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.”
“Fuck you, Spellman.”
“Charming as ever, Linda.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“I’d never be able to afford to.”
She slammed down the receiver.
Marty called her back. “Do you think we can behave like adults now? Or is that out of the question?”
She didn’t answer.
“All I want to do is ask you a few questions.”
“Why the hell should I bother talking to you?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question, Linda.”
He heard what sounded like her pushing back her chair and closing her office door. “What questions?” she asked.
“Not over the phone,” Marty said. “In person. How’s 4:00 sound?”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m working a big case. Gotta be here. Gotta be now.”
He had no time for this. He’d have to be blunt. “I can’t exactly hand you a check over the phone or in your office, now can I, Linda?”
She went silent for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “My birthday isn’t until next month. But what the hell? I haven’t eaten lunch, so let’s make it the earliest dinner New York has ever seen. Where do you want to meet?”
* * *
The Tarot Café was in the partitioned basement of an old warehouse on Prince Street. Owned by three psychic sisters from Flatbush, the café served imported coffees and herbal teas, ginseng extracts and mushroom shoots, exotic-looking desserts and homemade breads, soups, sandwiches, as well as glimpses into their clients’ futures.
It was through Gloria that Marty came to this narrow, dim place that often smelled of patchouli oil, and it was through Gloria that he had met the three sisters Buzzinni—Roberta, Carlotta and Gigi.
Not a superstitious man, Marty had come to view the Buzzinnis’ psychic powers as little more than a gimmick that had turned into a comfortable career of tea leaves and tarot cards, face readings and character analyses. Gloria, however, swore by them. “They’re good,” she said, after her first visit. “One of them held my hand and told me I have two daughters. Another read my cards and learned that I paint. They said I’m going to be famous.”
Now it was Gloria who was saying that.
Roberta Buzzinni, his favorite of the three sisters, had taken the cafe’s reins while Carlotta and Gigi worked to open their new satellite café on Christopher Street.
She was seated at the rear of the empty café shuffling a deck of cards when he stepped into the quiet gloom. She looked up at him with raised eyebrows and immediately cut the deck, drew the top card and held it as high as the hair on her head. “This,” she said, smiling, “is your future.” She looked at the card and her smile faltered. She drew the next card and her frown deepened.
Amused, Marty threaded his way through the many tapestry-covered tables and wispy, gray-blue slips of incense smoke. Today, the café smelled of tomato soup and myrrh. “That bad?” he asked.
Roberta buried the cards at the bottom of the pile and put the deck away. “What the hell do I know?” she said. “I’m just a psychic.” She stood up and enfolded him in heavy arms. “Where have you been?” she asked. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been working,” he said. “What else?”
“I can feel your bones,” she said, squeezing him. “You’re not eating. You’re too thin.”
“It’s all muscle, baby.”
“Yeah,” she said, stepping back. “Kinda like me.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and inhaled the sweet scent of plums in her thick, curly black hair. “Sorry it’s been so long,” he said. “But I did stop by three Sundays ago. The place was closed.”
“We had a little fire in the kitchen,” Roberta said as they sat down. “Carlotta saw it coming two weeks before it happened, but couldn’t zone in on the exact date. Gigi and I tried like hell to tap into it, but our own Information Superhighway was on the fritz. Too much static in the summertime—too many souls buzzing in and out of our li
ves. But the fire turned out to be great. No one got hurt and we got a new kitchen out of the blaze, courtesy of Fabrizzi’s Insurance. Gigi’s in heaven. No more rats!”
Marty laughed. “How’s the new place?”
“Opening next month. And wait until you see it. Spirits speak to you in there. The place is brimming with energy.”
“Just be careful who you tell that to.”
“What are you talking about? I’m telling everyone.”
“How are you?”
