Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

“I picked this up at the front desk today when I came down to your office to see you. Tsk, tsk, tsk-they ought to be much more careful with those I.D. tags when you people leave them lying around. I actually had other plans for this, in case we needed to get past the doormen at your apartment building. But it will do fine for you to introduce me to your bodyguards. You can say I was here working on the case when you arrived. Charlie Rosenberg. Shit, some of my best friends are Jewish.”

“But the photograph-”

“Can’t even make it out with all the use the badge has had-dark hair, pleasant smile. I’ll pass.”

I thought of the morning two weeks ago, right after Deni’s body had been found, when Mike and I came back from Compstat and McKinney’s tag had been mislaid in the pile at the front desk. I was so pleased at the time that he had trouble getting back into the building that I hadn’t raised a stink about the lax security.

Wrenley poked me again. “Where’s your tag? Put it on.”

“It’s in my bag.”

With his free hand he reached inside my oversized tote, never taking his eyes off me. It was hopeless that he’d find anything in it. He gave out a quick laugh. “I guess Chapman gave you away. Since he told me there’s no gun in your bag, why don’t you get the I.D. badge out yourself? And leave the sharp pencils inside there.”

I set the bag on the floor and knelt down, riffling through it to feel for the chain and pull it out. It snagged on something and I grabbed at it. Now I could feel the plastic bag in which I had placed the toilet articles for Mercer. I pulled up the small plastic razor blade case and palmed it, bringing the chain and gray tag with my name on it out of the handbag. Still crouching, I hung the chain around my neck and pocketed the slim blade holder as I reached my hand to the floor to stand up again.

Wrenley jabbed at me to move toward the staircase. We were closer to it than to the lift in the far corner. There was no point making a dash to the elevator with a gun at my back. “Down the steps, Ms. Cooper. Let’s try the back door, where you say the car is waiting.”

I descended the stairs slowly, my hand shaking as I tried to grip the banister. We had gone from the fifth level to the fourth. I turned on the landing and went down to the third floor, where the old Hi-Line tracks ran through the length of the building.

“Hold it right there,” he said sharply, drawing up by my side as I reached the bottom step. He rested a foot on top of the nearest railroad tie. “You’ve got to get this quivering under control, Alex. It’s Alex, isn’t it? These cops have to think we’re partners, too, don’t they?”

Wrenley didn’t realize Battaglia was running the Children’s Crusade. Most of my colleagues were kids right out of law school, staying in public service only as long as they could resist the lure of the high-paying private sector. Someone Wrenley’s age would be an executive or supervisor, and not likely to be out in the field working cases or taking orders from me. Even if I could calm myself down, Brannigan was bright enough to know that something was wrong with this picture. I would put us all in grave danger.

He lowered his right arm, his gun to his side but still visible. “Never send a rapist to do a man’s job.”

“What?” I asked.

“Deni wasn’t supposed to be murdered. Maybe I can make you more comfortable if you understand that I’m not a killer. Well, I didn’t set out to be one. You just need to get me safe passage out of here, and then I’ll simply disappear, leaving you unharmed. But we can’t go anywhere until you settle down and stop shaking so badly.”

I didn’t believe him for a moment, but it was clear that he wasn’t letting me move until he saw my tremors subside. “Tell me what you mean. If you want me to stop shivering, explain to me why Deni had to die.”

“Two words: Anthony Bailor.” Wrenley braced his back against the banister.

“You knew him in Florida?”

“Much to my father’s regret. Wrong side of the tracks and all that. I met Anthony during my brief stay in a juvenile home, back when I was a delinquent. A quaint term you don’t hear much of these days, do you, Alex?”

I was certain we had run a rap sheet on Wrenley and it had come up clean.

“You look puzzled. I was fifteen at the time. My father’s lawyer was good. Had the case sealed because of my age. Knew enough to get the fingerprints and photos back. Most of them are too lazy to follow through on that, as you probably know. But then, it wasn’t all bad. After I met Anthony I never had to do second-story work again.

“I’ve had an eye for nice things all my life. Couldn’t always afford them. But I was able to get myself invited into the right homes for cocktails and dinner. Called Anthony a week or two later, gave him the layout and a schedule, arranged myself an alibi for the time of the burglary, and I built myself up a very nice little collection of antiques. The Keys were a bit confining for me, so we eventually set up shop further north. By the time Anthony got sent away big-time, I was flourishing in Palm Beach. The old ladies loved me.”

“The Gardner heist. You-”

“Don’t be stupid. I’d never have dared an operation like that one. Besides, Anthony was tucked away in prison ten years ago.”

“But he did the theft from the museum at Amherst. That’s what he went to jail for in New York.”

“Exactly. One of the guys responsible for the Gardner masterminded the break-in at the Mead. Anthony took the weight for him when he got caught with some of the art.”

“But never gave him up?”

“He’s good at that. I’ll bet your man Chapman is having a hard time.”

“And Denise Caxton?”

“I’m sure you know by now that Anthony and Omar spent some time together in jail. Omar had that lamebrained scam of writing threatening letters to wealthy divorcées. He began to brag about it to Anthony. Told him about the Caxtons and their art connections. Bailor got in touch with me. I knew Deni and Lowell-everyone in the business knew them. We used Omar to stay close to Deni.”

“Did she really hire him to kill Lowell?”

“She didn’t want her husband dead. She just wanted him frightened a bit.”

I’d say a bullet creasing his skull could do the trick. “Omar shot him?”

“No, he subcontracted that out to Anthony. Far more capable with a gun. You’re doing much better, Alex. You’re almost ready to go.” He was watching my hands, which I had clasped together to keep from shaking as much.

“But the paintings from the Gardner, this all has to do with them, doesn’t it?”

Wrenley paused.

“I know you showed one of them to Marco Varelli.”

He looked me in the eye to see whether I was just testing him.

“Those paintings have been out of circulation for almost ten years, since the date of the theft. Everyone knows, Alex-well, everyone in my circle -that the thieves have had trouble unloading them. Some of the minor things have sold, of course-”

“But not the Rembrandt or the Vermeer.”

“So Anthony was asked to get in touch with me long before he met Omar.”

“By the thieves?”

“I prefer to call them the custodians. I have no idea who the Philistines were who actually broke into the building. Couldn’t have been art lovers-I think they left the most valuable painting behind, in their ignorance.”

Titian’s Rape of Europa, wall-sized and worth even more than the Rembrandt and the Vermeer.

“I’d been trying to find a way to sell them, collect a broker’s fee. I had heard about Lowell’s fantastic private collection, and I knew Deni was supposed to be a bit of a wild card. They were still together at the time, of course. I thought I might interest her in buying one of the great pieces for their own collection. Discretion advised. It happens more often than you’d think with stolen art.”