Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

“Nobody mentioned them last night at the scene,” I commented.

“Doc said it’s typical with a body that’s been immersed in water. That kind of injury-scraping of the skin and removal of superficial layers-only becomes noticeable after the body has dried out,” Mike said.

“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.