“Also, Caxton’s lawyer came up with more of the letters that Denise had received from her blackmailer. Mike didn’t see any point in taking them to the lab for fingerprints. They’d already been handled by too many people for us to get anything off them. He copied them for the case folder. Said he’d take a set home to read this weekend.”
We had gone through the security checkpoint and were in the elevator heading upstairs to the artists’ unit.
Josie Malendez was sitting with two plainclothes detectives, eating a roast beef sandwich and drinking a can of soda. She smiled as she saw Mercer enter the room, and I struggled to show no reaction as I looked at the large purple bruise that had swelled and caused the closing of her left eye. She squinted at me from the good one and held out a hand. “You must be Alex Cooper.”
Mercer and I let her finish her lunch. We examined the sketch that resulted from her session with the detectives. “She gives him a rounder face than the last two. Thinner mustache, same eyes, same nose. And she’s adamant about the lisp. Slight, but it’s there. She’s the first one to mention anything significant about his speech.”
“She’s the first one to engage him in as much conversation, trying to talk him down, talk him out of it, isn’t she?” I asked, relying on Mercer’s knowledge of the details. “And she was stone sober-unlike the last two-which makes me want to trust her observations even more. They giving this one to the press?”
“Yeah. The commissioner and the mayor want it for the six o’clock news. Any objections?”
“Nope. Ask them to use the same quote from Battaglia’s comment, the one he gave last time the guy struck. It got lost in the coverage of the bomb scare story that broke the same night.”
We knew that for a rapist to be operating in the same geographic area for more than two years, it had to be, for him, a comfort zone. Clearly he was someone who lived or worked in the neighborhood and could move about it easily without seeming to be suspicious. If the police and scientific techniques did not break the case, our best hope was that a neighbor or coworker would notice a resemblance to the sketch and call the hot line with a tip. The most difficult thing to overcome was the stereotypical reaction of most of the public- that the guy who lives next door couldn’t possibly be a rapist.
When it appeared that Josie had finished eating and had a few minutes to rest quietly, I went over to sit with her and began to talk, to explain the process. The detectives who had worked with her on the drawing excused themselves, and Mercer replaced them at the table, ready to take notes of our conversation.
Our questions had to be more specific than those that had yet been asked. While the physician who had conducted the physical needed answers to what kind of contact had occurred and what Josie had experienced at her attacker’s hands, and the uniformed cop who responded to her home had asked for the broad outlines of the criminal event, Mercer and I began our probe in microscopic detail. Things that frequently seemed insignificant to the victim were crucial to our ability to put the puzzle together, and often to link one case to another. I always started the process by explaining to the witness why such seemingly irrelevant minutiae could be useful to us.
And so we went on, asking Josie to explain her whereabouts all throughout the previous afternoon and early evening. While her actions may have had nothing to do with what happened on her front doorstep, we could not eliminate the possibility that she and her assailant had crossed paths earlier that night, or that he had followed her from one location to another.
The original police report, as in most cases, had summed up Josie’s assault in a single sentence: “At the time and place of occurrence, the defendant displayed a pistol, beat the complaining witness about the face with his fists, causing physical injury, and thereby forcibly engaged her in an act of sexual intercourse.”
Almost four hours after we began to talk with our victim, Mercer and I were ready to wrap up the interview. We knew exactly how the rapist’s approach had been made, where Josie was in regard to him when she was first aware of his presence, the precise language he had used when he accosted her in the vestibule of the building, and how she had responded to him. We knew in which hand he had held the weapon, and what about its design and appearance had allowed her to assume that it was an imitation.
The process was inordinately draining on the witness, and we were keenly aware of that.
“Can you think of anything else that we haven’t asked you that you think we should know?”
“Not a thing.” Josie’s fatigue was obvious.
“Are you going home tonight?” I asked. It was almost six o’clock.
“No, no. I’m not ready to go back there alone. My sister lives in Brooklyn Heights. I’m going to spend some time with her till I figure out what I want to do.”
“That’s smart. I’m sure the counselor at the hospital told you, but these first few nights are going to be hard.”
“I know. The doctor gave me something to help me sleep.”
“Yeah, but even sleeping doesn’t always provide an escape. You may have dreams-nightmares, actually-and flashbacks. You’ll see people on the streets who will remind you physically of your attacker, and you may have a visceral reaction- tremble, recoil, cry. All of these things are normal in light of your experience. And believe it or not, time will truly make it better.”
