The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (108 page)

Marty spooned soup and evaded the subject.
 
“I meant to tell you that I’m meeting someone here.”

“I knew that,” Roberta said, sitting in the chair opposite him.
 
“Now, give me your hand.”

“Let’s not start that crap, Roberta.”

“Just give me your hand,” she said.
 
“I had a bad feeling when you came in.
 
I need to make sure of a few things.”

“I’m not superstitious.”

“Neither am I,” she said.
 
“Just gifted.
 
So, humor me.
 
Something’s off.”

Reluctantly, Marty gave her his hand.
 
Roberta held it for a moment, then turned it so the palm faced the tapestry-covered ceiling.
 
She closed her eyes and massaged the soft center with her thumb and index finger.
 
She was silent for a moment before she spoke.
 
“This new case of yours,” she said.
 
“It’s not what you think.”

Marty sipped his tea.

Roberta’s forehead creased with thought.
 
Her dark eyebrows stitched together and became one.
 
“You’re in over your head.
 
You’re being lied to.
 
You’re in danger and you don’t even know it.
 
Someone’s not what they seem.”

“Few people are,” Marty mused.
 
“Take Gloria, for instance.”

“No,” Roberta said, looking at him.
 
Her eyes were serious.
 
“Don’t be flip.
 
I drew the Death card when you came in.
 
You’re at risk.
 
I’m sure of that.
 
For once in your life, listen to me.
 
It’s possible you might not come out of this alive.”

Marty tried to pull his hand back, but Roberta hung on.

“Three women,” she said.
 
“One of them loves you, one of them resents you, the third is keeping secrets from you.
 
They’re in danger, too, but only one knows it and she doesn’t care.
 
She’s got murder in her heart.
 
She wants someone dead.
 
I don’t know if it’s you, but you’re involved.
 
She might kill you.”

She released his hand.
 

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Roberta said.
 
“This is real.”

At that moment, the front door swung open and Linda Patterson stepped inside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Linda Patterson was not the woman Marty remembered from two years ago.
 

Dressed casually in beige linen pants and a white top, her light blonde hair just reaching her shoulders, she moved toward Roberta and Marty with the air of a professional, which was a radical difference from the last time he’d seen her.
 

Where was the hardened, strung-out cop he once caught freebasing coke in the back of a tenement on Avenue C?
 
Where were the deeply rouged cheeks, brittle red hair and dumpy looking clothes that once aged her?
 
Today’s Linda Patterson looked nothing like her past and instead gave the clever illusion of city chic—until she opened her mouth.

“Oh, this is perfect, Spellman,” she said, looking around.
 
“A Tibetan massage parlor.
 
Last time I caught a whiff of incense was 1969 and Mama Cass had yet to choke on her chicken bone.”

“You and your urban legends.
 
It was a ham sandwich.”

“Whatever.
 
You and your freaky joints.
 
I suppose you’re into holistic home medicine, too.
 
Acupuncture.
 
Aroma therapy.”

“Good manners.”

“Bullshit responses.”

Roberta shot him a glance.
 
Marty returned the look and stood.
 
“Linda,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Roberta Buzzinni.
 
She’s one of the owners of the café.”

Unfazed, Patterson turned to Roberta and blinked.
 
“You a psychic or something?”

Roberta nodded.

“And you admit it,” Linda said.
 
“Now, that’s interesting.”
 
She said ‘interesting’ as though it were the least interesting thing in the world.
 
She lowered her shiny leather handbag onto the table and put her hands on her hips.
 
“Okay,” she said, “I’m game.
 
Tell me my future.”

Roberta lifted an eyebrow at Marty, then pushed back her chair and stood.
 
“Ms. Patterson,” she said, “something tells me you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“I’ve been a detective with the NYPD for eight years,” Linda said.
 
“Before that, I was an assistant at the M.E.’s office.
 
You have no idea what I can handle.
 
Try me.”

Roberta’s face became set, expressionless.
 
It was the face of a woman addressing a problematic child.
 
Marty saw tolerance in her eyes, but also a hint of something else.
 
Mischief?
 
“All right,” she said.
 
“Give me your hand.”

Linda held out her hand, which Roberta took and just as quickly dropped.
 
“You won’t live to see your fiftieth birthday.
 
You’ll be shot dead in the street—a hole right through that Botoxed forehead of yours.
 
The number of people who show up at your funeral will reveal just how cruelly you’ve lived your life.”
 
