“When you’re old like me, you take any exercise you can get.”
“I hope I’m as sharp as you are, Decker, when I’m your age. I don’t mean that as a compliment, just a fact.” The kid started making phone calls. His voice sounded pleasant but professional. He was focused and all business. And that was the way it should be. He was doing the job. If the job was done well, the trust and finally friendship would come later on. Tyler had a long way to go before he’d prove himself. But he was getting there, working without complaint. In this so-called entitled generation, that was pretty good.
CHAPTER 22
OPENING A LOCKED cabinet, Detective Chris Mulrooney took out a spiral blue notebook with gloved hands. “We found it this morning, hidden behind a paneled door in the bathtub enclosure where a Jacuzzi motor should have been. The pipes were capped off.” He opened up to a random page. “English letters, Greek letters, Cyrillic letters, Hebrew, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, crap that looks like cuneiform. It’s some kind of code.”
Decker slipped on a latex glove. “Can I take a look?”
“Knock yourself out.” Mulrooney was short, squat, and bald with a constant smile on his face, like he loved what he was doing and loved life in general. He wore a sweater over an oxford weave shirt, slacks, and rubber-soled shoes. “You find anything in code in the girl’s apartment?”
“No, we didn’t.” Decker felt McAdams peering over his shoulder, mouthing words in a whisper. “You make any sense of this, Harvard?”
“Can I take a closer look?”
“Yeah, but glove up,” Mulrooney said. “We’ve dusted it for prints and came up dry, but we’ll give it a second go. Our victim might have been some kind of language guy. I know he was smart. He won some kind of prestigious award.”
“The Windsor Prize,” Decker said.
“Yeah, that’s it. I put a call into the committee office and got an answering machine. I don’t know if I’ll get a call back soon because the prize is given every four years. When I talked to the people in his department, they told me that he got a two-year lectureship because of the award.”
“What did his colleagues have to say?”
“The usual. They’re all shocked by his murder, he was a quiet guy. And he was young: a lot younger than the professors around him.”
“What was he lecturing in?”
“His research was . . . hold on, let me get this right.” Mulrooney took out his notebook. “Political art and propaganda in the Soviet Union during the period between the two world wars. If I didn’t know about your vic and the stolen Tiffany windows, I would have assumed that he was one of these nerdy academic types who was killed for his research or something stupid like that . . . except, well, you saw the body. Someone was royally pissed off. That was one horrific crime. Not the cozy professor kind of killing.”
“Are we sure that this codebook belongs to Latham?” Decker said.
Mulrooney paused. “You think otherwise?”
“It could have been stolen. Both Latham’s and Angeline’s apartments were tossed.”
“Whoever did it had a lot of languages at his disposal.” McAdams was turning the pages. “We need a cryptologist to break this down. There are dozens of them at Harvard and MIT. They’d do it for you for fun.”
“Yeah, this city is filled with people who can do everything,” Mulrooney said. “Before I show this to anyone outside the department, I’d like to know what we’re dealing with. Latham was one nasty murder.”
“Latham came to Tufts for a lectureship?” Decker asked.
“A joint appointment for two years with the art department and IR. What Soviet art has to do with Tiffany panels, I don’t know. But he’s obviously an art guy. One art guy talks to another art guy and pretty soon, you’re an expert in something.”
“Where did he study before he came to Tufts?” Decker said. “I heard he went to Oxford.”
“Don’t recall seeing that. Hold on, lemme see what I got on him.” Mulrooney peered through some file folders. “Uh, he had a master’s of arts from the Center for Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies. Sounds like something political or an online scam.”
“CREES,” McAdams said. “It’s a legitimate university program. Hold on.” He started playing with his iPhone. “It’s for people who have an interest in foreign languages of those regions and who want to work for government and diplomacy. There’s a CREES at Harvard, there’s one at U Mich, there’s one at Kansas University, there’s one at Stanford, there’s one at U Texas—”
“What about the Five Colleges of Upstate?” Decker asked.
“Let me check.” His fingers went flying across his phone. “Good call. There’s one at Morse McKinley that offers a B.A. as well as an M.A.”
Mulrooney said, “Then why didn’t he list the college on his résumé ?”
“Yeah, that is a little weird,” Tyler said. “Maybe he didn’t finish the degree.”
“And yet he got the Windsor award and a lectureship,” Decker said. “Any kind of college job is pretty hard to snag these days, let alone one at a major university in a major city.”
“Something isn’t making sense,” Mulrooney said. “And I don’t see any Oxford here.”
“Could be he was padding his C.V. and no one bothered to check.” McAdams thought a moment. “Betcha he had connections. That’s really the way it’s done.”
Decker said, “What about his family? Any connections there?”
“Nope. They’re fairly local—grape farmers in the Finger Lakes District.”
“You mean wine?” Tyler asked.
