What, Marty thought, was he supposed to say to that?
“Like, I don’t mind if Mom sees someone,” she said. “But if she can’t keep it down, Katie and I are thinking of moving in with you. Is that all right?”
He’d take them in a minute, but each time he tried to get custody, he failed. “You know what the judge said.”
“Weekends and holidays, I know. But what about what we think?”
“The judge thinks you’re better off with your mother.”
“Why? That’s sexist. We’d rather be with you.”
“And I’d rather have you with me.”
“Can I talk to the judge?”
“You can certainly write him a letter. Both of you can.”
“Great. We’ll get on that.”
In the growing silence, Katie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She had stopped flipping through a magazine and now was nibbling the inside of her cheek. Nine years old and almost as tall as Beth. Blonde hair to her shoulders and lips as full as his. She looked at him now with an impatience he had never seen in her before.
He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, I’ll speak to your mother about her… behavior.”
Beth rolled her eyes. “What good’ll that do? She doesn’t listen to you anymore. If anything, she’ll put on more of a show just to spite you.”
At what point, Marty wondered, had Beth become so comfortable talking about sex? She was thirteen years old, for God’s sake. What had happened to the child?
“You leave your mother to me,” he said. “I pay the rent on this place, not her.”
Beth looked amused. “Oh, Dad, please,” he said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Mom’s going to be famous. She’s going to make a lot of money and won’t need you anymore. She told us so this morning.”
***
There had been a time when the sound of Gloria’s laughter had left him feeling whole and well, fit and strong. Her smile, broad as the map of America, could get him through the worst of days. But now, as he left his daughters’ room and moved toward the living room, the sound of her laughter unleashed feelings in him he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Gloria was moving on. He was losing her to another man. And what that touched in Marty was an emotion he hadn’t felt in years-a sudden, deep jealousy.
He entered the living room.
Gloria and Jack were standing across the room, in front of the painting of a red wheelbarrow she’d hung on the north wall. Their backs were to him and they were discussing the painting. While Marty stood there, watching, Edwards reached out a hand and lightly brushed the nape of Gloria’s neck.
Marty cleared his throat.
Edwards dropped his hand casually to his side and turned with Gloria, whose pale skin now had a rosy glow. From laughing?
“You must be Marty,” Edwards said.
Marty came across the room, his mind like a camera, photographing this moment. Immaculately dressed in tan silk trousers and a white button-down shirt, Edwards was taller than he expected, in decent physical shape, his balding head tanned, his smiling mouth bright as the moon. Forty years old, Marty thought. Maybe forty-two.
He shook Edwards’ smooth, manicured hand and noticed the carat diamond glimmering on the man’s little finger. With raised eyebrows, Marty looked at the ring. Then, with disappointment, he looked at Gloria, who was standing behind Jack, looking brave but uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “I’m Marty.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Edwards said. “Gloria’s told me a lot about you.”
“I haven’t heard anything about you.”
“She says you’re a private investigator,” Edwards said. “And a movie critic. How does that happen?”
“Magic.” He turned to Gloria, whose decorated lips had drawn into a thin line of discomfort. “Can I talk to you?”
They walked toward the twin glass doors that opened onto the terrace and stepped outside. Marty closed the doors behind them. His voice was low when he spoke. “I’ll keep this brief.”
“You’ve got no choice.”
“Are you aware that Beth can’t sleep at night? All she can hear is you and Edwards having sex. Same goes for Katie. Now, look. You know I won’t tell you how to live your life, but when you sleep with this guy, at least show some respect for the girls and keep it down.”
Gloria lifted her eyes to his, Manhattan’s Upper West Side sparkling behind her in the late-afternoon sun. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle this,” she said.
The coolness in her voice took him off guard. “Handle what?”
She paused to tap out a clove cigarette from the rumpled pack she’d brought with her. “My seeing Jack.” She lit the cigarette with a match. “You can’t handle it. He’s intimidated you and you feel threatened. Admit it.”
“The man wears a goddamn diamond on his pinky, Gloria. He doesn’t threaten me.”
“That’s a lie. You can’t stand seeing me with another man.”
“You’re probably right,” Marty said. “But what I hate even more is what you’ve become. Look at yourself. You’re not even the same person anymore. You’ve redefined yourself. You’ve sold out and become the very kind of person you and I used to mock when we were young. Who are you, Gloria? Do you even know?”
She shook her head sadly, the gesture somehow condescending. “You’re asking me if I know who I am, Marty? Let me ask you this. Since your parents were murdered, how many times have you asked yourself that very question?”
He turned to leave and when he did, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was below the belt. But I’m happy. I’ve met a man who’s got his act together. I’ve found a man who’s willing to put me first. Don’t blame me for wanting this. Don’t blame me for being angry because you couldn’t give it to me.”
“Just keep it down in the bedroom,” he said.
And he was gone.
