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 passe 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.”
“Unless he was pushed.”
Jennifer held his gaze. “He died last month, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” Marty said. “And now Wood and Hayes are dead. See the pattern? There was a time when all of their lives collided in Wood’s courtroom. Now they’re dying. Coincidence?”
“But those people have been out of the public eye for years,” Jennifer said. “If someone wanted to bump them off, they would have done so years ago. Why wait all this time?”
“Sometimes, it’s best to wait.”
She shook her head at him. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. In any given week-never mind over a period of seven months-I could find something that would link five of the city’s unexplained homicides, but that doesn’t mean that one person did the killings. And what about Manly? If you were innocent of murder, would you ever have pled guilty? I wouldn’t have. I’d fight to the death, regardless of what my lawyer said.”
She held out her hands. “But what do I know? If I’ve learned anything it’s that in this city, anything is possible. Even a hunch. Look into it. Maybe something else connects their deaths. Something that can’t be explained away.”
She walked him to the door.
“If I were to tell you that I’ve missed you, what would you say?” she asked.
At first Marty wasn’t sure if he heard her right. She was standing in front of him, her back to the closed door, her face partly concealed by shadow. Marty could see the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. He told her the truth. “I’d say that I’ve missed you, too.”
“Would you mean it?”
“I’d mean it.”
“Then you’re smarter than I thought.”
She opened the door and was about to let him pass when she said: “I’m going to give you another chance.”
A part of him froze.
“Oh, for God’s sake, relax. It has nothing to do with us, and everything to do with a good movie. It’s Saturday night and I’m staying in. I know, I lead a thrilling life. I want to Netflix something, but obviously it needs to be something I can stream. What do you recommend?”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Right now? Something about a doomed couple.”
“I’ve got something, but it has subtitles.”
“I told you earlier that I hate subtitles.”
“That’s because you’re broadcast, not print. Of course, you hate subtitles. It involves reading.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Great. And besides, the movie will make up for it. ‘Let the Right One In.’”
She screwed up her face. “I hear that’s bloody.”