“Well, if I did, I didn’t pay any attention to it. I don’t remember a thing about it.”
“We’re looking at it as an antitrust matter. Know what bid rigging is?”
“Not in the art world. Bring me up to speed, Kim, and the next time you get a sexual assault on federal property, I’ll walk you through it.” I said it only half in jest, since once every few years their office actually claimed jurisdiction for a rape in a Veterans Administration hospital or on a military base.
“The claim has been that some of the biggest art dealers in the city have formed a ring agreeing not to bid against each other on paintings in which they all have an interest. That collusion keeps the price down at auctions-an illegal restraint, really. Then the participating dealers hold what’s called a ‘knockout.’ ”
“Which is…?”
“That’s a second auction-but a secret one. The dealer who got the piece at the public auction sells it off for a much higher price, and then the members of the ring all split the profits. The agents who’ve been investigating this for years can lay out the whole thing for your team.”
“Any direct connection to Denise Caxton?”
“Nothing certain yet. But records have been subpoenaed from both Lowell and Denise Caxton, Bryan Daughtry, and quite honestly, a cast of thousands. All the big dealers are being called down here-Leo Castelli, Knoedler, Pace Wildenstein. They’re all in the contemporary field. David Findlay and Acquavella in modern and Impressionist works. Even Sotheby’s and Christie’s have gotten those unfriendly little slips of paper. I’m not saying any of these places are targets-there’s no allegation they did anything wrong or participated in the knockouts-but we’re trying to get a handle on the nature and extent of the scam.”
“Any results yet?”
“We’re getting buried in an avalanche. Travel logs, phone records, invoices from business transactions, correspondence between the auction houses and some of the dealers.”
“Can I bring my detectives over later in the week if we don’t settle everything in the next twenty-four hours?”
“That’s why I called. No reason for you to reinvent the wheel. If you’re going to have the legal authority to request the same kind of documentation, maybe we can shortcut some of this for you.”
“Thanks a million, Kim. I’ll call you in a day or two.”
There was enough to keep me busy at my desk until after six, so I successfully avoided contact with McKinney through the end of the day. I drove home, went upstairs, turned on all my air conditioners, and filled the ice bucket in anticipation of the arrival of Mercer and Mike. I called Lumi, who owned the wonderful Italian restaurant over on Lexington Avenue, and made a reservation for the three of us at eight o’clock, after confirming that she had Mercer’s favorite pasta on the menu tonight-cavatelli with peas and prosciutto. I settled in to watch the end of the evening news, knowing that very little would keep Mike from missing the Final Jeopardy question at seven twenty- five.
I had told the doormen that they didn’t need to announce either of the detectives, who were well known to the staff in the building. Mercer was the first to come through my front door, and we decided there was no reason at all to wait for Mike before we poured our first drink. I fixed him a Ketel One with two olives and lots of ice before filling my own glass with Dewar’s.
“What’d you find out in Brooklyn?”
“I found out that the last time anyone lived at the address given on Omar Sheffield’s automobile registration, he wasn’t even a glimmer in his momma’s eye. The whole block is a wreck. The Eight-four squad had some informants in the ’hood that they rousted for me, but nobody ever heard of Omar. I spent three hours pounding that hot pavement and every minute of it was wasted time. Hope Chapman did better than I did. Zip, zero, nada.”
He sipped on his vodka while I started to tell him about my phone calls from Marilyn Seven and Kim McFadden.
Mike came in minutes later and walked straight to the den, checking the screen and pouring himself a drink before he took over the conversation with the results of their search.
“I think I’m asking for a new partner. Gimme one of those four-legged sniffers any day. Man, I’ve worked with detectives so bad they couldn’t find dog shit at the pound.”
Mercer smiled over at me. “I guess this means Tego was on the money.”
“Emergency Services broke into the car. No question about it-there was definitely a body in there. Backseat is down, and there’s a big piece of sailcloth laid out full length, with a bloodstain on top. It was folded over, so we opened it up-you know what I mean? It was like the body had been sandwiched in between. Huge bloodstain, kinda matching the hole in Denise’s head. Even some hair. And a pair of lace panties- beige, size four.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Everything’s vouchered. Going directly over to the lab. They’ll run the DNA tests at the M.E.’s Office. We could have preliminary results within forty-eight hours.”
In the mid- 1980 s, when the lawyers in my office had first been introduced to DNA technology and the science of genetic fingerprinting, it took three or four months to obtain results from the private labs to which materials were sent for testing. Now the city had established its own laboratory, and the methodology had changed so dramatically that we could include or eliminate suspects and match samples to victims or defendants in a matter of several days.
“Tonight’s Final Jeopardy category is Bob Dylan’s Music,” announced Alex Trebek as he led into a commercial break and Mike
“I’m out. I do not know anything about this one,” Mercer said, standing to freshen his drink.
“I’ll go twenty,” I offered, comfortable with the category.
“Let’s keep it at ten,” Mike said. That was a sure sign that he didn’t have a clue.
“Nope, it’s twenty or I’m not betting.”
He reluctantly put his money on the table.
“Let’s show our contestants the answer, ladies and gentlemen.” Trebek read along with the words that were revealed on the screen: “Famous rock musician who plays the organ on Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ Ooh, that’s a tough one, folks.”
The theme music played as Chapman cursed, noticing the smile on my face. “Double or nothing?” I asked.
“Talk about obscure, how could you possibly know this? No way.”
The bioethics professor from Oregon shook his head and didn’t even attempt an answer. The mother of eleven from Nevada and the crab farmer from Delaware both guessed wrong, as Trebek was sorry to tell them.
Mike’s beeper gave off with a loud series of noises as I put my response in the appropriate question form. “Who is Al Kooper?” I asked. “Impossible for me to forget, right?”
“A Jewish organist, no doubt,” he said, squinting at the number after he took the device off his waistband. “Turn to Comedy Central. Let’s watch
We had a new quiz show favorite in the seven thirty time slot, so I switched channels and passed Mike the portable phone. “Who’s the beep from?”
“It’s the lieutenant’s line,” he said, dialing the number at the squad. “Hey, Loo, what’s up?”
“
I muted the television sound while Mercer and I waited to hear what seemed so surprising to Mike.
“Mercer Wallace is with me. We’ll get over there right away. No, no-we’re just ten minutes away.” He hung up the phone and handed it back to me.
“I’ll start with the good news. They found Omar Sheffield.”
“Where?” Mercer and I spoke at once.
“In the culvert next to the railroad tracks, between Tenth and Eleventh near Thirty-sixth Street. Dead. Very, very dead. Run over by a freight train.”
