Late last evening, she arrived from Salamanca and hadn’t slept. Instead, she and Spocatti spent the entire night talking, planning, exchanging ideas and stories, speaking on the phone with Wolfhagen and deciding how this would play out and who would be next. In spite of getting no sleep, she felt absolutely alive.
The elevator slowed. Carmen glanced up at the lighted dial and saw the number 20 highlighted in blue. She felt a prickle of anticipation.
The doors slid open, revealing a tastefully decorated corridor accented with 19th-century furniture, paintings on the hunter-green walls, alabaster lamps casting umbrellas of soft light on the otherwise bare tables. Carmen stepped out. She could feel the gun concealed behind her buttoned, loose-fitting jacket. Hayes’ office would be at the end of the hall, third on the left.
She started toward it, recalling her conversation with Wolfhagen, a man she and Spocatti hadn’t met in person, but only spoken with on the phone.
Gerald Hayes had been one of Wolfhagen’s most trusted friends, and still he became an undercover agent for the Department of Justice, going so far as to tape a recorder to his chest and trick Wolfhagen into admitting that he had traded, time and again, on inside information. Hayes had done all this for personal immunity. He’d sat on the witness stand, pointed a finger at the man who had made him millions, and sent him to prison with his testimony.
Now, at fifty, Hayes was reestablishing himself in a world that had shunned him only a few short years before.
While the SEC had banned him from trading domestically, they couldn’t prevent him from trading abroad and it was this foreign business that Hayes now capitalized on. But that was no surprise to anyone who knew him. Before destroying Wolfhagen in court five years ago, Hayes had been revered as one of the men who had turned Wolfhagen’s millions into billions, and his mind was sharper now than ever.
Earlier that morning, Carmen phoned Hayes for an interview. “It’s time you set the record straight,” she said to him. “People are tired of Wolfhagen and his lies. Now they want your side of the story and I want to help you tell it. Can we meet? The Times is promising prime space.”
Hayes agreed, but only after quizzing her about her career as a journalist. If he was going to tell his story, it wouldn’t be to an amateur. Carmen told him that she had been nominated for a Pulitzer for her reporting on international terrorism. For Hayes, it had been enough. For Spocatti, it had been a grave mistake on Carmen’s part. If Hayes decided to Google the names of the nominees for that award or her position at the Times, he’d know she was a fraud.
His office door was closed. Carmen knocked twice and waited. It was a moment before the door swung open, revealing Hayes, his richly appointed office and the long array of windows behind him.
Carmen sized him up in a flash. Gerald Hayes was taller, more athletic than she expected, but there was something else, something in the stubborn set of his jaw, that caused her to pause. “Mr. Hayes,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Maria Leonard from the Times.”
Hayes looked at her hand but ignored it. His cheeks were flushed and his tie was loose. Carmen sensed he had been drinking. “You’re late,” he said. “You said you’d be here an hour ago.” But Carmen had specifically asked to meet him at 10 p.m. She was about to disagree when Hayes raised a hand, silencing her. “Forget it,” he said. “I had a report to finish, anyway.” He stepped aside so she could walk through. “I was about to fix myself a drink,” he said. “Care to join me?”
The door clicked shut. Carmen said she was fine. She followed him out of the main office and into one that was much larger but with none of the former’s warmth. Furnished with spare iron sculptures and abstract prints, the ivory-colored walls a shade darker than the bleached hardwood floor, Gerald Hayes’ office was virtually without color, suggesting the man had bled all emotion from his life.
He motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat,” he said, stepping to the bar. “I’ll be a minute.”
But Carmen went to the windows beside the pale leather chair and faced the building across the way. Though it was late, she could see, in one of the building’s few illumined windows, a cleaning woman pushing a vacuum over a beige rug. In another window, a man was talking into a cell phone while rifling through a file cabinet. Several floors above, two women were locked in a passionate kiss.
