The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (109 page)

 
“What did he look like?”

“Jackson didn’t get an ID,” Linda said.
 
“Too dark.”

“She saw nothing?” Marty said.
 
“Oh, come on, Linda.
 
She must have seen something.
 
Even the color of the man’s hair.”

“She didn’t see anything, Marty.
 
Zero.
 
I believe her.”

And you’re a goddamn liar.
 
“How can I get in touch with her?”

Patterson laughed.
 
“Are you serious, Spellman?
 
Did you hear anything I just said?
 
Jackson lives on the street, not in the sort of glitzy Park Avenue high-rise you’re used to.
 
Do you get the distinction?
 
She’s a homeless whore.
 
I’d be lucky to find her again.”
 

Suddenly impatient, she glanced at her watch.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I’ve given you your fifteen minutes.
 
I’ve told you what I know about the Martinezes.
 
You got something else you want to ask me?
 
Because if you don’t, I’m out of here.”

“Then let’s talk about Gerald Hayes.”

Patterson leaned back in her chair as Roberta came through the door with a clutch of sage.
 
She lit it on fire and walked past the table in great swirls of smoke.
 
“Gets rid of the negative energy,” Roberta said.
 
“I should be more thorough, but I don’t want to interrupt, so I’ll make this quick.”

She said something beneath her breath and waved the sage near Linda.
 
Then, with a final shake that released a plume of smoke, she left.

“What the fuck is this place?” Linda said.
 
“Now I smell like Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Can we talk about Hayes, please?”
 

Linda shook her head.
 
“No, Marty, that’s something I’ll never give you.
 
Did you really think I didn’t know where this was going?
 
Did you really think I’d give you anything on Hayes after the way you screwed me over on Wilcox?”
 

She smiled at him.
 
“I had you pegged for an idiot, but this is ridiculous.
 
You burned me once.
 
I gave you everything I had on Wilcox and you went public with her murderer.
 
You broke your promise.
 
You said you’d give me the son of a bitch and you didn’t.
 
I’m going all the way with this case.
 
Hayes’ death was a high-profile blessing from God.
 
I’m getting Detective First Grade out of it.”

“I doubt that,” Marty said.
 
“But I am curious.
 
If you knew I was fishing all along for Hayes, why’d you give me anything on Martinez?
 
Their deaths are obviously related.
 
You’ve helped more than you know.
 
So why talk?”

Patterson patted her handbag.
 
“Because I wanted the money,” she said lightly.
 
“Pure and simple.
 
And, besides, what I gave you wasn’t worth shit compared to what I know about Hayes.
 
Certainly nothing you couldn’t have found out without me.
 
So, it was an easy two grand.
 
Lucky me.”

She rose from her seat, all cool lines and silky curves.
 
She reached for her handbag and looked down at him.
 
“Here’s something else, Spellman, a little advice.
 
If you interfere in any way with this case, if you cross me, I’ll bust your ass for obstruction.
 
This case is NYPD property.
 
Do you understand me?”
 
Her voice was absolutely calm. “You’re not a cop.
 
You have no authority.
 
Screw with my case, and I’ll get a court order that’ll nail you to the wall.”

Marty smiled up at her.
 
“Sweet, Linda.
 
Really, I’ll keep it in mind.
 
But I’m a registered private investigator, and that also gives me rights.
 
Before you leave, there’s something you should know.
 
That check I gave you?
 
It isn’t signed.
 
I gave you an unsigned check.
 
You did just what I knew you’d do.
 
You only looked at the amount.
 
You never even thought to look for a signature.
 
Too greedy.
 
Too predictable.
 
Too much like the old Linda.
 
So, unless you forge my name, which I wouldn’t suggest since it’s a crime, it looks like it’s you who’s just been nailed to the wall.”

*
  
*
  
*

“I don’t like that woman, Marty.
 
She’s evil.
 
She’s no good.
 
And it’s not because she insulted my place.
 
She’s got a darkness in her that even I won’t go near.
 
Why do you hang around people like that?
 
They sour your soul.”

Marty reached in his pocket for his cell and tapped out Hines’ number at the 19th.
 
Roberta, busy making tea for the party of five that had just stepped in, shot him a sideways glance.
 
“And I’ll tell you something else,” she said.
 
“My prediction is right.
 
That woman will be dead by fifty.
 
Just you wait and see.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Roberta.
 
