Cold Hit (6 page)

“Were those actually finger marks I saw?” I asked, wondering if the abrasions had been caused during an attempt at a sexual assault.

“Looks consistent with that. They took lots of close-ups, so you can study them.”

“How about rope burns from the ligature marks?”

Chapman described the autopsy proceeding, in which Fleisher cut the skin directly under the wrist and ankle restraints, looking for that answer. “Not enough hemorrhaging to suggest she was alive when they tied her up,” he answered. “It was probably just the means of securing her body to the ladder, for the purpose of disposing of her. That’s it, except for the toxicological workups, which won’t be ready for another week.”

“Any reason to think there’ll be findings of significance?” I wondered.

“Yeah, Fleisher thinks she’s had some problems with cocaine. He didn’t like the looks of her nasal septum. Could be just one more of those uptown drug deals gone sour,” Mike said. “She looked classy, but she undoubtedly liked to stick that sugar up her nose.”

“What’s next?”

“Gert just stays tucked in her fridge until somebody figures out who she is. Tomorrow morning, she’s out of the newspapers, and I start looking for who-done-it.”

“Give me a call over the weekend if anything develops, will you?” I asked. “I’ll be down here most of the time, either in the library or at my desk.”

“Don’t you want a ride home later?”

“Thanks, no. I’ve got the Jeep right in front of the office. Ciao.” I said my “Good nights” around the bar, picked up my take-out salad, and walked the quiet block back to the office.

It was after midnight when I locked up my files, rode the elevator down to the lobby, and drove home to park in the garage and drag myself upstairs to go to sleep. I played the messages left by friends on my answering machine throughout the day and evening, and made a list of calls to return at some point on Saturday. Most of my pals got out of the city on the steaming summer weekends — to beach houses they owned or rented, borrowed or shared — and I was just as anxious to get this court proceeding behind me so I could disappear to my home on Martha’s Vineyard for some rest.

I bathed, ignored the usually appealing pile of magazines next to the bed, and read a chapter of
The Ambassadors
before falling off into a sound sleep. On Saturday morning I went over to the west sixties, where I took a two-hour ballet class with my instructor, William, who tried to remove all the knots that several weeks of courtroom tension had worked into my shoulders, back, and thighs. When I left the dance studio I headed directly downtown to the office, to continue researching and crafting my arguments for the complicated presentation I had to make on Monday.

It was close to eight o’clock when I realized that my eyes were bleary and my thought process was getting fuzzy. As I neared home on the FDR Drive, I was trying to decide whether there was anyone in town I could call on such short notice to meet me for a light supper. The beeper went off while I was still a few blocks away from my apartment, and when I glanced down and noted that the number on the lighted display was unfamiliar, I decided to wait until I got upstairs to return the call.

“Hello?” I said tentatively.

The accented voice of an older woman spoke into the telephone. “One moment,” she said, and I heard her say something inaudible while passing the receiver to someone.

“Yeah?” It was Mike Chapman’s voice.

“Hi. Got your beep on my way home.”

“Hey, Coop. We got an I.D., just an hour ago. Housekeeper came back from vacation. Says the lady of the house was supposed to be here all week but nobody’s seen her. Noticed the sketch in yesterday’s news, then she put it together with the fact that ‘Madam’ is not around. Called the precinct, and they notified us. I grabbed one of the guys and we ran down here with a couple of the head shots from the M.E.’s Office, and the housekeeper breaks up on us as soon as she sees the photos.”

“Who is—”

“Lady’s name is Denise Caxton. Lives — well, lived — at 890 Fifth Avenue. Ever hear of her?” Chapman wanted to know.

“No. Why?”

“She and the husband own an art gallery, same place where you get your roots done.”

“The Fuller Building?” I asked. Madison Avenue at Fiftyseventh Street — the crossroads of the art world, as the owner of my salon liked to call it.

“Yeah, the Caxton Gallery occupies the entire top floor.”

I could hear the background conversation between Mike’s partner and the tearful woman as Mike whispered into the phone. “You wouldn’t believe this apartment — five-bedroom duplex, with a modern art collection that most museums would kill for.”