She didn’t look for Spocatti or for the office he’d rented two weeks ago. She knew he was there, poised behind a rifle, filming this for Wolfhagen through one of the darkened windows, listening to and recording everything she and Hayes said.
“So tell me,” Hayes said from the bar. “Why is everyone suddenly interested in Wolfhagen? First you call for an interview, then Maggie Cain calls for one. The man was a goddamn crook, for Christ’s sake. What do you people see in him?”
Carmen turned from the window. “Someone else is doing a story on Wolfhagen?”
Hayes came over with his drink. “More than just a story. Maggie Cain is writing a book. She told me this afternoon that she’ll interview everyone who’s ever been linked to Wolfhagen, starting with those of us who testified against him in court.” He took a hit of Scotch. “Or what’s left of us. With the Coles and Mark Andrews dead, she may have a slim book on her hands. And I haven’t even agreed to the interview.”
He sat down at his desk and indicated for Carmen to do the same. “But if I know Maggie, she’ll pull it off. She’s good at what she does. She’s smart and disarming. She’ll probably even get me to talk.”
Instinctively, Carmen knew that Wolfhagen would want to know about this book. She sat opposite Hayes. “Who is Maggie Cain?”
Hayes lowered his eyebrows. “She’s a writer,” he said slowly. “She was once involved with Mark Andrews.” Something in his face darkened and Carmen realized her mistake—a reporter from the Times would at least have recognized Cain’s name. “Do I have to tell you who Mark Andrews is, Ms. Leonard?”
Carmen said that he didn’t.
“How about Edward and Bebe Cole?”
“I knew the Coles,” she said, and half-smiled at how she knew them.
Hayes finished the last of his Scotch and leaned back in his chair. “All of them are dead,” he said grandly. “The Coles murdered in their apartment over Bebe’s van Gogh, Andrews trampled by bulls in Pamplona. Maybe all of us will pay after all,” he said. “Maybe the immunity our government promised us has finally run out.”
He shot Carmen a look. “The press would love that,” he said. “They’ve been bitching for years about how easily we twelve got off, and maybe they’re right. Maybe we did get off easy.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, all of us will pay for our hubris. Even you, Ms. Leonard.”
Something in the tone of his voice set her on edge. Carmen looked at him.
“Who are you?” he asked. “You’re not from the Times and you were never nominated for a Pulitzer. I checked.” He folded his arms. “Suppose you tell me what you want from me. Suppose you tell me why you deliberately lied to me this morning and asked for this interview.”
It was exactly what Spocatti feared.
Carmen was searching for an answer when she noticed, on the sleeve of Hayes’ maroon and white striped shirt, a tiny pinpoint of red light. As she watched, the light moved up Hayes’ arm to his shoulder, hesitating at the base of his neck before curling around his chin and stopping to dance on his right temple. Spocatti, she thought.
“Answer me,” Hayes said. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
The laser beam flashed across Hayes’ face in a brilliant streak of scarlet. Thrilled, Carmen watched it disappear into the man’s hairline before darting out and appearing in the center of his forehead. There, it wavered like a flame.
“Do you always betray your best friends, Mr. Hayes?”
Hayes, who had been expecting an answer to his own question, looked at her as if he didn’t understand.
Carmen opened her jacket, reached inside for her gun and stood. She poi
nted it at him. “Wolfhagen was one of your closest friends and you betrayed him,” she said. “You told all his secrets in court, you sent him to prison for three years and you’ve never regretted it. Did you really think he’d let you get away with it forever?”
Hayes straightened in his chair and stared at the gun. He seemed neither frightened nor surprised. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Carmen came around his desk and motioned for him to stand.
But Hayes made no effort to rise. He was twice her size and he knew it.
“On your feet,” she said firmly.
But Hayes didn’t move. He continued looking at the gun, his eyes narrowing, doubting she would shoot. Carmen cocked the trigger and pressed the cool metal barrel hard against his temple. “Move,” she said. “Or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Hayes pushed back his chair and stood, rising to his full height of six feet four inches. He was just drunk enough to believe he was invincible. He looked down at her and said, “You think you can come in here and threaten me? You think you can intimidate me with a gun?” His voice rose in anger. “Your face is on every video camera in this building. Touch me and your ass will be in jail for the rest of your life.”
