New York

The smell of fresh coffee woke Isobel. The bedroom drapes were open and a brilliant morning flooded in through the glass. The city that never sleeps at least naps, and now its nap was over. It was wide awake once more. Horns blared. Traffic inched forward on the streets below. Darting through the bare limbs of trees in snowy Central Park, an occasional jogger could be seen. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, although the air looked cold to her. Steam heat whistled from the pipes in Walter’s suite. He always asked for accommodations on the side of the hotel that had not been renovated. He told her that the first time, when she met him in the restaurant. He liked his hotels old. He preferred steam heat over hot air. She heard him on the phone in the living room where the coffee awaited, but she was unable to make out what he was saying. Isobel stretched and yawned. The sex had been fantastic, and the pendant he’d put around her neck when they were both naked was beautiful. Intrigue and danger, mixed with the sweat of their bodies, had driven them to furious heights. “Wartime sex must really be something,” Isobel thought. Violence, she already knew, went with sex like brandy with coffee. It made the moment more intense and the aftermath sweeter. She bent down and picked up the pillow on Walter’s side of the bed. Holding it close against her face, she inhaled, smiled, and tossed it back on the sheets. Then she headed for the shower.

“Yes,” said Tom Maloney, answering his cell phone on the first ring. His voice was cold with a touch of anger poorly hidden. Walter had no sympathy for the difficulties of Tom Maloney’s existence. The New York Times was on Maloney’s ass. They continued to talk about him on cable TV, and the liberal press wrote piece after piece, coming this close to saying that he and his gang of co-conspirators deserved to be shot. Leonard Martin, already regarded as America’s most effective and efficient multiple killer since The Terminator, wanted him dead. Maloney’s charmed life had turned to pure shit, but Walter couldn’t care less. He was pissed about a retired NYPD cop and Robert Wilkes, whoever he was. There was no “hello” in his manner or his voice.

“Wilkes,” said Walter. “Robert Wilkes.”

“Sherman? Is that you?”

“Tell me about Wilkes, Tom.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“If I hang up, Tom, you’ll never hear from me again.” There was only silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me about Wilkes.”

“I don’t understand,” Maloney said. “How do you know about Wilkes? Does Wilkes know about you?” He thought, “What have I gotten myself into.” Could it be that people like Walter Sherman and the FBI Special Agent Wilkes knew each other, traveled in the same circles like business associates or something? Could there be a world out there he knew nothing of? One that posed a new danger to him? Maloney hadn’t said a word to Wilkes about Walter Sherman, and he certainly didn’t tell Walter about hiring Wilkes first. Tom Maloney was, however, quick on his feet. “Nathan made a mistake in judgment, Walter. I didn’t think you needed to know, and that was a mistake I made. I see that now and I’m sorry. But I still don’t understand—”

“Isobel Gitlin,” said Walter. “Just what the hell is that all about?”

“Mother of God!” Maloney thought, “that bitch,” and he almost said as much out loud. “She’s a reporter with—”

“I know who she is. Why did you sic Wilkes on her?”

“I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know? Is that it? You didn’t know?”

“I still don’t know. What are you talking about?”

Walter shook his head in disgust, in frustration. He heard the shower go on. “Tom?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Detective Jack Allen. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Never heard of him?”

“Never.” Maloney had regained his composure and sensed that Walter had too. “Who is he?”

Walter told him about the encounter with Jack Allen. He left out the part about shoving his 22 magnum up the detective’s ass—and, of course, said nothing about Isobel—but he made it clear he had taken control of the situation with Wilkes’s man. Maloney was still in the dark.

“What an asshole,” thought Walter. “An amateur, a total fuck-up!”

“You hired Wilkes to kill Leonard, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Nathan—”

“Come on, Tom. Don’t fuck with me. I have no patience for it. We both know Nathan couldn’t hire anybody and get it right. You hired Wilkes.”

Maloney’s first instinct was to soothe his own hurt feelings. After all, he’d been hired by Nathan Stein, but he was scared. Leonard Martin wanted to kill him, and now Walter Sherman was heading in the same direction. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I am. I am.”

“What did you think Wilkes was going to do? How did you expect him to go about his business? Did you give any thought to that at all?”

Maloney said, “No. I hire the best professionals. I pay top dollar. Why should I inquire about details? I don’t ask how, just how soon. I hired you, didn’t I? As I remember it I gave you a million dollars. Did I ask you how?”

“You stupid shit,” Walter said. “Wilkes was going to kill the girl!”

“Bullshit! He was going to kill Leonard Martin! You stupid shit!” Tom Maloney yelled at the top of his voice. He was not used to being talked to that way. His reaction showed Walter everything. Walter realized Maloney, for all his money and power, really didn’t know how people like Wilkes operate. “It must be so easy to kill people when you don’t know how they’re going to die,” he thought.

