Running of the bulls

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.”