“I’ll call you as soon as we’re done checking out the wagon. Wanna meet Mercer and me for dinner?”
“Sure. Cocktails and Jeopardy! at my place, then we’ll go somewhere in the neighborhood.”
Upstairs on the eighth floor, Laura greeted me with word that Patrick McKinney, deputy chief of the Trial Division, wanted to see me. The chief, Rod Squires, was on summer vacation and McKinney would use all the muscle he could to make me answer to him and try to micromanage my case. I thanked Laura for the message, then did my best to ignore that she had given it to me. I knew I could deal directly with Battaglia on something as major as the Caxton murder.
I called my friend Rose Malone, in the D.A.’s suite, and told her that I was ready to update the boss whenever it was convenient for him. Things looked good, I assured her, since the cops had already found a critical link to the deceased’s disappearance. I was optimistic enough to think this early break would signal a speedy conclusion to the investigation. Battaglia was on his way to Albany for a meeting with the governor on the legislative agenda, so I knew I was off the hook for the rest of the day.
The intercom buzzed. Laura reported there was a woman on the line who refused to give her name and would speak only to me. She said she had some things to tell me about Denise Caxton.
“Put the call through on my private line and close the door so no one interrupts me.” I pressed the flashing light on my dial pad. “This is Alexandra Cooper.”
“Thank you for taking the call. I thought you might be interested in some personal information I have about Deni Caxton.”
“Yes, but it would also help me if you would tell me with whom I’m speaking.”
My request was met by silence.
“Hello?” I asked, getting no response. At least she hadn’t hung up, so I didn’t want to push her too hard. “I hope you can understand that we get an awful lot of crank calls whenever our names appear in the paper on a sensational case. It just helps me to know that I’m dealing with someone who really has something useful to say.” And who isn’t wasting my time.
Still a pause. Then, “I’ll give you my name, but I’d like a few assurances first.”
“That’s not unreasonable. May I ask what they are?”
“I can’t have my name connected with this case in the papers. Not in any way. Can you promise me that?”
Impossible. “All I can promise is that no one will get your name from us. You have my word that it is not the kind of thing we would ever give to the press. But obviously, since I have no idea what your connection is-either to Denise or to the investigation-I simply have no idea how you figure in the matter at all. Perhaps reporters already know who you are.”
I was clearly fishing now, and she was just as clearly getting agitated. “I have nothing to do with the case. I’m a friend of Deni’s, that’s all. One of her oldest friends. I know things about her that I doubt anyone else knows. Very intimate things. Perhaps they’ll be useful to you, perhaps they won’t. But I thought I’d be more comfortable talking with you than with a bunch of detectives.”
“And your other requests?”
“Just one other, really. Lowell Caxton must never know I’ve spoken with you.”
“That’s easy. He’s a witness in this matter. We’d have no business telling him where or from whom we get our information.”
“He’s terribly well connected, Ms. Cooper. I’m afraid it’s more difficult to keep secrets from him than you might think. That was one of Deni’s biggest problems.”
“Would you be willing to meet with me this afternoon?” I glanced at the clock on the wall, and it was already after three. “Or this evening?”
“I’m coming into New York late tonight. I can meet with you tomorrow.”
“Let me give you the address of my office-”
“No, I won’t come there. I don’t want some tabloid photographer camped out on your doorstep snapping witnesses as they go in and out of the building.”
Rivera Live, Burden of Proof, and Court TV had been real wake-up calls to the public about the way high-profile cases frequently spin out of control.
“We’re closer to a solution than you might think,” I said to ease her concerns, sure in my own mind that Omar Sheffield would be the key to Deni’s disappearance. “But I’ll be happy to meet you at your home, if you prefer.”
“My hotel, if you don’t mind. I’ll call you during the day, and perhaps you can meet with me by late afternoon. The name is Seven. Marilyn Seven.”
“Thank you for that, Ms. Seven. I appreciate it. Where will you be staying?”
