Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22)

by Kellerman, Faye

  “I’m blue collar. You’re not. You know the salaries of an average working detective. You’re a rich kid. Why would you want to deal with all that jealousy from the department?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “I might have been in my younger years.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I don’t need anything from anyone. You seem like a decent kid, Harvard. As a cop, you’ll always be an outsider. Why set yourself up?” When he didn’t answer, Decker said, “Let me tell you what I found out this evening.” He gave McAdams a recap while the kid typed away on his iPad.

  Afterward, McAdams said, “Colored glass shards. So Angeline did the copies.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Not surprising considering she shoplifted. Once a thief . . .”

  “There were two incidents that her mom knew about. I’m betting there were more that she didn’t know about. So yes, she seems like a good candidate for the forgeries. The questions are: Was she forging things other than stained glass and who was the mastermind behind it?”

  “Latham?”

  “Living like he was, I see him as a middleman, maybe a broker with connections to the rarefied world of art collecting.”

  “Why do you think he has those kinds of connections?”

  “The Windsor Prize . . . art culture and politics. He’s a better candidate for connections than Moreau. Find out about the Windsor Prize, okay?”

  “Will do.” McAdams typed it into his iPad. “We’re still headed for New York?”

  “Yes. I’m still interested in the Sobel family and Max Stewart. He’s an art dealer, ergo he has connections. I’m not saying he’s dirty, but he needs to be interviewed again. When I talked to him the first time, he played it close to the vest. When you were around at the cemetery, he seemed more relaxed, like the two of you were sharing an inside joke.”

  McAdams shrugged.

  “I noticed that as well when we interviewed Angeline’s friends. That they kept looking at you as an ally.”

  “Then they’re delusional.”

  “I can read people, Harvard. You’re young and you’re relaxed around money in a way that I’m not. You’re a good person to have around when I’m knocking on the co-op doors of Park Avenue.”

  “Glad to help even if I’m just a prop.”

  Decker smiled. “As of last night, you’re pulling your weight. No complaints.”

  “Stick around and I’ll give you plenty.” When Decker was quiet, McAdams said, “I want you to know something. That rarefied world isn’t me . . . even if I don’t know what exactly me is.”

  “Frankly, I don’t care about your existential issues. Two people were murdered. I’ve got a job to do. You can help in that regard.”

  “I’m down with that.” He finished his drink. “And by the way, I don’t mind being an outsider in Park Avenue or in Greenbury Police. In my opinion, popularity is highly overrated.”

  AFTER MAKING A dozen phone calls, Decker found out that Douglas Arrenz had retired to Florida. But Allan Sugar lived in East Hampton and agreed to see them any time after ten in the morning. That meant he was the first stop on their way to the city. The business districts of the beach areas were made up of quaint villages: cute little shops and cafés, one after another. The skies were gray and the sidewalks looked deserted with only a few hardy souls braving the snowdrifts.

  Mansions abounded.

  Since it was after the holidays, the residences that Decker could make out through the iron gates looked shut down for the winter. He wondered how a retired detective could afford this piece of paradise. That was made clear by the address. Sugar lived in what looked like the carriage house to the original dowager estate next door. It was a compact brick one-story with black trim around two multipane windows. Decker parked in a blanketed driveway, snow crunching underneath the tires. The chimney was emitting pine-scented smoke and there was a hint of ocean beyond the house.

  McAdams said, “Looks like the Rhode Island PD pays well.”

  “How much do you think the house is worth?”

  “Well . . .” He thought a moment. “It’s small—about two thousand square feet. And it’s in the wrong part of the Hamptons. But it is on the shore. Maybe around three, four million.”

  “Whoa.” Decker was taken aback. “That’s a lot of zeros.”

  “My grandfather’s house isn’t a whole lot bigger, but it has more property and it’s in Southampton, which jacks up the price. It’s also got a good beach front.”

  “Do you own that as well?”

