“It’s worth a shot to ask her,” Rina said. “What else goes for big money?”
“Books by Pushkin . . . Eugene Onegin . . . okay, this sounds interesting. A book commemorating three hundred years of Romanov rule, published during the diamond jubilee in 1913. This one went for . . . roughly 115,000 dollars. At least these books are in the vicinity of worth killing over.” A pause. “I don’t really see Chase Goddard dealing in them. Maybe Jason Merritt.”
“Does it say anything about who owned the books and who bought them?”
“Nope.” His eyes were still on his pad. “I don’t believe this! Son of a bitch!” He looked up. “Sorry.”
“What?”
“Nikolai Petroshkovich . . . a signed copy of his History of Iconography with original prints of his designs and works. One of twenty original editions. Two hundred pages, forty plates published in 1926 . . . 4 million rubles three years ago, which was, hold on . . . 115,000 dollars.”
“Petroshkovich?”
He winced. “Yes.”
“So maybe Peter’s not so far off.”
He exhaled. “Maybe not.”
“How far is Marylebone from here?”
“About an hour.”
“Where’s the nearest big reference library in Marylebone?”
“In Rhode Island, I’d say Brown, but we’re almost as close to Marylebone as Providence. And there are a slew of other colleges in between.”
“Okay,” Rina said. “When did Petroshkovich live?”
“I will tell you in a moment . . . 1889 to 1949.”
“He was sixty when he died?”
“Fifty-nine . . . hold on . . . he did the Marylebone iconography in 1938, but he also did a lot of other work in and around New England. His icons at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone was considered his pinnacle.”
“So he was somewhat famous when he died?”
“He was pretty well known. If his book is going for 115 grand four years ago, you could only imagine what the icons would be worth today.”
“Worth dying over?”
“More than a Tiffany.”
“You said he worked in and around New England. Where did he live?”
“Hold on . . . Wowzers!” McAdams exhaled. “Good call, Rina. His workshop was in Bellingham, which is ten miles away from the Five Colleges.”
“So if you’re well known, older, and sick—and you want to leave copies of legacies in the form of your book somewhere . . .”
“Certainly worth asking about.” McAdams put down his cup. He turned to Schultz. “Would you mind wheeling me into the bathroom? Once inside, I can take it from there.”
“I’ll meet you guys in the library,” Rina said.
Schultz said, “How about if we all go together?”
“I can’t come in with you.” Rina laughed. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate urinals.”
“Deck says you’re good with a pistol.” Schultz smiled. “How about if you can stand guard for us?”
Again, Rina patted her purse. “Have gun will travel.”
BOSTON WAS COLLEGE in search of a city. What wasn’t past history was current academia. Large in scope as well as top dog in its field, the Harvard campus sprawled over an endless white landscape. Brick buildings from yore battled with modern architecture interspersed with long expanses of white fields. Mordechai Gold’s office was located in the Science Center—a modern-day ziggurat of glass and steel off Cambridge Street across from Harvard Yard.
Classes were in session, but there were some empty rooms with open doors, enough to see that functionality ruled over form. Institutional furniture crammed into the space, whiteboards filled with abstract formulas that meant nothing to anyone outside of the field. Gold’s office was a corner on the fifth floor. The door was ajar, but Decker knocked anyway. They were invited inside.
The space was a step back to a previous time: walnut paneling, parquet floors, Persian floor rugs, wooden bookshelves, and a view of the plaza. It was warmed by an electric fireplace as well as modern heating. An enormous ebony L-shaped desk hosted the math professor who was sitting in a tufted leather chair. He stood up: a large man in height and girth, bald except for a ring of unruly gray curls around the base of his head. Bushy gray eyebrows arched over large brown eyes. He had a full face, a full nose, full lips, and a big chin. Decker could see that Gold in his younger years would have fit the mold physically for the spooks in Virginia.
Introductions were made and hands were shaken. Then everyone settled into cushy chairs. Gold smiled. “I know you gave me a brief recitation over the phone, Detective Decker, but I’d appreciate a recap of what happened now that we’re face-to-face with everyone here.”