The click on the other end of the phone reminded me that she didn’t trust me or the system all that much. I went back into our office E-mail and sent one of my regular messages to my colleague who ran the computer section’s Investigative Support Services, Jim Winright.
CooperA to WinrightJ: Can you please run me a background check on a woman named Marilyn Seven? Sorry, I’ve got no date of birth, no social security, no residential address. Nothing but a name. It’s a long shot, but could you see if you can come up with anything before I meet with her tomorrow? Thanks, as always.
With Jim’s skills and a bit of luck, the not-socommonname search might call up something on his database, whether out-of-state driver’s registration records, licensed professional information (if her occupation required some kind of government control), property ownership records, or even a Dun amp; Bradstreet report. It would help me not to go to the meeting blind, so that I could better evaluate whatever it was that Marilyn Seven had to barter.
When I finished drafting the subpoenas, which Laura could format and print, I ran upstairs to the ninth-floor grand jury room, to open an investigation into the death of Denise Caxton. Several of the jurors whispered to one another as I spoke, recognizing the deceased’s name from the newspaper accounts. I was out of the chamber as quickly as I had entered it, and on my way back to my desk.
“Call Catherine or Marisa,” Laura told me. “They want to make arrangements to go to the hospital tomorrow to see Sarah and the baby. And Kim McFadden, from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, called. Here’s her extension.”
I took the slip of paper from Laura and dialed the number immediately. I hadn’t seen Kim, who was a federal prosecutor, in months. Our offices often tangled when investigations crossed jurisdictional lines and our bosses became territorial, but she and I had been friends since she started to date one of my colleagues, several years ago.
“Sorry I’ve been so out of touch,” I began our conversation. “Can we make a lunch date for later in the month, when things slow down here?”
“That’d be good, Alex, but it’s not the reason I’m calling. Got the clearance from the top to give you a heads-up on this, once I saw you were handling the Caxton case.”
“Just when I was beginning to think this was a ground ball, don’t tell me it’s going to get muddier. My guys think it’s a disgruntled employee-raped and dumped her in the water. Probably just hired the wrong guy. I’m waiting for the results on his rap sheet now, with a team of detectives out looking for the subject.”
“That’s probably what you’ve got, then. Just thought that you should know-and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone other than Battaglia-that we’ve had a major investigation under way with Justice. Price-fixing by auction houses and art dealers. We’ve had subpoenas out for months-you may have seen the story in the Times. ”
“Well, if I did, I didn’t pay any attention to it. I don’t remember a thing about it.”
“We’re looking at it as an antitrust matter. Know what bid rigging is?”
“Not in the art world. Bring me up to speed, Kim, and the next time you get a sexual assault on federal property, I’ll walk you through it.” I said it only half in jest, since once every few years their office actually claimed jurisdiction for a rape in a Veterans Administration hospital or on a military base.
“The claim has been that some of the biggest a
rt dealers in the city have formed a ring agreeing not to bid against each other on paintings in which they all have an interest. That collusion keeps the price down at auctions-an illegal restraint, really. Then the participating dealers hold what’s called a ‘knockout.’ ”
“Which is…?”
“That’s a second auction-but a secret one. The dealer who got the piece at the public auction sells it off for a much higher price, and then the members of the ring all split the profits. The agents who’ve been investigating this for years can lay out the whole thing for your team.”
“Any direct connection to Denise Caxton?”
“Nothing certain yet. But records have been subpoenaed from both Lowell and Denise Caxton, Bryan Daughtry, and quite honestly, a cast of thousands. All the big dealers are being called down here-Leo Castelli, Knoedler, Pace Wildenstein. They’re all in the contemporary field. David Findlay and Acquavella in modern and Impressionist works. Even Sotheby’s and Christie’s have gotten those unfriendly little slips of paper. I’m not saying any of these places are targets-there’s no allegation they did anything wrong or participated in the knockouts-but we’re trying to get a handle on the nature and extent of the scam.”
