The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (134 page)

“When was that?” Skeen asked.
 
“A couple of months ago?”

“A month and change.”

“I didn’t do it.
 
Somebody else must have.”

“Anyway you can find out for me?”

“I can make a call.”

“I’d appreciate that, Carlo.”

“It’s late,” he said.
 
“Give me a bit.
 
I’ll call you when I know something.”

“Next week, lunch is on me.”

He called Hines.
 

“Schwartz looks pretty tonight,” Hines said.

“Thought you’d like that.”

“I could have done without the maggots, the rubber fetish gear and the smell, but thanks for the tip.”
 
He lowered his voice.
 
“And fuck you for also sharing it with Patterson.”

“This is big,” Marty said.
 
“I need you both.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s bigger than you think, Mike.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Call Patterson over.
 
I need her to listen to this, too.”

“Christ.”

“Just do it.”

He listened to Hines say something to Patterson and knew that Jennifer was correct—they were working together.
 
She must have been standing right next to him.
 

“She’s here.
 
I’m assuming you don’t want this on speaker.”

Not with Jennifer and others listening.
 
“Can you get to your car?”

“We can do that.”

They did that.
 
Marty heard doors open and slam shut.
 

“Put me on speaker.”

“You’re on.”

“Hello, Linda.”

“Spellman.”

“Are we friends again?”

“We never were friends.”

“Are we talking again?”

“Depends on what your serving.”

“I’ll let you decide if it’s any good.
 
Mark Andrews might be alive.”

“Then it’s rancid,” Patterson said.
 
“Andrews is dead.
 
Everyone knows it.”

“Who is everyone?
 
He was run over by bulls in Pamplona.
 
He presumably was shipped home to the States with that written on his big toe.
 
It was never treated as a homicide and because it wasn’t, you couldn’t have been involved in any way with it.”

“The man was buried.
 
It was in the papers.
 
I read the stories, saw the photos.
 
His mother actually agreed to go on the evening news.
 
She was devastated.
 
Her darling son.
 
She bleated like a goddamn sheep while I was trying to eat my dinner.
 
It was nauseating.
 
When they asked her how she’d cope without him, she started bawling like a baby.
 
I shut the fucking thing off.”

“It’s interesting you say she agreed to go on the news.
 
Would you have?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Are you an idiot?
 
Because my son was dead.
 
He was gored to death.
 
Do you know what that would do to a mother?
 
Do you have any idea how personal….”
 
And then Linda Patterson heard herself, processed what she said and her voice trailed off.

“Are you getting it, Linda?”

“I’m getting it.”

“Andrews came from old money.
 
There’s a protocol there.
 
She wouldn’t have gone on camera.
 
If she had, it would have been viewed as unseemly.”

“But if she needed to, she’d do it to help her son.”

“That’s right.”

Hines again.
 
“What have you got, Marty?”

“Someone claiming he’s Mark Andrews just called me.
 
He says for the past four weeks, he’s been here in the city.
 
He’s at a fed safe house.
 
They’re taking care of him.
 
My client was once involved with him for years.
 
She’s here with me now.
 
She talked to him.
 
She’s convinced it was him.
 
Trouble is, I’m not.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know—maybe we’re being set up.
 
Maybe somebody knows we’re getting close to figuring out who’s knocking off those who took the stand against Wolfhagen.
 
Wolfhagen has been out of Lompoc for two years—long enough to lay low and for people to forget about him.
 
Now those people are dropping dead.
 
Initially, they did it right.
 
They started out slow.
 
Six months ago the Coles were murdered and supposedly a month ago Andrews was murdered.
 
But now, over the course of just two days, we’ve got Schwartz, Ross, Yates.
 
And God knows who else.
 
I think we can agree it’s likely that there’s another Schwartz chilling out there.”

“Where’s the safe house?”

Marty told him.

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Your tax dollars at work.”

“You were asked to go there?”

“My client was asked.
 
I’m taking her.”

“Two for the price of one,” Hines said, and paused.
 
“If that wasn’t Andrews on the phone, why are they targeting you?”

“Somehow, they found out I’m working the case.
 
They want me out of the way so they can finish what they started.”

“No offense,” Patterson said.
 
“But you’re just a shitty little P.I., Spellman.
 
