Cold Hit

Mike paused briefly to read the sign that was posted below the bell: “ Service entrance in rear on Twenty-third Street. Hope that doesn’t mean us.”

The front door was unlocked, so Mike pushed it open and we followed him in. The cavernous first-floor space of the former auto repair shop had been completely whitewashed and gutted of all signs of its earlier life. New Age music played on speakers tucked up high in corners of the room.

“Guess they’re not set up for the exhibition yet.”

“You’re about to step on a masterpiece, Mikey. Read the sign.” I pointed to a piece of gray string, about twelve feet long, that extended out from the wall to form a triangle and was tacked to a point on the floor near my left shoe. He ignored me, looking around, instead, at similar strands of colorless yarn spread across sections of the gallery like giant cat’s-cradle forms. I called out the words written on the placard describing the display: “In these string sculptures, the space takes on an incorporeal palpability, concentrating on the planar or volumetric components. Illusion and fact are interwoven, with overlapping linear trajectories.”

“This is art?” Mike responded. “You think some horse’s ass is going pay money for these things? I never saw anything so useless in my entire life.”

Bryan Daughtry’s voice called down to us from a high balcony area off to the side of the airy room. “Don’t be so quick to declare this one the most absurd, Detective. There are several more floors above you might like to see. Why don’t you take the lift up here to my office?”

“Can I make it up there without hanging myself on any of this string crap you call art?” Mike said to Daughtry, rolling his eyes at the bizarre exhibit of yarn sculptures that stretched across the mostly bare space on the ground floor. Then he turned to me. “Let’s head up, blondie. Maybe if I dangle my handcuffs in front of him he’ll get a hard-on. You’re certainly much too old for his taste.”

There was a small lift in the far corner of the wide room. When the doors of the elevator opened on the sixth floor, I was struck in the eye by a blaze of light. The southern exposure of the building was a wall of glass, which let the bright midday sun flood into this most unexpected setting.

From this point, with no tall buildings in the immediate area, I could see over the rooftops of nearby galleries and garages and out to the Hudson River, which curved in toward the east just a few blocks below us.

The most striking surprise was that about three floors beneath where we stood, running from the north end to the south side of the airy atrium, was an actual stretch of railroad track. It was heavy, thick, covered with rust, and overgrown with weeds.

I stared down at it. “Is that real?”

Chapman was rapt. “I wish my old man could see this. Sure it’s real. Look,” he said, pointing to an opening where the track ran out of the glass-sided building and across the street, directly into a warehouse facing the Galleria Caxton Due.

I leaned against the railing to see that in similar fashion, the grass-filled ties also ran back out of the converted garage, crossing over the double width of Twenty-third Street and rolling on between two buildings on its north corner.

“What is it?” Mercer asked.

“The old Hi-Line Railroad. Another Hell’s Kitchen special. When they raised the tracks off Death Avenue north of the rail yards, they still needed trains to get down to the meat markets in the Fourteenth Street area. So, south of Thirtieth Street, this became the elevated line. Haven’t you ever noticed the old tracks?”

Mercer and I looked at Mike blankly and shook our heads.

“Just drive uptown on Tenth Avenue and look to your left. The air rights over the railroad tracks were sold off, so all these warehouses were allowed to build above and surrounding the actual path of the Hi-Line. Between every block in the twenties and even below that, till you hit the old Gansevoort Market, you can see the great tracks right from the street.”

Daughtry stepped out of his office, on the southwest corner of the floor, and looked across at us. “Amazing space, isn’t it? We’re the only gallery in the city smart enough to incorporate this bit of history into our design. Glad you appreciate that much.”

He invited us into his chilled office, and despite the temperature in the climate-controlled gallery, I was surprised to see that beads of sweat were pooled on Daughtry’s forehead. He repeatedly dabbed at the streaks running down the side of his neck.

Mike, Mercer, and I introduced ourselves, and he invited us to sit opposite his desk. There were no signs of his former indiscretions here, and although he resembled the photos I had seen in the press during the Gloster trial, Daughtry was paunchier now, and jowls had replaced the even line of his pointed chin.

“I’m sure you know all about my background, Detective,” he began tentatively, as his eyes darted back and forth between us, trying to measure our level of hostility or the extent of our familiarity with his past. His fingers trembled when they were at rest on the desktop, so he kept wiping at his head and neck, even before it was necessary. “But you need to know that I adored Deni Caxton, and I’ll be glad to help you in any way that I can.”

Chapman was unmoved by Daughtry’s effort to set a cooperative tone, so I sat back quietly, like a guest privileged to be at the interrogation but not encouraged to participate. Mike was aware of his witness’s vulnerability, so, in contrast to his meeting with Lowell Caxton, he knew he could control the conversation.

Mike let Daughtry think that if he bared his soul about the tax fraud matter, we’d get off the old case and move on to the mystery of Deni’s death. It seemed to calm him to tell us what we already knew about the tax matter, as though we would think better of him for admitting his wrongdoing aloud.

Then Mike moved his chair directly across from his target. “Now, Bryan,” he said, knowing the use of his first name would bring Daughtry down one more notch, “tell us about her. ”

Daughtry seemed relieved to be off the subject of himself and onto his friend. “Oh, Deni. She’s the only reason I’m still in business today, after getting out of-”

“No, no, no, Bryan. Not Deni. I want to know about the girl -about Ilse Lunen.”

The moisture gathered again on his pasty skin, and now he looked from me to Mercer and back again, hoping one of us would intercede with Chapman and call him off.

“I had nothing, nothing to do with that girl, Detective. I’ve never been charged with any crime. That sick little bastard should have been strung up and-”

“And stringing you up would probably have given you more pleasure than any pervert like you deserves, Bryan. Just keep in mind that there’s no statute of limitations on murder. You play with us on this case, you tell me even one little white lie about you or Denise Caxton or Omar Sheffield, and-”

“Omar? What does he have to do with any of this?”

The collar of his hunter green sport shirt was soaked through, and the underarms matched it. His surprise about Sheffield seemed genuine to me.

Chapman continued. “The slightest misstep with us, and I’ll go to the ends of the earth to find the nails for your coffin, the evidence that’ll stick you in a jail cell right next door to Bertrand Gloster. So, now-you tell me, Bryan. What’s this operation all about? And sit on your hands while you’re at it- you’re making me crazy with all your mopping and dabbing. Take a shower after I leave-you need it anyway.”

Bryan responded like a three-year-old child and literally put his hands under his thighs. He explained how he and Deni had met in 1990, when both of them had galleries in the Fuller Building. They discovered their similarities early on-both from poor families and with invented histories, each with an untrained eye but great instincts. Deni and Bryan delighted in the big sale to a famous client, and both would do almost anything-testing the boundaries in a fairly sedate business-to stumble upon a sleeper, a lost masterpiece that had suddenly come back on the market, and then find a Streisand or a Nicholson to buy it.

“Don’t forget the candy. You still sniffing, Bryan?”

“Not really.”

“No such thing as ‘not really’ when it comes to cocaine addiction. You and Deni had that in common, too, didn’t you?”

“May I wipe my mouth, Detective?” Chapman nodded and Daughtry lifted one of his hands and wiped his face and neck with the sleeve of his shirt. “We got high together occasionally.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Actually, Deni was. With my felony conviction I couldn’t take chances buying off the street. I relied on my-