“Hardly. Can you bring up the tats on your computer?”
“Sure.” Radar played with his keyboard. “Here.” He turned the screen around for Decker to see. A wisteria vine cascaded down Angeline’s shoulder, and a peony rested on the junction between her spine and buttock. It was of note that she had chosen flowers used by Clara Driscoll in the Tiffany glass lamps.
“Can you print them out for me?”
“You want to show them to the parents?”
“It’s easier than showing them her body. I also told them to bring her toothbrush in case you wanted to confirm with DNA, but these might do it.”
“Fine.” Radar produced a latex glove and small paper bag. “Forensics found this with the vacuum. Be careful. We’re talking sharp.”
Decker put on the glove, opened the bag, and looked inside. He shone a light and then gingerly picked up a pinch of tiny colored fragments. “Stained glass.”
“Angeline had been a busy girl. Where are the forgeries from the mausoleum? Did the family take them?”
“No, no, no. I’ve got them in bubble wrap and put them in the lost and found since it’s the only cage that locks. We really should get an official evidence room.”
“Become a real big-city police department.”
Decker smiled. “Let’s see if the fragments match to the forgeries. We’ll need a big-city lab with equipment for something this sophisticated. Boston will probably do it since her murder is most likely connected to Latham’s murder.”
“That was Boston territory?”
“No, it’s Summer Village territory, but they use Boston if they need something specific.”
“Tell me about Latham.” After Decker did a brief recap, Radar said, “That’s one vicious murder.”
“It was bad. I’d like to go back to his apartment when I have time and riffle through it myself. The Summer Village detectives seem like good guys and eager to share. But Latham isn’t my case. I’d also like to return to New York and reinterview the extended Sobel family.”
“Why?”
“Because I think that’s how Angeline Moreau found out about the Tiffany windows.”
“Someone in the family was behind the theft?”
“Or talked to her too freely. There were people I didn’t interview because I came back to investigate Moreau’s murder.”
“Yeah, about that. How do you feel about handling the murder investigation? Are you comfortable with it?”
“I’m okay for right now.”
“So then it’s yours. If it becomes too much or too complicated—and it might be with Latham’s murder—let me know.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“How’s the kid?”
“McAdams? Surprisingly motivated. I told him to go home and get some rest, but he insisted on doing additional research. I’d like to take him with me to New York.”
“Why?”
“It’s his home turf. He has connections there.”
“Does he ever.”
“You want to fill me in with that.”
“His father, Jack McAdams, is in international banking; his mother, Alberta, is currently married to someone else in international banking. But it’s the grandfather with the real money. He did the backing for a lot of the high-tech companies when the field was in its infancy. He passed about six years ago and Tyler’s father amassed most of the fortune. Jack went to Duxbury as an undergrad.”
“Not Harvard?”
“Harvard Law School. Jack is not only a major benefactor of Duxbury, he sits on the board. He also built the new rec center for the town. Actually, it’s about four years old but we still call it the new rec center. He is also instrumental in building the new stage theater and revamping the swimming center. It has endeared him to the mayor.”
“Got it.”
“So you’re okay with the kid? That’s good. He’s a trust fund baby, you know. So I suppose it’s laudable that he’s trying to work, although I can’t help but think that he has something up his sleeve.”
“Me, too,” Decker said. “What’s your take on it?”
“I don’t know. But why would a kid like that want to work with a small-town police department?”
“Probably this is the only place that would take him without a lick of experience.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. I gave him a six-week crash course. He was a quick learner, very smart, but obnoxious. I don’t get him. Why not go to law school, sit back on your ass, and spend Daddy’s bucks. Something’s on his mind.”
“Maybe he wants to write a Pulitzer Prize exposé.”
“Here? We’re boring. Not a scandal in fifty years.”
“Maybe he’s after a screenplay with verisimilitude.”
“Yeah, that would fit.” Radar handed Decker the printouts of the tattoos. “All right. Go back to New York and see if you can’t make something happen. If you happen to meet Tyler’s old man, tread lightly.”
“Tyler detests him, you know.”
“Nobody likes him. Jack’s a real schmuck. One day that man’s going to wind up with a bullet in his back and no one will be surprised.”
IN ANOTHER CONTEXT, Karen Bronson might not be beautiful, but she might have appeared fit: a good figure, nice tan, brown, straight hair cut in a neat bob. She had a lithe body and long arms and legs. Her face was long with thin lips and light, red-rimmed eyes with deep circles under the orbs. Like Decker, she hadn’t slept for many hours. Her husband also had an athlete’s build—long and lean with broad shoulders. They appeared to be in their early fifties. They had dressed strictly for comfort: sweatpants and sweatshirts. Decker came into the small interview room holding the printouts and a cup of coffee.
