Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (12 page)

And Carmen knew.
 

Martinez had known who she was all along.

She lifted her pant leg and removed the gun strapped to her calf, opened the door to her right and glimpsed the empty bathroom before charging forward to the next door, which was locked.
 
Locked!
 

She slammed her fist against it in frustration.
 
She stepped back and kicked the door once, twice, but it wouldn't give, it wouldn't open, she wasn't strong enough and it infuriated her.
 

Behind her, the front door crashed open and Spocatti rushed in.
 
He called out her name, ran into the living room with his gun drawn, listened to her, glared at her and drew back a foot, slamming it hard against the metal knob.
 

The door gave easily--splinters flew like confetti.
 

Carmen groped for a light switch and turned it on.
 
The bedroom was empty, sucked free of life.
 
Beside the unmade bed was an open window, its pale yellow curtains lifting to expose a rusty black fire escape shining blue in the light of a waxing moon.
 

Martinez had taken her daughter and run.

CHAPTER NINE

DAY TWO

The telephone was ringing, endlessly ringing, pealing throughout the apartment with the stubborn determination of an alarm that wouldn't stop.
 
Marty turned his head and looked at the clock on the bedside table.
 
It was 6:32 on a Saturday morning in New York City.
 
Who the hell was calling him at this hour?

Finally the machine picked up and his disembodied voice instructed the caller to leave a message after the tone.
 
Then a woman's voice, high and clear despite the machine's walnut-sized speaker:

“Marty, it's Maggie.
 
Are you there?
 
It's important.”

He grabbed the phone from his bedside table.
 
“What's important?"

“Have you seen the Times?”

“Generally, I don't see anything this early.”

“Gerald Hayes is dead.”

Marty sat up in bed.
 
"Who is Gerald Hayes?"

"Wolfhagen's former business associate and friend.
 
He helped Wolfhagen make his fortune, then turned against him on the witness stand."

“How did he die?”

“He fell from his office window.
 
The police are thinking suicide.”

“Did he leave a note?"

"Apparently.
 
But it doesn't end with Hayes.
 
Last night, Judge Kendra Wood was found dead in her townhouse on 75th and Fifth.”

Marty closed his eyes.
 
He knew Wood, had met her over the years at private parties and political functions.
 
She sentenced Wolfhagen and two others to prison for securities fraud.
 
“What happened?” he asked.

“She was decapitated.
 
Someone broke into her home and took an ax to her throat.”

Now, he was up and pacing on the cool floor.
 
“What time was she found?”

“Just after one in the morning.”

“And Hayes?”

“Just after 10 p.m.”

For a moment, they were quiet.

“So, what do you think?” Marty asked.

“Anyone could have killed Wood.
 
The woman had a reputation for being tough, especially on minorities.
 
Whoever broke into her home could have been sitting in prison for years, just waiting to be released.
 
But Hayes' death is off.
 
Yesterday afternoon, I called to ask him for an interview for the book.
 
He was in good spirits.
 
Now this.
 
Why would he kill himself?
 
He was making a fresh start.
 
People were calling him again.
 
It doesn’t make sense."

"What does?"

“Seven months ago, Edward and Bebe Cole were shot dead in their apartment.
 
Last month, Mark was trampled by bulls in Pamplona.
 
And now, on the same night, Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood are found dead.
 
All of those who've died--with the exception of Wood--were once close to Wolfhagen.
 
And yet they betrayed him.
 
Wolfhagen must have been furious.”

“You're thinking he's behind this."

“I don't know,” Maggie said.
 
“He's such a smart son of a bitch, I can't see it because it's too obvious.
 
He'd be more subtle.
 
He'd know that sooner or later, people would start suspecting him.”

"Maybe that's what he wants people to think."

"Why?"

"Sometimes, if something appears too obvious, it can work in your favor.
 
Wolfhagen has been out of prison for only two years.
 
Common sense says he wouldn't want any attention like this, and yet he's getting it.
 
It's something he could make an argument for if anyone questioned him."

"I'd buy that."

“What are our other options?”

