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

by Kellerman, Faye

  CHAPTER 27

  RINA SHOWED THE library guard her deputized license as well as her concealed weapon permit. The provost, who was accompanying them to the third floor—where Rayfield stored its reference material—gave a sniff of contempt. “Do you have to make it so obvious?”

  “Would you rather I set off the metal detector with my gun?”

  The man’s cheeks pinkened. He was in his forties with glasses perched on his ski slope nose. He whispered, “You have an armed officer. How much do you need?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Rina spoke softly but definitely not in a hush. “How much protection do you need after someone tried to kill you?”

  McAdams bowed his head and stifled a smile.

  Greg Schultz, the armed guard, cleared his throat. He was a retired mechanic in his sixties who often helped out Greenbury PD and FD when they needed extra brawn. He was built like a tractor. “We’re causing a backup line.” He unlocked the brake on Tyler’s wheelchair. “Can I take him through now?”

  Quickly, the provost escorted them through the metal detector, the guard bypassing Rina’s purse. The four of them squeezed into an elevator. On the third floor, there was a long table in the corner with books of old textile photographs along with several pairs of white gloves. Natural light was provided by a window with a view to the outside quad, students milling in the snow like ants in spilled salt. The glass also let in a draft. Rina had dressed in layers. She took off her overcoat but kept on her sweater over a sweater.

  The reference librarian was a young woman in her thirties with a short bob of straight blond hair and deep green eyes. Her name was Lisa Pomeranz and she recognized Tyler McAdams from his previous research foray. Her eyes tried to hide the shock at seeing him so disabled. “I read about the incident in the papers. I’m so sorry.”

  McAdams tried to put her at ease. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow . . . especially snow.”

  “I thought that was mailmen,” Schultz said.

  “If the shoe fits . . .”

  Rina said, “Any more adages, Tyler, or can we get to work?”

  McAdams smiled. “I’ll be fine, Ms. Pomeranz. The bullets missed all the crucial areas so I count myself as very lucky.”

  “I’m not supposed to do this, but I can get you some hot water. It’s chilly up here.”

  “I wouldn’t want to spill anything,” Rina said. “Not even water. We’re fine.”

  “Speak for yourself,” McAdams said.

  “I’m speaking for both of us.” Rina donned the white gloves and sat down. “Thank you.”

  “Anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Lisa said.

  After she walked away, McAdams said, “Man, she did a one-eighty from the first time I was here.”

  Schultz took up a seat that afforded him a view of the elevator as well as the staircase. “I’ll just sit here and try not to fall asleep.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Rina pulled two magnifying glasses from her briefcase and laid them on the table. Then she carefully pulled out the first reference book entitled Textiles of the Far East. It was published at the beginning of the twentieth century. Placed on the inside cover was a sign-in sheet of those who had used the book as a reference. She whispered, “Tyler, look at this.” She put the book in front of him and pointed to Angeline Moreau’s name. She had used the book six times.

  “It was her thesis,” he said.

  “To quote my daughter: I’m just saying.”

  McAdams picked up Mid-Eastern Textiles from the Silk Route in the Fifteenth Century. He regarded the sign-up sheet. “Looks like Moreau was a busy bee.” He turned to Rina. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s.”

  Simultaneously, they opened their respective books to the title page. The room fell silent except for the gentle swish of paper turning, each of them carefully studying the binding of the prints with the magnifying glass to make sure that a razor blade hadn’t done any mischief.

  It was going to be a long and tedious day.

  BY TEN IN the morning, Decker was on the way to the Summer Village Police Department to pick up Chris Mulrooney. While riding on the highway, he and Oliver kept a constant lookout for tails. With another set of experienced eyes, Decker could relax a tad. Being with Scott felt like home, the two in conversation that ran the gamut from the good old days to the puzzling case of present days. Drinking coffee and chomping on bagels, they exchanged ideas both logical and far-fetched. Neither had much to add from last night.

  “Kid seems okay, manning up under his trial by fire,” Oliver said.

  “I think he’d be a great detective. But he’s doing the smart thing and going to Harvard Law.”

  “Too bad. He certainly won’t get this kind of adrenaline rush there.”

  “Ordinarily this job is very banal.”

  “Right now, I’d definitely take banal over retirement.”

  “Send out applications. You could have your pick of any small town.”

  “A good idea, better than feeling sorry for myself.” He was quiet. “I’m thinking about Florida. I don’t like the cold.”

  “Want me to talk to my brother?”

  “Where is Randy?”

  “Miami PD. But I’m sure he could make inquiries in smaller towns. Unless you want to go big again.”

  “No, not big . . . but bigger than Greenbury. Marge was real smart. Can’t get more perfect than Ventura PD. Man, it’s beautiful up there.”

  “So why don’t you apply to Ventura?”

  He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. We’re both in different places now. I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. I’m willing to uproot myself.”

  “What about your kids?”

  “They’re scattered and busy. If they want to see me, I’ll get a spare bedroom in my seaside condo that must have a pool. Certainly enough of those around in Florida.”

  “You might have a problem, though,” Decker said.

