The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (99 page)

“Don’t just stand there, Marty.
 
Tell me why you’re here.”

For a while things were good.
 
They dated steadily for three weeks before Jennifer asked him to spend the night.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I’m thirty-five years old, do what I want, choose whom I like.
 
Can’t we get this out of the way?”
 

Sleeping with her was like throwing away the ghosts of his past.
 
Unlike Gloria, who rarely enjoyed sex, Jennifer was sexy and fun, uninhibited and wild, her aggression a welcome reprieve from Gloria’s disinterest.
 
Marty had never met anyone like her—professional, healthy, happy, remarkably settled considering her position at Channel One—and to this day, he regretted hurting her the way he had.
 
She wanted a relationship and, naturally, he didn’t.
 
End of their story.

Or was it?

“I need your help,” he said after a moment.
 
“A favor.”

She turned away from the window, her eyebrows arching.
 

“Gerald Hayes and Kendra Wood.
 
Are you covering their story?”

She reached for her coffee and peeled off the plastic lid.
 
She sipped and gazed across the room at him.
 
“This really is about business, then?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t come here for another reason?”

“No.”

The disappointment on her face was unmistakable.
 
“Then you should already know the answer to your question.
 
Of course, I’m covering what happened to them.
 
Didn’t you see my piece last night?”

“I didn’t.”

“Naturally, you didn’t.
 
Probably withdrawing into another movie.”

She left the window and sat down in the middle of the overstuffed sofa.
 
“You need a favor from me?” she said.
 
“Well, I don’t give favors.
 
In my business, favors are a commodity, exchangeable on the open market.
 
But I’d be willing to trade.”

Always the shrewd one.
 
But then he knew this wouldn’t be easy.
 
“What do you want?”

She stretched out her legs and eased back against the sofa.
 
“You’re obviously investigating their deaths for someone,” she said.
 
“And while I don’t necessarily care who that person is, I’d hope you’d be willing to share any insights you might come across during your travels.
 
You’re good at your job, Marty.
 
We both know that.
 
But we also know that Hayes didn’t kill himself.
 
At least I know that.
 
Especially after what happened last night.
 
As for Wood, don’t you find it interesting that whoever chopped off her head also left with it?
 
Why would someone do that?
 
What are they planning to do with Kendra Wood’s severed head?”
 

She paused, the Styrofoam cup pressed against her bottom lip as she watched Marty’s brows draw together.
 
“But I see you know nothing about that.
 
Maybe, we can help each other.”

He’d be a fool to turn her down.
 
In many ways, they were equally well connected, only in different circles.
 
“All right,” he said.
 
“Fair enough.”

She smiled, her blue eyes shining.
 
“So sensible,” she said.
 
“And so unusual. I’m impressed.
 
Are you a new Marty, or are you still the Marty who can’t make a commitment and who leaves when things are just starting to make sense?”

“Jennifer….”

She held up a hand.
 
“What’s the favor?”

“Wood and Hayes,” he said.
 
“What wasn’t written about them in the Times?”

“Plenty.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what was smeared in blood above Wood’s bed.
 
But Hines asked me not to include that in my report.
 
You know our deal—he gives me exclusive information that won’t compromise the investigation, I put him in front of the camera and make him a star.
 
Blah, blah, blah.
 
Last night, all I was allowed to mention about Wood is that her head was missing at the scene and that the job was done professionally, whatever the hell that means.
 
Are their professional rules for cutting off someone’s head?”
 
She shrugged.
 
“Despite a sophisticated security system that included a video camera hooked to a DVR, someone got inside.”

Marty sat down beside her.
 
Detective Mike Hines was obviously working Wood’s case.
 
Good, Marty thought.
 
They were friends.
 
“Has anyone checked the DVR?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Who has access to the apartment other than Wood?”

“Far as I know, no one.”

“No husband?
 
Ex-husband?
 
Lover?
 
Children?
 
Relatives?
 
Friends?”

“Kendra Wood wasn’t close to anyone, Marty.
 
She was a loner, protective of her privacy, consumed with her work.
 
You two would have loved each other.
 
And you should have seen her home.
 
Shit piled everywhere, books stacked to the ceiling.
 
She never married, never had children, doubtful if she ever took a lover.
 
I think she was a hoarder.”

“Apparently, being a hoarder is in vogue.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you saying I’m a hoarder?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I may not be the neatest person in the world, but I’m no hoarder.”