***
Later, in his own apartment, Marty poured himself a glass of Scotch before calling Roz. “Tell me you hit the jackpot.”
“Still working on it. Give me thirty and I’ll call you back.”
He clicked off the phone and went to his study, which offered one of the better views of Central Park. On his desk was his computer. On the screen was his blog. In his spare time, he reviewed movies. It was just a sideline meant to clear his head and retain his connection to his first love-film-but it had become an unexpectedly popular sideline, with tens of thousands of people visiting the site daily.
Right now, he was working on the review of the Blu-ray release of Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity.” Just a few additional paragraphs and it would be finished.
While he waited for Roz to call back, he sat down to have a look at the review. Last night, he pulled his favorite scene from the movie so he could discuss it. He read it again.
NEFF
Look, baby, you can’t get away with it.
PHYLLIS
Get away with what?
NEFF
You want to knock him off, don’t you, baby?
PHYLLIS
That’s a horrible thing to say!
NEFF
Who’d you think I was, anyway? A guy that walks into a good-looking dame’s front parlor and says, “Good afternoon, I sell accident insurance on husbands. You got one that’s been around too long? Somebody you’d like to turn into a little hard cash? Just give me a smile and I’ll help you collect.” Boy, what a dope I must look to you.
PHYLLIS
I think you’re rotten.
NEFF
I think you’re swell. So long as I’m not your husband.
PHYLLIS
Get out of here.
NEFF
You bet I will. You bet I’ll get out of here, baby. But quick.
Marty smiled at the passage, admired the dialogue and was about to reflect on its importance in the movie when the telephone rang. He reached for it. Roz.
“Learn anythin
g?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve learned something,” she said. “But it’s not going to be enough for your tired white ass. If I’d had clearance to her file, I would have learned more.”
Marty stood and went to the windows overlooking the Park. Two helicopters were sailing toward one another, their blades glinting in the fiery light of the setting sun. For a moment, it looked as if they were going to collide. “Clearance to her file,” he said. “She has one?”
“She has two files, sugar, and one of them’s top secret. Can’t lay my pretty black hands on it. But I do know this much-since 2006, Maggie Cain has been under surveillance by the FBI.”
CHAPTER THREE
Marty hung up the phone and sat at his desk. He went to his computer, began a file on Cain and entered everything Roz had told him.
Years ago, Maggie Cain had been in a relationship with Mark Andrews. Mark Andrews had been one of Wolfhagen’s bond traders. His testimony helped to send Wolfhagen and two others to prison.
He died last month. Trampled by bulls in Pamplona.
Maggie Cain’s relationship with Andrews explained the Matisse Marty glimpsed in her entryway. With the money Andrews had at his disposal during the height of the stock market, he easily could have bought her that drawing-and maybe even her home in Chelsea. And if they were involved during the time the FBI was watching Wolfhagen and those closest to him, wouldn’t she have been under surveillance as well?
Marty would have.
But none of this explained why she was under surveillance now. Why did the FBI still have an interest in Maggie Cain? It had been five years since the trial. Her connection to Mark Andrews was severed with his death. What could they possibly suspect her of doing that was considered top secret? And since Cain had been in a relationship with Andrews, obviously she knew Wolfhagen.
So, why had she lied to him?
He got up from his desk and went to the window. There was so much smog and haze, he barely could see the sun set beyond the trees of Central Park. He wondered what a sensible man would do with this information.
The answer came at once.
A sensible man would confront the source.
***
In thirty minutes, he was at Maggie’s townhouse and Manhattan was lost to the night.
Marty looked across the deserted street to the building’s facade, where inside it seemed as though she had left on every light. The windows, shielded by lace curtains, punched bright bands of gold into the darkness.
He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, noticing as he crossed the street that the living room window was open. The curtains moved in the air, parting slightly, giving brief, frequent glimpses into the room beyond.
Maggie was sitting at the piano. Her back to him, she appeared to be studying the many photographs framed in silver on the piano’s lowered lid. In her hand was a glass of wine. Curled beside her on the bench was Baby Jane. If it weren’t for the movement of the cat’s tail, Marty also might have been looking at a photograph.
He went to the lighted door and rang the glowing buzzer.
It was a moment before Maggie answered. “Yes?”
Marty watched the peephole darken, felt himself being watched. “It’s Marty.”
He heard her say his name before unlocking the door and opening it wide. There was a mixture of surprise and curiosity on her face. “I thought you were going to call.”
“I decided to stop by instead. Is it all right if I come in? There are a few things I’d like to ask you.”
She gave him a puzzled look, but stepped aside so he could move into the living room.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” he said.
“Not at all. Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She motioned for him to sit down on the gold brocade sofa and took her own seat in the chair opposite him. She crossed her legs and for a moment simply studied him, her index finger tracing the rim of the wine glass she held in her hand. “Have you made a decision?” she asked.