You’ve got me on the list, too.”

“But you can do something about it,” Roberta said.
 
“You can drop the case now, before it goes any further.
 
You could listen to me.”

“Roberta, if I listened to you, I’d be penniless.
 
Do you realize that every time I take a new case you’re telling me I’ll be dead.”

“This time you might be.”

“Whatever happened to optimism?”

“Oh, please,” she laughed.
 
“Are you serious?
 
When they legalize pot, I’ll be optimistic.”

Hines answered.
 
“Can’t talk,” he said.
 
“Just busted the perp on another case.
 
Son of a bitch drove stakes through his wife and kids.
 
Thought they were vampires.
 
Admitted to all of it.
 
Said Stephanie Myers told him to do it.
 
In there smiling at me, like he’d do it again if he had the chance.
 
Call me back later.”

“Two questions,” Marty said.
 
“That’s it.”

“Make ‘em fast.”

“Where’s Wolfhagen?”

 
“Not at The Plaza,” Hines said.
 
“Checked out this afternoon.
 
Said the place gives him the creeps.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“With his wife.”

“With his wife?” Marty said.
 
“Then his alibi checked?
 
He was with her last night?”

“He was at a party of hers last night,” Hines said.
 
“A big deal that lasted until two in the morning.
 
Thirty people can and will vouch for his presence.
 
I talked to Carra Wolfhagen myself and she confirmed everything.
 
She says he spent the night with her and there’s nothing I can do about that.
 
Now, I gotta go.
 
Call me later.
 
You know, when you’ve got something.”

The line went dead.

Marty hung up the phone and caught Roberta’s concerned glance.
 
She was standing beside him, slicing a lemon, adding the curving yellow wedges to the steaming pot of tea.
 

Slice, slice, slice.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said.

 
But Roberta, whose face now reflected a sadness he had never seen in it before, shook her head.
 
“No, Marty, this time it isn’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Spocatti stood between the heat of two double-parked vans, looking across to the grimy brick building Maggie Cain had just entered.
 
He was in the roughest part of the South Bronx—Hunts Point—where the haze of poverty and decay was so strong here, it clung to his clothes and cut off his breath.

He knew this neighborhood.
 

When he was a boy, several family members lived here.
 
At that time, his father owned a successful restaurant in Little Italy, and so, because they had money, it was Spocatti’s family who drove here on Sundays to visit the relatives.
 
Then, Spocatti would sit next to his father and listen to his two uncles discuss their hopes and dreams to find better jobs and move their families out of this place.
 

It didn’t happen.
 
Though they wished for a better future, his uncles’ alcoholism and drug abuse prevented them from having it.

That was thirty years ago.
 
And while this place had seen a push in the ‘80s in an effort to revitalize it, the attempt failed.
 
Looking around, Spocatti thought it looked worse than ever, particularly after the recession.
  

Even now, on the cusp of sunset, transvestites and prostitutes were working the streets and street corners, drug deals were being made in backrooms, private clubs were thriving in shadowy basements—and disease was running rampant.
 

With the Meatpacking District now bright with boutiques and trendy restaurants, the South Bronx, in a sense, had taken its place among those areas in the city where the fringe could thrive.
 
Were you a trucker in need of a blowjob?
 
Come to Hunts Point.
 
Married businessman into a bit of kink?
 
Come to Hunts Point.
 
The area was morphing even deeper into the corrupt underworld some craved.
 

Spocatti was amused to find how comfortable he was here.

He looked at his watch.
 
Cain had been inside three minutes.
 
Whoever had dropped her here was gone.
 
He looked across to the two scantily clad transvestites clicking toward the building and watched them walk down the narrow cement steps.
 
They rapped on a door he couldn’t see, screamed something above the sudden roar of music, and were let inside.

Private party.

Password protected.

He’d seen it before.
 
The people who threw these parties gave every queen and whore working these streets a password that allowed them entrance.
 
If business was slow, they could come to a party, perform for the guests, earn that night’s dinner.
 
Maybe even a taste of whatever drug was circulating that day.

So, why had Maggie Cain come here?

He left his shiny metal enclave and stepped into the street.
 
Trucks rumbled past.
 
At the street corner, four transvestites were leaning against a black Mercedes.
 
They tapped on its hood, shook their asses in front of the darkened windows, bent down to blow kisses, circled and posed.
 
One of them looked up at him and smiled.