“I was referencing my girls’ bedroom, which is a wreck.”

“Whatever.
 
As for Wood’s friends, where are they now?
 
By the looks of that townhouse, something tells me that Wood never got close to anyone.
 
But here’s the most interesting part, perhaps even the most telling—her family hates her.
 
They live in northern Maine, have nothing, literally nothing, and they don’t want a thing to do with Wood or with her funeral arrangements.
 
Seems that Kendra wrote them off years ago.
 
They haven’t seen her since 1982 and they certainly don’t mind that they won’t be seeing her again.”

Marty thought about that for a moment, thought about the dynamics of hatred within a family, and sipped his coffee.
 
“What was written above the bed?”

“I can’t tell anyone that.”

“But you’ll tell me.”

“And lose a contact because of it?
 
Forget it.”

Later, he’d call Hines and ask him.
 
“Anything else on Wood?”

“That covers it.”

“Then what about Hayes?
 
Why are you convinced he was murdered?
 
The Times hinted at suicide.”

“The Times also went to press about an hour before Maria Martinez and her daughter were found dead in a Dumpster on 141st Street.”
 
She lifted her head.
 
“You do know who Maria Martinez is, don’t you?”

Marty could guess.
 
“She the woman who saw Hayes hit the sidewalk?”

“She’s the one.”

“Christ.”
 

“Gerald Hayes wasn’t suicidal, Marty.
 
His business was doing well.
 
The man was on his way back, even if it was through international markets.
 
The only way he would have jumped is if it was onto a bed of blue-chip bonds.
 
Somebody murdered him.”

Earlier, Marty came to the same conclusion.
 
He sat down on the couch.

“Martinez’s death is obvious,” Jennifer said.
 
“Whoever shoved Hayes through the window must have known that Martinez was a possible witness.
 
Somehow, they found out where she lived and murdered her and her daughter.
 
Why the bodies were dropped in a Dumpster four blocks away is beyond me.
 
But I do know this—whoever killed Maria Martinez has one less witness to worry about in the death of Gerald Hayes.”

They fell silent.
 

Jennifer finished her coffee, crumpled the paper cup into a tight ball and hurled it across the room to the overflowing wastebasket beside her writing table.
 
She hit the top of the towering paper heap and smiled despite the avalanche of old notes and passé story ideas that tumbled to the floor.
 
She rose from the couch.

But Marty remained seated.
 
“Just a minute,” he said.
 
“I’ve got another question.
 
Edward and Bebe Cole.
 
Did you cover their deaths?”

“Of course, I did.
 
But that was months ago.”

“They were murdered over a painting, weren’t they?
 
Something by van Gogh?”

“Among other things, but, yes, the van Gogh was the item hyped by the press.
 
Cole paid $40 million for that painting.
 
He and his wife were celebrated for it.
 
God knows where Boob Manly was going to sell it.”

And then Marty remembered.
 

Robert “Boob” Manly was the small-time crook who had been tried and convicted of second degree murder in the Coles’ deaths.
 
After initially pleading not guilty, he was advised by his lawyer to plead guilty to the reduced sentence when the van Gogh and the murder weapon were discovered in a storage area rented under his name.
 

Manly maintained his innocence, said he’d been framed.
 
But when he learned that his prints were on the gun and on the painting—and that there was a witness who could place him at the crime scene—he followed his lawyer’s advice and reluctantly changed his plea to guilty, thus avoiding an expensive trial and a jury that could have sent him to prison forever.
 
Instead, Manly was now serving twenty-five years to life at Riker’s.
 
Parole in eight to twelve years.

Marty was intrigued.
 
Maggie Cain must have known that Manly admitted to killing the Coles, so why hadn’t she mentioned him this morning?
 
Why did she deliberately overlook him to suggest that Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker or Peter Schwartz were the murderers?
 
Did she believe in Manly’s pleas of innocence?
 
Did she have reason to?

Jennifer shot him a quick, knowing look.
 
“I get it,” she said.
 
“You’re thinking the deaths are related.
 
And actually that would be a neat fit.
 
But I covered Manly’s hearing, Marty.
 
I saw the creep.
 
Manly had a penchant for stealing art.
 
He had a rap sheet that would have impressed even you.
 
He confessed.
 
He did it.”
 
She paused to study his face.
 
“You might as well forget Mark Andrews,” she said.
 
“He was trampled by bulls.
 
Thousands of people saw it happen.
 
Murder’s unlikely.”