Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

“Why didn’t you wait?”

“Believe me, I wanted to stay there. But a couple of the workmen were coming back with some large frames that Marco had sent out to be regilded. We had been expecting them earlier in the afternoon. When I heard the buzzer ring from downstairs, I was afraid Mr. Varelli would open the door and find me hiding there. So I left.

“The next day, he carried on as usual. And after what had occurred with the Vermeer, I didn’t dare ask him about these paint chips. I don’t think I ever mentioned Rembrandt’s name to him for a couple of months.”

“Didn’t he talk about Deni anymore? Didn’t she still come to visit?”

“Less frequently, so far as I know. But whenever she showed up, he insisted I stay to help him or have a glass of wine with them. And he was much too discreet to talk about her. After she’d leave, he’d shake his head and say she was crazy. ‘ Bella pazza, ’ my beautiful crazy one. That’s what he called her more recently.”

“And when she was killed, what did he have to say about her then?”

Don Cannon shook his head at us. “Don’t know. I was on vacation with my girlfriend, camping out in Yosemite. My family couldn’t even find me to tell me that Marco had died. But those scenes with the Vermeer and then the paint chips were the cause of the breach that developed between him and Deni, I’m sure of it. The other thing,” he said, stretching a bit and arching his back, “the other thing was also a bit odd, at least to me.”

“What other? I thought you said there were two things that estranged them-meaning the Vermeer and the chips.”

“To me,” the young man replied, “those two were part of the same headache-the Gardner Museum heist. The other one was something else again.”

Mike was jotting notes on his pad, while I added points to my list of questions. “A bit later on, Denise came back to the studio. It was well after she and her husband had separated, I know that. She had another man with her and-”

“Who?”

“Sorry, I can’t help you with that. I never got much of a look. He was standing quietly off to the side, and like Varelli, all my attention was on Mrs. Caxton. It wasn’t unusual for her to have men with her who were clients. They rarely entered into her conversation with Mr. Varelli and I never paid them much mind. Anyway, she was telling Marco about the breakup, and she said she had brought a gift, this time for Gina-for Mrs. Varelli. It was a necklace of beads-very large amber beads-and a carved figurine that matched them. ‘Come look, Dan,’ she said to me. She’d met me a few dozen times, but she was a bit too self-centered to bother to learn my name. Always called me Dan instead of Don. ‘Come look, you’ll never see anything like these. They’re quite rare. Lowell gave them to me, and I really don’t want to wear them anymore. Might give him too much satisfaction. Gina will adore them, don’t you think, Marco? You don’t have to tell her they’re from me.’

“Mrs. Caxton reached over with both hands to pass them to Varelli, but he recoiled instantly and the strand fell onto the floor. ‘Not in my house, signora, not under my roof. Too many people have been killed for these trifles with which you amuse yourself.’ ”

“And she left?”

“She got down on her knees to pick up the beads. One end of the strand had broken and they were rolling across the floor like golf balls. I helped her gather them up and put them back in her purse. Then she and her friend left.

“But they left behind the little amber statue. By accident, I would think. Mr. Varelli didn’t even notice it. But when Gina came upstairs the next morning to bring us some tea, she saw it there. She spotted it immediately and admired it. Just picked it up with her and took it down to the apartment.”

“Didn’t he say anything then?”

“Only to himself, under his breath. He rarely said no to Gina-about anything. But when she carried off her little treasure, Marco muttered something about Nazis. It meant nothing to me then, but a few more hours at the library, and the computer research came up with stories about the Amber Room. I even found a few articles that connected the lost room to Lowell Caxton.”

Chapman was holding his notepad in his right hand, tapping it against his other fist. “There must be some way to reconstruct the dates that these things happened, no? You keep any kind of appointment book or calendars?”

“No reason to, Detective. I went to work at the same place every day at the same time. I keep journals about exhibits I’ve gone to see and I keep loads of sketchbooks, but they don’t have any engagements in them.”

“How about Varelli?” I asked. “People made appointments with him, there were deliveries, someone paid the bills-”

“Gina Varelli, of course. She was the only one who Marco let control his business.”

“The widow, right?”

“Yes. She made most of the arrangements. Marco didn’t like to be bothered by telephone calls and mundane things.” Cannon laughed. “Like money. Didn’t she give you that book when you spoke with her? It’s got everything in it-every visitor, client, bill, receipt. I’m sure it would be a great help to you in your investigation.”

“No. We’ll get it from her when we see her this week,” I said, adding to my list and nodding at Mike. “Perhaps we can get her to talk about the amber piece, too. Maybe Marco and she spoke about it at home, privately.”

“Yeah. I’ll call her tonight and see if I can go over in the morning and pick up the journal and the statue, okay, Coop?”

I didn’t have to answer.

Don Cannon spoke. “Not tomorrow, Detective. About two hours before the funeral that had been scheduled for last Friday, Gina got a call from the mayor of Florence. It’s where Marco was born. The Italian government offered to fly the body home for burial in the family’s church, somewhere up north, in the mountains, alongside all his ancestors. Kind of like a national hero-which shows the respect they have for artists over there.

“Gina Varelli left for Italy last evening. Some little town in Tuscany. I don’t even know how to reach her.”

“Your to-do list is getting to be a mile long,” Chapman said after Don Cannon left the office and we were eating our sandwiches at the lieutenant’s desk.

“I’ll call down to my paralegal now and see whether she can get a number for the mayor of Florence. You double-check with the guys from Crime Scene to see whether they took any kind of book when they processed Varelli’s studio.”

“I’m telling you, Mercer and I were there with them. No such thing anywhere we looked. The only evidence they vouchered was the pair of sunglasses. Whatever this appointment journal or calendar is, it’s probably in his apartment, not the studio.”

“Well, if we can find the niece who took Gina Varelli home the other night, maybe we can convince her to let us do a consent search. If not, I’ll draft another warrant in the morning.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already almost four o’clock.”

The shifts had changed, and detectives working the day tour were signing out while those doing four-to-twelves were coming on. Even the teams that had finished their official tours were working overtime, without pay, because of Mercer.

Jimmy Halloran opened the door. “Your secretary’s on line two. Wanna pick up?”

“Sure. Laura? Everything okay?”

“Just a couple of things you need to know about. Pat McKinney is having a meeting at ten tomorrow with a few of the senior trial counsel. Catherine said to tell you that he hasn’t given them any specific agenda yet, but she assumes he’s planning to pick someone from the group to assign to prosecute Mercer’s case.”