At the far end of the room was a desk.
Carmen went to it and sat down on the brown leather wingback. At last, a writer’s world-stacks of papers and thick green folders; a computer, printer, a telephone sitting atop a modem; books leaning against books; an ashtray overflowing with crushed cigarette butts; a dented can of Diet Coke, half-full.
With gloved hands, Carmen started opening the folders, flipping through the papers, skimming the pages for anything on Wolfhagen. But all she found here were letters from fans, bills Cain had yet to pay, several letters to her editor, three notes from Cain’s mother, an old shopping list slashed with red marks, coupons that had expired.
She put the folders back, turned on the computer and while waiting for it to start up, she swept the room again. There had to be something here.
She leaned back and opened the desk drawers, found Cain’s address book tucked beneath a sheath of plain white papers, tossed it onto the desk, and then swung around to look through the file cabinets behind her. Nothing. Not even a file on the man.
She stood and rummaged through the rolltop desk next to the bubbling aquarium. She checked the trash can beside the bookcase. There was a closet at the far end of the room, but nothing helpful within it. As much as Carmen looked, she came away with not so much as a scrap of information on Wolfhagen. She went into the bedroom, searched everywhere, but it fruitless.
Was Cain even writing a book?
Carmen returned to the office, knowing she couldn’t leave here without something.
She crossed to the desk and removed a flash drive from her knapsack. She connected it to Cain’s computer, downloaded the contents of her hard drive, and reached for Cain’s address book, soaking the pages into memory. She put it down and, as she did, her hand brushed against the telephone.
And Carmen felt a rush. She hadn’t checked this phone.
She hit the redial button and listened through the loud speaker as the machine on the opposite end picked up. A man’s voice, brisk, all business: “This is 555-2641. Leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you.”
Carmen severed the connection and searched for the man’s number in the address book. She found it toward the back of the book: Marty Spellman, Private Investigator. The ink was dark red and appeared fresh. There was an address beneath it and the number to his cell, which she called on her own cell.
“Hello?”
She hung up.
A private investigator-and Maggie Cain was in contact with him.
Carmen smiled.
Bingo.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stretched out naked in the center of the bed, Jennifer lifted her head from Marty’s chest and looked up at the telephone. “All right,” she said. “First your telephone, now your cell phone. Who’s calling and hanging up on you? What’s her name? You break her heart, too?”
He looked at the number on his cell, but didn’t recognize it. “Very funny.”
“You must be seeing someone.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you’re so good looking,” she said. “So charming. So intelligent. So much money.”
“So full of shit,” he said. “And besides, I don’t know anyone with enough courage to date me.”
Jennifer laughed. “Sweetheart, are you kidding? This is New York. Here, the women have bigger balls than yours.”
“In the right parts of town, they do.”
She put a finger to his lips. “I really don’t want to know how you knew that,” she said, wiggling down the bed. She tiptoed her fingers down the length of his penis, cupped her hand around its base and smiled as it swelled. “Amazing,” she said. “I mean, look at it grow. I bet Brian Williams’ cock doesn’t do this.” She winked at him. “Or Katie Couric’s. If I had one of these, I’d never leave it alone.”
Marty watched as she slowly masturbated him. “There was a time when I didn’t leave it alone.”
“Let’s not talk about those months you were without me.”
“I was talking about when I was a kid.”
“Of course, you were.”
“I’m serious.”
She squeezed harder. “I’m sure you are. And let me tell you, Marty, the idea of you locked away in a bathroom with some skin magazine propped on your lap is certainly going to get my coals burning this afternoon.” She tugged and pulled and thumped the head of his penis against her chin. “How big is this thing, anyway?”
“How big is a mile?”
“A hell of a lot longer than this.” She flicked her tongue along the very tip. “I’d say it’s a good three inches. Maybe four.”
He patted her ass. “Aren’t you sweet. Care for me to guess your weight?”
“I’ve got your balls in my hands. You sure you want to go there?”
“Probably not.”
She continued to play with it. “It is big,” she said.
“Your weight or my cock?”
“So clever.”
She put her mouth over the head and reached up to pinch his nipple. Her tongue extended and curled, fluttered and did things to him that made him moan. He put his cell down and got on top of her. It occurred to him that this would be the third time in less than ninety minutes that they’d made love.
It occurred to him again just how much he had missed her.
“I’m supposed to be in editing,” Jennifer called from the bathroom. “My producer is going to kill me.”
She came out of the bathroom and crossed to the bed, where she’d laid out her clothes and started to dress. She leaned down to kiss Marty on the forehead, then on the lips, then on the nose and on each cheek. Her skin was free of makeup and it glowed from the heat of the shower. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, was damp and smelled of shampoo.
“Voice-overs?” he asked.
“Ad nauseam.”
She started down the hall. Marty dressed and followed her into the entryway.
“We’ll talk tonight at eight,” she said, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. “You can tell me everything then.”
Almost everything, Marty thought. He wasn’t telling her about the tattoo and the piercing until he knew more.
When she left, he showered, brushed his teeth and dressed in a fresh change of clothes. He didn’t know where his relationship with Jennifer was going or what the past few hours had meant, but he knew better than to second-guess anything. Right now, he was simply happy to have her back in his life. Whatever came of it.
He went to his office.
Maggie Cain asked him to call at noon, but now it was 3:30. Time to get focused. He tried her number, got her machine and left a message, saying he’d call her back as soon as he got the chance.
He sat at his desk, opened his address book and looked up Linda Patterson’s extension at the First P. He didn’t want to call her, didn’t want to deal with her crap, but he had no choice. He picked up the phone and tapped out her number. She answered on the third ring. “Patterson.”
“Linda,” he said. “It’s Marty Spellman. How are you?”
“Busy.”
“Too busy to meet somewhere for a drink? I’m buying.”
“You’d have to get me to sit down with you.”
Coming from anyone else, Marty would have been insulted. But Patterson was such a wreck, so infinitely troubled, he couldn’t help being amused by her little dig. And so he dug back, reaching back to her past when she’d been busted for drug abuse. “The reason I’m calling is that I just learned from a friend that IA is about to bust your ass for trafficking. All I wanted to do is buy you a drink before they finally kick your ass off the force. A parting gift of sorts to make up for the pension you’ll be losing.”