The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (90 page)

She was teasing him.
 
Most of his clientele had airs about them.
 
She didn’t seem to have any.
 
“I’ve read some of your books.
 
In each one, you seem preoccupied by humiliating men of power.
 
Exposing men like Wolfhagen.
 
There was a time when Gloria and I wondered if there was a reason for that.”

“Gloria’s your ex-wife?”

“She is.”

She shrugged.
 
“I guess a writer always has a reason for writing.
 
That reason could be as simple as making money or as complicated as finding out some truth about themselves or the world in which they live.”

“What’s writing for you?”

“A little of both.
 
Five years ago, when I wrote my first novel, I learned more about myself, my strengths and my weaknesses, than any counselor could have unearthed.”
 

Marty looked at her scar and wondered how much of that was true.

“The reason I asked you here is that I’m writing a book about Wolfhagen.
 
A biography, which is new for me.
 
Too new for me.
 
The problem is that my publisher is expecting the first draft by November, which is nuts but I agreed to it, so the blame is on me.
 
Still, there’s no way I’ll be able to finish it in time without someone to help me do the research.”

“And you need my help?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“What do you need?”

“While I’m interviewing people here in New York, I’d like you to fly to California and watch Wolfhagen.
 
He’s been out of prison for two years, and he’s done a fine job keeping a low profile.
 
I want to know everything about his life after prison.
 
I want to know how he spends his time, who his friends are now—the lot of it.
 
If you give me basic information—and by basic information, I mean dull, everyday stuff—I’ll pay you your standard fee.
 
But if you give me something the world can sink its teeth into, something that’ll push this book onto bestseller lists, I’ll double your fee—and throw in a bonus.
 
Does that sound fair?”

He liked that she was direct.
 
What he wasn’t sure of is whether she’d like his rates.
 
“I get $250 an hour,” he said.
 
“Plus expenses.
 
If you double my fee, that’ll come to $500 an hour.
 
I should probably be asking you how fair that is.”

Maggie came over to where he was standing.
 
Watching her, he wondered if she knew of how attractive she was and decided that once—before the scar that drew a line down her face—she must have known.
 

“If there’s any book I can’t screw up, it’s this one.
 
My publisher paid a lot for it and I need to deliver.
 
I asked you here only after I learned from friends that you’re the best.
 
I know you’re worth those rates and I’m happy to pay them if you’ll take the job.”

“Do you mind if I think about it?” he asked.
 
“I have two daughters.
 
Usually, I work here in New York so I can be close to them.
 
They mean everything to me.”

“Of course,” she said.
 

“Is tonight too late to call with a decision?”

“Not at all,” Maggie said.
 
“It’s just me and the cat.
 
We’ll be home all evening.”

They moved into the foyer and Marty stepped outside.
 
When he turned to say goodbye, he saw just behind Maggie that the cat, Baby Jane, was sitting on the very edge of a hand-carved table, her tail flicking as she looked at herself in the dim glass of an enormous beveled mirror.
 

There was a moment when Marty thought the cat was studying him, appraising him.
 
And then it leaped onto the floor and Marty suddenly was looking at himself—a tall man with sandy brown hair and shoulders so wide, they suggested a swimmer’s build.
 

“I do have one question,” he said.
 
“Wolfhagen—have you two ever met?”

Maggie tilted her head and started to close the door, her hair spilling over the scar on her left cheek.
 
“No,” she said.
 
“Never.”

CHAPTER TWO

Half an hour later, Marty stood in the hallway outside his ex-wife’s apartment.

He removed a set of keys from his pants pocket, knowing—but not really caring—that Gloria would be angry that he hadn’t called before coming by.
 

He’d already taken care of the doorman.
 
In the lobby, he asked Toby not to call Gloria and tell her he was here.
 
Better to just walk in, make the call to Roz and visit with his girls.
 
Gloria might even be out.

He stuck the key in the lock and opened the door.
 
Soft music, soft lights and Gloria met him in the entryway.
 
She was standing at a curving chrome side table, a glass of bubbling champagne in one hand, a spray of tulips in the other.
 

Without so much as a glance at Marty, she put the glass of champagne down beside a framed photograph of her dead mother and started placing the tulips one by one into the vase filled with water.
 
