“If you’ve seen enough here, we’ll go inside to Deni’s office.”

I wasn’t sure that I was ready to leave the boudoir, but we were given no choice, and the three of us dutifully followed Caxton, retracing our steps back up the corridor and into the next room.

Denise had constructed a thronelike encampment for herself at one end of this huge home office, centered around a fifteenth-century table that Lowell told us he had found in an Umbrian monastery. The table had become her desk and was ornamented only by a Fabergé clock. There were two chairs placed opposite Denise’s high-backed leather seat, and four more scattered around the room that matched that pair. Here the walls were decorated with paintings that were completely unfamiliar to me-all contemporary and none bearing signatures that I recognized.

Caxton walked behind the table and lowered himself into Denise’s chair, looking around the room as if for the first time from that perspective, and invited us to sit down and ask him whatever questions we wanted to pose about her.

“When do we reach the point at which you ask me who her enemies were, gentlemen?”

“We’re ready anytime you are. How long’s the list?” Chapman said.

“Depends on where you are in the art community, I would think. A disgruntled ‘artiste’ who thinks his dealer has taken too great a commission for his work. Just glance at the walls and see how many of those there might be. Then you’ve got the clients, who’ve found they’ve paid too much for a painting, on the dealer’s advice, that they neither like nor will be able to resell for anything remotely near the price they put out.

“There isn’t anyone in the business,” he went on, “who hasn’t been accused of selling a forged piece, by accident or design, over the years. And then there’s the current brouhaha in the auction houses, with the government charging sellers with rigging the bids to knock up the prices. On the surface, gentlemen, it’s a world of exquisite beauty and refinement. But it’s every bit as filthy and cutthroat as any other commercial enterprise, as soon as you get beneath the top layer of gouache.”

Mercer was leaning forward, balancing his pad on his knee while he reviewed subjects he wanted to ask Caxton about. “We’ll need a client list, then, as well as contact information for the painters she represented.”

“You’ll have to talk to her partner about that tomorrow at his office.”

“I thought you were her partner,” Mike said.

“As I mentioned, I set her up in the gallery in the Fuller Building originally. Without the Caxton name, I doubt she would have been able to sell the Mona Lisa, had it come on the market. I was the entrée to the uptown world in Manhattan- old money, large walls, deep pockets. But once she got involved in the New York scene, she had her own separate business-a thriving one at that-with a silent partner who mirrored her taste much more directly. Perhaps you’ve heard of him-Bryan Daughtry? They called their business Galleria Caxton Due.”

Mercer and I certainly knew Daughtry’s name. He had been a suspect in a very bizarre murder case in a neighboring county-beyond our jurisdiction but right up our alley. Chapman went for the bait. “Dead girl in the leather mask? That Daughtry?”

“Indeed, Mr. Chapman. That’s why I was so grateful that he was a silent partner. The scandal didn’t alarm Deni at all. Might even have helped, with her type of clientele. But none of the stigma ever stuck on Bryan. I haven’t spoken with him yet today, but he knows all the players in their professional life.”

“Does he have any part of your Fifty-seventh Street business?” I asked.

“Not a dime. Not a speck of paint.”

“Where was their operation? SoHo?”

“You’re not keeping up with the trends, Detective Wallace. SoHo is dead. It’s a commercial mall these days, not a creative zone any longer.”

The area south of Houston Street and north of Canal had been claimed by the avant-garde art community in the sixties and seventies. Abandoned lofts and warehouses, uninhabitable and overrun with rodents, had been renovated, populated, and gentrified by the struggling artists who were unable to afford midtown rents and needed the cavernous space to house their oversized canvases. The old meat district known as Washington Market became chic with its new infusion of hip locals and its redesignation as “Tribeca,” the triangle below Canal. By the late eighties, galleries there were being displaced by designer boutiques, chain store branches, and bed-and-bath shops with their ubiquitous supply of votive candles.

Caxton described the exodus. “In the mid-nineties, Paula Cooper moved her business up to Chelsea, the west twenties between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. Have you been over there lately?”

“You won’t be asking Alex questions like that after you get to know her a little better, Mr. Caxton,” Chapman said. “She doesn’t eat, shop, or sleep outside of her zip code. Makes her skin crawl soon as you say the words ‘West Side,’ doesn’t it, Coop?”

“We have a lot in common,” Caxton replied, smiling back at me. “Paula Cooper-no relation, I take it?”

“No, I know her only by reputation.” And because my father had bought some paintings from her, I thought to myself, remembering a Jennifer Bartlett I particularly loved.

“Well,” he continued, “she’s the real class of this business. And its bellwether. I don’t actually know the reason she moved, but it’s a safe guess to say that it’s because of what happened in SoHo. This district in Chelsea was full of enormous warehouses. Fifty years ago, when the ocean liners docked on the piers all along the Hudson and connected to the railways there, it was a commercial hub. Lately, the warehouses have been used for auto repair shops and taxi dispatch centers-vast and utilitarian, but not terribly attractive.

“Paula found a fabulous space on Twenty-first Street. Cleaned it up, put in some skylights, whitewashed the interior, and everyone who thought she’d been out of her mind realized what a genius she was. Deni and Bryan started buying up land on those blocks a couple of years ago, planning to open a new venture together. Real estate’s gone through the roof over there. Kind of sorry I ignored them in the beginning. I could have made a killing on the property alone.” Caxton paused. “Bad choice of words today, isn’t it?”

Remorse wasn’t his strong suit.

“And the cocaine? What were her sources for that?”

“The problem only started four or five years ago. About the time that her taste in art changed so radically. Deni knew how strongly I disapproved of her drug use. I could only joke that one had to be stoned to appreciate the work she was trying to hawk to the great unwashed.”

“Do you know who her dealer was?” Mercer asked.

“I think she used to get it from the kids who hung around the galleries. Then, as she got hooked, she’d just beep whoever wasn’t in jail at the moment, and a delivery would arrive, brought up to our home by the white-gloved doormen. Usually camouflaged in potpourri or packaged in a bag with assorted foodstuffs from Dean amp; Deluca.”

“Did she owe money to anybody? Any suppliers?”

“No reason to. More than enough money to support all her habits.”

Mercer was working the drug angle with good reason. Deni’s body had been found at the tip of the Thirty-fourth Precinct, which was the heart of Manhattan’s illegal drug operations. Colombians, Dominicans, and African American street gangs-Santiago’s Sinners, Latin Kings, and Wild Hightops-mixed it up with one another night and day as they pumped the streets of the city full of heroin, cocaine, and all their derivative forms. Even if Deni had been thrown in the water from the Bronx side of the creek, the odds were overwhelming that the site of the dumping was heavily infested with users and sellers of every kind of controlled substance.