“My mind keeps coming back to Ira Lasker and Peter Schwartz.
 
They were partners with Wolfhagen about a year before everything fell apart.”

Marty knew the names, had read about them.
 
Ira Lasker was the young investment banker Wolfhagen hired to be a mole at Linder, Gleacher and Loeb.
 
Book smart but greedy, Lasker was so taken by Wolfhagen, he agreed to sift through the partners' files and look for hints of possible mergers.
 

Peter Schwartz, a veteran investment banker in his forties, had done the same for Wolfhagen at Stein, Goldsmith.
 
In hopes of a lighter sentence, Wolfhagen quickly turned each into the SEC before either could strike immunity deals.
 
Each did his time, just as Wolfhagen had.

“Where is Lasker living now?” Marty asked.

“In a penthouse on Fifth.”

Oh, to be an ex-felon
, Marty thought.
 
“What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Maggie said.
 
“I've never met the man.
 
Last I heard he's working out of his home as a financial consultant.”

“And Schwartz?”

“He lives on 77th and Fifth.
 
Mark and I had dinner there once.
 
Unbelievable home.
 
You'd think the Met had opened a new wing there.
 
Word’s out he’s writing his autobiography.”

“Were they called to testify against Wolfhagen?”

“They were and they did.”

“And I suppose since he turned them in, Wolfhagen also testified against them?”

“That’s right.
 
And Wood worked each case.
 
She sentenced them all to prison.
 
Do you have the paper in front of you?”

“I can get it."

“Don't bother.
 
You can read the story when we hang up.
 
Some cleaning woman from Harlem saw Hayes fall from his office window and smash onto the sidewalk.
 
She may know something the police haven't told the press.
 
Is there any way you can find out?”

It was his Saturday to be with the kids.
 
He intentionally chose an evening flight to California to watch Wolfhagen so he could have lunch with them.
 
“I'm not sure,” he said.
 
“Are you going to be at home?”

“I'll be here until noon.
 
The rest of the day, I’ll be tied up in interviews.
 
Any way you can get back to me before then?”

He was supposed to meet Katie and Beth at noon.
 
Gloria would have a field day with this if he canceled.
 
“I can try.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“I'll do my best.”
 
He hung up the phone, went to the front door and got the paper.
 
Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood were on the front page of the Times, not for the first time--and certainly not the last.
 

He focused on the Hayes article.
 
Though suicide was probable, murder wasn't being ruled out.
 
Marty finished the story and sat in thought, his mind picking over the facts.
 
Gerald Hayes had been trading successfully in the foreign markets.
 
Investors were coming to him again for advice.
 
He must have been fueled by the renewed sense of power.

So why jump out a twenty-story window and end it all?
 

He read the Wood article.
 
As he suspected, the story offered few details that could help him.
 
By the time they went to press, her story was still unfolding.

No problem.
 

Marty reached for the phone and dialed the one person in Manhattan who would know as much about this case as the cops--Jennifer Barnes at Channel One.
 

She answered on the third ring, her sleepy voice a reminder of things better left forgotten.
 
“Jennifer, it's Marty.
 
I think it's time we have that breakfast.”

There was a silence.
 
He heard her turning over, the bed creaking as she shifted position.
 
“Who is this?”

“It’s Marty.”

“Marty?”

“That’s right.”

“And you want breakfast?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You’ve got to be kidding....”

“I'm not kidding.”

“All right,” she said sleepily.
 
“I've got food here.
 
You know where to get the coffee.”

“Perfect.”

“What's this about, anyway?
 
I thought you needed more time?”

“This isn't about us, Jennifer.”

“Sure it isn't.”

“I'll see you in an hour.”

CHAPTER TEN

Jennifer Barnes lived four blocks south on 67th Street.
 

Marty crossed over to Sal's on 66th, bought two large coffees and left thinking of all the mornings he came here after spending a night with her.
 
It was a brief, six-month affair and it didn't end well.
 
But in many ways, the time they spent together was a necessary distraction from a marriage that had fallen into disrepair.