Her voice was cool when she spoke.
 
“What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t the response he was hoping for, but he’d certainly heard worse.
 

Nudging the door shut with his elbow, he stood looking at the woman he had married twice, divorced twice and unfortunately still loved.
 
Tall and slender, her skin as pale as the cream silk suit she wore, Gloria Spellman had the contented look of a woman enjoying life.
 
“Sorry, I didn’t call,” he said, looking past her into the living room.
 
“Are you with someone?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mind if I come in?”

“You are in.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It’s just a question, Gloria.
 
You look nice.”

She turned to him.
 
“That’s sweet.
 
Jack Edwards is coming by to look at my paintings.
 
He feels I’m ready for another showing.
 
He should be here soon.
 
Why are you here?”

It was interesting, Marty thought, to note how much she had changed in the six months that had passed since her first showing.
 
This wasn’t the shy, introspective woman he’d fallen in love with fourteen years ago.
 
Success had freed her.
 
Rarely one to voice her opinions, Gloria now looked people in the eye and shared those opinions with confidence.
 
Her hair, once light brown and shoulder length, was now black, angular and severe.
 
She wore makeup and narrow glasses, smoked clove cigarettes and spoke of reincarnation.
 
She was an evolving woman in a constantly changing shell.

“I’d like to see the girls,” he said.
 
“They around?”

“Of course, they’re around.
 
But now isn’t a good time to see them.”
 

Nevertheless, she glanced at her watch and stepped aside so he could move past her.
 
At least she understood how much they meant to him.
 
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
 
“And not a second more.
 
They’re in their bedroom.”

“Can I use your phone first?”

“It’s your fifteen minutes,” Gloria said.
 
“I could give a rat’s ass how you use it.”

She certainly was a bitch tonight.

But as Marty walked down the hallway and picked up the telephone, he understood.
 
His choice to focus more on his job than on their relationship had twice cost them their marriage.
 
Psychiatrists and psychologists all gave him the same textbook reasons about why he was so screwed up now—his parents were murdered when he was a boy.
 
They’d lived in a rough section of Brooklyn.
 
His father was a cop who paid too much attention to the local gangs.
 
When he was on the verge of bringing down a gang leader, three gang members shot him and his wife dead in their apartment while Marty, seven at the time, hid under a bed.
 

A cascade of sketchy foster parents ensued.
 
At eighteen, he was able to go to university on scholarship, where he received a film degree because, as a boy, movies were the one thing that offered escape.
 

And better yet, they didn’t require the sort of commitment a relationship required.

The phone was answered by a friend of his at the FBI.
 
“Roz, it’s Marty.
 
Got a minute?
 
Great.
 
I was wondering if you’d run a check on someone for me.
 
Name is Maggie Cain, otherwise known as Margaret Cain, the writer.”
 

Gloria turned to him with interest.
 

“If she’s in your files, do you think I could have a background by this evening?
 
Find out where she got her money.
 
The woman has a goddamn Matisse in her entryway.
 
I know, right?
 
Next time the pasta’s on me.”
 

When he hung up the phone, Gloria was standing behind him.
 
“You’re investigating Maggie Cain?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stepped past her and moved down the hallway to the girls’ bedroom.
 
His professional life was the one thing he shared with no one—and Gloria knew why.
 
Too many times in the past he had been threatened by someone who learned of his surveillance.
 
Marty didn’t take the repercussions lightly, especially after what happened to his parents.

“I can’t believe it,” Gloria said.
 
“Maggie Cain!
 
She’s one of my favorite writers.
 
You know I love her books.
 
What’s she done?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, please.”

“Leave it alone, Gloria.”

“Just give me something.”

Behind them, the service telephone rang.

Gloria stopped mid-stride and went to answer it.
 
When she returned, she was all business.
 
“That’s Jack and he’s early.
 
I need you to leave.
 
This is a night for art, not ex-husbands.”

“Define art.”

“You wouldn’t understand it.”

“See how little you know about me?
 
Consider what you’ve done with your makeup.
 
Now, that’s art.”
 
He glanced at his watch.
 
“I’ve still got ten minutes to see my daughters.”

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