“No, I mean grapes . . . Concord table grapes. They were devastated when we told them the news, but they didn’t have a hell of a lot to add. He hadn’t kept in touch with any kind of regularity. Packed out when he was eighteen and except for the occasional Christmas phone call, he had pretty much vanished from their lives. They had no idea who’d want to murder him. They didn’t even know that he went to college.”
“They were that out of touch?” Decker was skeptical.
“I think they were telling the truth, but I didn’t press them too hard. They’d just lost their son.” Mulrooney held up his hands in a hopeless gesture.
“If he was from the Finger Lakes District, he probably knew about the Five Colleges of Upstate. It would make sense that he’d choose Morse McKinley. But at his age, he wouldn’t have overlapped with Angeline Moreau . . . well, maybe with a master’s.”
Tyler had gone back to looking at the codebook. He was mouthing some of the words out loud.
“You read Russian?” Mulrooney asked.
“I can read it although I don’t know what I’m saying. The same with Greek.” He looked up. “We were required to learn the classic languages in prep.”
Decker pointed to two words. “This is Hebrew.”
Mulrooney asked, “Does it say anything?”
“I don’t know Hebrew so I couldn’t tell you. I can read it, but they don’t seem like real words. You’d never have two alefs in a row. Maybe it’s Yiddish, which uses Hebrew letters.”
Tyler said, “Is it possible to get a copy of the notebook?”
Mulrooney frowned. “How many pages is it?”
“About twenty.”
“Give it to Frosty. She’s down the hallway, first door to the left. Tell her I’m saying please.” He looked back at Decker. “Sometimes you get a case where there’s nowhere to go. This case, we’ve got too many places. Is it an art theft, something personal, something with the university, something with the estranged family that they’re not telling me? We still have to look into all those keys he had, we’ve got codes and someone who was involved with something international. And we’ve got a real, real vicious crime. The bad people are real bad. It’ll take a while to sort this one out.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Decker said.
“Yeah, your girl looks simpler than our guy. If you find something, pass it on. What’s your next step?”
“We’re going to visit some art galleries in Boston.” Decker gave a brief recap of his discussion with Maxwell Stewart and Jason Merritt. He purposely left out his appointment with Chase Goddard.
If something came up, he’d share it after the fact. No purpose in telling him about another blind alley that would no doubt turn into another dead end.
MCADAMS WAS PORING over the file as Decker, stuck in traffic, tried to make his way to Newbury Street. “Now I know why I moved to a small town.”
The kid didn’t answer, engrossed in his business. A moment later, Tyler sat up. “It’s Latin.”
“Pardon?”
“The words . . . at least the words in Greek . . . Greek script but Latin meaning. Words that don’t mean anything specific . . . like ipso facto or e pluribus unum. It’s a code within a code. I bet if we got someone who knew Chinese or Arabic, those words wouldn’t mean anything in the native language but would transliterate into Latin words also.”
“Wow, kiddo, that’s impressive.” Decker nodded. “Good for you, Tyler. Well done.”
The kid tried to stifle a smile. “If I show you the Hebrew, could you read it out loud?”
“Yeah, I could do that. Wait until I’m stopped at a light.”
Tyler waited and then showed the page.
Decker stared at the letters. He repeated them several times to himself. “Wait a sec . . .” A beat. “Kav-i-at em-f-tur . . . or maybe the fey is a pey . . .” He turned to the kid. “It’s caveat emptor.”
This time, Tyler grinned. “Really?”
“Really. Good work.”
McAdams couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Now all we have to do is find the code within the code. Once we translate the words into Latin, we can work translating it into English. Not me, personally. Someone who can do codes.”
“You don’t do codes?”
“Not these kinds of codes. I haven’t a clue. But I know someone who can. What would a trip to Boston be without a stop at the big H. Shall we?”
“We need to tell Mulrooney about it first.”
McAdams’s face soured. “Do we really have to do that?”
“Yeah, we do. This codebook is his baby and he was nice enough to let us in. Besides, Latham’s murder was gruesome. I’m sure the killer would do it again in a heartbeat. The more people who know about what we’re doing, the better off we are. The bogeyman can kill off Latham and Moreau, he can even try to whack us, but he can’t kill off an entire police department.”
TWO HOURS, SIX galleries, and no significant information later, they stood in front of the Chase Goddard Antique and Curio Gallery. The sun was out in full force, the temperatures in the high thirties, which meant melting snow and ice off the eaves and rooftops. Dripping water created puddles on the sidewalks. The gallery was on a side street off the main drag of Newbury, in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house that featured plaster molding, a big picture window, and a green-and-white-striped awning over the doorway. On the left side was a bakery with a few inside tables for coffee and a snack, and on the right was a linens store specializing in lace and embroidery.
Since it was only two-thirty, they had time before the interview. They elected to sit in the bakery rather than the car, which was beginning to smell a little dank and rank. The bakery was cute and warm and the aroma was heavenly. After ordering, they sat down and waited for their cappuccinos and snacks, neither of them speaking until the coffee came.
Decker sipped. “Man, that’s good.”
“Yeah, it is.” McAdams was still paging through the book, trying to figure out as many words as he could. “This is going to take a while.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do this right now.”