“Fatter than ever, but happy as hell. It’s you I’m worried about. Where have you been? Two months I haven’t seen you. Gigi was asking for you the other day. I told her I didn’t know anything, which surprised all of us because, you know, I tend to know things without knowing how I know them. Gloria disappeared years ago, but you, you hung in there. You came to see us. You cared. Then, poof! You’re also gone.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now, so you might as well eat. I’m feeding you. Lotta made a tomato soup this morning that’ll make you cry. It’s on me.”
“Bring tissues.”
“You’ll need them.”
She got up from the table with a bit of a struggle. She was a large woman with hips like barrels and breasts so heavy they rounded her back. She pushed sideways through the swinging set of kitchen doors and returned a moment later with soup, bread and chilled herbal tea on a wooden tray. “Enjoy,” she said, placing the food in front of him. “There’s more where that came from.”
He knew better than to argue. He started to eat and became aware that she was studying him.
“You’re giving off a helluva lot of energy, sweetie, and that either means you’ve met someone, or you’re working a new case. I think it’s both, but let’s start with the new case.”
Marty spooned soup and evaded the subject. “I meant to tell you that I’m meeting someone here.”
“I knew that,” Roberta said, sitting in the chair opposite him. “Now, give me your hand.”
“Let’s not start that crap, Roberta.”
“Just give me your hand,” she said. “I had a bad feeling when you came in. I need to make sure of a few things.”
“I’m not superstitious.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “Just gifted. So, humor me. Something’s off.”
Reluctantly, Marty gave her his hand. Roberta held it for a moment, then turned it so the palm faced the tapestry-covered ceiling. She closed her eyes and massaged the soft center with her thumb and index finger. She was silent for a moment before she spoke. “This new case of yours,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”
Marty sipped his tea.
Roberta’s forehead creased with thought. Her dark eyebrows stitched together and became one. “You’re in over your head. You’re being lied to. You’re in danger and you don’t even know it. Someone’s not what they seem.”
“Few people are,” Marty mused. “Take Gloria, for instance.”
“No,” Roberta said, looking at him. Her eyes were serious. “Don’t be flip. I drew the Death card when you came in. You’re at risk. I’m sure of that. For once in your life, listen to me. It’s possible you might not come out of this alive.”
Marty tried to pull his hand back, but Roberta hung on.
“Three women,” she said. “One of them loves you, one of them resents you, the third is keeping secrets from you. They’re in danger, too, but only one knows it and she doesn’t care. She’s got murder in her heart. She wants someone dead. I don’t know if it’s you, but you’re involved. She might kill you.”
She released his hand.
“You’ve got to listen to me,” Roberta said. “This is real.”
At that moment, the front door swung open and Linda Patterson stepped inside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Linda Patterson was not the woman Marty remembered from two years ago.
Dressed casually in beige linen pants and a white top, her light blonde hair just reaching her shoulders, she moved toward Roberta and Marty with the air of a professional, which was a radical difference from the last time he’d seen her.
Where was the hardened, strung-out cop he once caught freebasing coke in the back of a tenement on Avenue C? Where were the deeply rouged cheeks, brittle red hair and dumpy looking clothes that once aged her? Today’s Linda Patterson looked nothing like her past and instead gave the clever illusion of city chic—until she opened her mouth.
“Oh, this is perfect, Spellman,” she said, looking around. “A Tibetan massage parlor. Last time I caught a whiff of incense was 1969 and Mama Cass had yet to choke on her chicken bone.”
“You and your urban legends. It was a ham sandwich.”
“Whatever. You and your freaky joints. I suppose you’re into holistic home medicine, too. Acupuncture. Aroma therapy.”
“Good manners.”
“Bullshit responses.”
Roberta shot him a glance. Marty returned the look and stood. “Linda,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Roberta Buzzinni. She’s one of the owners of the café.”
Unfazed, Patterson turned to Roberta and blinked. “You a psychic or something?”
Roberta nodded.
“And you admit it,” Linda said. “Now, that’s interesting.” She said ‘interesting’ as though it were the least interesting thing in the world. She lowered her shiny leather handbag onto the table and put her hands on her hips. “Okay,” she said, “I’m game. Tell me my future.”