If they know you’re on the job, then they know we’re on the job.
 
Why target you before us?”

“No offense, Linda, but you wouldn’t know as much as you do without a shitty little P.I. like me leading you to Schwartz and now potentially to Andrews.
 
Neither would you, Mike.”

“Your death would be easier to manage,” Hines said.
 
“Ours wouldn’t.
 
Maybe it’s you first.
 
Get you and your client out of the way, then get the rest who testified against Wolfhagen, and worry about us in the meantime.”

“Are you seriously playing devil’s advocate?” Patterson asked.

Hines let it slide.
 

“Fine,” Patterson said.
 
“What if it’s true, Spellman?
 
What if it was Andrews on the phone?
 
What if he’s alive?”

“Then we all win.
 
But until I actually see him and know that he’s safe, I’m assuming otherwise.”

“When are you leaving to meet Andrews?” Hines asked.

“Now,” Marty said.
 
“But I can’t do it alone.
 
This is part of the same case.
 
If you’re going to own this and run with it, I need you both to be there.”

But before Hines could answer, Marty heard Patterson scream.
 

Confused, he heard a muffled sound and then what sounded like doors opening, the cell phone hitting something hard, then tumbling onto something soft.
 
He called out Hines’ name but there was no response, even though Marty could hear him shouting to someone.
 
And then Marty heard the unmistakable sound of something else—explosives.
 

Maggie leaned forward.
 
“What’s wrong?”

“Quiet.”

He pressed the phone harder to his ear and felt a chill race through his body.
 
It wasn’t just Patterson screaming now—many people were.
 
He could hear explosions, he could sense a growing chaos.
 
He slid out of the booth and went into the kitchen, where he could get away from the Moroccan music.
 

Maggie followed him.
 
Roberta was across the room, fixing something at the stove.
 
She turned to look at him.
 
Steam rose in waves in front of her face.
 
She dropped the spatula she was holding and came over to him.

He held up his hand, looked around the room and spotted a radio.
 
“Turn it on.”

“What station?”

“880.”

She flipped it to the local CBS news affiliate and turned up the volume. They were recapping the day.
 
Stocks had closed lower.
 
The President was traveling to China.
 
The Middle East was in turmoil again.
 
Marty half listened to the radio and to the tension heightening on the other end of the phone.
 
The newscaster switched to the weather.
 
Clear skies.
 
Heat on the rise.
 
Storms by Tuesday.

And then, on the phone, he heard the biggest explosion yet.
 
He took a step back at the sheer force of it and shouted Hines’ name.
 
Roberta reached out to put a hand on his arm, but the moment she touched him, she jerked her hand away as if she’d been scalded.

The cell phone went dead.
 
Marty lowered it in his hand and was about to tell them what he heard when Roberta, her hands to her mouth, said, “Those poor people.”

Maggie was standing just inside the swinging door.
 
“What people?” she said.
 
Neither answered.
 
“What’s happening?”
 

The news broke.

Each turned to the radio.
 

Terrorists had attacked New York City.
 
Bombs had leveled a portion of 75th and Fifth.
 
Buildings were in the street.
 
The majority of the damage extended from East 73rd to East 76th.
 
Parts of East 77th Street also were affected.
 
Hundreds were feared dead.
 
Marty immediately dialed Jennifer’s number, but all he got was a rapid busy signal, which told him the very last thing he wanted to know.

At least on some level, the terrorist attack also had reached her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

10:45 p.m.

Marty swung through the kitchen door, Maggie and Roberta behind him.
 
He moved to the exit, knowing what he had to do.
 
He had to get to Jennifer.
 
He had to make sure she was safe.

“This is just the beginning of it,” Roberta said.
 
“Don’t go.
 
They’ll already be blocking the streets.
 
You won’t be able to get near there.
 
There’s nothing you can do.”

He knew she was right.
 
The streets would be blocked.
 
Already, he could hear the wail of police sirens moving north.
 
Soon, the feds would be there.
 
Then, the National Guard.
 
He’d never get through.
 
He turned to her.
 
“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

He pointed to the television above the bar.
 
“Turn it on Channel 1.
 
If Jennifer Barnes goes live with a report, I need you to call my cell immediately.
 
If she has two detectives with her—Mike Hines and Linda Patterson—I need you to tell me that, too.”