I bathed, ignored the usually appealing pile of magazines next to the bed, and read a chapter of The Ambassadors before falling off into a sound sleep. On Saturday morning I went over to the west sixties, where I took a two-hour ballet class with my instructor, William, who tried to remove all the knots that several weeks of courtroom tension had worked into my shoulders, back, and thighs. When I left the dance studio I headed directly downtown to the office, to continue researching and crafting my arguments for the complicated presentation I had to make on Monday.

It was close to eight o’clock when I realized that my eyes were bleary and my thought process was getting fuzzy. As I neared home on the FDR Drive, I was trying to decide whether there was anyone in town I could call on such short notice to meet me for a light supper. The beeper went off while I was still a few blocks away from my apartment, and when I glanced down and noted that the number on the lighted display was unfamiliar, I decided to wait until I got upstairs to return the call.

“Hello?” I said tentatively.

The accented voice of an older woman spoke into the telephone. “One moment,” she said, and I heard her say something inaudible while passing the receiver to someone.

“Yeah?” It was Mike Chapman’s voice.

“Hi. Got your beep on my way home.”

“Hey, Coop. We got an I.D., just an hour ago. Housekeeper came back from vacation. Says the lady of the house was supposed to be here all week but nobody’s seen her. Noticed the sketch in yesterday’s news, then she put it together with the fact that ‘Madam’ is not around. Called the precinct, and they notified us. I grabbed one of the guys and we ran down here with a couple of the head shots from the M.E.’s Office, and the housekeeper breaks up on us as soon as she sees the photos.”

“Who is-”

“Lady’s name is Denise Caxton. Lives-well, lived-at 890 Fifth Avenue. Ever hear of her?” Chapman wanted to know.

“No. Why?”

“She and the husband own an art gallery, same place where you get your roots done.”

“The Fuller Building?” I asked. Madison Avenue at Fiftyseventh Street -the crossroads of the art world, as the owner of my salon liked to call it.

“Yeah, the Caxton Gallery occupies the entire top floor.”

I could hear the background conversation between Mike’s partner and the tearful woman as Mike whispered into the phone. “You wouldn’t believe this apartment-five-bedroom duplex, with a modern art collection that most museums would kill for.”

“So, did they? And where’s Mr. Caxton?”

“The housekeeper doesn’t know. Denise split with him- Lowell Caxton-a few months back. They both still share the apartment-separate entrances and living quarters-but there’s no sign that he’s in town. And she says there’s nothing to suggest any foul play in the apartment, either.”

“Want me to come over and-”

“Forget about it. Hazel’s giving us the boot. Won’t let us look around or touch anything. Not till she gets her orders from Monsieur Caxton.”

“Any date book, calendar-to trace back the deceased’s movements?”

“All on computer, Coop, and she’s not letting us anywhere near that room or any of the equipment.”

“Can you secure the apartment until I can get a warrant to search it?” I asked.

“You bet your ass we’ll have to. Any of this stuff disappears, we’ll all be nailed to the wall. I’ve sent for some uniformed guys to watch each of the entrances, just to keep the place buttoned up tight.

“And get your beauty sleep, blondie. I have the distinct feeling that you and I will be dancing together on this one. If there’s one motive for every million hanging on these walls, we’re gonna be busy.”

“Think about it for a minute,” Chapman urged me. “ Rebecca? Domestic violence. Notorious? Domestic violence. Gaslight? Domestic violence. Dial M for Murder? Domestic violence. Niagara? Domestic violence. Every one of your favorite movies has some kind of spousal abuse in it, you know? What does that say about you, blondie?”

I was staring at a Monet hanging in the Caxton living room. I had never seen any painting from the water lily series in private hands, and here was a glorious canvas, practically as large as the triptych that hangs in the Museum of Modern Art, stretching the length of the wall.

“ The Postman Always Rings Twice? Domestic violence. Double Indemnity? Domes-”

“Yeah, now you’re getting to the good ones. The ladies strike back, Mikey. Those are the ones I really enjoy.” I walked over to Mercer, who was studying the signature in the corner of the painting.

“Is this for real?” he asked me.

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I assume so. I played around on the Internet for a couple of hours last night after Mike called me with the I.D., and it seems the Caxton collection is world famous. A lot of it has been in the family for generations.”

Mercer and I were moving around the forty-foot-long room like it was a gallery in the Louvre. Each painting and object was museum quality, and I was fascinated by their beauty and number.

Chapman was sitting on a sofa facing the stunning view of Central Park, watching as the housekeeper delivered coffee and English muffins to the table in front of him, pouring from a Georgian server that was worth our collective salaries for at least the next couple of years.

“Thanks, Valerie. I was starving.” Chapman gave the redeyed woman his best grin and began slathering butter on the toasted morsel he had picked up from the plate. “Valerie makes these from scratch, Coop. Got her own nooks and crannies-better than Thomas’. You oughta take a lesson from her.”

Mercer shook his head and walked over, spreading a napkin across the knee of Chapman’s jeans. The dripping butter would have been an unwelcome accent to the delicate design of golden Napoleonic bees on the peach silk fabric of the sofa. “How’d you get Valerie to let us in?”

“We bonded last night over a bit of Mr. Caxton’s Irish whiskey. I’ve frequently found it helpful in periods of bereavement. Basically I told her I wasn’t going anywhere until she located him for me.”

Chapman had called me again at midnight to tell me that Valerie had reached Lowell Caxton at his home in Paris and that he would be taking the Concorde back to New York. It was Mike’s idea that the three of us await him in his home, to deny him the opportunity to alter or destroy any evidence before we could interview him.

Air France flight 002 from Paris had been due in at 8: 44 a.m. on Sunday. Chapman had returned to the building at six, and Mercer had picked me up at home two hours later. “Why’d she let you back in today?” I asked. “The boss won’t be too happy about this, I’m sure.”

“Let’s just say she was encouraged by the doormen. One thing they frown on in these snooty buildings, Miss Cooper, is scenes. The sight of me alone in the lobby wasn’t all that upsetting to them at first, but it was probably when I asked Frick and Frack if they thought it was gonna be necessary for me to get the Emergency Services Unit over here with battering rams that they called and suggested to Valerie that I might be more comfortable waiting in Caxton’s salon. I’m telling you- doormen despise scenes.”

So much for any evidence that we might be lucky enough to come up with in the apartment. The kind of pressure that Mike liked to apply to get his way more often resulted in a consent under threat than the freely given consent necessary for a lawful entry or search.

Valerie returned to the room with another ornate tray and porcelain cups for Mercer and me. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the coffee, and I wondered whether it was because of grief over her mistress’s death, the effects of a hangover, or fear of Caxton’s reaction when he found us settled in and enjoying his hospitality. She replaced the silver pot on a small table beside a large ormolu clock that bore an engraved seal depicting a royal crest I couldn’t identify.