“He’s in the pens.”

Mercer began to schmooze with the officers while I reviewed my notes. From baseball they went to golf, from golf to the first pro football exhibition games, and from the games to the Bramwell case. “Y’think Cooper’s got a chance to get a decision on this motion before Labor Day?”

“Marklis make a decision? Listen, he’s got two toilets in the robing room and it usually takes him twenty minutes to figure out which one he wants to use. All depends on the troll factor.”

Mercer and I both smiled. The officers referred to the petite law secretary, Ilse Konigsberg, as “the Troll.” Whatever she whispered in Marklis’s ear was bound to be the law of the case.

It was exactly eleven twenty-eight on my watch when Marklis, short and stout, waddled through the door and took his seat at the bench as the clerk called us to order and asked everyone in the courtroom to rise. The defendant had been brought out from the pens minutes earlier, when his lawyer had entered the well.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Miss Cooper. Why don’t you all state your appearances for the record, and then we’ll get started.”

“Alexandra Cooper, for the People.” I spoke aloud and remained standing while the defense attorney, Danny Wistenson, spelled his name for the stenographer.

“It’s now nine thirty-five, and we’re going to resume argument in the Bramwell case.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Mercer and rolled my eyes in disgust. Marklis had long protected himself by making a phony record of the time of the proceedings. My colleagues and I had challenged him on any number of occasions, but I knew that if I tried it today, it would seal my fate in the argument I was about to make. His arrogant grin confirmed that he knew he had me.

“I have the papers you submitted in support of your Molineux application, Ms. Cooper. Do you have anything to add this morning?” It was clear that he was hoping I did not.

“I do, Your Honor.” I rose to my feet, but before I started to lay out the law that supported my position, Marklis went on.

“You know, evidence of a defendant’s prior crime can’t be admitted at a trial for the sole purpose of showing that he has the propensity to commit the crimes he’s now charged with.”

“I do know that, Judge Marklis.” He’d obviously done the minimum amount of homework necessary to get through this process. “But Molineux makes it quite clear that it’s admissible when it’s probative of his motive, his intent, and a common scheme or plan.

“In the instant case, Bramwell’s prior threats and assaults on Ms. Catano are ‘inextricably interwoven,’ using the language in the Vails opinion, and-”

“You got that cite, Counselor?” Marklis swung his chair around and pointed at Wistenson.

“It’s in Ms. Cooper’s brief, but I’d like to be heard on this, Your Honor.”

“I’m not finished, Judge.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got about all I need on this point, dear.”

I turned away from the bench, steaming at Marklis’s laziness and choice of appellation. At some point during the argument, Chapman had slipped into the courtroom and joined Mercer in the front row on the far side of the rail. I read his lips as he mouthed to me, “I love it when you’re angry.”

As I walked toward the detectives, I asked over my shoulder, “Judge, may I have a few minutes?” and kept moving without waiting for a response.

“When you put your hands on your hips, blondie, it’s a dead giveaway. Temper, temper.”

The diminutive judge stepped down from his seat and walked over to whisper to Ms. Konigsberg. Chapman couldn’t resist another crack, looking at the huddle of two small figures, like conspiring Munchkins. “What’s going on, Coop? Looks like a wrap party for The Wizard of Oz. ”

“Don’t get me in any more trouble with Marklis. How come you’re down here so early?”

“Caxton played cute with the memorial service. Ten o’clock this morning. Invitation only-just a handful of friends, and Daughtry wasn’t among them. My guy inside says the husband wants to wait until the fall, when everyone is back from summer vacation, before he holds a real memorial. Wouldn’t want to slight all the artists and clients who couldn’t get here on short notice. But you better cut this exercise in futility short, ’cause we need some help.”

“With what?”

“Looks like we found the car Deni’s body was transported in. Need you to do a warrant.”

“Great. How’d you get it?”

“Uniform cop in the Bronx noticed an abandoned station wagon this morning. Not far from the water. K- 9 Unit took a dog up there a little while ago and got a positive hit. Looks like there’s blood on a canvas tarp in the back, too.”

“Any plates? Whose is it?”

“Stripped clean. VIN number’s been scratched out a bit, but the computer still came up with a list of possibilities.”

“And?”

“One of them comes back to an employee who works in Deni’s Chelsea gallery. Bingo.”

I stepped back and smiled at the judge. “That’s it, Your Honor. No further argument. We’ll rest on our papers.” I grabbed my files off the table and followed Mercer and Mike out of the courtroom.

9

Laura tried to pass the telephone to me as I swept through her alcove. “It’s Rose. She just wants to warn you that Battaglia said he’d like an update on the Caxton investigation.”

“Tell her that he’ll have it by the end of the day.”

Mike was at my desk, using the private line. “It’s a girl!” This time I grabbed the receiver out of his hand. Sarah’s baby had been born during the night, and she was calling to tell us about it, urging us to come visit Janine as soon as possible.

“You okay?”

“Much easier this time. When are you coming up to the hospital? I’ll only be here until Wednesday.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll come see her tonight or tomorrow. Give her a kiss and tell her we’ll all be up the first break we get.” I placed the phone back in its cradle.

“See, Alex, that’s what you should be doing with your life instead of chasing around after scumbags like we do all day.”

“You’re beginning to sound like my grandmother.” I turned to Mike as I sat down at my desk. “Have you ever done one of these before? I mean, a search warrant based on a dog as the informant?”

“No, but I got the officer right outside who knows how.” He walked to the door of my office and signaled to a plainclothes cop who was reading the Daily News on a chair in the hallway. “This is Detective Loquesto,” he said, introducing me to a sandy-haired man with a crooked smile that seemed to align with his long, hooked nose. “Armando, meet Alex Cooper.”

“Good to meet you. Thanks for the break.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Tego did it. Latin word for ‘I protect.’ I’m just the handler; the dog does the heavy lifting.”

“Can you walk me through the affidavit?”

“No problem-do it all the time.”

I pulled up my standard search warrant application form on the computer, quickly punching in the information Chapman fed me about the target automobile, a ’ 91 light blue Chevy wagon, partial vehicle identification number 6683493, registered to Omar Sheffield.

“How’d you connect Sheffield to one of the Caxton galleries?” I asked.

Mercer spoke up. “Caxton’s aide, Maurizio, faxed me a list of all the employees. It was on my desk when I walked in today. Also had the names of some of Denise’s clients-said we’d have to get the rest of them from Daughtry.”

I fleshed out the paragraph delineating that there is reasonable cause to believe that we might find blood, hair, fibers, fingerprints, and other evidence of the presence of the body of Denise Caxton. Then I added in the “moreover” clause, asking the judge to believe that this property was used to commit or conceal the commission of a crime.