Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (38 page)

“Who else should I have seen?”

“Diamond was enough,” Maggie said.
 
“Take off those leather masks and you would have seen more senators.
 
More players with power.
 
People who could buy and sell your ass a hundred times over.”

“Wolfhagen started this club?”

“He started it."
 

"Was it a sex club?"

"It was whatever they wanted it to be.
 
A sex club.
 
A place to relax.
 
A kink palace.
 
A place to drink and have your drugs served a la carte.
 
You could participate or just watch.
 
It was whatever you wanted it to be because that's what that crowd demanded.
 
Anything they wanted.
 
Admission wasn't free.
 
Each paid millions to join."

“Who belonged?”

“Every bull who mattered on Wall Street, and then it grew to include others.”

“Give me names.”

“Lasker,” she said.
 
“Schwartz.
 
Wood.
 
The Coles.
 
Gerald Hayes.
 
Everyone who testified against him in court, and many others.”

“What about Boesky?
 
Milken?
 
Levine?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.
 
“What do you think?”

“Tell me about Mark's involvement.
 
Did he belong?”

There was a sudden air of protectiveness about her.
 
“He did," she said.
 
"But not by choice.
 
He was trying to please Wolfhagen even though he was nothing to Wolfhagen.
 
Zero.
 
Wolfhagen wanted to surround himself with money and power.
 
Real money and power.
 
Mark had neither.
 
He was a pawn there to do what Wolfhagen wanted.”

“I've been to the M.E.'s office.
 
I've seen the tattoo.
 
Did Mark have one?”

“I have no idea.”

“But you were lovers.”
 

“That’s right.”

“So, how couldn’t you know?
 
A ring went through its snout.
 
At the very least, you would have felt that.”

“Sure, if we'd been making love.
 
Mark left me about a week after he joined the club, which is where they initiated people with the tattoo and the piercing.
 
He moved into his own place.
 
Said he couldn’t be with me anymore.
 
Wolfhagen was behind it.
 
He wanted Mark for himself and he got him.
 
He took away the one person in my life who mattered and I want him dead for it.
 
Mark called me a week before he was murdered in Pamplona.
 
He said he wanted to talk.
 
He apologized for the mistakes he'd made."
 
She leaned back against the booth.
 
"And then he was dead.”

“Why do you think he was murdered when he was trampled by bulls?
 
There were witnesses who saw how he died.
 
He could have just fallen.
 
It happens every year there.
 
Why murder?"

“Why not?
 
Why would his death be any different from what happened to the Coles, Wood, Hayes and Schwartz?
 
Someone could have pushed him and he fell.
 
Someone could have tripped him while he was running.
 
I’m convinced he was murdered.”

“Did you belong to that club?”

“Not on your life.”

“Mark didn’t take you?”

“Mark loved me.
 
He got sucked in, but he made certain I was never a member.”

“You didn’t answer my question.
 
Did he take you to the club?”

It was a moment before she spoke, and when she did, the fear she was trying to hold back came right to the forefront.
 
It was obvious she’d never spoken to anyone about this.
 
“Yes,” she said.
 
“He took me.
 
Once.”
 

“When was this?”

“Years ago.”

“Let me guess.
 
Three?”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a date painted above Wood’s bed.
 
Did you do it?”

“What date?
 
What are you talking about?”

It was the correct answer.
 
They'd never talked about it and it still hadn’t reached the press.
 
If she'd said yes or no, she would have revealed that she knew about it.
 
She was telling the truth.

“Somebody wrote a date above Wood's bed in her blood.
 
Somebody also had sex with her after they decapitated her.
 
Any idea who?"

"What was the date?"

"November 5, 2007."

She closed her eyes.
 
"It could be any number of people.
 
There were dozens who witnessed what Wolfhagen did that night.
 
Even the sick ones--the real pervs--thought he went too far.
 
They also want him back in prison."

"What happened that night?"

She looked over at Roberta as she swung through the kitchen door.

“I need to know."

She waited for Roberta to move to a table of customers before she spoke.

“Murder," she said.

*
 
*
 
*

"Start from the beginning."

She pulled her hair away from her face and looked up at the ceiling.
 