“Can I refill your cups for you?” Both of them shook their heads. “Peter Decker.” He shook their hands and sat down. The square footage of the place was very small. Intimacy was forced. “I’m so sorry for your terrible loss. This is my case and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to find out what happened and who did this.”
Jim spoke up. “No offense, Detective, but this is a very small town. I mean . . .” He threw up his hands. “Have you done this before?”
“I was a Los Angeles Police Department lieutenant before I came out here. And I’ve worked hundreds of homicides. I promise I’ll do everything I can. And I’ll be sure to keep in touch. Like I said, call me anytime.”
“So this was like a retirement job or . . .”
“Exactly.”
“When did you leave Los Angeles?”
Karen broke in. Her voice was husky. “Jim, we can ask the questions another time.”
“I want to make sure he’s competent.” Jim looked at Decker. “We’re thinking about hiring private . . . if we don’t get results.”
“Sure, if you want. I’ll coordinate with him if you do.”
“And you’re sure it’s Angeline.”
Decker clenched his jaw. “Does she have tattoos?”
“Oh God!” Karen’s eyes watered. “Yes.”
“We have some pictures.” He slid them across the table. She gasped and then broke into open sobs. Jim held her shoulders and shoved the papers back to Decker.
“I’m sorry.” When neither responded, Decker said, “I need to ask you some questions. They might be unpleasant. I’m sorry if they are.”
“What did you find out about this John character?” Jim demanded. “Is he important?”
“John Latham. You’re sure that you’ve never heard the name before?”
“No. Never. Who is he?”
“I know the bare minimum about him.” Decker blew out air. “He was murdered by the time we got to his apartment. That’s why he wasn’t answering his phone.”
“Oh my God!” Jim hugged Karen tighter as she continued to sob. “Just what the hell is
going on?”
“Has . . . has Angeline ever been in trouble before?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I told you the questions might be unpleasant. I have to ask them. Has she ever shoplifted, for instance?”
“Shoplifted?”
“Yes,” Karen broke in.
“She did?” Jim asked.
“Years ago. When she was eleven or twelve—during the divorce. She was having a hard time. Nothing since that one incident . . . actually it was two . . . two incidents. But I begged the owner to let me pay and not press charges and she was very kind about it. Two charges would have meant juvenile hall.” Karen wiped her eyes. “What mess did she get herself into?”
“I’m not positive about anything.” Decker took out his notepad. “Let me tell you what I do know. Last Friday night, one of the cemetery mausoleums was broken into. There were some items taken.”
“What kind of items?”
“Valuable stained-glass window panels. Not all of them. Two original panels were still there. But the other two panels had been forged. The forensic team found shards of glass in your daughter’s apartment—”
“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” Karen said. “When you mentioned her apartment, I thought you meant her dorm room. But then her dean told us that it happened off-campus . . . that the university wasn’t even technically responsible.”
“Passing the buck,” Jim said. “They’re all fucking weasels!”
“Jim—”
“You know it’s true. All they care about is their own asses. They are petrified we’re going to sue. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to sue someone. Somebody is to blame for my daughter’s death!”
“Who gives a damn about money,” Karen snapped.
“I’m just saying that somebody has to take responsibility!”
“That would be me,” Decker said. “I’m responsible for this investigation right now. So if you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”
“Why would I yell at you? You’re trying to help.”
“I am,” Decker said. “So you knew nothing about an apartment off-campus?”
“Not a thing,” Jim said. “We weren’t paying for it, that’s for certain.”
“Okay. Going back to the apartment, we found glass shards in it. We also have the forged panels. Our next step is to see if the glass that we found in the apartment matches the glass in the forgeries.”
“Even if it does match, it doesn’t mean that Angeline did the forgeries,” Jim said. “There could be dozens of people owning that glass—”
“Jim, just listen to what the man has to say, okay.” Karen wiped her eyes. “You think she forged the panels.”
“I have to consider it, yes.”
“And she was murdered because of the forgeries?” Karen’s eyes shed new tears.
“Maybe.”
“How valuable are these panels?” Jim said. “Are they priceless or something?”
“Pricey but certainly not priceless.”
“How much? Like thousands?”
“Probably.”
“If she was carrying around expensive bags, you’re thinking that she has done some other types of forgeries before and that’s how she got the spending money,” Karen said.
“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.” He paused. “Could there be other illegal activities that she’s done in the past?”
“Like what?”
“Drugs maybe?”
“No, not Angeline,” Karen insisted. “Yes, I can see her . . . possibly . . . copying some art pieces, but not drugs.”
“Why can you see her copying other art pieces, Mrs. Bronson?”
“Karen.”
“Okay, sure. Karen. Tell me why you said that.”
The woman sighed. “Angeline was every bit the typical college student, idealistic and a bit . . . radical. She often spoke about art, saying it should be available to the masses. In museums and public places, not holed up in big mansions. Her goal was always nonprofit . . . getting major pieces back to public places from private places. So . . . maybe she got carried away, imagined herself to be a modern-day Robin Hood.”
