Cold Hit (14 page)

“I don’t think so, Mr. Daughtry. From what I read in the newspapers, I take it you liked to be the top in your little S&M games. Well, I’d like nothing better than to make you the bottom — for me and for some eight-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound convicted rapist waiting for you in a very crowded cell upstate, if I can get you there. So don’t misbehave too badly, ’cause you may go back into prison a tight end, but I know you’ll come out a wide receiver.”

I turned to face Mercer, biting my lip to suppress a laugh. “Get me out of here, will you?”

“Mr. Daughtry,” Mercer said, standing up and towering over the rest of us, “when’s the last time you saw Omar Sheffield?”

He looked up at the ceiling. “I’d guess sometime that same afternoon, last Wednesday, almost a week ago.”

“Who hired him to work here, and what’d he do for you?”

“Deni did all the hiring — and firing. Omar’s a sort of handyman — moves exhibits, hangs the artwork. Painted the gallery with a couple of his friends. Ask him yourself. He’ll be here within the hour.”

“Don’t count on it, Bryan. Omar’s feeling a little sluggish this morning.”

Mercer said, “Did you know that Omar had a record? That he was on parole?”

Daughtry hesitated, and I sensed that he was starting to filter-his responses to us.

“I’m not sure. I may have heard something about that, but didn’t pay any attention.”

“Didn’t pay attention?” asked Chapman incredulously. “What was this place, one-stop shopping for the parole board? You know that there are restrictions about who you do business with, don’t you? What if I tell you that you gotta hire a new whipping boy — oops, damn it, there I go again with that dominatrix crap. Omar Sheffield is the latest casualty in the Caxton-Daughtry partnership. He’s as dead as Deni. What do you think of
that
?”

Daughtry drew in a deep breath, and his hands started trembling again, uncontrollably. “I think, actually, that it’s not such a bad thing, Mr. Chapman. Would you like to know why Deni hired Omar to work for her?”

“Let me guess. A direct pipeline to a cocaine source, right?”

“Well, that was just a lucky coincidence. Denise actually had a special job for Omar,” Daughtry went on, clearly banking on his betrayal of his dear friend and partner to get Mike Chapman off his own back. “She put him on the payroll for a single purpose. And now that she’s gone, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you.

“The sole reason she employed Omar Sheffield was to kill Lowell Caxton.”

The three of us settled into a booth at the Empire Diner, the sleek-looking chrome-fitted slice of a Deco eatery on the northeast corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-second Street, to regroup over a late-morning cup of coffee.

“I’ll take a mushroom-and-cheese omelette, too,” Chapman told the waitress.

“How many breakfasts have you had today?” I asked.

“I try to fortify myself in advance whenever I know I’ll be hanging out with
you
. And throw in an order of crisp bacon and some sausage, okay?”

Mercer was doodling on his napkin, connecting stick figures with arrows and seemingly going around in circles. “Someone killed Denise Caxton. I assumed it was Omar Sheffield. Someone probably kills Sheffield — I don’t think he just walked under a boxcar after forty-six years of careful living, but we’ll know for certain in a day or two. Denise had hired Sheffield to kill her husband — so maybe Omar’s the guy who screwed up the job and caused Lowell’s scalp wound. Deni seems to have all the money in the world, but keeps scamming for more. Plus, she’s got a class A dirtball pervert for a business partner. Where are we going here?”

“Nowhere, fast. I’ll feel better after some more caffeine,” I said.

I called Laura on my cellular phone. “I hope you picked up the voice mail I left at seven this morning, telling you I wouldn’t be in till we finished uptown. Any messages for me?”

“Jim Winright found nothing on the Internet about the woman you asked about in your E-mail. He doubts it’s her real name,” Laura said. “And someone called Marilyn Seven phoned to say she could meet with you at noon in the restaurant at the Four Seasons Hotel, on Fifty-seventh Street. Then the M.E.’s Office wanted you to know that there was indeed seminal fluid on the canvas piece taken from the Chevy, and they’d probably have DNA results by the end of the day tomorrow. Last one is from Jacob Tyler. He expects to be back from China by the weekend, and hopes you can get away to the Vineyard.”