“Any results yet?”
“We’re getting buried in an avalanche. Travel logs, phone records, invoices from business transactions, correspondence between the auction houses and some of the dealers.”
“Can I bring my detectives over later in the week if we don’t settle everything in the next twenty-four hours?”
“That’s why I called. No reason for you to reinvent the wheel. If you’re going to have the legal authority to request the same kind of documentation, maybe we can shortcut some of this for you.”
“Thanks a million, Kim. I’ll call you in a day or two.”
There was enough to keep me busy at my desk until after six, so I successfully avoided contact with McKinney through the end of the day. I drove home, went upstairs, turned on all my air conditioners, and filled the ice bucket in anticipation of the arrival of Mercer and Mike. I called Lumi, who owned the wonderful Italian restaurant over on Lexington Avenue, and made a reservation for the three of us at eight o’clock, after confirming that she had Mercer’s favorite pasta on the menu tonight-cavatelli with peas and prosciutto. I settled in to watch the end of the evening news, knowing that very little would keep Mike from missing the Final Jeopardy question at seven twenty-five.
I had told the doormen that they didn’t need to announce either of the detectives, who were well known to the staff in the building. Mercer was the first to come through my front door, and we decided there was no reason at all to wait for Mike before we poured our first drink. I fixed him a Ketel One with two olives and lots of ice before filling my own glass with Dewar’s.
“What’d you find out in Brooklyn?”
“I found out that the last time anyone lived at the address given on Omar Sheffield’s automobile registration, he wasn’t even a glimmer in his momma’s eye. The whole block is a wreck. The Eight-four squad had some informants in the ’hood that they rousted for me, but nobody ever heard of Omar. I spent three hours pounding that hot pavement and every minute of it was wasted time. Hope Chapman did better than I did. Zip, zero, nada.”
He sipped on his vodka while I started to tell him about my phone calls from Marilyn Seven and Kim McFadden.
Mike came in minutes later and walked straight to the den, checking the screen and pouring himself a drink before he took over the conversation with the results of their search.
“I think I’m asking for a new partner. Gimme one of those four-legged sniffers any day. Man, I’ve worked with detectives so bad they couldn’t find dog shit at the pound.”
Mercer smiled over at me. “I guess this means Tego was on the money.”
“Emergency Services broke into the car. No question about it-there was definitely a body in there. Backseat is down, and there’s a big piece of sailcloth laid out full length, with a bloodstain on top. It was folded over, so we opened it up-you know what I mean? It was like the body had been sandwiched in between. Huge bloodstain, kinda matching the hole in Denise’s head. Even some hair. And a pair of lace panties- beige, size four.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Everything’s vouchered. Going directly over to the lab. They’ll run the DNA tests at the M.E.’s Office. We could have preliminary results within forty-eight hours.”
In the mid- 1980 s, when the lawyers in my office had first been introduced to DNA technology and the science of genetic fingerprinting, it took three or four months to obtain results from the private labs to which materials were sent for testing. Now the city had established its own laboratory, and the methodology had changed so dramatically that we could include or eliminate suspects and match samples to victims or defendants in a matter of several days.
“Tonight’s Final Jeopardy category is Bob Dylan’s Music,” announced Alex Trebek as he led into a commercial break and Mike sssshush ed us into silence.
“I’m out. I do not know anything about this one,” Mercer said, standing to freshen his drink.
“I’ll go twenty,” I offered, comfortable with the category.
“Let’s keep it at ten,” Mike said. That was a sure sign that he didn’t have a clue.
“Nope, it’s twenty or I’m not betting.”
He reluctantly put his money on the table.
“Let’s show our contestants the answer, ladies and gentlemen.” Trebek read along with the words that were revealed on the screen: “Famous rock musician who plays the organ on Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ Ooh, that’s a tough one, folks.”
The theme music played as Chapman cursed, noticing the smile on my face. “Double or nothing?” I asked.
“Talk about obscure, how could you possibly know this? No way.”
