Cold Hit

officers who called out for deliveries during the meal break of night court.

I explained our visit to the judge, and we went on the record with the stenographer so that he could make the appropriate inquiries before signing the warrant.

“Everything seems to be in order, Alex.” He initialed the papers and chatted with Mike while I went back to the clerk to have the official seal put on the documents. As the court officer gaveled the crowd back into order and Hayes resumed his position on the bench, we left the courtroom with exactly what we needed to move the investigation forward.

The rear entrance of the immense Criminal Courts Building was adjacent to AR 1. Mike took his copy of the paperwork from me, and he and Armando headed for the door while I started to retrace my steps back up to my office.

“I’ll call you as soon as we’re done checking out the wagon. Wanna meet Mercer and me for dinner?”

“Sure. Cocktails and Jeopardy! at my place, then we’ll go somewhere in the neighborhood.”

Upstairs on the eighth floor, Laura greeted me with word that Patrick McKinney, deputy chief of the Trial Division, wanted to see me. The chief, Rod Squires, was on summer vacation and McKinney would use all the muscle he could to make me answer to him and try to micromanage my case. I thanked Laura for the message, then did my best to ignore that she had given it to me. I knew I could deal directly with Battaglia on something as major as the Caxton murder.

I called my friend Rose Malone, in the D.A.’s suite, and told her that I was ready to update the boss whenever it was convenient for him. Things looked good, I assured her, since the cops had already found a critical link to the deceased’s disappearance. I was optimistic enough to think this early break would signal a speedy conclusion to the investigation. Battaglia was on his way to Albany for a meeting with the governor on the legislative agenda, so I knew I was off the hook for the rest of the day.

The intercom buzzed. Laura reported there was a woman on the line who refused to give her name and would speak only to me. She said she had some things to tell me about Denise Caxton.

“Put the call through on my private line and close the door so no one interrupts me.” I pressed the flashing light on my dial pad. “This is Alexandra Cooper.”

“Thank you for taking the call. I thought you might be interested in some personal information I have about Deni Caxton.”

“Yes, but it would also help me if you would tell me with whom I’m speaking.”

My request was met by silence.

“Hello?” I asked, getting no response. At least she hadn’t hung up, so I didn’t want to push her too hard. “I hope you can understand that we get an awful lot of crank calls whenever our names appear in the paper on a sensational case. It just helps me to know that I’m dealing with someone who really has something useful to say.” And who isn’t wasting my time.

Still a pause. Then, “I’ll give you my name, but I’d like a few assurances first.”

“That’s not unreasonable. May I ask what they are?”

“I can’t have my name connected with this case in the papers. Not in any way. Can you promise me that?”

Impossible. “All I can promise is that no one will get your name from us. You have my word that it is not the kind of thing we would ever give to the press. But obviously, since I have no idea what your connection is-either to Denise or to the investigation-I simply have no idea how you figure in the matter at all. Perhaps reporters already know who you are.”

I was clearly fishing now, and she was just as clearly getting agitated. “I have nothing to do with the case. I’m a friend of Deni’s, that’s all. One of her oldest friends. I know things about her that I doubt anyone else knows. Very intimate things. Perhaps they’ll be useful to you, perhaps they won’t. But I thought I’d be more comfortable talking with you than with a bunch of detectives.”

“And your other requests?”

“Just one other, really. Lowell Caxton must never know I’ve spoken with you.”

“That’s easy. He’s a witness in this matter. We’d have no business telling him where or from whom we get our information.”

“He’s terribly well connected, Ms. Cooper. I’m afraid it’s more difficult to keep secrets from him than you might think. That was one of Deni’s biggest problems.”

“Would you be willing to meet with me this afternoon?” I glanced at the clock on the wall, and it was already after three. “Or this evening?”

“I’m coming into New York late tonight. I can meet with you tomorrow.”

“Let me give you the address of my office-”

“No, I won’t come there. I don’t want some tabloid photographer camped out on your doorstep snapping witnesses as they go in and out of the building.”

Rivera Live, Burden of Proof, and Court TV had been real wake-up calls to the public about the way high-profile cases frequently spin out of control.

“We’re closer to a solution than you might think,” I said to ease her concerns, sure in my own mind that Omar Sheffield would be the key to Deni’s disappearance. “But I’ll be happy to meet you at your home, if you prefer.”

“My hotel, if you don’t mind. I’ll call you during the day, and perhaps you can meet with me by late afternoon. The name is Seven. Marilyn Seven.”

“Thank you for that, Ms. Seven. I appreciate it. Where will you be staying?”

The click on the other end of the phone reminded me that she didn’t trust me or the system all that much. I went back into our office E-mail and sent one of my regular messages to my colleague who ran the computer section’s Investigative Support Services, Jim Winright.

CooperA to WinrightJ: Can you please run me a background check on a woman named Marilyn Seven? Sorry, I’ve got no date of birth, no social security, no residential address. Nothing but a name. It’s a long shot, but could you see if you can come up with anything before I meet with her tomorrow? Thanks, as always.

With Jim’s skills and a bit of luck, the not-socommonname search might call up something on his database, whether out-of-state driver’s registration records, licensed professional information (if her occupation required some kind of government control), property ownership records, or even a Dun amp; Bradstreet report. It would help me not to go to the meeting blind, so that I could better evaluate whatever it was that Marilyn Seven had to barter.

When I finished drafting the subpoenas, which Laura could format and print, I ran upstairs to the ninth-floor grand jury room, to open an investigation into the death of Denise Caxton. Several of the jurors whispered to one another as I spoke, recognizing the deceased’s name from the newspaper accounts. I was out of the chamber as quickly as I had entered it, and on my way back to my desk.

“Call Catherine or Marisa,” Laura told me. “They want to make arrangements to go to the hospital tomorrow to see Sarah and the baby. And Kim McFadden, from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, called. Here’s her extension.”

I took the slip of paper from Laura and dialed the number immediately. I hadn’t seen Kim, who was a federal prosecutor, in months. Our offices often tangled when investigations crossed jurisdictional lines and our bosses became territorial, but she and I had been friends since she started to date one of my colleagues, several years ago.

“Sorry I’ve been so out of touch,” I began our conversation. “Can we make a lunch date for later in the month, when things slow down here?”

“That’d be good, Alex, but it’s not the reason I’m calling. Got the clearance from the top to give you a heads- up on this, once I saw you were handling the Caxton case.”

“Just when I was beginning to think this was a ground ball, don’t tell me it’s going to get muddier. My guys think it’s a disgruntled employee-raped and dumped her in the water. Probably just hired the wrong guy. I’m waiting for the results on his rap sheet now, with a team of detectives out looking for the subject.”

“That’s probably what you’ve got, then. Just thought that you should know-and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone other than Battaglia-that we’ve had a major investigation under way with Justice. Price-fixing by auction houses and art dealers. We’ve had subpoenas out for months-you may have seen the story in the Times. ”