“So,
did
they? And where’s Mr. Caxton?”

“The housekeeper doesn’t know. Denise split with him — Lowell Caxton — a few months back. They both still share the apartment — separate entrances and living quarters — but there’s no sign that he’s in town. And she says there’s nothing to suggest any foul play in the apartment, either.”

“Want me to come over and—”

“Forget about it. Hazel’s giving us the boot. Won’t let us look around or touch anything. Not till she gets her orders from Monsieur Caxton.”

“Any date book, calendar — to trace back the deceased’s movements?”

“All on computer, Coop, and she’s not letting us anywhere near that room or any of the equipment.”

“Can you secure the apartment until I can get a warrant to search it?” I asked.

“You bet your ass we’ll have to. Any of this stuff disappears, we’ll all be nailed to the wall. I’ve sent for some uniformed guys to watch each of the entrances, just to keep the place buttoned up tight.

“And get your beauty sleep, blondie. I have the distinct feeling that you and I will be dancing together on this one. If there’s one motive for every million hanging on these walls, we’re gonna be busy.”

“Think about it for a minute,” Chapman urged me. “
Rebecca
? Domestic violence.
Notorious
? Domestic violence.
Gaslight
? Domestic violence.
Dial M for Murder
? Domestic violence.
Niagara
? Domestic violence. Every one of your favorite movies has some kind of spousal abuse in it, you know? What does that say about you, blondie?”

I was staring at a Monet hanging in the Caxton living room. I had never seen any painting from the water lily series in private hands, and here was a glorious canvas, practically as large as the triptych that hangs in the Museum of Modern Art, stretching the length of the wall.

“
The Postman Always Rings Twice
? Domestic violence.
Double Indemnity
? Domes—”

“Yeah, now you’re getting to the good ones. The ladies strike back, Mikey. Those are the ones I
really
enjoy.” I walked over to Mercer, who was studying the signature in the corner of the painting.

“Is this for real?” he asked me.

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I assume so. I played around on the Internet for a couple of hours last night after Mike called me with the I.D., and it seems the Caxton collection is world famous. A lot of it has been in the family for generations.”

Mercer and I were moving around the forty-foot-long room like it was a gallery in the Louvre. Each painting and object was museum quality, and I was fascinated by their beauty and number.

Chapman was sitting on a sofa facing the stunning view of Central Park, watching as the housekeeper delivered coffee and English muffins to the table in front of him, pouring from a Georgian server that was worth our collective salaries for at least the next couple of years.

“Thanks, Valerie. I was starving.” Chapman gave the redeyed woman his best grin and began slathering butter on the toasted morsel he had picked up from the plate. “Valerie makes these from scratch, Coop. Got her own nooks and crannies — better than Thomas’. You oughta take a lesson from her.”

Mercer shook his head and walked over, spreading a napkin across the knee of Chapman’s jeans. The dripping butter would have been an unwelcome accent to the delicate design of golden Napoleonic bees on the peach silk fabric of the sofa. “How’d you get Valerie to let us in?”

“We bonded last night over a bit of Mr. Caxton’s Irish whiskey. I’ve frequently found it helpful in periods of bereavement. Basically I told her I wasn’t going anywhere until she located him for me.”

Chapman had called me again at midnight to tell me that Valerie had reached Lowell Caxton at his home in Paris and that he would be taking the Concorde back to New York. It was Mike’s idea that the three of us await him in his home, to deny him the opportunity to alter or destroy any evidence before we could interview him.

Air France flight 002 from Paris had been due in at 8 : 44 a.m. on Sunday. Chapman had returned to the building at six, and Mercer had picked me up at home two hours later. “Why’d she let you back in today?” I asked. “The boss won’t be too happy about this, I’m sure.”

“Let’s just say she was encouraged by the doormen. One thing they frown on in these snooty buildings, Miss Cooper, is scenes. The sight of me alone in the lobby wasn’t all that upsetting to them at first, but it was probably when I asked Frick and Frack if they thought it was gonna be necessary for me to get the Emergency Services Unit over here with battering rams that they called and suggested to Valerie that I might be more comfortable waiting in Caxton’s salon. I’m telling you — doormen despise scenes.”