The bioethics professor from Oregon shook his head and didn’t even attempt an answer. The mother of eleven from Nevada and the crab farmer from Delaware both guessed wrong, as Trebek was sorry to tell them.
Mike’s beeper gave off with a loud series of noises as I put my response in the appropriate question form. “Who is Al Kooper?” I asked. “Impossible for me to forget, right?”
“A Jewish organist, no doubt,” he said, squinting at the number after he took the device off his waistband. “Turn to Comedy Central. Let’s watch Win Ben Stein’s Money before we go eat.”
We had a new quiz show favorite in the seven thirty time slot, so I switched channels and passed Mike the portable phone. “Who’s the beep from?”
“It’s the lieutenant’s line,” he said, dialing the number at the squad. “Hey, Loo, what’s up?”
“ What? How certain are they?”
I muted the television sound while Mercer and I waited to hear what seemed so surprising to Mike.
“Mercer Wallace is with me. We’ll get over there right away. No, no-we’re just ten minutes away.” He hung up the phone and handed it back to me.
“I’ll start with the good news. They found Omar Sheffield.”
“Where?” Mercer and I spoke at once.
“In the culvert next to the railroad tracks, between Tenth and Eleventh near Thirty-sixth Street. Dead. Very, very dead. Run over by a freight train.”
10
“Death Avenue,” Chapman said flatly.
“Seems like an appropriate name after last night.”
Mike and I were standing on Eleventh Avenue at the edge of the Thirtieth Street rail yards at eight thirty in the morning. He had called to suggest that I meet him there on my way into the office so he could show me where Sheffield’s body had been found.
“Forget last night. That’s what this stretch was called a hundred years ago.” His sweeping arm gesture took in all the property north and south of the tracks that had once been owned by the New York Central Railroad. “My old man grew up here-Hell’s Kitchen. Used to tell us stories about this neighborhood all the time.”
After the Civil War, when a large area of Manhattan’s West Side was thick with slaughterhouses, factories, lumberyards, and tenements, it housed one of the worst slums in the city. Cops who covered its beat called it Hell’s Kitchen, from Thirtieth Street north to Fifty-ninth Street, and from Eighth Avenue west to the Hudson River.
“Freight trains rolled through here every day and night. The place was notorious-for its filth and for the dangerous gangs that controlled its everyday life. The kids who weren’t killed by disease or driven out by dust and noise were just as likely to be flattened by one of the trains. Big Mike was around long before they elevated the tracks, after nineteen thirty, to get them off the street.” Mike grinned as he thought of his father’s stories. “Used to fascinate me, ’cause he said that every time a train came through, there was a ‘cowboy’- a guy who actually rode on a horse ahead of the engine, waving a flag to get people out of the way. Can you imagine that-in the middle of Manhattan, in the twentieth century? When he was four or five, my dad dreamed about being that cowboy when he grew up. By that time the trains were raised above street level. But Death Avenue is what they called it, even then.”
“Here’s Mercer,” I said, pointing to the corner of the next block, where I saw him parking his car. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re meeting Daughtry at the gallery in a few minutes. Thought you’d want to be along for the interview.”
Mercer greeted us with, “What’s the word from the morgue?”
“I was just telling Coop. Train messed up Sheffield’s body pretty well. But there’s no way he just happened to be crossing these tracks. Fleisher says it’ll take a few days for the toxicology reports to come in. My guess is somebody probably filled him up with dope or tranquilizers and left him here in the dark to make it look accidental. And by the way, it didn’t happen last night. Omar was lying here a couple of days-out of sight, out of mind.”
Mercer held up a roll of papers he was clutching in his left hand. “Let me tell you about Mr. Sheffield. Forty-six years old, three felony convictions-worked his way up from burglary to gun possession to armed robbery. Released on parole about eight months ago. Needless to say, he reported faithfully to his parole officer, who didn’t have a clue that Omar’s residential address simply didn’t exist.”
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