“I haven’t,” Marty said. “First I need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
Maggie hesitated, and Marty sensed she wasn’t at all comfortable with the prospect of being questioned. But then, perhaps seeing no way out of the situation, she finished her wine and placed the empty glass down on the table between them. “You can ask me anything.”
“That Matisse in your entryway. Did you buy it?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
He turned in his seat and looked at the sculpture of a ballerina that stood on the mantle above the fireplace. Her feet in fifth position, the original pink ribbon in her hair, the sculpture was one of Gloria’s favorites and had been sold at auction a year ago, after the suicide of its previous owner. Marty noticed it when he walked in. “And the sculpture by Degas? Did you buy that?”
Maggie smiled.
“I know about your relationship with Mark Andrews,” he said.
“It’s no secret. I loved Mark. He was everything to me.”
“Did he buy you the Matisse and the Degas?”
“I do well, but not that well. He also bought me the piano.”
“How about this house?”
Maggie shook her head. “I bought the house-Mark just helped me furnish it.”
“I want you to tell me about your relationship.”
“I want you to tell me why it’s important.”
“It’s important because I’ve just learned from a friend that for years, you’ve been under surveillance by the FBI. I have a feeling you do know Wolfhagen. I have a feeling you’re writing this book for reasons other than insight or commercial success. I don’t like being lied to, and if I’m going to work for you, I expect you to tell me the truth.”
Maggie looked at him for a moment, the expression on her face wavering between anger and resentment. She stood and went to the piano, where there was a pack of cigarettes on the padded bench. She shook one out, lit it with a gold lighter. “You’ve run a check on me?”
“I run a routine check on everyone who wants to hire me. It’s standard procedure. You weren’t singled out.” He let a beat of silence pass. “Are you aware of the FBI’s surveillance?”
“Of course, I’m aware of it. They aren’t exactly subtle.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Too long-I don’t know. Years.”
“Do you know why they’re watching you?”
Maggie laughed. “Do I know why they’re watching me? Jesus, Marty, I was involved with a man who helped to steal hundreds of millions of dollars from people around the world. I lived with a man who passed briefcases filled with cash to people in Central Park and who was partly responsible for the stock market collapse. Mark did all these things without my knowing it-until the day the FBI knocked on our door and read him his rights.
“Now, look,” she said. “I’ve asked you to watch someone for me. If you take the job, I’ll pay your fee. While I’m flattered by your interest in my personal life, I’m sure as hell not going to share it with you. It’s none of your business. You can take this job or not. As for the FBI, they’ve been watching me for years-they’re probably listening to us right now-but I don’t care because I’ve never done anything wrong. I don’t have any of Mark’s stolen money stashed away in some Cayman account. I was a victim. By writing about Wolfhagen, by exposing the truth about him, I’ll finally be able to close that part of my life and move on. That’s why I’m writing the book. That’s why I want to hire you.”
It wasn’t enough. “How well do you know Wolfhagen?”
Maggie closed her eyes. “Well enough to know that he deserved far more than the three meager years he spent at Lompoc.” She looked at him. “I hate the man, Marty. He’s a cruel son of a bitch and I’m going to burn him with this book.”
In her anger, he saw something else. Vulnerability? Fear? There was something more here and it
went beyond mere anger.
He was about to speak when she raised a hand. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s all I’m offering. Yes, I know Wolfhagen. Yes, I lied to you and I’m sorry. But to be honest, I’m not going to tell you my entire life history when we’ve only known each other for a few hours. I don’t even know if I can trust you.”
Marty decided that was fair. He certainly wouldn’t tell her how his commitment issues had twice cost him his marriage to Gloria. But still he was uneasy. He could see she was shaken. There was something she wasn’t telling him, but if he could earn her trust, he felt she would eventually reveal it.
They fell into a silence. Maggie stood looking at him, drawing on her cigarette. Marty searched for something to say, but everything that came to mind seemed inadequate. It was Maggie who spoke first. “So, will you help me and take the job? Or have I spoiled everything?”
He needed something to take his mind off Gloria.
“I know you’re good. I think we could work well together.”
Her toughness was a facade.
“You haven’t spoiled anything,” he said.
“Then you’ll take the job?”
Here was the perfect opportunity to do what came naturally-lose himself in his own movie, one in which even he didn’t know the ending.
“I’ll start tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Carmen Gragera paused outside the building on Wall Street and looked through the tinted wall of glass. The uniformed security guard was there, seated at the circular front desk, his face glowing blue in the flickering light of a television she couldn’t see.
Watching him, she lifted the lapel of her black business suit and spoke into the tiny wireless microphone Spocatti hid there earlier. “He’s alone,” she said. “Start filming. I’m going in.”
She pushed through the revolving doors and moved across the lobby, her attache case swinging, her heels clicking like drum taps on the shiny marble floor. The man looked up from the television as she approached. “I have an appointment to see Gerald Hayes,” she said. “He’s expecting me.”
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