He was slicing away the hair on his chest, maneuvering carefully around the peak of his left nipple, when he heard on the television the news of Gerald Hayes’ death.
Wolfhagen stepped out of the bathroom, his body dripping a mixture of hair and shaving cream onto the Oriental rug. He moved to the center of the bedroom and stared at the television.
Hayes was dead, a possible suicide. There was an eye-witness, Maria Martinez, who was in the opposite building when Hayes fell past her window. The police were questioning Martinez and would make a statement by morning. They were not ruling out murder.
Neither was Wolfhagen.
He reached behind him for a chair and instead caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall to his right. A thin river of blood was running from his chest down the length of his muscled stomach, stopping to pool in the foam at his groin before dripping from the head of his penis to the carpet.
He looked down at his bare feet and saw that they were speckled with blood and shaving cream. The sight startled him. He usually was so careful. He couldn’t remember a time when he had last cut himself. As he stood there, watching, he felt a sudden, deep rush of shame and embarrassment.
He put his free hand over his slippery, bloody penis and the shame turned to rage.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Spocatti paced.
He walked past the window, walked past Carmen, walked back to the window, paused and looked across at Hayes’ office. In silence, he watched the police rifle through the man’s desk, bag folders, make notes, say little. He saw one of the detectives pick up the marble paperweight on the edge of the desk and wondered again just how carefully Carmen had cleaned it.
He stepped away from the window and looked at her. She was seated cross-legged in the center of the room, his MacBook humming in her lap, her face glowing in the bluish black. She wouldn’t look at him. She knew better. Her fingers raced over keys he couldn’t see.
“What’s the number, Carmen?”
“Almost there.”
“You said that a minute ago.”
“The wireless in this place is shit.”
She typed faster, stopped, leaned toward the screen and read off the number.
Spocatti removed his cell and dialed his contact at the First Precinct. It was late. Chances were she wouldn’t be in.
But the woman answered. “This is Rice,” the detective said.
Spocatti smiled. “Brenda,” he said. “And I thought you’d be home in bed, fast asleep in the arms of your lover.”
Silence.
“You know who this is?”
“Of course.”
“Can you talk?”
“Hold on.”
The sound of a chair sliding back, a door clicking shut. Then her voice, lower than before. “Okay,” she said. “What is it?”
“I need a name.”
“A name.”
“And an address.”
“An address.”
“And whatever else you can find out about the woman who saw Gerald Hayes fall from his office window.”
“Right,” she said. “When?”
“Put it this way,” Spocatti said. “You get back to me in twenty minutes with the information I need, and I’ll personally see to it that money won’t be a problem for you or your family ever again.”
It took her fifteen minutes to secure her future.
Spocatti picked up the phone and listened. “Her name is Maria Martinez,” Rice said. “Lives on 145th Street. Has a daughter, five years old. Three priors for drug trafficking, two for prostitution. Had an addiction to heroin and crack. This was six years ago. Now’s she’s off welfare, off drugs and has three jobs, one of them cleaning offices in lower Manhattan for Queen Bee Cleaning. Looks as if she’s turned herself into an upstanding member of the slums.”
Rice paused. “And you’re going to kill her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spocatti said. “I’ve never killed anyone. Tell me what she knows.”
“She didn’t see anything,” Rice said. “Said she was cleaning a window when she looked out and saw Hayes hitting the concrete.”
“She didn’t see anyone in Hayes’ office?”
“No.”
“What does our beloved Chief Grindle think?”
“He thinks she’s lying.”
“So do I. Give me her exact address.”
She gave it to him.
He thanked her, hung up the phone and looked at Carmen, who had moved across the room and now was stuffing her blood-stained clothes into a gray duffel bag. Spocatti watched her change into black pants and a black top. She pulled her hair away from her face, secured it with an elastic and lifted her pant leg. She holstered her gun in the calf strap. “Are you expecting an apology from me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Because I won’t apologize,” she said. “You would have done the same thing had you been there.”
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
“I’ve seen you do worse.”
“I won’t deny that,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have pushed Hayes out that window. It wasn’t necessary. It was juvenile. You’re too proud to admit it and that’s what disappoints me.” He started to walk past her. “But that’s your age and probably your gender, so I can look past it-this time.”
He shot her a sidelong glance, his eyes bright despite the dark room. “It’ll be interesting to see how you handle Maria Martinez.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The van, a slate-blue Ford Spocatti picked up in Queens, farted little clouds of exhaust as it ribboned through the city.
It was rust-spotted and fender-dented, but its engine was strong and it drew no attention on these streets, which, Carmen knew, was the reason he bought it in the first place. He hit a string of green lights and sailed to 145th Street, just off the Harlem River, where he parked across from Maria Martinez’s tenement and sat waiting with the engine off for the police to bring her home.
Carmen rolled down the passenger window and watched the activity on the street. It was almost midnight and the sidewalks were alive with the homeless, whores and pimps, pushers and addicts, their sunken faces occasionally caught in the trembling headlights of passing cars. Here, the streetlamps were dark. The city refused to pay for bulbs that were constantly being smashed by gunfire. Instead, the major source of light came from a storefront, where a couple was freebasing coke.
“Stay here,” Spocatti said.
He opened the door and stepped out. Carmen looked in the side mirror and watched him move down the sidewalk until the shadows and the night slid over his back and engulfed him. She didn’t know where he was going or what he had in mind, but his trust in her had weakened and she was surprised by how much that bothered her. She’d been in this business seven years and she’d never been caught. Her hits were as daring as his, her reputation just as solid. She had nothing to prove and yet she obviously tried to impress him when she pushed Hayes out the window. Why? What was it about him that made her want to be viewed as an equal in his eyes?
What was it about herself?
She leaned against the seat. What had Martinez seen? Anything? It all happened so quickly, Carmen couldn’t be sure. She played the movie of her memory through her mind and saw only a badly edited, disappointing blur-Hayes kneeling, mouth bleeding, head lowered, falling through. Everything else was lost in the dizzying rush of adrenaline that had overwhelmed her at that moment and she realized now just how wrong she’d been to go against the plan.
She looked for him in the side mirror, but all she could see was a dim stretch of empty sidewalk fading into darkness. It occurred to her that being here was not about killing Maria Martinez or learning what she might have seen. Rather, this was about saving face, fixing the past, re-instilling faith in Spocatti, and moving on with what they’d been hired to do. If she failed? Spocatti might shut her out completely.
The door swung open and he stepped inside. Carmen cupped a hand over the interior light and waited for it to dim. She glanced down at his hand and saw in it a tiny plastic bag, a spoon, a syringe. He tossed it all onto the dash and looked across the street. “Anything?” he asked.