The kid looked up. “No one’s here. Besides, you told me to bring it with me.”
“Well, maybe it’s best that you put it away just in case someone has been tailing us.”
McAdams closed the notebook. “Very funny.”
“Maybe not.”
“What?” The kid dropped his voice. “What are you talking about?”
“Hyundai Accent silver van, maybe two years old. I noticed it when we left the police station in Summer Village. No front plates. About five minutes ago, I saw something very similar across Newbury Street right before we made the turn toward Goddard Gallery. I think the person spotted me looking at the car because he or she took off and unfortunately I was too far away to read the back plates.”
McAdams was quiet. “Is it the same vehicle? I mean there must be hundreds of silver Hyundai Accents.”
“I wouldn’t say hundreds.”
“Are you doing that on purpose or do you like to see me sweat?”
“I’m sure it was a coincidence. But two people are dead so I thought I’d mention it, in case we see the van again.”
“Right.” McAdams sipped coffee. “Your eyes. They’re never in one place for long unless you’re trying to spook someone. Do they teach you that at detective school?”
“My suspicious nature is all my own doing. It has served me well.”
“I know I’ve asked you this before but should I be worried?”
“Honestly, I don’t know, Tyler. You said you’re in it for the long run, but if you wanted to walk, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No, I don’t want to walk. It’s just getting interesting.” McAdams bit his lower lip. “What should I be looking for, Decker? What makes you suspicious?”
“Things that repeat themselves . . . like seeing the same car or the same guy. Also, things that don’t belong. In a small town, that’s a little easier, but harder in the big city. And then there are the basics. I lock my doors and pull down my shades and always give a twice-over before I leave my house or my car. Like I said, detectives are seldom whacked. But seldom isn’t never.”
“We live in Bumblefuck, USA. How can this happen?”
Decker smiled. “You know what they say about good things coming in small packages. Sometimes big-city bad things come to very small towns.”
CHASE GODDARD COULDN’T figure out what to do with his hands. First he clasped them together. Then they dropped by his side. Finally he elected to shove them into his tweed jacket patch pockets. He was in his fifties with a long face, short blond hair, blue eyes, thin lips, and a Roman nose. Under his jacket he wore a pastel blue V-neck sweater over an open-collar white shirt, and he had on dark trousers and black boots. His nails were clipped short and his left hand sported a gold wedding band. Goddard continued to fidget. Maybe it was the lack of space. The three of them were standing, crammed into his office, a small room with a chair, a desk, and piles of paperwork.
“John Latham?” Goddard thought about the name for a decent amount of time. “No, I don’t know him.” A beat. “I certainly don’t know the name.”
“What about Angeline Moreau?” Decker asked.
Again, he didn’t speak right away. “No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”
“She is our murder victim,” Decker said. “Latham’s case belongs to Summer Village. We think the two of them were working together on something illegal and were murdered because of it.”
Goddard winced. “And you’re from . . . where again?”
“Greenbury, New York.”
“Ah, near the Five Colleges.”
“Yes. Do you have any association with the colleges, Mr. Goddard?”
“No, no, but of course I’ve heard of them. They’re quite respectable.”
“But they’re not Harvard,” McAdams said.
Goddard said, “There are other universities, Detective.”
“Not to me.”
The art dealer paused. “You’re a Crimson man, I take it.”
“Graduate
d almost four years ago.”
“And you’re working as a policeman?”
McAdams simply shrugged. “There’s a real world out there that Harvard chooses to ignore.”
Goddard raised his eyebrows. “I was in Harvard ages ago, when there was still a Radcliffe. As a matter of fact, I was there when it went co-ed.”
“Seventy-seven,” McAdams said. “My father had just started law school. James McAdams.”
“James McAdams . . . James Mc— Do you mean Jack McAdams?”
“That’s my dad.”
“Well, that does take me back. I’m sure he wouldn’t know me. Your father was a big man not only in the law school but in general.” A pause. “What’s he doing now?”
“He was in law. Now he fills his time by managing his inherited fortune from my grandfather. It seems to be a full-time job.”
“Oh . . . right.” Goddard colored slightly. “I know this sounds terribly crass, but if he’s interested in buying or selling . . .”
“I’ll pass the word on.”
He gave Decker a forced smile. “Anything else?”
“I do have a few more questions.”
Goddard sighed. “Can I interject something?”
“Of course.”
“You know Summer Village has a high homicide rate. It’s not unusual for murder to take place in that area.”
“The homicide of a visiting lecturer is not routine for them. And the murder of a college student in Greenbury is not routine for us. Neither are art thefts.”
“Tell me again what happened?”
Decker bit his lip. The guy didn’t need a recap, but he gave it to him anyway.
Goddard tented his hands. “So from a small break-in at a local mausoleum, you’ve constructed this . . . art theft ring that you think is responsible for two murders?”
“We haven’t constructed anything, Mr. Goddard. We’re just trying to make sense of what happened.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 23