  “I have no idea. I do know it’s in a thirty-year trust for the good and use of all the grandchildren. So I have access to it for the next twenty-four years. After that.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Somebody knows.”

  “That is true, but I’m not privy to that information. I rarely use it in the summer. The Hamptons are a scene. I actually like it at this time of year. There’s something serene in the desolation.”

  “It’s calming. I can understand that.” Decker put on his jacket, gloves, and his hat and got out of the car. The kid followed, both of them stepping in fairly deep drifts. January was turning out to be a particularly cold month everywhere on the eastern seaboard.

  “If you ever want to use my grandfather’s house, let me know,” McAdams said. “I’ll slot it in for you.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Harvard.”

  “Share the wealth.”

  They made their way up the walkway to a paneled front door painted in black and without a knocker. There also didn’t appear to be a doorbell.

  Someone wanted privacy.

  Decker rapped as hard as he could on the wood with a gloved hand. Behind the wall, an elderly voice said, “I hear you, I hear you.” A moment later the door opened and a gush of hot air blasted their faces. “Detective Sugar?”

  “Yes, yes. Come in.” He left the door open, turned his back, and shuffled across the mudroom floor and into the living room. The men followed. Sugar said, “Hope you found the place okay. The addresses can be confusing.”

  “No problem.” Decker wiped his boots assiduously on the floor mat and dried them off with a provided towel. McAdams did the same. “Great house.”

  “Courtesy of a spinster aunt who willed it to me fifty years ago when the area wasn’t hoity-toity and the roof leaked like a sieve. I almost sold it after my wife died. Thank God I didn’t. The bluebloods next door are after me to sell it to them for some ridiculous price. You want some tea?”

  “That would be great. Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Yes, yes.” Sugar was around five five, with stooped shoulders, white hair, milky blue eyes, and a bony frame. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater and wool pants. Argyle socks covered feet that were tucked into slippers. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

  Decker chose a green-and-red plaid sofa that matched two green-and-red plaid chairs. McAdams took a chair. There were coffee table and end tables made from particleboard and originally stained in a deep espresso brown. Over the years—more like decades—they had suffered chips, scratches, and gouges where the lighter board was showing through. The floor was pine, covered in part by an area rug worn thin with use. Heat was pouring out of the radiator, and the flat-screen television—Sugar’s nod to modernity—was on some kind of a game show.

  When Sugar returned from the kitchen, he set the tray down on the living room table. He turned off the TV and turned down the heat. He poured himself a cup of tea. “Make it how you like it. I’m not a waiter.”

  Decker poured hot water into two mugs—for McAdams and for himself. After he made the introductions, he said, “How long were you with the Marylebone PD, Detective Sugar?”

  “It’s Allan and I was with them for thirty years. Wish I’d come up when you did, with AFIS and CODIS and all that razza
matazz. You don’t even have to work anymore. Just plug in fingerprints or DNA and the machines pop out the answers.”

  “It’s been a boon,” Decker said.

  “NCIC was just about all we had. That was back in ’67 when J. Edgar created it. Probably to spy on the Reds but he dropped a few criminals in the files just to make it look legit. None of it was linked up to any computer. Everything was done by hand. It took forever to make a request and forever for it to get processed.”

  Sugar sat down.

  “So you’re interested in the missing Nikolai Petroshkovich icons. You and all Rhode Island. And the Russian Orthodox church—St. Stephen’s. The thefts became an international cause célèbre. Did I pronounce that right?”

  “I think you did.”

  “After I failed to get anywhere, they brought in all the experts.” He made a quotation with his fingers. “Paid all this money and not a damn clue closer to what the hell happened.”

  “What do you think happened?” Decker asked.

  “Douglas and I entertained a number of possibilities. You know Douglas?”

  “Detective Arrenz. He was your partner on the case.”

