caller might hope for a reservation six months ahead, but the handful of tables were filled by regulars who came on a steady basis when Joey gave them their dates. Once in, since there is no second seating, you could sit for the night and feast on luscious Italian food and wine for hours, to the accompaniment of great music from the fifties and sixties. Mike and I had been guests there a couple of times over the years, but Jake had worked his way up to a weekly berth after he hit the national news desk. Mike had asked Jake to set up a dinner to get me out of my dismal mood and to mark Mercer’s move from intensive care to a regular hospital room. It looked like he’d be released in another ten days.
We settled into the booth as Vic, the bartender, came over with the first round of drinks. He forgot names from time to time, but never faces or beverage favorites.
“To Mercer’s recovery,” Jake said, clicking glasses with us.
“So now you know why Caxton was packing up,” Mike began.
“Let’s not talk about the case tonight, please?” I looked from one to the other.
“You gotta face the music sooner or later, blondie.”
I had avoided most discussions of the whole matter for the last week, immersing myself in the case folders that had been buried on my desktop since the evening I had learned of Denise Caxton’s death. Jake hadn’t pushed me, letting me ease back into my own apartment and assure family and friends that everything was fine.
Frankie Palomino, Joey’s son, came to sit at the table and take our order. Mike was distracted for the moment. He’d obviously been thinking about what he’d eat from the moment I told him we’d be coming here for dinner.
“I gotta have the roasted peppers, clams
Mike had picked all the best things from the kitchen. Frankie laughed and asked if Jake and I wanted to add any choices of our own. The food was served family style, in portions large enough to feed half the guys back at the squad.
“Where was I? Oh, so you heard about Caxton?”
Jake looked at me and gave my hand a squeeze. “He’s right. You’ve got to deal with this.”
I played with the ice in my glass, drew in a breath, and answered Mike. “Kim McFadden called me at home this weekend, before the story broke in the papers on Monday.” The U.S. Attorney’s Office had brought down the first indictments in the auction bid-rigging case. Although Lowell Caxton was not among the defendants named, it had already been rumored that one of the dealers was cooperating and about to testify against others in the ring. Lowell had been moving his assets out of New York to some of his other properties, probably trying to get them out of the country before they could be seized by the government.
“Has Anthony Bailor talked?” Jake asked Mike.
“He’s not exactly singing. The first time I saw him at the hospital, he wouldn’t give up Wrenley for anything. Once he heard Frank was dead, he confirmed that’s who he was working for. Still won’t admit he did the hit on Deni, but we don’t need his confession. We’ve got the DNA to make that case.”
“Bailor was the guy in the garage after Alex?”
“Yeah. Seems Wrenley panicked at Mickey Diamond’s story in the paper that we were close to solving the case. He followed Alex to Lincoln Center, then called Bailor to run her down. Same for the attempt on Mercer and Alex. Wrenley was the one who hired the receptionist to freelance for him on Sunday morning. She called to leave the message, at his direction, pretending to be Marina Sette. He also paid her to let you into the gallery. Bailor was told to kill her on his way in, and then shoot both of you.”
“What does Bailor say about the paintings?” I asked.
“Back to square one. Holds to his story that he doesn’t know anything about the art. And now, with Wrenley dead, we’ll never know if he really had the Rembrandt, too.”
I knew that cops as well as F.B.I. agents had gone through Wrenley’s apartments in New York and Florida in painstaking searches. The possibility that after a decade these priceless treasures would be restored to public view again had been dashed with the murder of Denise Caxton and the death of Frank Wrenley. Both paintings were still missing. Was I responsible for the fact that Wrenley’s secret died with him in his fall from the railroad track?
“I know what you’re thinking, Coop. He was a mutt who didn’t deserve to live.”
“But if he had some of the stolen paintings, and we could have found out…”
“Hey, the friggin’ Feebies couldn’t find the stuff for ten years. They’re probably just sitting on the floor under somebody’s bed, collecting dust. Or in some storage case left in a warehouse that won’t get opened for another fifty years, and then they’ll get discovered by accident. These thieves have been scamming off each other for so long now, the art could be anywhere. A lot of dead bodies left behind for this loot.”
I thought of Marco Varelli and why the old man wasn’t allowed to die a natural death, simply because he might connect Wrenley and Caxton to the stolen Vermeer.
“The Feds got nothin’ better to do than look for counterfeit money and seize illegal Cuban cigars. This gives ’em a mission, Coop. It ain’t all bad.”
Mike was tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt. “Hey, Jake, better stick that tie in your shirt. You get sauce on that thing it’ll ruin the design completely. What’s he got on this one, blondie? Gerbils? Wait’ll I tell Mercer you got little rodents running around on your necktie.”
Frankie came over to make sure everything was okay. “See the group at that table for six? It’s the CEO of one of the big ad agencies, with a few of his models. One of the girls saw you on TV the other night and wants to meet you.”
I turned to look around, assuming that Frankie was talking about Jake.
“Relax, it’s not me for a change. It’s Chapman.”
The tall redhead was beaming at Mike. She must have seen him on the news, being interviewed about the close of the Caxton murder investigation.
“Tell her I’ll be over as soon as I finish my dinner, will you, Frankie?” He wiped the empty pasta bowl with a piece of bread and winked at his admirer. “So, either of you guys hear the question tonight?”
We had been in the car on our way to the restaurant when
“Easy one. Would have been a split.”
“What was the category?”
“Religion.”
“I never bet against you on that.”
“Yeah, but since you spent some time in church last week, I thought you’d give it a shot. The answer was: Seventeenthcentury cleric who created the most famous sparkling white wine.”
I laughed. “That religious I am. Dom Perignon, the monk who discovered champagne.”
Mike got up from the booth and called over to the bar. “Hey, Vic, you got any champagne on ice? I’ll be back over when they bring out the chicken. I’m gonna go introduce myself to my fans. You know how that is, Mr. Tyler, don’t you?” He winked at me and put his napkin on his seat.
Jake turned to ask if I was all right. I smiled and nodded, reaching up to kiss him on the side of his neck. “Thanks for your patience. I’ll be fine.”
He held my face and pressed his mouth gently against mine. Then he sat back. “There’s a follow-up question to the one about Dom Perignon. I feel just like that lucky old monk. Know what he said when he took his first sip of champagne?”
“I have no idea.”
“‘I’m tasting stars!’ ” Jake said, pulling me toward him and kissing me again.
I heard the sound of the cork popping out of the bottle and flying up against the ceiling. The Temptations were singing “My Girl,” Mike had come back to the booth to await the next course, and Vic was pouring champagne for everyone. The events since the night I met Mike at Spuyten Duyvil would be less raw in a few weeks, we’d catch the West Side rapist soon, and new cases would draw me back into the work I loved.
We lifted our glasses to toast our missing partner once more, with Mike extracting a promise from us to bring Mercer to dinner here as soon as he was able. We would be a team again, in spite of the devil.
