papers in one hand and a tall glass in the other.
“Shall I come down?”
“Please.”
I followed the catwalk around the bend until I arrived at the metal staircase that led to the level below. I walked down, shook Wrenley’s hand, and accepted his offer to sit on the couch. I could see the documents he had laid out on the glasstopped table between us. He had a red pen and appeared to be going through lists that he was checking against his own.
“Will you join me in a Bloody Mary?”
“No thanks.”
“Ah, the constable doesn’t drink on duty, does she?”
“I’m so exhausted, Mr. Wrenley, that I’d probably curl up and take a nap if I so much as smelled a whiff of the vodka. Your inventory?”
“Bryan’s off trying to solve the mystery of Lowell Caxton’s hasty retreat. He’s been good enough to let me attempt to reconcile some of my records with Deni’s things before I return to Palm Beach.” He waved his receipts in my direction as though to convince me that he had proof of title for anything he needed. “Where’s your sidekick? I was beginning to think you and Detective Chapman were joined at the hip.”
“He’ll be along soon. We were-I was hoping to get Mr. Daughtry’s permission to look around a bit at some of Denise’s things.”
“I thought that first day I met you here you’d gone all through this place with warrants and everything short of commando troops. Bryan was sure he was going back to prison.”
I smiled at his exaggerated description. “That’s one of the problems when you do a search before you know just what it is you’re looking for.”
“But now you
Not really. But I saw no reason to tell that to Wrenley. We’d try again with some of the information we had picked up after Varelli’s murder and during our conversation with Don Cannon. “Do you have any idea when Mr. Daughtry is due to return?” I didn’t know whether to try to wait it out or get down to my office and face the music with McKinney.
“Pretty soon, I should think. He’s got to lock the place up for the night.”
It was now going on three hours since Mike had left the city. I reached in my bag to get the cell phone to try to beep him. When I turned it on, the failure of the three green icons to light up reminded me that the battery must have run down. I kept the charger set up on my desk at home and plugged the phone into it every evening as a matter of habit, but since I had spent the last two nights at Jake’s apartment, I had neglected to recharge it.
“Would you mind if I use the telephone for a moment?”
Wrenley pointed to the portable unit on the table next to his papers. “Help yourself.”
I picked it up and dialed Chapman’s beeper, punching in the number of the gallery as I read it off the plate on the receiver. Then I set it back down, knowing he would return the call to the unfamiliar number only when he was ready to take a break.
“I can’t give you access to the storage area, but I don’t imagine Bryan would mind if you look through the gallery and the office while you’re waiting. After all, you’ve done that once already, haven’t you?”
I was feeling even more foolish as I stood up and glanced around. There was nothing in the midst of this thoroughly modern exhibit that I could connect by my wildest stretch to the art treasures that I associated with Deni Caxton’s troubles. I started to work my way about the place, reading the descriptions and trying to make sense of the works.
Within several minutes the phone rang and I hurried back to the area where Wrenley was sitting. He had answered it by saying, “Galleria Caxton Due,” and passed it off to me when I approached the table.
Instinctively, I turned my back to him and started to walk a few steps off. I was aware that it was rude, but I also wanted whatever privacy might be necessary. “No, that was Wrenley. Frank Wrenley,” I said, responding to Mike’s question about whether the man who had spoken was Bryan Daughtry.
“Can you talk?”
“About what?”
“Never mind. You’ll explain where Daughtry is later, I guess.”
“Sure. No big deal. Is it our guy?” I whispered into the receiver.
“Order a magnum of the champagne, Coop. Anthony Bailor is about to have an incurable case of gangrenous balls. He’s not talking, but he’s the man.”
“What do you mean he’s not talking?”
“He still denies everything, including his name. But I’ve got his mug shots, and the Jersey police ran his prints this morning.”
“Have you arrested him?”
“Why? You gonna give your pal Jake a scoop for the nightly news? No leaks on this one till we know who’s behind it. Bailor took the fall for someone in that last theft he was involved in. There’s got to be a link to somebody in this investigation.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to know what to do next. Should I go down to the office and draw up a complaint on Deni’s homicide? You’re going to have to lodge a warrant so we can start extradition proceedings from New Jersey.”
“Take it easy. I haven’t even told the lieutenant yet. Let me see how the boss wants me to handle it and what the Jersey cops want to hold him on out here. You find out anything useful about Caxton?”
“Not a thing. Where do you want to meet?”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I sort this out. I’ll pick you up at Hogan Place and take you to Saint Vincent’s.”
I hung up and walked the phone back to Wrenley, who seemed absorbed in his checklist.
“Good news? You look a lot happier now than you did ten minutes ago.”
“Please tell Mr. Daughtry I was here. Perhaps he could give me a call tomorrow, and I’ll set up a time to see him.”
“You’ve decided not to wait?” Wrenley stood up, looking at me and shielding his eyes with his right hand. He was facing directly into the sun, which had now saturated the atrium. “Must have some new developments on the case. Have you found Lowell Caxton?”
“No, it’s another matter altogether. Nothing to do with the Caxtons. You’ll probably hear it on the news tonight-an assault in a midtown hotel. I’ve got to get some things started on that one before morning.” No point giving him any information on Anthony Bailor.
“Well, good luck with this. For Deni’s sake I sure hope you get a break soon. I’ll be back up from Florida next week, if you need me for anything.” The late-August sun was like a ball of fire, coming over the tops of the low buildings across the street and sparkling through the wall of glass. I lifted my sunglasses off the top of my head and replaced them on my nose.
My heart was pounding as my mind pieced the clues together at precisely the wrong place and time. Like Anthony Bailor, Frank Wrenley had been raised in Florida. I picked up my bag to leave and did an involuntary double take at Wrenley, who was squinting back at me without benefit of sunglasses.
“You look as if you’ve seen an apparition, Ms. Cooper.”
“Sorry, I’m just very tired. I don’t feel well. I’ll see myself out.” I was backing away from the area around the two sofas, thinking of the sunglasses that had been vouchered at the scene of Marco Varelli’s murder a week earlier. How many coincidences does it take to make a fact?
Wrenley was walking toward me. I quickened my pace, knowing that Brannigan and Lazarro were waiting for me right outside the warehouse door.
“I suppose Detective Chapman has managed to get his hands on Anthony Bailor. Is that what put you in such a good mood, Ms. Cooper?”