Roberta lifted an eyebrow at Marty, then pushed back her chair and stood. “Ms. Patterson,” she said, “something tells me you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“I’ve been a detective with the NYPD for eight years,” Linda said. “Before that, I was an assistant at the M.E.’s office. You have no idea what I can handle. Try me.”
Roberta’s face became set, expressionless. It was the face of a woman addressing a problematic child. Marty saw tolerance in her eyes, but also a hint of something else. Mischief? “All right,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
Linda held out her hand, which Roberta took and just as quickly dropped. “You won’t live to see your fiftieth birthday. You’ll be shot dead in the street—a hole right through that Botoxed forehead of yours. The number of people who show up at your funeral will reveal just how cruelly you’ve lived your life.” In the silence that fell, Roberta excused herself and swung sideways into the kitchen. Marty heard her bark out a laugh as he sat back down.
Patterson took the chair opposite him. “What the hell kind of a woman is that?” she said angrily. “Won’t live past my fiftieth birthday. What kind of a thing is that to say to someone? I’m forty-nine now, for Christ’s sake. My birthday’s in a few months. She saying I’ll be dead by then?” She shook her head. “No wonder this dump is empty.”
“Can’t handle it, Linda?”
“I wanted to know something nice,” Linda said. “I wanted to hear something good, just like we all do. I didn’t need to hear that crap. That woman’s got nerve.”
“I believe she could say the same about you. You insulted her and her business.”
Patterson ignored the comment and rummaged inside her handbag—blunt red fingernails clicking, hands grasping and pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. She shook one out, lit it with the strike of a match and inhaled, holding the smoke before blowing it above their heads. “Look,” she said. “I meant it when I said I was busy. I’m giving you fifteen minutes. What do you want from me?”
He looked at her cigarette. “Smoking isn’t allowed in here.”
“I’m a cop.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll see. I’m seeking information.”
“Surprise, surprise. What about?”
“A couple of things. But let’s start with Maria Martinez and her daughter.”
Patterson drew on the cigarette and sat looking at him, her eyes and face betraying nothing. “Maria Martinez?” she said. “Since when are you interested in the welfare mot
hers of the world, Marty? Martinez didn’t live in a penthouse on Fifth. She was no murdered socialite. Why would you of all people be interested in her and her daughter?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Linda.”
“That may be,” Linda said. “But it’s up to me whether I answer them, isn’t it?” She took another pull off her cigarette and paused, her face hardening, jaw tightening, wheels turning. “Look,” she said. “I’m not giving you shit until you’ve handed over that check you promised me.”
Marty removed the check from his shirt pocket and pushed it face-down across the table.
Patterson picked it up, glanced fleetingly at the amount and tucked it in her handbag. “That’s less than before,” she said. “You’re getting cheap. But seeing as though I’ve only got a couple months to live, I’ll take it. What do you want to know?”
“For starters,” Marty said, “I’d like to know about the people who saw them being dumped in that Dumpster on 141st Street.”
Patterson started nibbling her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d picked up in rehab. “Aren’t you the clever one, Marty. How’d you find out about that?”
“I get around.”
“Yeah,” Linda said. “Like the clap.”
The kitchen door swung open and Roberta appeared with a steaming cup of tea on a metal tray. She put the cup and the saucer down in front of Linda, plucked the cigarette from her hand and said with her eyes lifted to the ceiling, “This will help even you out. It’s my own special blend. It’s my suggestion that you drink it while thinking positive thoughts, if that’s possible. There’s no charge. Don’t smoke in here again.” Without another word, she went back to the kitchen. Linda looked at the cup of tea—which had a faint ammonia scent to it—moved to pick it up, but instead pushed it away. “She took my fucking cigarette.”
“That’s because it’s against the law to smoke here.”
“Whatever. About Martinez. Only one person came forward. The other disappeared.”
“I assume we’re dealing with a prostitute here?”
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 55