Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (6 page)

Gloria lifted her eyes to his, Manhattan's Upper West Side sparkling behind her in the late-afternoon sun.
 
“I knew you wouldn't be able to handle this,” she said.

The coolness in her voice took him off guard.
 
“Handle what?”

She paused to tap out a clove cigarette from the rumpled pack she'd brought with her.
 
“My seeing Jack."
 
She lit the cigarette with a match.
 
“You can't handle it.
 
He's intimidated you and you feel threatened.
 
Admit it.”

“The man wears a goddamn diamond on his pinky, Gloria.
  
He doesn't threaten me.”

“That's a lie.
 
You can't stand seeing me with another man.”

“You're probably right,” Marty said.
 
“But what I hate even more is what you've become.
 
Look at yourself.
 
You're not even the same person anymore.
 
You've redefined yourself.
 
You've sold out and become the very kind of person you and I used to mock when we were young.
 
Who are you, Gloria?
 
Do you even know?”

She shook her head sadly, the gesture somehow condescending.
 
“You're asking me if I know who I am, Marty?
 
Let me ask you this.
 
Since your parents were murdered, how many times have you asked yourself that very question?”

He turned to leave and when he did, she laid a hand on his arm.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said.
 
“That was below the belt.
 
But I'm happy.
 
I've met a man who's got his act together.
 
I've found a man who's willing to put me first.
 
Don't blame me for wanting this.
 
Don't blame me for being angry because you couldn't give it to me.”

"Just keep it down in the bedroom," he said.
 

And he was gone.

*
 
*
 
*

Later, in his own apartment, Marty poured himself a glass of Scotch before calling Roz.
 
“Tell me you hit the jackpot.”

“Still working on it.
 
Give me thirty and I’ll call you back.”

He clicked off the phone and went to his study, which offered one of the better views of Central Park.
 
On his desk was his computer.
 
On the screen was his blog.
 
In his spare time, he reviewed movies.
 
It was just a sideline meant to clear his head and retain his connection to his first love--film--but it had become an unexpectedly popular sideline, with tens of thousands of people visiting the site daily.
 

Right now, he was working on the review of the Blu-ray release of Billy Wilder's "Double Indemnity."
 
Just a few additional paragraphs and it would be finished.

While he waited for Roz to call back, he sat down to have a look at the review.
 
Last night, he pulled his favorite scene from the movie so he could discuss it.
 
He read it again.

NEFF

Look, baby, you can't get away with it.
 
                                     

PHYLLIS

Get away with what?
 
    
                                 

NEFF

You want to knock him off, don't you, baby?

PHYLLIS

That's a horrible thing to say!
 
                                     

NEFF

Who'd you think I was, anyway? A guy that walks into a good-looking dame's front parlor and says, "Good afternoon, I sell accident insurance on husbands.
 
You got one that's been around too long? Somebody you'd like to turn into a little hard cash? Just give me a smile and I'll help you collect."
 
Boy, what a dope I must look to you.
                                   

PHYLLIS

I think you're rotten.
 
                                     

NEFF

I think you're swell. So long as I'm not your husband.
 
                                     

PHYLLIS

Get out of here.
 

NEFF

You bet I will. You bet I'll get out of here, baby. But quick.

Marty smiled at the passage, admired the dialogue and was about to reflect on its importance in the movie when the telephone rang.
 
He reached for it.
 
Roz.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Oh, I've learned something,” she said.
 
“But it's not going to be enough for your tired white ass.
 
If I'd had clearance to her file, I would have learned more.”

Marty stood and went to the windows overlooking the Park.
 
Two helicopters were sailing toward one another, their blades glinting in the fiery light of the setting sun.
 
For a moment, it looked as if they were going to collide.
 
“Clearance to her file,” he said.
 
“She has one?”

 
“She has two files, sugar, and one of them's top secret.
 
Can't lay my pretty black hands on it.
 
But I do know this much--since 2006, Maggie Cain has been under surveillance by the FBI.”

CHAPTER THREE

Marty hung up the phone and sat at his desk.
 
He went to his computer, began a file on Cain and entered everything Roz had told him.
 

Years ago, Maggie Cain had been in a relationship with Mark Andrews.
 
Mark Andrews had been one of Wolfhagen’s bond traders.
 
His testimony helped to send Wolfhagen and two others to prison.
 

He died last month.
 
Trampled by bulls in Pamplona.

Maggie Cain's relationship with Andrews explained the Matisse Marty glimpsed in her entryway.
 
With the money Andrews had at his disposal during the height of the stock market, he easily could have bought her that drawing--and maybe even her home in Chelsea.
 
And if they were involved during the time the FBI was watching Wolfhagen and those closest to him, wouldn't she have been under surveillance as well?
 

Marty would have.

But none of this explained why she was under surveillance now.
 
Why did the FBI still have an interest in Maggie Cain?
 
It had been five years since the trial.
 
Her connection to Mark Andrews was severed with his death.
 
What could they possibly suspect her of doing that was considered top secret?
 
And since Cain had been in a relationship with Andrews, obviously she knew Wolfhagen.
 

So, why had she lied to him?

He got up from his desk and went to the window.
 
There was so much smog and haze, he barely could see the sun set beyond the trees of Central Park.
 
He wondered what a sensible man would do with this information.
  

The answer came at once.
 

A sensible man would confront the source.

*
 
*
 
*

In thirty minutes, he was at Maggie's townhouse and Manhattan was lost to the night.
 

Marty looked across the deserted street to the building's façade, where inside it seemed as though she had left on every light.
 
The windows, shielded by lace curtains, punched bright bands of gold into the darkness.
 

He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, noticing as he crossed the street that the living room window was open.
 
The curtains moved in the air, parting slightly, giving brief, frequent glimpses into the room beyond.
 

Maggie was sitting at the piano.
 
Her back to him, she appeared to be studying the many photographs framed in silver on the piano's lowered lid.
 
In her hand was a glass of wine.
 
Curled beside her on the bench was Baby Jane.
 
If it weren't for the movement of the cat's tail, Marty also might have been looking at a photograph.

He went to the lighted door and rang the glowing buzzer.

It was a moment before Maggie answered.
 
“Yes?”

Marty watched the peephole darken, felt himself being watched.
 
“It's Marty."

He heard her say his name before unlocking the door and opening it wide.
 
There was a mixture of surprise and curiosity on her face.
 
“I thought you were going to call."

“I decided to stop by instead.
 
Is it all right if I come in?
 
There are a few things I'd like to ask you.”

She gave him a puzzled look, but stepped aside so he could move into the living room.
 

“I hope I'm not interrupting something,” he said.

"Not at all.
 
Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

She motioned for him to sit down on the gold brocade sofa and took her own seat in the chair opposite him.
  
She crossed her legs and for a moment simply studied him, her index finger tracing the rim of the wine glass she held in her hand.
 
“Have you made a decision?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” Marty said.
 
“First I need to ask you a few questions.
 
Do you mind?”

Maggie hesitated, and Marty sensed she wasn't at all comfortable with the prospect of being questioned.
 
But then, perhaps seeing no way out of the situation, she finished her wine and placed the empty glass down on the table between them. “You can ask me anything."