Carmen leaned back against the edge of his desk. Beside her was a heavy marble paperweight the size of a baseball. She put her hand over it and said, “Mr. Hayes, I’ve killed drug lords, politicians and religious leaders. I helped murder the Coles and Mark Andrews. I’ve been doing this for seven years without fear or interruption. Surely, I can do the same to an old man like you and get away with it.”
She swung her arm around and threw the paperweight against the side of his head. The blow took Hayes by surprise and he collapsed to the floor, his left temple crushed, his body jerking as though he had been electrocuted. Blood vomited from his mouth in a brilliant fan of crimson. His eyelids fluttered. A sound came from his mouth that wasn’t human.
Carmen holstered the gun, stepped over his body and was happy to note that the building was so old, the windows opened. And so she opened one. The air was warm and humid and smelled faintly of salt. She looked out but saw no traffic on Wall Street. At night, lower Manhattan became a ghost town.
She glanced over at the building facing her and saw only the cleaning woman pushing her vacuum, oblivious to the murder next door.
But Carmen knew Spocatti was watching.
She turned to Hayes and was startled to find him on his knees. His mouth was open and working, dripping blood and saliva on the gleaming hardwood floor. His eyes were bulging and he was breathing heavily. The gurgling in his chest was growing deeper. His lungs were filling with blood and he was trying to stand while he literally drowned. He was dying, but he was too dazed to know it.
Carmen was seized by a sudden urge to do something different from what she and Spocatti had planned.
At the bar, there were cloth napkins. She rushed to it, grabbed a few and wiped her prints from the window. Then, she went over and helped Hayes to his feet. He was confused and disoriented and looked at her as though they’d never met. He leaned on her shoulder as she led him to the window. She could smell alcohol on his breath and expensive cologne on his skin. He murmured something in her ear though she wasn’t sure what. Blood spooled from the corner of his mouth. Her own heart hammered.
They reached the window and she pressed his finger tips against the glass. She took his hands and pressed them down on the window sill and then on the lip that lifted the window. Carmen looked again for the cleaning lady, didn’t see her, and lowered Hayes’ bleeding head to the warm night air. With a supreme effort, she shoved him through.
He made no sound as he tumbled through the air. His arms flailing at his sides, his feet wavering as though detached from his body, he simply fell, head first, into the darkness.
There was no time to hear him hit the concrete.
Carmen rushed across the room and into Hayes’ private bath. She retrieved a pale blue towel from a wide bar, wiped her prints from the marble paperweight, replaced it on the desk, then cleaned the blood from the floor with a special fluid she had in her briefcase case. The blood vanished. It couldn’t be traced.
She looked around the office and knew she had touched nothing else. She hurried around the desk and retrieved her briefcase from beside the leather chair. She opened it, tossed the bloody towel onto several large stacks of cash and removed a pair of white gloves, which she put on.
She crossed to the bar. Hayes had been drinking Scotch. She grabbed the half-empty bottle and brought it back to the desk. From her inside jacket pocket, she removed the suicide note Spocatti wrote that morning and drenched it with the alcohol, blurring the handwriting that had been a perfect match to Hayes’ own slanting scrawl.
With a last look around, she dropped the note and the bottle of Scotch onto the desk, reached for her briefcase, left the room.
Time was running out.
With the $100,000 in her briefcase, Carmen had a security guard to bribe.
CHAPTER FIVE
From the opposite building, Spocatti watched in disbelief as Gerald Hayes fell to the concrete pavement. None of this was part of the plan. Carmen intentionally deviated from it and he was furious with her given the potential situation she’d just put them in.
He filmed the man dropping to his death, filmed his cart-wheeling hands and wide-open eyes, filmed his last few moments of life before his head exploded on the sidewalk and his body collapsed on top of it in a broken heap.
