped away.
 
Wipe, wipe.
 
Clink, clink.
 
Her eyes boring into his.
 
He motioned her over.
 
She stopped beside the table.

"I'm going to say a name to you," he said.

"Is this the name of the person she was just on the phone with?"

"It is."

"Then give me the phone."

He gave it to Roberta, who turned it over in her hands and then lifted it to her breast.

"What's the name?" she asked.

"Mark Andrews."

She closed her eyes.
 
When she opened them, defeat had settled in.
 
"You're going to ask me what I saw, Marty, but it's the same thing.
 
Nothing's changed.
 
It's the same thing I saw when you were here last.
 
It's the same thing I saw when I touched her hand earlier.
 
It's so overwhelming, I can't tell you a thing about Mark Andrews.
 
All I see is your death.
 
Over and over, that's what I see.
 
I'm too close to you to see anything else.
 
I wait on customers and watch you disappear.
 
I clean glasses and see you vanish.
 
While you've been sitting in this booth, I've watched your spirit leave you.
 
I've watched someone murder you."
 

She turned to Maggie.
 
"It's her."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

10:12 p.m.

Theresa Wu ran.

She ran down East 82nd Street, ran past the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center and then she stepped it up when she saw that the traffic light ahead of her was green and in her favor.
 

She burst across Madison Avenue, ran past the Adelson Galleries and kept going until she reached Fifth Avenue and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which cast a magnificent halo of gold against the darker backdrop of Central Park.
 

She took a hard left and ran down Fifth, her black hair snapping behind her in a ponytail as she weaved through the few people on the sidewalk.
 
The evening air was so humid, she was drenched in sweat, but the run was exhilarating, particularly at this time of night, when the side streets were mostly quiet and it was just her and the city she loved.

Fifth Avenue was another story.
 
Here, the traffic was moving briskly downtown, but she kept pace with it.
 
She passed 79th Street, the Ukrainian Institute of America and checked her watch.
 
She pressed a button and the dial lit up.
 
She was doing well, but not that well, and so she ran faster, determined to beat her best time.

Earlier that morning, Helena had too many errands for her to complete before noon so she could enjoy her meeting with Marty Spellman, so Theresa had to forfeit her run until this evening.
 
But now Helena was asleep and Theresa was free.

And she felt free.
 
And it felt good.
 
She had an opportunity to go out with the girls later that evening and she might just take it.
 
It had been weeks since she’d been out.
 
There was a new club people were raving about downtown.
 
It would be good to have a few drinks and to let her hair down.
 
It would be good to set herself loose on a dance floor.
 
Last week, she'd splurged and bought a hip new dress at Prada, so why not go out?

She decided she would.

She darted left again, this time onto 76th Street.
 
She moved swiftly and easily, crossed Madison again, and then kept running for the final turn that would bring her onto 75th and home.
 
She’d been running for 50 minutes now.
 
When she ran in the morning, she liked to do at least ninety minutes, but it was late and at the very least, she was getting some exercise.
 
If she didn’t, given Helena’s frequent demands, she wasn’t sure how she’d stay fit.

When she turned onto 75th Street, she noted on the other side of the Madison throughway that a van was parked in the middle of the street, near Helena's home and across from Judge Kendra Wood’s house.
 
Its lights were on.
 
Though she couldn’t hear it at this distance, she assumed its engine was idling.
 

A woman stepped out of the passenger's side with a large satchel over her shoulder.
 
She moved to the left side of the sidewalk as the van drove ahead.
 
Theresa stood at the corner of Madison and East 75th, jogging in place until the light turned.
 

Meanwhile, she watched the woman move down the sidewalk.
 
She watched her dip her hand into the satchel, watched her remove something that Theresa couldn’t see, and then watched her dip into the shadow cast by one of the many cars parked curbside.
 
She reappeared again, reached into the satchel and bent beside one of the cars.
 
In an instant, she was back up again and walking casually.