  “Yep. Retired in Florida. Not for me. I don’t like to sweat.” He sipped his tea. “The theft wasn’t the cleanest job I’d ever seen. At first we considered vandalism. Back then, adolescent crime was confined to car stealing, petty theft, and graffiti done by the drunk, pot-smoking, or coked-up lads and lassies. It’s worse now. All those designer drugs . . .”

  “When are we talking about?” Decker asked. “The eighties?”

  “Yeah, the late eighties. Douglas and I kicked around the possibility that it was a bunch of thugs and punks. We checked the regular troublemakers and didn’t get anywhere. Even the worst of the town miscreants denied thieving from a church. After we found out how valuable the icons were, we fanned out in other directions. We talked to the professionals and found out, much to our chagrin, that churches are easy targets for theft. They’re not occupied most of the time and they contain valuables. We also found out that there are thieves who specialize in hitting churches and synagogues. The common burglars concentrate on fencing things like silver candlesticks and silver chalices. The more sophisticated thieves concentrate on the artwork contained within the hallowed walls of God. That kind of material, as you might imagine, is much harder to fence. You need a specialized dealer.”

  “Black market dealers.”

  “Of course. The thing is that most of the black market art dealers are or were respectable dealers who dabbled in the underworld.”

  “Did you get names?”

  “We got a lot of names. None of them got us anywhere.”

  “Do you still have those names? Maybe they can point us in the right direction.”

  “They didn’t do much good for us, but you’re welcome to try. They’re all in the case files. I’ve got a copy for you so there’s no need to ask. The dealers are ancient by now: senile, in jail, or dead. But knock yourself out.”

  Decker took another sip of tea. Since Sugar had turned down the heat, the room was more comfortable. “Since the Petroshkovich thefts became a cause célèbre and the Russian Orthodox Church became involved, I take it you ruled out random vandalism.”

  “In the end, we all decided it was a professional job made to look like amateurs. Wasn’t the first time iconography has been stolen and it won’t be the last.”

  Decker seemed perplexed. “What other cases of stolen iconography have you come across? I wouldn’t think it would be a very common occurrence.”

  “Not here in the US of A. But there once was a Soviet Union that devalued religious art—opium of the masses and all that razzamatazz—so it happened more often than you’d think. Even great artworks, if they had religious contents, were denigrated. Lucky the Reds never got hold of Italy, otherwise we might not have the Sistine Chapel.”

  Decker smiled. “They might have made an exception to Michelangelo.”

  “You’d be surprised. Look what they did to St. Isaac’s.”

  “Which St. Isaac’s?” McAdams asked. “I’m assuming there is more than one in a country as big as Russia.”

  “St. Isaac’s in St. Petersburg.”

  McAdams immediately started typing on his iPad. “Do you have a password so I can connect to the Internet?”

  Sugar rolled his eyes. “I think it’s the word Admin. Never use the damn thing but when the grandchildren visit, I can’t get them here unless they can use their gadgets.”

  “Uh, that worked.” McAdams smiled. “Thank you.”

  “What happened at St. Isaac’s?” Decker asked.

  “Ancient history,” Sugar said. “After years of trying to recover the Petroshkovich icons and all the research I did for the case, I became interested in Russian Orthodox religious art. The first thing I did after I retired was take the wife to Russia. It didn’t help me make headway with the Petroshkoviches but it did make me feel better that even a big city like St. Petersburg hadn’t fully recovered all its stolen art.”

  McAdams read out loud from what he had pulled up. “St. Isaac’s was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds after a design by Montferrand . . . Frenchman who studied with Napoleon’s architect and designer, Charles Percier. The cathedral is in honor of St. Isaac’s of Dalmatia. Interior artwork originally done by Karl Bryullov. When the original oil paintings started to deteriorate because of cold and moisture, Montferrand had the artwork re-created as mosaics.”

  “And truly spectacular mosaics they are,” Sugar said. “In quality as well as quantity. It’s meant to dazzle and it does.”

  “You know, I think I might have been there . . . in this church.” McAdams looked up. “I’m sure I was.”