For Wolfhagen’s sake, he held the shot for a lingering moment before he jerked the camera back to the open window, where Carmen was hurrying about the room, covering her ass.
Why did she go against the plan? She was supposed to have knocked Hayes unconscious, wipe her prints from the gun and then place it in his hand while firing a bullet into his brain. It was simple. It had been her idea. So, why did she change her mind? Why did she deliberately take this chance?
The fool was going to get caught.
He watched her move quickly and efficiently, her eyes missing nothing. When she was finished, she grabbed her briefcase and left the room. Thirty-five seconds, maybe forty. Though he hated to admit it, Spocatti doubted whether he could do better.
Still, she had to get out of the building.
He adjusted his earphone and listened to her run down the hallway to the bank of elevators. His mind like a camera, he imagined her stepping into the car, punching the button marked “L” and composing herself in the reflection of the mirrored doors as the elevator plummeted twenty floors.
“That one was for you, Vincent,” she said into the microphone. “I would have given him a kiss on the lips before showing him to the window, but I didn’t want to make you blush.”
Spocatti was having none of it. She’d taken a stupid, unnecessary risk. If she didn’t get out of the building safely, if she somehow got caught, the police would know that the deaths of the Coles and Mark Andrews were related, leaving Spocatti with a far more difficult task when it came time to kill the other men and women on Wolfhagen’s list.
He glanced at his watch, then lifted the binoculars from his neck and looked down at the sidewalk. Hayes had been on the ground for several minutes and still no one had found his body. Spocatti looked up and down Wall Street, saw no one on its deserted sidewalks, no cars on the barren street. He listened to the elevator doors whisk open and heard Carmen’s shoes click across the marble-tiled floor.
Her breathing was controlled. There was a firmness in her step that suggested confidence. “The lobby’s empty,” she said in a low voice. “Just me and the security guard. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes to get the tapes and I’m out of here.”
But Spocatti was no longer listening to her, couldn’t listen to her, because down below on the street, a woman was moving hesitantly toward Hayes’ body.
He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and leaned toward the window, bringing her face into focus. She was Hispanic, had long, wi
ry black hair and was wearing a faded blue work uniform. Her hands were buried in the fold of her bosom. Her face was pale with horror. She looked up at the open window from which Hayes was pushed and put her hand over her mouth. Though Spocatti couldn’t hear her, he knew the woman was screaming.
And then he heard, in the distance, the faint wail of police sirens.
He pressed a finger over his earphone and listened for Carmen, but her voice had been severed, cut short by static. He tapped the device, heard nothing and checked the radio that was their only link. The dial was at zero. Somehow, her microphone was disengaged.
Incredulous, he turned back to the window. Sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, two police cars shot around William Street and pulled alongside Hayes and the woman standing over him. The officers stepped out of their cars, looked at what had been one of Wall Street’s most powerful financiers and immediately radioed ahead for help.
Spocatti moved to the semi-automatic rifle that was anchored to the window beside him.
He looked down through the powerful telescope and brought one of the officers into view. He gently squeezed the trigger and watched the laser’s tiny pinpoint of red light appear on the back of the man’s head. If the situation got out of hand and Carmen needed help, Spocatti would kill these officers and that woman. He would fire five neat holes into the backs of five shaken people.
He didn’t know how long he stood at that window.
As word spread of Hayes’ death, the area outside the building gradually filled with the media and the curious.
Photographs were being taken of the body. The woman who found Hayes had been taken away by the police. Inside Hayes’ office, detectives were picking through the remains of a life. There was no sign of Carmen.
He was fearing the worst when he heard the jangling of a key and the door behind him swing open.
And there she was, her white silk blouse and black, loose-fitting jacket stained with the blood of a dead man. She moved to the center of the room and stood there, her eyes like a light turned to his face. She tossed the attaché case onto the floor and it popped open, exposing the bloodied, pale blue towel, the white gloves and the surveillance tapes.
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 48