Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

“Drive me home and I swear to you I’ll stay at the apartment all day tomorrow. Sleep in, read books, watch old movies. Nobody knows I’m in town. It’ll be heaven.”

Mercer called his office to see if there were any messages, but there were none. Then he checked the Homicide Squad to see if any of the witnesses expected in town had phoned to leave word for Mike Chapman.

The civilian worker who answered the phones at Manhattan North said there were two calls during the afternoon. Mercer listened to her relay the messages and asked her to let the lieutenant know he was on top of both situations. Then he repeated the news to me. “Preston Mattox is available to come into the office on Monday afternoon to meet with Mike and me.

“And Marina Sette called. Didn’t leave a number, because she said she’d had to check out of her hotel after receiving some threatening phone calls. She didn’t know how to get in touch with A.D.A. Cooper, so she asked if Mike or I could meet her tomorrow morning.”

“Where? In your office?”

He looked down at the notes he had scribbled in his pad. “Said she’s staying with an artist she knows in Chelsea. There’s an exhibit being set up for an opening later this week in a brand-new gallery called Focus. It’s in a renovated warehouse on Twenty-first Street, a block away from Deni’s place. She’ll be waiting in the office at the back of the exhibit, Sunday morning at nine. And she wants me or Mike-whoever keeps the meet-to bring you along.”

“Why me?” I didn’t mean it seriously. But my visions of languishing in bed with the Sunday Times crossword puzzle were dissipating quickly.

Mercer looked up from his pad. “Ms. Sette says you’re the only one she’s comfortable talking to, the only one she trusts. Says she’s come up with information about Denise Caxton’s murder that she thinks you’d really like to hear.”

I called the Four Seasons Hotel and the front desk confirmed that Marilyn Seven had checked out first thing this morning.

“You want me to invite Chapman to go with us tomorrow?” Mercer asked.

“Let him take his mother to Mass. I think we got on each other’s nerves yesterday. If you don’t mind doing this without him, I’m game.”

“Why the mystery from Ms. Sette, do you think?”

“I don’t know. She was very secretive about Lowell Caxton not knowing she was in town. He had no trouble guessing correctly that she was the source of some of our information. Anyway, she seemed to like creating a little suspense. Told me she used to be an actress, and I think she still has a flair for the dramatic. Hey, a little culture on a Sunday morning can’t be too bad for either of us.”

“On one condition. You let me sleep on the couch in your den tonight-consider it that you’re saving me a long ride home, not that I’m baby-sitting. It’ll make Battaglia and the lieutenant happy, and give us a jump start in the morning.”

“You’re in charge, Detective Wallace. Do I get dinner before you lock me in for the night?”

“Seems to me I haven’t had Chinese food in weeks. I could go for some Peking duck at Shun Lee Palace. How about you?”

“My mouth is watering. Give me a few minutes, I’ve got to make a call.” I dialed my house on the Vineyard and Jake answered on the first ring. “How’s the sunset tonight?”

“I’m sitting on the deck with my drink, ready to drive to Louise’s for cocktails and dinner. How’s your day been?”

“Long. We’re just about to leave headquarters now. Mercer and I are going to have dinner together, and he’s going to spend the night at the apartment. We’ve got a date in the morning with a skittish witness on the homicide.”

“I’m glad he’s going to stay with you. It’s smart, till somebody knows what’s going on. Tell him I’m insanely jealous, will you? I’ll call you when I get home tonight.”

“Give my love to everyone.”

Mercer and I drove uptown and spent a quiet evening enjoying a good meal and the ambiance of the handsome dining room. We parked in the driveway in front of my building and Mercer left his police plate in the windshield so the car would not be disturbed overnight. We went upstairs and settled in, flipping channels on the television looking for something to watch and settling on CNN, until Jake called to give me a rundown on the party. I watched a bit more TV until I got drowsy enough to say good night and go inside.

When I awakened, shortly after seven, Mercer had already brought the newspaper inside and brewed a pot of coffee. “Slim pickings,” he said to me as he surveyed the near-empty shelves of the refrigerator.

“Check the freezer. I’ve always got a package of English muffins in there.”

While I showered, he nuked the muffins and put them in the toaster. We sat at the dining room table like a married couple, each coming out of the night’s slumber at our own speed, buried in our favorite piece of the Sunday news. Mercer had his head completely immersed in the Sports section. I skimmed the book review, reading the “Crime” column to scout for new mystery writers, and checked the best-seller lists.

“You’re not drinking your coffee,” I said.

“I hate this flavored stuff. It’s really a girl thing.”

“It’s Colombian cinnamon. I think it’s delicious.” I picked up the Arts and Leisure section and riffled through to find the write-ups on galleries and exhibits. “Here’s a piece about Focus-the place we’re going to this morning.”

“What does it say?” Mercer was dumping the dregs of his cup into the sink and looking in my kitchen cabinets for a different coffee blend. “Mind if I make another pot of dark French roast?”

“Go ahead. Focus is described as a ‘stunning new exhibition space dedicated to long-term installations of works of art that are unlikely to be accommodated by existing museums because of their scale and substance.’ Apparently, like everything else in that neighborhood, the place used to be a warehouse building. It’s massive-forty-four thousand square feet.”

“Is it open yet?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. There’s a scheduled premiere the first week of September.”

“Who owns it?”

I continued to scan the article. “Doesn’t mention. This is mostly a description of what it’s going to have, why it was built, how unusual it is.” I paused to read on. “Hey, we’re in luck. Ever hear of Richard Serra?”

Mercer shook his head in the negative.

“He’s probably the greatest sculptor alive. Had a superb show at the Museum of Modern Art not too long ago. His work is set up now for the opening. Sounds extraordinary. Want me to read it to you?”

“Sure.” Mercer was seated again, waiting for the new pot of coffee to be ready. He picked up the Sports section once more as I tried to describe the show at the gallery.

“It’s called Torqued Ellipses VI. The concept grew out of Serra’s fascination with ships and with steel. Are you imitating Mike Chapman, or are you going to listen to this?”

Mercer put down the paper and I showed him the photograph of the massive steel plates, more than a dozen feet high and several inches thick.

He was impressed. The pieces looked formidably strong, resembling curved hulls of three ocean liners split into a handful of pieces and laid out on the floor of the renovated space like a giant maze, covering more than eight thousand square feet.

“I thought you were talking about tiny little sculptures. These things look like the base of the Titanic. How does he do it?”

“The article says Serra contacted every mill in the world, until he found a machine that had been used in World War Two, at a shipyard near Baltimore called Beth Ship, that could roll and bend these huge pieces of steel plate. Each one of them weighs twenty tons.”