  Decker said, “You were in St. Petersburg?”

  “Yeah, when I was eleven or twelve. I was in boarding school so every summer my mother made it her mission to drag me to Europe from one church to another for a cultural experience. I must have seen one hundred churches over the years. They all begin to look alike especially if you see one right after the other. At that age, all I wanted to do was go to a Yankees game. I was resentful . . . stupid me.” McAdams chuckled. “Anyway, correct me if I’m wrong but St. Isaac’s is the tallest building in St. Petersburg.”

  “It is. Which was why it was of use during the Second World War,” Sugar announced. “St. Petersburg was bombed badly. All the famous palaces that the tourists see were rebuilt, including the Hermitage.”

  “The Hermitage?” Decker asked. “You mean the art museum?”

  “Yes, indeed. It was built as a palace.”

  “It was bombed?”

  “Left to rot in ruins. They have pictures there of what it looked like. It was a mere shell of its former glory until the Russian artisans rebuilt it.”

  “What happened to all the artwork inside? Don’t tell me that was destroyed as well?”

  “No, the Ruskies knew they were in trouble. They stored it all in the basement of St. Isaac’s, which the Nazis did not bomb wholesale. Because St. Isaac’s was the tallest building in the city, the Luftwaffe used it as a navigational guide for its Messerschmitts. It’s one of the few buildings that, except for some random shelling, remained intact.”

  McAdams was still reading. “I can’t find anything about St. Isaac’s being used for art storage . . . or for the Nazis using it as a navigational guide,” McAdams said. “Matter of fact, it says that the dome was painted over to avoid enemy aircraft detection.”

  “Young lad, you are missing critical parts of the tale because you’re probably using some condensed encyclopedia site. If you really want to know history, you have to read something with more depth. Or take the lazy man’s way out and just go to St. Petersburg again as an adult and listen to one of their many well-informed guides.”

  Decker said, “What does St. Isaac’s have to do wi
th the Petroshkovich icons?”

  “Nothing as far as I know,” Sugar said. “I just found it interesting because the cathedral had works missing from its iconography that have never been recovered.”

  “Are they also Petroshkoviches?”

  “No, nothing to do with Petroshkovich. These works were done in an earlier period.”

  “Okay,” Decker said. “And you don’t think there’s a connection.”

  “Can’t see how. The thefts were years apart.”

  “Any ideas on who was responsible for the St. Isaac’s thefts?” Decker asked.

  “Not a clue. When the Reds took over, the church was converted into a museum for scientific atheism. It was looted and then it fell into disrepair. During the war, it was used to store sacks of potatoes. If you’d see the church today, you’d realize how appalling that was. The refurbishing started in the fifties under Khrushchev. The mosaics were black, but otherwise in good condition. Good thing the original paintings were turned into tile art. Otherwise they’d probably be sold out or stolen as well.”

  Decker turned to McAdams. “Anything on St. Isaac’s stolen icons?”

  “Images of what was there.” McAdams read to himself. “And there was lots of looting of churches by the Germans during the war.”

  “Between the Reds and the war, it’s a miracle that any religious institution survived,” Sugar remarked.

  Decker said, “No connection between those lootings and the Petroshkovich thefts.”

  “Nothing,” Sugar said. “Not that I was trying to find a link: different cities, different countries, different times. I just relate it to you as a cautionary tale. If a major city like St. Petersburg can’t find its own treasured artwork, you can see what you’re up against.”

  “This is more than an art theft case. It’s a double murder.”

  “All the more reason why I think you’re up against something bigger than yourself. But I realize you still have to try. Good luck.”

  Sugar placed his teacup on the scarred coffee table, then he shuffled over to a hutch and opened the bottom cabinet. He pulled out a box and lifted it to his chest, his legs sagging under its weight. Quickly Decker relieved him of the box. “Lot of forests died for this file. Are you going to read every page?”