“Calm down, Tom,” he said. “Let me tell you the facts of life here, fill you in on Wilkes’s plan.” Walter took Tom Maloney through it step by step. The more he disclosed, the more convinced he was that Maloney had no idea what he had started. When he was finished, Walter said, “I want you to know that if anything bad happens to Isobel Gitlin—anything at all—if she gets mugged, hit by a bus, falls down a flight of stairs, has a heart attack, is struck by lightning—anything at all—I’ll hold you responsible, Tom. And if I ever see one of Wilkes’s people again I’ll make them very mad at you. You’ll regret that. You understand what I mean?”

“Look, Walter, I—”

“Just say ‘I understand.’ I need to hear it, Tom.”

Maloney cleared his throat which was very dry now and said, “I understand.”

“Good.”

“I’ll cancel the arrangement with Wilkes as soon as you and I get off the phone. By the way, Walter, how do you know Isobel Gitlin?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Walter replied. “Now listen to me. You’ll like this part. I’m going to tell you about Leonard Martin. I saw him. I talked to him. He’s gone now, but I can find him again, easily. I gave him my number. He might even call me.”

“You found him! That’s great news—just great. When? Where? I knew you could do it. Am I allowed to or supposed to ask you how?”

Walter told Maloney about his trip to the New Mexico wilderness north of Albert. He told him about the empty tract of land Leonard bought, and the small cabin. He didn’t mention Michael DelGrazo or Leonard’s altered physical appearance. He considered that his own proprietary information. He saw no need to tell Tom about Clarksville. Carter Lawrence, Nick Stevenson, and Harvey Daniels were not part
of his contract, just as Isobel Gitlin was not part of Wilkes’s deal. When he finished, he asked, “What do you want to do with Leonard Martin? What do you want me to do? I’m just as anxious as you are to get this over, to go home. What’s it going to be?”

“Jesus, Walter, this is fantastic. I can’t tell you how good this makes me feel. I want you to come over to the Waldorf—that’s where I’m pretty much holed up these days. Nathan’s here too. We can go over our plans together. How soon can you be here?”

Walter listened. The shower was off. Isobel was only a closed door away. “Noon,” he said. Maloney told him to call the penthouse from the house phone in the lobby when he got to the Waldorf.

Then Maloney spoke as if addressing one of his sales managers. “Congratulations. Job well done. We’re all proud of you.” For a brief moment Walter considered the possibility that Tom had lost his mind.

He opened the door to the bedroom. Isobel was dressed and brushing her hair. She had sprayed the same perfume she wore last night. The scent excited him. Walter wanted nothing more than to grab her, throw her down on the bed, and make love to her.

“What did you mean if ‘something bad’ happened to me?” She continued, brushing her hair while looking at him in the mirror. “I heard you say that. What did you mean? Who were you talking to?”

He had carried a fresh cup of coffee with him, and he put it down on the dresser in front of Isobel. “Thanks,” she said. He walked over to the window. A faint draft of cold air from the window frame, which had no doubt gone untouched for thirty or forty years, drifted across his face. It felt good.

“Our friend from the New York Police Department worked for a man hired by Tom Maloney, a man named Robert Wilkes. I can’t be certain, but my guess is Wilkes is either FBI or CIA, and, unlike Detective Allen, he’s an active duty agent.”

“W-what about—”

“No, Isobel. Don’t ask me anything. Not yet. When I’m done there will be plenty of time for questions.” She nodded, and Walter sat on the edge of the bed. He continued, “Wilkes was brought in to kill Leonard. He couldn’t find him, of course. He didn’t even know who he was hired to kill until he read about it in the New York Times. That’s where you come in. Guys like Wilkes assemble a team, and so he got a retired cop, that’s Allen, to follow you, hoping Leonard would contact you again and you would lead Allen to Leonard. If such a meeting happened—once you and Leonard were in the same place together—Allen would show up. He’d kill Leonard with one gun and then kill you with the other. He’d place the gun he used to shoot you in Leonard’s hand. Wilkes then takes over and there could be many possible scenarios, but any way they do it, the official story ends up with Leonard Martin killing you and someone in law enforcement killing Leonard. “Courageous Reporter Murdered by Madman Killer: Hero Cop Kills Murderer.”

Isobel seemed unfazed. “That’s why Allen had two guns?” Walter shook his head yes. “You were talking to Maloney, weren’t you?” Again Walter shook his head yes. “You told him if ‘anything bad’ happened to me you’d kick the shit out of him. Did you tell him you would cut him a new asshole with that little pistol of yours?” Walter shook his head no. A smile spread across his rugged face. “You’re a wonderful man, Walter Sherman. My hero.” Isobel began unbuttoning her blouse. “I can always take another shower,” she said.