Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (33 page)

“They’ve murdered someone else,” she said.

Marty felt a needle of ice dart up his back.

“I’m standing over his body.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

7:52 p.m.

Marty went to his office, removed his gun, a stainless steel Walther PPK, from the top drawer of his desk, loaded it and slipped it into his shoulder rig, which he put on along with a lightweight blazer.
 

He pocketed his cell, left his apartment, hailed a cab at curbside and gave the driver the address Maggie Cain gave him.
 
He did all this with automatic efficiency.
 
The cab swung through the city, lurched through traffic, but he paid no attention.
 
He was not aware of anything but Maggie’s words, still sounding like an alarm in his head:
 
“His blood is everywhere.”

The building was on 77th Street, not far from Fifth.
 
Large and gray with wide stone steps that led to the heavy black door, the building reflected wealth, security, establishment.
 

In spite of the fact that the sun had slipped below the Manhattan horizon, there was not one light on in the building, not one sign that a frightened woman was waiting inside for him.
 
The cab made three passes and Marty saw no one on the sidewalks, no one in the cars parked at the curbsides, nothing that suggested Maggie Cain was being watched or followed.
 
He asked the driver to drop him at the end of the block, handed her a ten and stepped out.

The sidewalk that stretched before him was lined with great black sacks of trash piled high between the slender trees.
 
The air here was heavy and sour, shot through with rot, laced with the exhaust of the city, so rancid it was almost nauseating.
 
Despite being one of Manhattan’s more elegant neighborhoods, when it was trash day, there was no escaping how fair the city could be to everyone, regardless of class.

Save for the sound of the air conditioners cooling the town houses he passed, the street was quiet.
 
Marty kept left, moved down the sidewalk and looked into every shadow, every stairwell, anywhere a person could dip out of sight.
 
Twilight was pressing down on New York and casting everything into its faintly surreal glow.

He moved at a brisk clip, his head slightly lowered.
 

When he reached the building, he discretely checked the sidewalks, saw nobody peering at him through the windows of the surrounding houses and climbed the steps.
 
He tapped once on the door, but it didn't open.
 
Maggie wasn’t waiting for him.
 
He felt a spark of anger, tried the handle, found it unlocked, pushed and stepped into an arctic blast that revealed a dark entryway.
 
No sign of Maggie, only shapes that loomed left and right, objects he couldn’t make out clearly.
 

He closed the door behind him and listened.
 
He could hear nothing but the insistent whirring of air conditioners he couldn't see.
 
The house was an icebox.
 
The unmistakable, coppery scent of blood was everywhere.

He drew his gun and called out Maggie’s name, got no response, said it louder, heard nothing and wondered if he was too late.
 
Was the smell of blood also hers?
 

He reached into his pants pocket and removed the small penlight attached to his keychain--a gift from Katie.
 
He turned it on, shined the weak amber light down the narrow hallway and saw a table lying on its side--late eighteenth century, intricately carved sides, clawed tiger paws at the end of the gently curving legs.
 
A spray of roses past their prime fanned out around the table in a half-moon, their dark red petals resting not in spilled water, but in broken glass.

Marty’s heart beat a little faster.
 
He knew he should call Hines, knew by being here he was destroying a crime scene, but he was in too deep.
 
If he called the police now, he’d have to go to Hines again for information.
 
And that was something Marty wasn’t willing to do.
 
Still, he knew protocol and so he reached into his pocket and pulled out paper shoe coverings.
 
He slipped them on and then put on rubber gloves.

He looked around, spotted the alarm console on the wall to his right and saw by the flashing red light that it was disengaged.
 
Again he called out Maggie’s name but there was no answer, nothing that suggested she was in this house.

He moved down the hallway, keeping the penlight on the upended table, listening for clues in the dark.
 
To his left was an arched doorway that opened to a room facing 77th Street.
 
Marty stepped over the table, the roses and the broken vase, shined the light once more down the hall, saw the staircase that lifted to the second floor, the coiled end of the brown banister, and quietly entered the room.

An air conditioner blew cold air and the smell of something rotten from the window opposite him.
 
Outside, on the sidewalk, streetlamps flickered to life and started to burn, casting crisp slants of gold into the otherwise dark room.
 

Marty stood just inside the doorway and listened.
 
His gun was held at arm's length.
 
He wasn't sure what to expect but he was ready just the same.
 
The scent of blood and decay was stronger here.
 
He panned the room with the tiny flashlight but it was useless.
 
The beam wasn’t strong enough.
 
All he could make out were glimpses of cloth, splashes of color, the sharp edge of something solid, shadows in the light.
 
A van was approaching on the street.
 
Marty waited for it to pass.
 

He’d have to turn on a light.