  “What?”

  “A single man around all those widows.”

  Oliver laughed. “Stand in line, ladies, there’s enough to go around.”

  “Here we are.” Decker pulled into the Summer Village PD parking lot. He called up Chris Mulrooney who came bounding out five minutes later holding a briefcase. He wore a parka bomber jacket, thick denim jeans over bulky boots, shearling gloves, a knit hat, and a black scarf. Decker made the introductions after Mulrooney had slid into the backseat. He peeled off his winter wear in the hot car’s climate.

  Mulrooney patted his leather valise. “Got a copy of the codebook right here. We can follow along with the professor.”

  Decker pulled out several sheets of paper. “The kid has been looking at it for the past three days. He’s been counting phrases and is using them to plot a frequency chart. Not that he knows for certain if the phrases correspond with letters but he figured it was a good start.”

  Mulrooney’s eyes scanned over the deciphered words. “How’s he feeling?”

  “He’s laid up in a wheelchair but I’ve got him working in the library.”

  “It’ll do him good to work.” Murooney stowed the papers in his briefcase. “We’ve been going through Latham’s papers, trying to locate things that might be opened from that janitor ring of keys we found. No local storage units yet. And the keys that open safe-deposit boxes aren’t local either. His local bank had two hundred and fifty-six dollars, forty-eight cents in a check deposit. Two credit cards with small balances. He had a bundled account for cable and Wi-Fi. No landline. Utilities and rent were paid up every month. Didn’t seem to splurge on himself except for the occasional restaurant and bar bills. We checked them out. The ones who do remember him said he was just a regular guy. We did pass around the picture of Angeline Moreau. Couple of bartenders thought that she looked familiar but they couldn’t be sure. The
y certainly couldn’t put her with him at a specific time.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “They do remember Latham often chatting up the ladies, but not being obnoxious about it. He was okay just being a guy, watching the Celts and the Patriots on the screen with the locals. He owned his car. To me, he’s suspicious because he was so unsuspicious. For a guy who was murdered so brutally, he was trying to keep his outward appearance squeaky clean.”

  “Did his colleagues have anything to add?”

  “Nope. Just a typical visiting lecturer. He shared an office with four other lecturers but they rarely see one another because their schedules are different. One of the gals I spoke to said she doesn’t even work there because the space is so small. She works at home and only uses the shared space for posted office hours with her students. People don’t remember him hanging around the campus too much. But everyone I spoke to about Latham did say he was very knowledgeable about his field, which was . . .”

  Mulrooney flipped through his notes.

  “Here we go. The official title is History of Art and Propaganda in the Soviet Union. It was an upper-division class for majors in art, history, and art history; and he had forty students, which is a very big number. We’ve interviewed almost all the students and have come up empty. If the codebook doesn’t tell us something, we’re shooting in the dark. And that’s really making all of us nervous after what happened to you guys down there.”

  Oliver said, “Deck thinks we’re dealing with foreign criminals.”

  “Yeah, even stupid people usually don’t take out detectives. And when they do try, it’s usually to prevent testimony. Somebody clearly doesn’t know the rules.” Mulrooney hesitated. “Which foreign country? Are you thinking Russia because of Latham’s specialty?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Decker said. “Latham’s takeout was very surgical. Maybe it’s not even the Russian mob. Maybe it’s Russian spooks.”

  “That would be very bad,” Oliver said.

  “It certainly would mean we’re over our heads. But I don’t have anything to go on other than a queasy feeling.”

  “This is making me very, very nervous,” Mulrooney said.

  “Yeah, you and me both,” Decker said. “But I’m not about to back off before I find out why someone wanted me dead. Maybe the answers will be in the codebook.”

  No one spoke for a minute. Then Mulrooney said, “Maybe we should take the book to Quantico. I know we don’t have anything to tell them, but we can’t figure out the code on our own and I’m nervous about involving a Harvard math professor in something so potentially dangerous.”

  “I hear you, Chris, and I was thinking the same thing last night. And that’s why I called Gold up and gave him a brief rundown over the phone. I told him about what happened to me and McAdams. I told him he may be setting himself up for trouble by getting involved. You know what he said? He insisted we come up and that he’s absolutely fine with it.”

  “But are we absolutely fine with it?”

  “I wasn’t at all until Gold told me where he learned all about codes.”

  “He’s CIA?”

  “Retired CIA. I don’t think he saw much fieldwork but he did spend ten years doing codes in Virginia. He developed some of the programs way back when, that the CIA still uses for electronic hacking. And he says he can shoot, goes to the range whenever he can. But it’s your book and your call, Chris.”

  Mulrooney shrugged. “I guess he’s in no more danger than we are . . . if that’s any comfort.” A pause. “If he knows what he’s getting into, we might as well talk to him.”

  “That was my thought,” Decker said. “You know, Gold, Oliver, and I have one thing in common besides being over sixty. We’re all looking for action. Problem is we seem to be looking in all the wrong places.”