In the silence that fell, Roberta excused herself and swung sideways into the kitchen.
 
Marty heard her bark out a laugh as he sat back down.

Patterson took the chair opposite him.
 
“What the hell kind of a woman is that?” she said angrily.
 
“Won’t live past my fiftieth birthday.
 
What kind of a thing is that to say to someone?
 
I’m forty-nine now, for Christ’s sake.
 
My birthday’s in a few months.
 
She saying I’ll be dead by then?”
 
She shook her head.
 
“No wonder this dump is empty.”

“Can’t handle it, Linda?”

“I wanted to know something nice,” Linda said.
 
“I wanted to hear something good, just like we all do.
 
I didn’t need to hear that crap.
 
That woman’s got nerve.”

“I believe she could say the same about you.
 
You insulted her and her business.”

Patterson ignored the comment and rummaged inside her handbag—blunt red fingernails clicking, hands grasping and pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes.
 
She shook one out, lit it with the strike of a match and inhaled, holding the smoke before blowing it above their heads.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I meant it when I said I was busy.
 
I’m giving you fifteen minutes.
 
What do you want from me?”

He looked at her cigarette.
 
“Smoking isn’t allowed in here.”

“I’m a cop.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll see.
 
I’m seeking information.”

“Surprise, surprise.
 
What about?”

“A couple of things.
 
But let’s start with Maria Martinez and her daughter.”

Patterson drew on the cigarette and sat looking at him, her eyes and face betraying nothing.
 
“Maria Martinez?” she said.
 
“Since when are you interested in the welfare mothers of the world, Marty?
 
Martinez didn’t live in a penthouse on Fifth.
 
She was no murdered socialite.
 
Why would you of all people be interested in her and her daughter?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Linda.”

“That may be,” Linda said.
 
“But it’s up to me whether I answer them, isn’t it?” She took another pull off her cigarette and paused, her face hardening, jaw tightening, wheels turning.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I’m not giving you shit until you’ve handed over that check you promised me.”

Marty removed the check from his shirt pocket and pushed it face-down across the table.

Patterson picked it up, glanced fleetingly at the amount and tucked it in her handbag.
 
“That’s less than before,” she said.
 
“You’re getting cheap.
 
But seeing as though I’ve only got a couple months to live, I’ll take it.
 
What do you want to know?”

“For starters,” Marty said, “I’d like to know about the people who saw them being dumped in that Dumpster on 141st Street.”

Patterson started nibbling her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d picked up in rehab. “Aren’t you the clever one, Marty.
 
How’d you find out about that?”

“I get around.”

“Yeah,” Linda said.
 
“Like the clap.”
 

The kitchen door swung open and Roberta appeared with a steaming cup of tea on a metal tray.
 
She put the cup and the saucer down in front of Linda, plucked the cigarette from her hand and said with her eyes lifted to the ceiling, “This will help even you out.
 
It’s my own special blend.
 
It’s my suggestion that you drink it while thinking positive thoughts, if that’s possible.
 
There’s no charge.
 
Don’t smoke in here again.”
 
Without another word, she went back to the kitchen.
 
Linda looked at the cup of tea—which had a faint ammonia scent to it—moved to pick it up, but instead pushed it away.
 
“She took my fucking cigarette.”

“That’s because it’s against the law to smoke here.”

“Whatever.
 
About Martinez.
 
Only one person came forward.
 
The other disappeared.”

“I assume we’re dealing with a prostitute here?”

“You assume correctly.”

“And her john took off.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Who’s the hooker?”

“LaWanda Jackson,” Patterson said.
 
“Twenty-seven.
 
Been on the streets since she was fifteen and is angry as hell because of it.
 
Until last night, she lived behind that Dumpster.
 
Had a mattress stained with blood and crawling with God-knows-what.
 
Now I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”

“What did she see?”

“Plenty.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Linda shrugged.
 
“I’ll give you your money’s worth.
 
Jackson said she was giving some sleazoid suit the blowjob of a lifetime when Martinez and her daughter ran into the alley, followed by some man with a gun.
 
Before Jackson could react, the man had Martinez against a wall and was pumping two bullets into her brain.
 
He pushed her to the ground and snapped the little girl’s neck.
 
Jackson said she’d never seen anything like it, which I doubt.
 
In sixty seconds, the man murdered two people and tossed their bodies in a Dumpster.
 
He never broke stride.
 
The friggin’ end.”