The Tiffany lamp on the table beside him punched rainbows of blue, purple and green onto his face and the paneled walls.
 
He turned to look across the room and saw the body of Peter Schwartz sitting upright on the blood-soaked sofa, his legs crossed at the knees, his hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer, his head tilted back to expose the gaping wound at his throat.
 

Save for the pair of black rubber underpants and knee-high black leather boots he wore, he was naked.
 
His skin was greenish-red and streaked with blood.
 
As Marty walked over to him, he noticed with revulsion the maggots crawling into and out of the man’s nose and open mouth.

The smell was cutting, like boiled pork gone sour and bad.
 
He forced a sharp rush of air through his nose but it was useless.
 
The smell had settled in for the long haul.
 
He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to settle.
 
A fly buzzed past him, heading straight for Schwartz, where it dived into the man's open mouth and disappeared down his throat, where it would plant a new clutch of eggs.

Schwartz didn't seem to mind.

Looking at the man and the maggots consuming him, Marty was repelled but not surprised.
 
This was the middle of summer in New York.
 
Outside, on the sidewalk, the piles of trash were roasting in the August heat.
 
Flies had wended their way into this house and laid thousands of eggs in Peter Schwartz’s eyes, nose and mouth.
 
The eggs had hatched and now maggots were feasting on the rotting tissue of a dead man.
 
When a forensic entomologist was let loose on this scene, they'd be dizzy with elation.

If he was going to do this, he’d have to pull a Skeen and follow his advice--look at Schwartz as though he were nothing more than an object.
 
Resolved, Marty took his gun and pushed the barrel underneath the man’s right hand.
 
It lifted easily--no rigor, which was expected since Schwartz obviously had been dead for awhile.
 

He holstered his gun and pressed the inside of his wrist against the man’s forearm.
 
The flesh was cold and clammy, as if Schwartz had broken into a sweat.
 
With the air conditioners running on high, it was difficult to say just how long he had been dead, but Marty had learned enough from Skeen to take an educated guess.
 
The color of Schwartz’s skin, the presence of insects feeding on his body, the smell of decay and the lack of rigor all suggested at least 48 hours, likely more.

He looked down at the dead man and saw beneath the layer of blood what his family and friends eventually would be seeing--Schwartz as beautiful corpse.
 

He was a small, powerfully built man who had never married--his handsome good looks were apparent even in death.
 
The face that had photographed so well in the press after his indictment by the SEC would now be forever young--firm jaw, narrow nose, high cheekbones, curly dark hair matted only slightly at his forehead with blood.
 
Marty looked at the man’s careful pose of folded hands and legs, the rubber underpants and high black boots, and knew without question that Schwartz would have that tattoo, that picture of a bull imprinted on his penis, that same shiny gold hoop going clean through its snout.

He looked closer at the body and at all the inconsistencies it offered.
 
Schwartz hadn’t been wearing these clothes when he was murdered.
 
His carotid artery had been severed.
 
Fountains of blood had sprayed onto the floor and sofa, covering the man’s arms, torso and legs.
 
But his underpants and boots were untouched, suggesting they had been put on after death.
 

After death.
 

Schwartz hadn’t died in this position.
 
He wouldn’t have gone down without a struggle.
 
Someone murdered him on this sofa, dressed him up and posed him pretty.
 
Someone wanted him to be found in these clothes.

His cell sounded, cracking the silence in three piercing bleats.
 
The sudden intrusion sent a jolt through Marty and he took a step back, away from Schwartz.
 
He removed the device from his side, glanced down at the number flashing in the illumined window and knew who it was before Maggie Cain answered.

“Where are you?”

“Three blocks away.”

“Why aren’t you here?”

She was out of breath, her words clipped and shortened from lack of air.
 
“Why do you think?
 
I was scared.
 
I didn’t know how long you’d be.
 
I got the hell out of there.”
 
She paused and Marty could hear the traffic rushing past her.
 
Car horns sounded in the distance.
 
“Have you found the body?”

“Yes.”

“How long has he been dead?”

 
“I don’t know,” he said.
 
“Maybe two days.
 
Maybe longer.”

“That’s three people today, Marty.”

He walked over to the Tiffany lamp and clicked it off.
 
In the darkness, the buzzing of the flies and the humming of the air conditioner seemed to grow louder.
 
He looked once more at Schwartz and saw the moon of his face glowing in the dark.
 
It seemed oddly separated from his body, frozen yellow in the city light.

His body--bloody save for his clothes.

And Marty wondered.
 

“It was you, wasn’t it, Maggie?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Schwartz.
 
He wasn’t murdered wearing those clothes.
 
There’s no blood on them and God knows there should be.
 
Someone dressed him after he was dead.
 
I want to know if it was you.”