It was almost imperceptible, but in this light, he could see that her eyes were welling with tears.
 
The more he learned from her, the more he felt connected to her.
 
When they first met, he thought she was rigid.
 
Now, all he saw was a woman being stripped of her secrets because she had no choice but to share them with him.
 
That took a level of trust he felt she'd likely only shared once in her life, likely with Mark Andrews.

"I wish I could have a cigarette."
 

"Do you want a drink?"

She shook her head.
 
"I think we're in for it tonight.
 
My head needs to be clear."
 
She quickly wiped a finger under one of her eyes.
 
"Do you want a drink?"
 

"Actually, I'd kill for one, but I'm with you.
 
Tell me about the murder."

She took a breath.
 
“Mark and I had been apart two months and I knew Wolfhagen was behind it.
 
When I called to ask if he’d see me, he agreed, but only at his convenience, which was at midnight that evening.”

“Midnight was his earliest convenience?”

“It had nothing to do with convenience.
 
It had to do with power.
 
I wanted to see him, he wasn’t going to make it easy.
 
It was midnight in his office or he wouldn’t meet with me.
 
Period.
 
But when I arrived, Wolfhagen was putting on his jacket.
 
He said a friend needed to see him.
 
I could either talk to him in the limousine or I could forget about ever talking to him about Mark again.
 
I knew he wouldn’t give me another chance.
 
I was desperate and so I went.”
 
She looked at him directly.
 
“Have you ever loved somebody so much you’d do anything to get them back?
 
Absolutely anything?”

Six months after his first divorce from Gloria, he’d started seeing shrinks, psychologists, counselors.
 
He'd told them every rotten thing that had happened in his life in an effort to find out how he could handle the past so he could maintain a healthy relationship in the present.
 
It didn't work, but he tried.

He lifted his eyebrows at Maggie and smiled.

“Then you know,” Maggie said.
 
“I loved Mark so much, I was willing to do anything to get him back.
 
Even risk talking to Wolfhagen alone.
 
And it was a risk,” she said.
 
“I knew whatever I said to him might get back to Mark, probably twisted around.
 
But I didn’t care.
 
I had something on that son of a bitch.
 
I planned on bribing him into letting Mark go.”

“How?”

"Before I set up the meeting, I hired a private investigator who tailed Wolfhagen for two weeks.
 
I had photographs of him cruising the meat packing district back when it was much more than just the meat packing district.
 
I had photos of him at three in the morning screwing young girls in the back of his Mercedes, photos of him leaving The Eagle with men old enough to be his father.
 
I had it all and I planned on going public with it if he didn’t let Mark go.”

But when she showed Wolfhagen the photographs, his reaction wasn't the rage or the fear she'd been anticipating, but delight as he casually flipped through them.
 

“He asked me which one I liked best,” she said.
 
“He actually looked me in the eye and asked which one would work best for the front page of the Post--the photo of him going down on the old man in leather, or the one with him pushing the naked prostitute out of his car.”
 

She sipped her tea.
 
“I thought I could intimidate him.
 
I thought the photographs would be enough, but I was wrong.
 
He set me up.
 
He wanted me in that limousine for a reason, said if I was going to judge him, I’d better be prepared to judge Mark as well, because they were one in the same.”

“What did he do to you, Maggie?”

“Oh, not to me, Marty--at least not yet.”

That got his attention.
 
“Then to Mark.”

“The limousine had a television and a DVD player.
 
Wolfhagen hit the remote, told me to watch the screen.”
 
She looked at him with a sadness and a rage that was so deeply entrenched, it hardened her face.
 
“And there was Mark,” she said.
 
“Naked.
 
In the middle of all these people.
 
Wolfhagen turned up the volume, tried to make me listen to what they were doing to him, but all I could do was sit there wondering how in hell he’d superimposed Mark’s face on another man’s body.”
 

The vulnerability he sensed she rarely showed anyone was back and alive.
 
“How did you get that scar?”

“Wolfhagen.”

“Did he cut you?”

“Actually, he shoved my head through the limousine’s side window.”

Though he was startled by the violence of it, he pushed forward without pausing, not wanting to lose momentum.
 
“Why?”