“There haven’t been any shows this summer-not enough of my clients stay in town to make it worthwhile. Perhaps you’re referring to the eighteenth-century Italian landscape collection that was installed here in May? Yes, Deni showed up. No problem with that.”

“People have told us she was talking openly about some great thing she was onto, some kind of coup that she was going to have.”

“Nothing I heard. But after all, I was hosting the party and there was a rather large crowd around.”

Mike was expressing his skepticism that Caxton hadn’t observed or heard what Deni was up to. “So busy that you didn’t notice what your estranged wife was saying to your clients?”

Again a snide look. “Well, Detective, I wasn’t out in the kitchen with the Ritz cracker box open, making the appetizers by myself. I simply had no interest in anything she had to say at that point.”

“We located Mrs. Caxton’s car last night,” Mercer said. “She might have been attacked while she was in it. We still haven’t found a witness who knows where she was or what she did from last Thursday on. I realize you were away, but have you heard from anyone who saw Deni?”

“Not a soul.”

“She have any trouble with the car, that you know of? Any reason to bring it in the shop?”

“The car was a dream. Never a moment’s worry. I gave it to her several years back. Mercedes 500 -E Class. A collector’s item. Only about a thousand of them in total. Benz body with a Porsche engine. Deni could fly in that car.

“It only had one dangerous feature. Got her in trouble once before.”

“What’s that?”

“The lid on the gas tank was controlled by the door locks. To fill it with gas, you had to unlock the car doors. In case you haven’t noticed, most gas stations in Manhattan are in fairly unsavory parts of town. One time, over on Eleventh Avenue late at night, Deni had to unlock the doors. After the attendant stepped away from the tank, a man with a pistol opened the rear door and got into the car. Held the gun to her head and took her a few blocks away, where he robbed her. Took her cash, her jewelry, the Chopard watch I’d just given her for our tenth anniversary-none of it insured. Cost me a bloody fortune. Tried to make her get rid of the car after that, but she refused.

“Anything further?” Caxton asked. “I’m sure you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a condolence call to pay this morning. One of the most respected figures in our business, and a dear friend both to me and to Deni, passed away yesterday.” He stood up, walked to his desk to retrieve a pair of sunglasses. “I’ve really got to be going.”

“They’re dropping like flies around you, Mr. Caxton. Hope it isn’t contagious,” Mike cracked. “Anyone I knew?”

“I sincerely doubt it, Mr. Chapman.” Caxton lifted the Times off his desk and passed it to Mike. “A lovely gentleman. A very distinguished art restorer called Marco Varelli. Read the obituary page if you think I’m deceiving you yet again.”

“Marco Varelli?” My lips moved as Mercer said the name aloud with disbelief.

“How’d he die?”

“A heart attack, in his studio. Eighty-four years old. I’m off to console his widow.”

15

Battaglia was drinking apple cider and puffing on a cigar as he waved me into his office an hour after I left Lowell Caxton on Wednesday morning. I could tell there was no urgency to the district attorney’s questioning of me by the fact that he removed neither the cigar from the corner of his mouth nor his feet from the edge of the desk.

“Any progress in this art dealer’s murder?”

“Developments, yes. Progress, no.”

“I’ve got to give a speech at the Department of Justice next week on the significance of the drop in the crime rate in New York. Rose is typing it up today. Any figures you can give me to throw in on sex crimes?”

“Nothing that will help you. Rape is the only crime in which the rate of reporting has increased in the last three years. Stay away from those numbers, unless you think Justice will give us more money if we can show how the volume has gone up.”

“Suppose they ask me why it hasn’t dropped like the other violent crime categories?”

“Not complicated at all. A lot of the credit for the reduction goes to aggressive community-policing policies, right? Most people don’t realize that almost eighty percent of reported rapes occur between people who know each other. The stranger rapist-the guy who jumps out from behind trees in the park or breaks into homes-he’s only responsible for about twenty percent of the cases. But he’s the guy most women fear.

“So, while violent street crime is way down, the acquaintance-rape victims aren’t at all affected by the presence of the cop on the beat. They trust their assailant-so they walk right past the officer into the apartment or dorm or hotel room of the man they’re with-and then the attack occurs.”

Battaglia went back to the report he was reading. “Get me a memo on that before the end of the day, will you? Flush it out a bit so I can use it in Washington.”

I was almost out the door. “Hey,” he called after me, “what’s with you and this news guy, Jacob Tyler? I’d like to meet him. Maybe we could get him to do a story on the new Welfare Fraud Unit we’re setting up.”

It was impossible to keep a secret from Paul Battaglia. He never even had to leave his spacious office on the eighth floor of the building to get the most complete intelligence- professional and personal-from a cadre of loyal and talented men and women who served him in his distinguished career in public service.

“I’ll be sure to let him know, Paul. May I ask how-”

The cigar was parked squarely in the middle of his gritted teeth now. “Tell him I said I never divulge my sources. He’ll appreciate that, as a good reporter.”

I stopped at Rose’s desk, knowing that I could learn from her what Battaglia had been told about the status of my new romance, but she had stepped away, so I went back to my office.

“Mike’s on hold. I tried to transfer him over to Battaglia’s wing but they said you were on your way back,” Laura said.

I went into my room and picked up the phone.

“Just checked with the morgue,” he said. “No autopsy done on Marco Varelli. Didn’t have to. He was eighty-four, with a serious heart condition, and under a doctor’s care. Once his own physician signed off on the death certificate, that’s it. By the end of the day he’ll be resting at a funeral parlor down on Sullivan Street. We’ll go over for tonight’s visiting hours and see if we can turn up some employees or friends.

“Also,” he continued, “spoke to the Feds on the auctionbid-rigging investigation. Can you meet us at Kim McFadden’s office at five? They’ll fill us in on that, and update us on the Gardner Museum heist, too.”

The United States Attorney’s Office for the Southern District was a four-block walk from my office, set back behind the old federal courthouse, near Police Headquarters, and the New York City offices of the F.B.I. “Fine, that gives me the rest of the day to catch up on the things I need to do. See you at five.”

“Is this a bad time?” Carol Rizer asked as she stood in the doorway. She was new to the unit, and although her skills were good, it was important that she be supervised on complicated matters.

“If I told you to wait for a good time, your witness is likely to die of old age. What do you need?”

“I’m having a lot of trouble with a victim in a case I picked up last night. The defendant’s got a really bad record-three felony convictions-but there’s something wrong with the victim’s story and I just can’t break her on it. Can I bring her in for you to talk to?”

“Yes. Give me the background.”

“Her name is Ruth Harwind, and she’s nineteen years old. Lives in Queens with her mother. Has a boyfriend named Wakim Wakefield-he’s waiting up in my office. The defendant is Wakim’s roommate, and his name is Bruce Johnson. Ruth claims that she stayed in their apartment one day after Wakim left for work. She says Bruce forced her bedroom door open with a knife and dragged her into his room. That’s where she says he raped her.”