Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (13 page)

The doorman recognized him on sight.
 

Marty nodded and strolled past him into the building.
 
He stepped into the dark warmth of a mahogany-paneled elevator and pushed a button until it glowed.
 
Channel One paid its star reporter a salary so handsome, it allowed her to live on the eighteenth floor, just high enough to offer a glimpse of Central Park.
 

Jennifer met him at the door with a gun.
 

She pointed it straight at his heart, took a step forward and pulled him inside by the arm.
 
“I ought to put a hole straight through you,” she said.

Marty moved past her and put the coffee down on a side table.
 
He took the gun from her hands, checked the barrel, saw that it was loaded, snapped it shut.
 
“Cute,” he said.
 
“What if it had gone off?”

“You probably would have died.”

"And if I had?"

"One less bastard walking the streets of New York."

"Just the one?"

"I'll find the others.
 
They always seem to come to me."

She took one of the coffees and started into the living room, her curtain of blonde hair swinging.
 
“I don't know why you're here,” she said.
 
“But it had better be good.
 
I still can't believe I've agreed to see you, especially after I read your blog and Netflixed that movie you raved about.
 
Second biggest waste of time in my life.”

“You read my blog?”

“Apparently, everyone does.
 
People talk about it at work.
 
It’s their go-to source for finding a good movie.
 
I’m not nearly as enthusiastic.”

“Which movie did you watch?”

“‘The White Ribbon.’
 
And can you just tell me what you were smoking when you wrote that review?
 
That was the bleakest, darkest movie I’ve seen in years.
 
And it had subtitles.
 
I hate subtitles.”

It was a fantastic movie, but he wasn’t going to argue with her.
 
With raised eyebrows, Marty took his coffee and followed her into the living room, where she stood at the great window, her back to him, coffee on a side table, hands on her hips.
 

He loved this apartment.
 
Much like his own home, books, magazines and newspapers were piled everywhere--on the floor, leaning against tables, towering alongside each end of the sofa.
 
There was nothing pretentious about it, nothing that suggested a designer's stamp.
 
Marty always felt that he could breathe here, high as he was above the congested streets of Manhattan.
 

“Why are you here?”

They had met nine weeks after his separation from Gloria.
 
He was just shaking off the cobwebs of a deep depression when the call came from Paul, his good friend from college, asking him to dinner.
 
“There's someone Laurie and I want you to meet.”
 
The dinner was small and informal--an eclectic group of eight people eager to have fun and to be themselves.
 
Jennifer Barnes was seated at his right.
 
Her quick wit and easy laugh was like a tonic.
 
Soon they were falling into conversation.
 
For the first time in years, Marty found himself flirting.

“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.”