I repeated the first three messages to my companions, omitting Jake’s call and my hope that we might find Deni’s killer so I could be with him by Friday.

“Good,” Chapman said. “I already told the M.E. we’d need a comparison DNA print for Omar, so he should have that one under way, too. One of us oughta take that meeting with Marilyn Seven and you.”

“It doesn’t sound like she wants to have this conversation with police around. I think the Four Seasons is still a pretty safe place to be.”

“Let Mike get on with what he’s got to do, Alex. I’ll take my car up there and sit in front of the hotel, in case you need me for anything.”

Mike took us back to where we had parked earlier in the morning, and I drove uptown, throwing my parking permit in the windshield and leaving the Jeep near the entrance to the building.

The only woman in the lounge was a slight, serious-looking brunette whose long hair was wound into a French braid. Her tortoiseshell eyeglass frames held tinted lenses, and as I stood in the entrance to the room she dipped an ivory cigarette holder in my direction.

A bit dramatic for my taste, but I approached her and introduced myself. She stood and shook my hand, smiling openly and inviting me to join her. “Sorry for the dark glasses. I’ve had some vision problems lately, and even the softest light bothers my eyes. And I also apologize for being so mysterious. With all of Deni’s problems, I just don’t know where to turn and whom to trust. I called the lawyer who handles all my business affairs here in New York yesterday — Justin Feldman — and he assured me that I could rely on your judgment and your discretion.”

“If he’s your lawyer, then you’re in very secure hands. Justin’s the best in the business.” Although I had been put off by her phone call, I liked this woman immediately. “Are you also an art dealer?”

“No, but my late husband was a collector. I live in Santa Fe now, but we bought a lot of our paintings from Lowell in the old days.”

She was wearing a dark blue sweater, probably silk, with a dark blue skirt that extended to midcalf, showing a bit of her thin ankle above the tops of her delicate blue sandals.

“Like Deni, I was married to a much older man, and a very rich one. Unlike her, I had inherited a lot of money, too — an automobile fortune — well, automobile parts, actually.” She smiled at me. “And Lowell had sort of put Deni in my hands, to help polish her up a bit. I was ten years older than she — I’m forty-nine now — but we became friends, best friends. I’m sure you know how important that is to a woman.”

“I can’t imagine going through life without one,” I said. Nina Baum, my Wellesley roommate, had taught me everything there was to know about friendship and loyalty. And even though she lived in Los Angeles and Joan Stafford was spending more and more time in Washington, I counted on the intimacy of our relationships to bolster me through the sometimes dark days and nights of my chosen work. “May I ask you to tell me about Deni — what you know, as well as what you think was going on recently?”

“Certainly. Would you care for something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” I watched as she sipped at a glass of white wine.

“At the very beginning, it was as though Deni had walked into the pages of a fairy tale. Lowell was amazingly seductive, and Denise was like a magnificent jewel that he wanted to place in the center of his crown. His dinner parties were legendary — has anyone told you about them?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“Not that it was
his
idea, really, but he copied a page out of Gertrude Stein’s ingenious recipe for entertaining. The living room — perhaps you’ve seen it — was hung with old masters and works from many of the greatest artists who ever lived. Then, with a handful of the richest collectors at the ready, he’d sprinkle the guest list with whoever was hottest in the art world — and seat the artist opposite his own paintings. Brilliant, wasn’t it? Those often surly and sullen personalities couldn’t help but smile as they were reflected in their own canvases and assured of almost immediate sales.

“Imagine at one table having Ellsworth Kelly, Keith Haring, David Hockney — all sitting amidst their creations while they debated each other about style and talent as well. Those were the days that Deni loved.”

“How long did life at the Caxtons’ go on like that?”

“Quite a good while, actually. Beyond Deni’s youth and exuberance, Lowell seemed to love everything about her, not least of all how eager she was to learn everything there was to know about his life’s passion. She was a tireless student, and though she had an untrained eye, her hunches could be brilliant. Lowell called her ‘my budding alchemist.’ First, he tempted her with really fine paintings that he’d search out in the chateaux of Bordeaux and the palaces of the once-rich in Venice. She’d a gift for knowing there was something lurking beneath the crusted dust and oil, and she would coax Lowell to take the gamble.