So much for any evidence that we might be lucky enough to come up with in the apartment. The kind of pressure that Mike liked to apply to get his way more often resulted in a consent under threat than the freely given consent necessary for a lawful entry or search.

Valerie returned to the room with another ornate tray and porcelain cups for Mercer and me. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the coffee, and I wondered whether it was because of grief over her mistress’s death, the effects of a hangover, or fear of Caxton’s reaction when he found us settled in and enjoying his hospitality. She replaced the silver pot on a small table beside a large ormolu clock that bore an engraved seal depicting a royal crest I couldn’t identify.

“Hitchcock had it right, Coop. Think of how many movies it’s the husband or wife who offs the other spouse. Just because this guy was in Paris all week doesn’t mean he isn’t a prime suspect. Shit, we don’t even know exactly how many days she’s been dead. Besides that, someone with this kind of dough could hire a killer with his pocket change.”

“Well, what did you get out of Valerie during your fireside chat last night?”

“Precious little. Seemed to genuinely like the late Mrs. C., who hired her personally and relied on her for all kinds of intimate service. But the husband pays the bills, and she’s not about to throw that out the window so fast.” Mike was almost finished with his second muffin, the buttered topping covered over with some kind of strawberry preserve. “Hey, Mercer, might as well lift the lids on those little — Coop, what does your mother call useless little dust catchers like that stuff over there? Tchotchkes? Maybe Denise stored her coke in one of those.”

Chapman pointed at a gilt-trimmed
bureau plat
, only half in jest. It was completely covered by miniature porcelain snuffboxes. Half a dozen of them would have fit at once in the palm of Mercer’s hand, but he lifted the lids of several of them individually. I sipped on my coffee as I walked beside him, noticing that each box was hand painted with portraits of cavalier King Charles spaniels in a variety of regal backgrounds.

Above the table was a Degas, familiar to me from my Wellesley introductory art course and close enough in detail to the famous
Foyer of the Dance
that it had to be the study for the great painting that hangs in Paris.

Chapman was on his feet, wiping his hands with the heavy damask napkin. He was standing in front of a Picasso about four feet by six, his head cocked as he tried to make some sense of the Cubist representations. “I just don’t get it. Why would somebody pay millions of dollars for something like this, which isn’t supposed to look like anything anyway? I must have spent too much time in church. I haven’t liked any artists since Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Just give me a Madonna — I mean, the old Madonna — and I’m happy.”

I had circled the room and was back in front of the lilies. “You’d like Monet. Impressionism got its name from one of his paintings —
Impression of a Sunrise
.” Chapman joined me to look at the vast canvas, one of the endless images of the same subject portrayed at different hours of the day in different variations of light.

“That one you’re looking at was painted at Giverny, just before his death. He was nearly blind.” Caxton’s voice startled us as we turned to look toward the entryway of the long room.

“Looks to me like most of the stuff painted in this century could have been done by a blind man. Mike Chapman, Homicide,” Mike said, advancing to shake Lowell Caxton’s hand and show his identification. “These are my colleagues — Detective Mercer Wallace, and Alexandra Cooper from the District Attorney’s Office.”

Caxton extended a hand to each of us. “I hope Valerie has made you comfortable. Perhaps you’ll allow me to step inside and freshen up for a moment before we get on with what you need to do.”

It was a reasonable request after a trans-Atlantic trip, and although Chapman would have liked to tail him into the private quarters of the apartment, we had no choice but to let Caxton disappear to his suite of rooms.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later he returned to the living room, opened a set of sliding pocket doors, and gestured the three of us into the library. The walls were lacquered in a rich shade of Chinese red, strikingly showcasing another Picasso, this time from the artist’s Rose Period. Bookcases were lined with sets of leather-bound volumes, valuable and rare, and assuredly untouched and unread. Some decorator’s idea of a complement to the art.

Lowell Caxton seated himself in the largest chair in the room as we took our places around him. “It’s a bit more intimate in here,” he said to no one in particular.