The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (93 page)

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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Carmen Gragera paused outside the building on Wall Street and looked through the tinted wall of glass.
 
The uniformed security guard was there, seated at the circular front desk, his face glowing blue in the flickering light of a television she couldn’t see.
 

Watching him, she lifted the lapel of her black business suit and spoke into the tiny wireless microphone Spocatti hid there earlier.
 
“He’s alone,” she said.
 
“Start filming.
 
I’m going in.”

She pushed through the revolving doors and moved across the lobby, her attaché case swinging, her heels clicking like drum taps on the shiny marble floor.
 
The man looked up from the television as she approached.
 
“I have an appointment to see Gerald Hayes,” she said.
 
“He’s expecting me.”

“Your name?”

“Maria Leonard.
 
From the Times.”

The man swung around to his computer, typed her name into the machine and smiled at her while waiting for confirmation.
 
Carmen smiled back.
 
She lowered her gaze in a way an American woman might and glimpsed the gun holstered at his waist.
 
Had he ever used it before?
 
Carmen doubted it.
 

And he certainly wouldn’t use it on her.

The computer screen flashed and the man nodded at the illumined wall of elevators behind him.
 
“Mr. Hayes is on the 20th floor, third office on the right.
 
I’ll call and let him know you’re coming.”

Carmen crossed to one of the elevators and stepped inside.
 
She punched the button marked 20 and leaned back against a mirrored wall as the elevator began its rapid ascent.

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.”