  CHAPTER 28

  AFTER COMBING THROUGH piles of the antique textile and art books with zero results, Rina suggested a break. She had been working for two hours straight and her eyes needed to rest. She—along with McAdams and Schultz—left the library and found a school café called The Hop. The place made an attempt to resemble a 1950s malt shop: red fake Naugahyde stools at a fake linoleum countertop that was even cheesier than the original cheesy decor. Rina bought coffee for the three of them and they sat in an outside patio under a heat lamp. She took out a sack lunch that she had prepared for Tyler and herself, but there was certainly enough to go around in case Greg Schultz hadn’t brought his own food.

  During the first five minutes, the gang ate in silence. Tyler took out his iPad and was lost in concentration. Rina made small talk with Greg, asking him about various cars: always a good topic with guys but especially good with someone who had worked with vehicles for the past thirty years.

  McAdams finally spoke. “I was looking up vintage prints and not all print books are the same in value—as if that should be a startling revelation.”

  “Go on,” Rina said.

  “Not surprising, it appears that the older the book, the more valuable the prints are. Prints in Basil Besler’s book published in 1613 are selling from eighteen hundred to five thousand whereas prints in Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book, published between 1799 and 1805, sell in the thousands.” He continued searching on Safari. “But Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book The Temple of Flora, published just ten years later . . . those images sell for a lot less.”

  “Probably depends on the rarity of the book.”

  “Yeah, of course. All I’m saying is the prices really swing and without knowing what is valuable, we’re kind of shooting in the dark with choosing which books to look at. To make it worthwhile for a thief, he’d have to steal from the expensive books, which are rare and damn near impossible to find.” He looked up at Rina. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Way better than what I packed for myself.”

  “You’re both welcome.”

  Schultz stood up. “I’m going to make a quick pit stop. Keep your eyes open.”

  “No problem.” Rina patted her purse. “We’re fine.” After Schultz left, she said, “The prints you saw in Chase Goddard’s gallery. How much is he asking for them?”

  “I can tell you in a minute.” McAdams clicked away on his pad. “They’re priced between a hundred and three hundred each. I should really put his inventory as a favorite place.”

  “What about his vintage books?”

  “He doesn’t have that much inventory. He has a Swann’s Way and a Chandler, The Long Goodbye, but without the dust jacket. That’s the most valuable. The rest are in double digits.”

  “Not worth stealing,” Rina said.

  “No one thinks that Goddard was actually stealing. We were just wondering if Goddard was buying hot merchandise. And if he was purchasing stolen items, it probably makes sense for him to buy things that don’t attract that much attention . . . like cheap prints.”

  “I agree.” Rina stared out at the barren landscape. Nothing seemed suspicious. But would she even recognize “suspicious”? “Even if Goddard is buying small items of hot property, it’s certainly not worth murdering over.”

  “Unless he’s trying to keep his reputation unsullied, except that heretofore it had already been sullied.”

  “Even if he did pay Moreau and Latham a few bucks for stolen art prints, you certainly can’t amass designer bags with a couple hundred extra bucks.”

  “Right.” McAdams sat back and sipped coffee. This morning he had removed the sling from his arm and felt better with the freedom of motion. It still hurt, but he could move it and his balance was much better. Within a few days, he’d probably be on crutches. “No offense, but I think your husband is on the wrong track. I think this is a total waste of time.”

  “Not that I’m defending Peter, but he’s more right than wrong. If he thinks the library needs
to be checked out, I’m not going to argue.”

  “I know he’s trying to tie Moreau to something more than Tiffany windows, but I still can’t see her being a mover and a shaker in the nefarious world of looted art. Maybe her murder had nothing at all to do with the stolen panels. Her ex-boyfriend was pretty shaken when she dumped him. He followed her to Boston and even went by John Latham’s apartment. I know he had an alibi for both murders, but friends lie for one another all the time.”

  “Was it just one person who alibied him?”

  “No, it was several people who saw him. And he was in class like he said. But no one can perfectly account for every minute of his day. And people get the time wrong.”

  Rina said, “Peter feels that some foreign entity is involved.”

  “The Russian mafia.” McAdams rolled his eyes. “Even if I agreed with him on that end, what would that have to do with Chase Goddard and a few stolen prints?”

  Rina went silent. Then she said, “Tyler, can you look up on your iPad to see if there are any rare Russian books that have an auction history?”

  “That’s a thought.” He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

  Schultz had returned and that made Rina feel a lot better. She said, “All’s quiet.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

  McAdams said, “There is a book by D. A. Rovinski—five books actually published in St. Petersburg, 1881. Russkie Narodnye Kartinki better known as Russian Folk Pictures. They sold for auction in 2013 for 11 million rubles. And that would convert to . . . wow, that’s surprising . . . 315,500 dollars.” He continued typing. “God, the prints are gorgeous. Want to take a look?”

  “Love to.” She looked as he swished through the images. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Yes, they are,” McAdams said. “I’m assuming that is a very, very rare book and not the kind of thing that would be sitting around Rayfield Library collecting dust.”

  “Unless the library doesn’t know what they have.”

  “That’s why you have a reference librarian. She should know her inventory.”