Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

Mike had started to walk inside but was blocked by our somber gateman.

“Don’t make it difficult for me, will ya?” He took the leather case from his pants pocket and held up the gold shield, expecting to be let through the doorway.

“Let’s see your warrant, Detective.”

“Very good, very good. So, you probably finished at the academy, huh? Must have worked your way right up to the top, ironing Mr. Hoover’s dresses, to get yourself a plum job like this one when you left the Bureau. Can you at least call Caxton now and tell him that it’s urgent we talk to him today?”

“I just told you how to leave him a message.”

“Suppose I told you his life may be in danger. You realize there’ve been a series of killings since his wife was murdered, and we’re the ones working on that case. It might behoove him to let us tell him what’s been going on with-”

“Mr. Caxton is not in any danger. If he’s interested in talking to you, he’ll give you a call. He’s a bit bored with being looked at as a suspect in Mrs. Caxton’s death. He’ll get back to you when he’s ready.”

“You know where he is right now?”

The man stared back at Mike without answering.

Mike took my arm and started to lead me away before turning back to his nemesis. “I’d rather have my balls cut off by a great white shark than end up doing bullshit security work for some billionaire dirtbag. Have a nice day.”

On the way back down to the lobby, we talked about whether or not it was worthwhile to hang out there for a while to see who was coming and going from the thirty-fifth floor.

“Can’t you get someone from your squad to sit on the place this afternoon and evening?” I asked.

“Let me call and find out who’s around. Maybe the lieutenant can get the precinct to send some Anticrime guys over. We haven’t got the manpower to do this stuff.”

“Come up to my hairdresser. Elsa’ll let us use the kitchen to make calls.”

“Don’t you have your cell phone with you?”

“Yes, but let’s see what the girls know about what’s happening in the gallery. When Daughtry had his business here, there wasn’t much they hadn’t heard about him. They had better sources than the Westchester District Attorney’s Office. Sooner or later someone from the staff in just about every place in the Fuller Building uses Stella for color or cuts. Besides, wait till you see how adorable Elsa is.”

We switched elevator banks and rode up to the second floor. Pat, the manager, was surprised to see me walk in without an appointment in the middle of the week. Her eyes went directly to my hairline, looking at the state of my roots.

“You’re not due till Saturday morning, week after next, right?”

“That’s some welcome. Just came by to gossip with Elsa and use the kitchen to make a few phone calls.”

I introduced her to Mike and she led us past the reception desk into the rear of the busy salon. Elsa, my colorist, was wrapping foil around a client’s hair strands while Mike watched in bewilderment. I signaled to her that we were going into the back room, and she mouthed to me that she’d join us as soon as she was finished.

Mike called to explain the situation, and the boss told him that he would try to arrange for coverage from the local precinct as soon as possible. Mike also asked that a car be sent to sit on Caxton’s residence, check with the doormen, and monitor the movement of traffic in and out of that location, too. We helped ourselves to coffee and tried to figure out how we could find Caxton quickly and learn what had prompted this sudden move.

Elsa came into the kitchen, removed her rubber gloves, and washed her hands so that I could introduce her to Mike. I had spent so much time talking to each of them about the other over the years that it was hard to believe they had never met. Elsa had long been my friend, and in addition to restoring the blonde to my naturally light hair, as a devotee of the opera and ballet she alerted me to theater and art events that I had neglected to read about. I knew, also, that when there was a rare lull between clients, she explored the galleries throughout the building and collected catalogues of the shows.

“This is a nice surprise. Are you here to see Louis or Nana for a haircut,” she said to me, then looking over at Mike, “or do you have a new customer for some streaks?”

“We were in the building trying to get into the Caxton Gallery, so I thought I’d come by and see if you had any scoops for us.”

“About the move? Nobody knows what’s going on. It’s all so sudden.”

“Didn’t you have any connections there?”

“No, one of the other girls here did highlights for the receptionist, though. Her name was Genevieve. She called yesterday and canceled her appointment. Said she’d been laid off and wouldn’t be working here anymore.”

“Got a full name on her, and a home phone number?” Mike asked.

“Let me check with Pat. She’s got a file on every client. I can get it for you before you leave.”

“Have you ever spent time at Caxton’s?”

“Browsing, sure. They always had fabulous things, stunning exhibits.”

“D’you know either of them?”

“Not more than to say hello to. He knew I worked here-I usually walk around with my smock on during the day-so he didn’t waste any time on me. He realized I wasn’t a buyer. But Mrs. Caxton had a good sense of humor and was always very nice to me. She wasn’t in the building all that much the last couple of years, but before that she’d often talk to me about what she’d picked up at auction or how much she’d sold something for. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her.”

Elsa was petite and thin, with short dark hair and creamy porcelain skin. She worked in a black painter’s jacket, black slacks, and thick black clogs, exuding style and a quiet intensity. She took in everything that her surroundings-and her chatting customers-gave out. And as Joan Stafford always said, you could trust her like a grave to keep a confidence.

“What else have you heard?” I asked.

“Rumors. Nothing reliable.”

“About her death?” I was incredulous, expecting that if she had heard anything, however unreliable, Elsa might have called me before our unplanned visit today.

“No, no, no. There was a commotion a couple of weeks ago, maybe a day or two before Mrs. Caxton disappeared. Genevieve’s the one who told us about it. Sort of a row in the gallery.”

“Between Denise and Lowell?”

“No, I don’t think he was even in town, from what we were told.”

That fit with what we knew of Lowell’s movements.

“What was it?”

“Denise showed up in the gallery one afternoon carrying lots of bags, as though she had just been on a Madison Avenue shopping spree. Genevieve told me that most of the staff had remained loyal to her, but the guy who managed the place for Lowell wasn’t a fan of hers. She did whatever business she had come in to do, and then left. The manager literally ran out of the gallery five minutes later, trying to stop Mrs. Caxton before she got into a cab. Genevieve says he accused her of making off with a painting-something small but valuable.”

“Was there a scene on the street?” I asked.

“Actually, it was in the lobby. He reached the ground floor before she did. Stopped Mrs. Caxton in front of that clerk at the building’s information booth and forced her to let him look through all her bags.”

“Did she make a fuss?”

“Nope. Knowing her sense of humor as I did, I expect she enjoyed the commotion. He pulled out all her purchases- lingerie, a peignoir set, a teddy-intimate items like that were flying out of his hands while everyone watched.”

“And the painting?”