“More often than not she was right. They came home with a Canaletto and two amazing Delacroix that way. Stole them, in a sense. Paid practically nothing for the works, then turned around and sold them for a fortune to several of the Caxton stable — Lowell’s devoted followers. He was less amused when she turned the same talent on the current art scene. He thought she was wasting her time.”

“Chicken or egg, Ms. Seven, which came first? Do you know how the marriage began to unravel or come apart?”

“That’s a bit too quaint a description. I’d say it came to a screeching halt.

“It was when Lowell had gone to Bath, a year ago this past June. There was to be an auction for the estate of Gwendolyn, Lady Wenbotham. She was the ninety-four-year-old dowager who’d owned a fabulous collection of portraits — lots of minor royalty and major military figures. Lowell and Deni were feuding, rather mildly, because she was too busy to go with him on the trip. Not only did he value her eye, but he wanted her there to show off at all the social events — Ascot, if they could get away early enough, staying on for Wimbledon, dinners, and balls. Kind of thing she usually loved to do.”

“What kept her away?”

“I’m not sure, really.” Ms. Seven stopped, as though considering whether or not to tell me what she guessed had been the reason. “She was vague even with me at the time.”

“Another man?”

“No, up to then she’d been quite faithful to Lowell. So he left for England — did the tennis and the horse races — and Deni was quite aloof for those weeks. Finally, she called and said that if I would go along with her, she’d surprise Lowell in Bath. We packed our trunks and off we went. I had a driver pick us up at Heathrow the morning of the auction and take us directly to the Royal Crescent. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I do.” I had stayed at the charming old hotel when one of Joan Stafford’s first plays was staged there before opening at the Lyric Theatre in London.

“Denise went to the desk and announced that she was Mrs. Caxton and would like the key to the room. I had one of those suites facing the crescent, but to get to Lowell’s room she had to pass through that quiet little garden, where half of the guests were having high tea.

“Five minutes later I heard Deni yelling as though she were standing in my very room. Language I doubt many of the hotel guests had heard before. Lowell, as I later learned in exquisite detail from Deni, was in the middle of some kind of acrobatic sexual maneuver with Gwendolyn’s great-granddaughter, a twenty-five-year-old local beauty who was no doubt trying to up the ante on the family fortune. She had captured Lowell’s attention and was hoping to keep his bids high that evening.”

“Any point in asking what happened next?”

“Deni used more four-letter words than I thought I’d ever find in Webster’s. The young lady came downstairs wearing a hotel bathrobe, and Deni tossed her underwear out the window, probably landing it on someone’s scones and crumpets. Gwendolyn’s eighty-nine-year-old sister, Althea, watched the whole episode unfold from her wheelchair in the middle of the courtyard.

“When Lowell stormed through there, fully dressed, about fifteen minutes later, Althea lifted herself up with her cane, reached it out to stop him in his path, and announced for all the family friends to hear, ‘I applaud your courage, Mr. Caxton. Must have been something like trying to fit an oyster into a parking meter, having your way with my great-grandniece? Lovely to have met you. Sorry you can’t stay for the evening.’ ”

“He didn’t go to the sale, after all that?”

“No. In fact, he had our driver take him directly to the airport for a flight back to New York.”

“And Deni?”

“She and I went to the auction. She was furious, and determined to do something to show what he had taught her professionally. Everyone in the room, of course, was impressed that she showed up at all. To them it was pure American moxie. She dressed elegantly, beamed at everyone — flirting with the men and being unusually courteous to the women — and focused her attention on every item in the sale.”

“How’d she do?” I asked.

“Like a dream. She bought a portrait of the Marchesa Cecchi for sixty-seven thousand dollars. It had been unattributed in the catalogue. But Deni brought it back to her restorer, Marco Varelli — have you encountered him yet? He’s a genius. And after he cleaned it up, they actually found Sir Joshua Reynolds’s signature under a couple of centuries of grime. She sold that piece for more than a million and a half. And just for fun, she bought a small piece of garden statuary, some kind of wood nymph if I remember correctly. I don’t think it cost her two thousand dollars.”

Marilyn Seven took a breath, put out one cigarette and lighted another, and reminded the waiter to bring her another glass of Saint-Véran.