Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Martinez closed the door and went to her daughter, moving easily, fluidly, not self-conscious at all. “Before we talk, my kid’s going to bed.” She scooped the girl into her arms. “She’s had it worse than I have tonight.”

Carmen nodded, pleased. She didn’t want the child here. Things would go smoother without her. “That’s fine,” she said. “Take your time.”

Martinez murmured something and left the room.

Carmen was about to follow but decided against it-Martinez only could go so far. She reached into her shirt pocket and removed the heroin-filled syringe. There was enough here to kill Martinez. But her child? No way.

And Carmen was happy for that. She’d never admit it to Spocatti, but she liked children. One day, she wanted to have a child of her own. There was no reason for this girl to die. Carmen was certain she hadn’t seen her. Unless she missed something, the girl appeared to be asleep the entire time.

She wondered if Spocatti would take that risk? If he were here, would he be willing to take the chance that Martinez’s daughter had seen him in the few moments they had shared the same space? Probably not. He’d kill her, too.

But how would the police view this? If Martinez’s death was to look like an overdose, she wouldn’t have given her daughter the drug. So, the girl could live.

She held the syringe at her side and moved to the center of the small kitchen, looked around and appraised the details that made up Maria Martinez’s life. Photos of herself and her daughter decorated the refrigerator door; a rainbow of dirty dishes rested against one another in the stained sink; a large plastic crucifix was nailed slightly askew to the wall above the kitchen table; and on the sweeping orange countertop, paperback books were stacked three deep, some so frequently read, their covers were torn or missing.

Carmen chose one of the books and turned it over in her hands. Her brother had been a voracious reader, sometimes finishing several novels in a week. But years ago, when AIDS stole his eyesight, it was Carmen who read to him, Carmen who sat at his bedside, Carmen’s voice that rose and fell along with the respirator that had become his lungs. Though twelve summers had passed since she buried him, she missed him fiercely.

She put the book down and stepped to the refrigerator. In one of the photos, Martinez was laughing, her smiling face wide as the sky. Did she know things that could ruin Wolfhagen? Was there something she wasn’t telling the police? Only a moment ago she had been reluctant to let Carmen inside.

Had she seen Spocatti waiting in the hall?

Carmen glanced at her watch, then turned to the doorway through which Martinez had carried her daughter. Ten minutes to put a child to bed?

She slipped the syringe back into her shirt pocket and left the kitchen. The living room was tiny, so dim it seemed almost gaslit. The brown, threadbare carpet was unyielding beneath her feet. There was a door in front of her, another off to her right. Both were closed. The air was slightly cooler here, as though somewhere there was a breeze. She listened but heard nothing in the adjoining rooms, no sounds of a mother comforting her child, no soft, murmuring voices. Just the breeze.

And Carmen knew.

Martinez had known who she was all along.

She lifted her pant leg and removed the gun strapped to her calf, opened the door to her right and glimpsed the empty bathroom before charging forward to the next door, which was locked. Locked!

She slammed her fist against it in frustration. She stepped back and kicked the door once, twice, but it wouldn’t give, it wouldn’t open, she wasn’t strong enough and it infuriated her.

Behind her, the front door crashed open and Spocatti rushed in. He called out her name, ran into the living room with his gun drawn, listened to her, glared at her and drew back a foot, slamming it hard against the metal knob.

The door gave easily-splinters flew like confetti.

Carmen groped for a light switch and turned it on. The bedroom was empty, sucked free of life. Beside the unmade bed was an open window, its pale yellow curtains lifting to expose a rusty black fire escape shining blue in the light of a waxing moon.

Martinez had taken her daughter and run.

DAY TWO

The telephone was ringing, endlessly ringing, pealing throughout the apartment with the stubborn determination of an alarm that wouldn’t stop. Marty turned his head and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 6:32 on a Saturday morning in New York City. Who the hell was calling him at this hour?

Finally the machine picked up and his disembodied voice instructed the caller to leave a message after the tone. Then a woman’s voice, high and clear despite the machine’s walnut-sized speaker:

“Marty, it’s Maggie. Are you there? It’s important.”

He grabbed the phone from his bedside table. “What’s important?”

“Have you seen the Times?”

“Generally, I don’t see anything this early.”

“Gerald Hayes is dead.”

Marty sat up in bed. “Who is Gerald Hayes?”

“Wolfhagen’s former business associate and friend. He helped Wolfhagen make his fortune, then turned against him on the witness stand.”

“How did he die?”

“He fell from his office window. The police are thinking suicide.”

“Did he leave a note?”

“Apparently. But it doesn’t end with Hayes. Last night, Judge Kendra Wood was found dead in her townhouse on 75th and Fifth.”

Marty closed his eyes. He knew Wood, had met her over the years at private parties and political functions. She sentenced Wolfhagen and two others to prison for securities fraud. “What happened?” he asked.

“She was decapitated. Someone broke into her home and took an ax to her throat.”

Now, he was up and pacing on the cool floor. “What time was she found?”

“Just after one in the morning.”

“And Hayes?”

“Just after 10 p.m.”

For a moment, they were quiet.

“So, what do you think?” Marty asked.

“Anyone could have killed Wood. The woman had a reputation for being tough, especially on minorities. Whoever broke into her home could have been sitting in prison for years, just waiting to be released. But Hayes’ death is off. Yesterday afternoon, I called to ask him for an interview for the book. He was in good spirits. Now this. Why would he kill himself? He was making a fresh start. People were calling him again. It doesn’t make sense.”

“What does?”

“Seven months ago, Edward and Bebe Cole were shot dead in their apartment. Last month, Mark was trampled by bulls in Pamplona. And now, on the same night, Gerald Hayes and Judge Kendra Wood are found dead. All of those who’ve died-with the exception of Wood-were once close to Wolfhagen. And yet they betrayed him. Wolfhagen must have been furious.”

“You’re thinking he’s behind this.”

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “He’s such a smart son of a bitch, I can’t see it because it’s too obvious. He’d be more subtle. He’d know that sooner or later, people would start suspecting him.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants people to think.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes, if something appears too obvious, it can work in your favor. Wolfhagen has been out of prison for only two years. Common sense says he wouldn’t want any attention like this, and yet he’s getting it. It’s something he could make an argument for if anyone questioned him.”

“I’d buy that.”

“What are our other options?”

“My mind keeps coming back to Ira Lasker and Peter Schwartz. They were partners with Wolfhagen about a year before everything fell apart.”