Running of the bulls

CHAPTER SEVEN

Spocatti paced.

He walked past the window, walked past Carmen, walked back to the window, paused and looked across at Hayes’ office. In silence, he watched the police rifle through the man’s desk, bag folders, make notes, say little. He saw one of the detectives pick up the marble paperweight on the edge of the desk and wondered again just how carefully Carmen had cleaned it.

He stepped away from the window and looked at her. She was seated cross-legged in the center of the room, his MacBook humming in her lap, her face glowing in the bluish black. She wouldn’t look at him. She knew better. Her fingers raced over keys he couldn’t see.

“What’s the number, Carmen?”

“Almost there.”

“You said that a minute ago.”

“The wireless in this place is shit.”

She typed faster, stopped, leaned toward the screen and read off the number.

Spocatti removed his cell and dialed his contact at the First Precinct. It was late. Chances were she wouldn’t be in.

But the woman answered. “This is Rice,” the detective said.

Spocatti smiled. “Brenda,” he said. “And I thought you’d be home in bed, fast asleep in the arms of your lover.”

Silence.

“You know who this is?”

“Of course.”

“Can you talk?”

“Hold on.”

The sound of a chair sliding back, a door clicking shut. Then her voice, lower than before. “Okay,” she said. “What is it?”

“I need a name.”

“A name.”

“And an address.”

“An address.”

“And whatever else you can find out about the woman who saw Gerald Hayes fall from his office window.”

“Right,” she said. “When?”

“Put it this way,” Spocatti said. “You get back to me in twenty minutes with the information I need, and I’ll personally see to it that money won’t be a problem for you or your family ever again.”

It took her fifteen minutes to secure her future.

Spocatti picked up the phone and listened. “Her name is Maria Martinez,” Rice said. “Lives on 145th Street. Has a daughter, five years old. Three priors for drug trafficking, two for prostitution. Had an addiction to heroin and crack. This was six years ago. Now’s she’s off welfare, off drugs and has three jobs, one of them cleaning offices in lower Manhattan for Queen Bee Cleaning. Looks as if she’s turned herself into an upstanding member of the slums.”

Rice paused. “And you’re going to kill her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spocatti said. “I’ve never killed anyone. Tell me what she knows.”

“She didn’t see anything,” Rice said. “Said she was cleaning a window when she looked out and saw Hayes hitting the concrete.”

“She didn’t see anyone in Hayes’ office?”

“No.”

“What does our beloved Chief Grindle think?”

“He thinks she’s lying.”

“So do I. Give me her exact address.”

She gave it to him.

He thanked her, hung up the phone and looked at Carmen, who had moved across the room and now was stuffing her blood-stained clothes into a gray duffel bag. Spocatti watched her change into black pants and a black top. She pulled her hair away from her face, secured it with an elastic and lifted her pant leg. She holstered her gun in the calf strap. “Are you expecting an apology from me?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Because I won’t apologize,” she said. “You would have done the same thing had you been there.”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

“I’ve seen you do worse.”

“I won’t deny that,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have pushed Hayes out that window. It wasn’t necessary. It was juvenile. You’re too proud to admit it and that’s what disappoints me.” He started to walk past her. “But that’s your age and probably your gender, so I can look past it-this time.”

He shot her a sidelong glance, his eyes bright despite the dark room. “It’ll be interesting to see how you handle Maria Martinez.”