He looked closer at the body and at all the inconsistencies it offered. Schwartz hadn’t been wearing these clothes when he was murdered. His carotid artery had been severed. Fountains of blood had sprayed onto the floor and sofa, covering the man’s arms, torso and legs. But his underpants and boots were untouched, suggesting they had been put on after death.
After death.
Schwartz hadn’t died in this position. He wouldn’t have gone down without a struggle. Someone murdered him on this sofa, dressed him up and posed him pretty. Someone wanted him to be found in these clothes.
His cell sounded, cracking the silence in three piercing bleats. The sudden intrusion sent a jolt through Marty and he took a step back, away from Schwartz. He removed the device from his side, glanced down at the number flashing in the illumined window and knew who it was before Maggie Cain answered.
“Where are you?”
“Three blocks away.”
“Why aren’t you here?”
She was out of breath, her words clipped and shortened from lack of air. “Why do you think? I was scared. I didn’t know how long you’d be. I got the hell out of there.” She paused and Marty could hear the traffic rushing past her. Car horns sounded in the distance. “Have you found the body?”
“Yes.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe two days. Maybe longer.”
“That’s three people today, Marty.”
He walked over to the Tiffany lamp and clicked it off. In the darkness, the buzzing of the flies and the humming of the air conditioner seemed to grow louder. He looked once more at Schwartz and saw the moon of his face glowing in the dark. It seemed oddly separated from his body, frozen yellow in the city light.
His body-bloody save for his clothes.
And Marty wondered.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Maggie?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Schwartz. He wasn’t murdered wearing those clothes. There’s no blood on them and God knows there should be. Someone dressed him after he was dead. I want to know if it was you.”
“Are you saying I murdered him?”
“Did you?”
She barked out a laugh. “Are you serious?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, Marty, I didn’t murder him. I found him. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Not a thing. I’m just tired of being lied to. Why were you here?”
“I had an interview with him,” she said tightly. “And what do you mean you’re tired of being lied to?”
Marty ignored the question. “Schwartz was dead when you got here. I want to know how you got inside.”
“The door was unlocked. I rang the buzzer twice and then tried the handle. I called out his name and got no response. The air stank. I saw the table lying on its side and knew that something was wrong. I found him in the living room. I called you and then his telephone started to ring. It scared me. I got out.”
“You did more than that,” Marty said. “There’s no way you were here and didn’t look around. You’re smarter than that. You’re after something. Tell me what you found.”
“I didn’t find anything. I got out of there.”
“You said Wood killed herself because of you. I know you were there the day she died. I have an eyewitness who saw you leaving her house with a box. Obviously, you threatened her. I want to know with what.”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“What’s your relationship with Wolfhagen?”
“We’ll talk about that, too.”
“What’s the importance of November 5, 2007?”
Silence.
“Talk to me, or I swear to God I’m out.”
A van passed on the street, taillights burning red. Marty left the living area and stepped back into the cold hallway, his shoes crunching on the broken glass. He removed his paper slippers, shook them and put them in his pocket. It was a moment before Maggie spoke.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll talk to you. But not over the phone. I’ll come there.”
“When?”
“Now. And while you’re waiting, look in Schwartz’s bedroom. Push past the clothes in his closet and see for yourself what we’re up against. You have no idea, Marty. None. You’re close to the truth, but you don’t know all of it. Look in that closet and see what I’ve suspected for years.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
8:19 p.m.
Marty pocketed the phone, turned on the hall light and took the stairs to the second floor. He looked right and saw the door to Peter Schwartz’s bedroom hanging off its hinges like a broken jaw. Splinters of wood led into and out of the room in concentric half-circles, as though scattered there not by force, but by a careful hand.
Unmoving, he stood just outside the room looking in.
Shafts of yellow light touched down from the opposite window, the bright shards of a wall mirror glinted like a splintered, frozen pond in the center of the embroidered rug, the smell of death, even here. He reached inside for the light switch and turned it on.
Tried to turn it on.
He flipped the switch up and down but nothing happened. No light would shine.
He listened, heard only the air conditioner, the gentle rippling of a curtain he couldn’t see, and removed the penlight from his pocket. He swept the room with the waning amber light and spotted a lamp on the side table next to the window. He went to it and turned it on.
Two bureaus, both with their drawers stuck out like dry wide tongues, were along the wall in front of him. Each had been emptied for inspection, their contents stuffed back haphazardly. The large, unmade bed was beside him, its high pale posts stretching to the ceiling, cream-colored sheets crumpled, pillow cases missing. The door leading to the adjoining bathroom was open. The closet was beside it, its double set of doors shut tight.
Marty went to it, swung open the doors.
Two rows of suits and shirts and folded pants on wooden hangers lined the top and bottom bars. Marty pushed the upper rack of clothes aside. In the sudden rush of air, he smelled the faint, unmistakable scent of leather and rubber-and knew. He parted the lower set of suits and glimpsed a waist-high door painted red against the dark wall. He cleared an area large enough to walk through and turned the black handle. He pushed.
On the street, a car alarm began to scream.
Startled, he glanced over his shoulder, toward the window and listened to the bleating. It was coming from one of the cars parked curbside and he cursed it. Schwartz’s neighbors would be looking out, noting the lighted window, filing it away unknowingly.
He needed to leave, but not before learning what Maggie Cain already knew. He ducked his head and slipped under the lower bar. The door gave easily. A light flashed on automatically, surprising him to the point that he drew his gun. The room was narrow and deep, floor painted black, air heavy and still.
Marty holstered his gun and stood.
Along the pegboard to his left were leather head masks with zippered mouths, full rubber body suits, heavy metal chains and gleaming handcuffs, a coiled noose, a birch switch, nipple clamps, feathers, dildos, knives. In another investigation, he’d seen something like this before. But then, Marty had never seen knives displayed for sexual pleasure, and now he could only guess what Peter Schwartz had done with them. Or what they had done to him.
He stepped deeper into the room, which opened to become surprisingly large and well appointed.
On the wall to his right were file cabinets, a desk with a computer, a telephone and an answering machine. Toward the back was an entertainment center, complete with a massive, flat-screen television, a DVD player, camcorder and stacks of DVDs, each listed in descending order by month and year. Marty scanned the dates, which began in the fall of 2001, and noted with interest that there was no DVD for November 2007. The final DVD was for July, just a month ago.