Stealing from the rich and buying designer handbags. Decker said, “Anything else you’d like to tell me about her?”
“No.” Karen wiped her eyes. “And I’m not saying she did anything illegal. I’m just trying to give you background on my baby.”
“I appreciate it.”
“What’s with this Latham guy? How does he fit in?”
“I’m working on that. It’s not my case—it happened in Summer Village, which is a suburb of the Boston area—so I can’t just charge in and demand answers. But when I find out, I’ll certainly let you know.”
“So he’s not a student anywhere here?”
“I haven’t checked every student on the roster, but I don’t believe so. He’s older. He lives an hour and a half away. I think he might be associated with Tufts University but I’m not even sure about that. Is there anything I can do for you two right now?”
Jim said, “When can we take her home?”
“I’ll check with Boston. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
“When can we start packing up her . . .” Karen hung her head and stopped talking.
“I’ll check with Forensics and let you know about that as well,” Decker said. “Do you have a place to stay tonight? I can help you arrange something if you need it.”
“No, we’re . . . we’re staying at the Greenbury College Inn for the next two nights.”
“And you have my number?” Decker said.
“We do,” Jim said.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“We need a lot of things right now,” Jim snarled out. “And it’s nothing that you or anyone else can give us.”
CHAPTER 17
KENNEDY’S PUB WAS one of the busier college hangouts because it had a reputation for cheap drinks and decent bar food. As the kid predicted, the place was arid hot, noisy, and stinky, especially at ten in the evening. They found a corner table away from the oversized and overcrowded bar. The dance floor was packed with students doing all kinds of moves and it took a while before a server was even visible. Finally, McAdams grew impatient, got up, and a moment later, a surly student took their orders: crudités and a Grolsch for Decker, a Manhattan and the lamb sliders for the kid.
“I like bourbon,” he said. “One of the few things that my father and I have in common.” He drummed his fingers. “That and we both live off my grandfather’s money. Now that guy was a true visionary. Not the most grandfatherly type. I think I waved to him in passing when I was five. Real warm people the McAdamses are.”
Decker nodded. “At least if he wasn’t warm, he was generous.”
“You take what you can get. The old man was married three times with a lot of lady friends in between. Lots of divorces and lots of alimony, but he had enough to go around.” The server brought over their drinks and plopped them on the table. McAdams sipped the richly colored bourbon. “I like his third wife, Nina. Matter of fact, I’m staying with her in the city.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventy-two. My grandfather would have been . . . eighty-six or -seven. He died six years ago. That’s when I came into a small part of our inheritance. I know my other sibs got something but his third wife told me that, as the eldest and most precocious, I am due to get the lion’s share, probably as much as my father.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yes, oh boy. It took our already explosive relationship and brought it that much closer to total obliteration.”
Decker saw that McAdams had polished off his bourbon and ordered another one for him. “You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe in a hundred years.
” McAdams pulled out his iPad. “I got the names of the detectives on the Petroshkovich theft. Douglas Arrenz and Allan Sugar. Both are still alive.”
“Hold on.” Decker took out his notepad. “Can you spell the names for me?”
Tyler complied. “Marylebone has a small police department, about the size of Greenbury’s. The case was huge. It took up headlines for months. The department even brought in several experts on art thefts, but the case didn’t go anywhere.”
“Any theories about where the icons went?”
“I found a retrospective article on the theft that came out ten years ago. When the icons were taken, the iron curtain was still up. Now that there is easier access to Russia, the hypothesis is that they were sold to some oligarch to adorn the walls of his dacha. Petroshkovich is better known in Russia than here. No doubt they could command high prices from the newly minted bourgeoisie. I really don’t see them as having any connection to the theft of two small Tiffany panels, but it’s your call.”
“I’m sure you’re right, McAdams. However, if the detectives are on our way to the city and they’re willing to talk to us about it, we should meet with them. Maybe they’ve come across some black market dealers.”
“Sure.” The server brought a refresh on the alcohol and the food. McAdams picked up the drink. “This is truly going to put me under. As if I’ll need help. I have a very loud alarm clock. You still want to leave at seven.”
“Yep. Find out anything tonight?”
“I found out that the student libraries are open late, late, but not the reference desks. The biggest one—at Duxbury—closed at eight. There are hundreds of books of antique plates and maps in that one library alone. I’ve paged through seven of them and they all looked clean. Then I went to Rayfield at Littleton—which closes at nine. I went through another five—all clean. The assignment is going to take hours.”
“God is in the details.” Decker munched on a celery stick. “You should go to law school, Tyler. You’ll be overworked but at least you’ll be compensated.”
“And this coming from a man who walked away from the title esquire.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 17