“And finding this son of a bitch will be the best of all,” Mercer assured her.
One of the detectives who had done the sketch was driving home to Bay Ridge and said he would deliver Josie to her sister’s apartment. I walked with her to the restrooms down the quiet hallway, and waited while she went inside. In a few minutes, from where I stood, I could hear her sobs coming from within. I opened the door and found the young woman leaning against the sink, running a finger over the discolored portion of her thin face as she stared at her almost unrecognizable image in the mirror.
I walked to her side and placed my arm around her shoulder. She turned and pressed the unharmed side of her face against me, her chest heaving as she tried to speak but couldn’t catch her breath to do so.
“Don’t try to talk. Let it go, Josie.”
Her body became deadweight in my arms as she cried for several minutes. She pulled away from me and washed her face again in the sink. “Whew. I hadn’t shed a tear until now. I was so intent on following everyone’s directions and being cooperative, but there’s nothing left in me to give. It’s like he took everything away from me.”
“You’re alive, Josie, and that’s the most important thing. Whatever you did last night was the right thing, because you walked away from him in one piece. You’ll triumph in the end. The hard part is catching him-that’s Mercer’s job. Convicting him, with a witness like you, won’t be difficult at all. We won’t let you down-I can promise you that.”
I led her back to the detectives’ office. Mercer told Josie that he’d be in touch with her on Monday to set up an appointment to look through mug shots of sex offenders, and we said good-bye to her.
“We’ve got to figure out what to do about you for the rest of the weekend. Battaglia thinks you’re safely tucked away in the country.”
“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 receivi
ng 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.”
20
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.”
“So I guess Ms. Sette picked a good spot to hold this conversation. She can tell us about the people running the place. Must be a friend who’s letting her use it.”
I went inside, ran a brush through my hair, and put on some lipstick. I had on a linen pants suit with ballet flats, casual but professional. The morning was overcast and the airconditioning in the car and in the gallery was likely to be cool.
It was shortly before nine when Mercer drove into the quiet street. There were no residential buildings, a scattering of stillused warehouses, and four galleries that probably wouldn’t open on a summer Sunday until after one o’clock, if at all. As Mercer parked, I pointed out the Hi-Line tracks that sliced through the middle of Twenty-second Street, north to south, rife with weeds, just as they had looked when they passed through the Caxton Due gallery and ran on downtown. It still surprised me that neither one of us had ever been aware of the tracks till we saw them when we were here with Mike the week before.
The entrance to the new gallery was quite discreet, a rectangular white sign with very small letters printed in jet black ink: F OCUS.
Mercer put his hand
on the doorknob to test it, expecting to find it locked. It gave at once and opened into the dimly lit space. A young woman came forward and invited us in. “Good morning,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I recognized her immediately as the receptionist who had been at Bryan Daughtry’s office on Thursday, when the three of us had gone there with the subpoenas. The face was less distinctive than the four silver studs in her right ear, the three in her left, and the small ring piercing one of her eyebrows.
I followed Mercer inside. “Is Ms. Sette here yet?” he asked.
“I’m not sure who’s coming, exactly, but you’re the first ones to arrive. I was told to be here to open the gallery and let the police officers in. You’re welcome to look around. I’ll be up front at the door if you need anything. Hope you don’t get seasick,” she said to me, smiling. “It’s a really weird feeling inside those things.”
Mercer and I stood at the prow of the first sculpture, which loomed over us like the hull of a great oil tanker. I rounded the corner and stood in the space between two ends of the first ellipse. When I looked back at Mercer, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was so unusual to see any physical thing that dwarfed him so completely.
“What’s it like inside?”
I stepped between the enormous curved surfaces and started to walk to the far end. It was immediately confusing and disorienting to the senses. I knew I was standing still on a flat surface, but the arrangement of the pieces made the entire thing feel out of proportion and dizzying. To my left, the structure bowed outward and was wider at the top, more than ten feet above my head. The one to my right sloped inward, and when I raised my eyes to see its top, I had a claustrophobic reaction, as though the entire steel frame might fall on me if I so much as brushed against it.
“Whoa, c’mon in, Mercer. It’s almost like a brilliantly artisticfun house. I see what she was talking about-it’s a very bizarre spatial illusion.”
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