“How long do you have?” Mulrooney said.
Gold checked an Oyster Rolex. “A little over an hour. Will it take longer? If so, I can make arrangements.”
“It’s complicated.”
“That’s grand,” Gold said. “The more complicated the better.”
Decker said, “I’ll start with my involvement and then Detective Mulrooney can tell you what he’s doing.”
“Splendid.” Gold paused. “How is Tyler McAdams doing? I was horrified when you told me about the shooting.”
“He’s fine and should make a total recovery,” Decker said. “Do you remember him?”
“Five ten, slender build but not wimpy, long face, brown hair, hazel eyes. He dressed in sweaters and jeans and was always prepared. Now, I would very much appreciate a full story.”
“Absolutely.” Decker pulled out his notebook and the two other detectives did the same.
“My handwriting is atrocious.” Gold pointed to his head. “I may ask you to repeat something just to encode it into long-term memory.”
“Not a problem,” Decker said.
The recitation took twenty minutes. Gold interrupted three times asking for clarification. After the recap was finished, Mulrooney took out his copy of the codebook and said, “Did you have a chance to look at the pages?”
“I always like to hear the complete picture before I embark on any new project.” Gold took out copy given to him by Mulrooney and put on his glasses. “So the answer is no.”
“Tyler cracked part of it,” Decker said. “The Cyrillic letters are actually Latin phrases. The Hebrew letters are Latin phrases as well.”
“Ah yes. Very good. Please tell him I’m impressed.” Gold’s eyes continued to study the pages. “That poor boy. He must have been ill-prepared for police work of this sort.”
“He didn’t expect to get shot but who does? As far as the work, he’s been a quick study.”
“Yes, I remember that for a nonmath major, he caught on quite well. Quiet boy, but he always knew the answers.”
Decker watched Gold’s eyes bore into the text. “Do you have a photographic memory?”
“Yes, I do. But also I’m one of those weird people with high superior autobiographical memory.”
“I read about that.” Decker smiled. “Uh, I don’t remember where I read it but it was an article about people who remember daily details about their entire lives.”
“Correct.”
Oliver said, “Is that a blessing or a curse?”
“I do remember the bad as well as the good. Lucky for me that most of the emotional valance is long gone. I can tell you the day and the date of what was happening for the last sixty years. But only in relationship to myself. If something historical had occurred and I wasn’t aware of it, I’ll have no direct memory of it. I remember Tyler McAdams well not only because I remember the boy, but also because I knew his father, Jack McAdams. I went to law school with him.”
“You’re a lawyer.”
“I’ve done everything except medicine. Poor kid. Growing up with a father like that could not have been easy.”
“He’s aware of his father
’s peccadilloes,” Decker said. “He handles him very well.”
“Good. I admire people with spine.” Gold went quiet. “The Eastern letters and symbols—the Chinese, the Japanese, the Korean . . . this is Amharic . . . whoever wrote this is really all over the place . . . anyway, the symbols and sounds point to Latin phrases as well.”
“What about the Roman alphabet?” Decker asked. “They appear to be nonsense words but they must mean something.”
“They are actually transliteration for Russian words . . . Greek words as well. If I translate from Russian into English, the words mean nothing. But . . . if I translate from Russian into German, they appear to translate back into Latin phrases.”
The three men nodded solemnly. Mulrooney turned to Decker and Oliver. “You men ever work a case like this?”
“Never,” Oliver said. “Hardly ever worked with the FBI.” He looked at Decker. “What about you?”
“I worked with the spooks once in a multinational child porno ring back in Foothill. I remember it well because believe it or not, they did wear sunglasses. My involvement was minimal.”
“This is a first by me.”
“Anything else you notice, Professor?”
“A few things here and there.” Gold looked up and folded the codebook. “The parsimonious thing for me to do would be to translate all of what I can into Latin and then I can try to break the Latin code and see if it makes sense in English or German or Russian or whatever language the code was originally written in. I’ll tell you one thing. This was either done by a polyglot or more than one person. There are a lot of idiomatic phrases. And while I recognize most of the idioms, it would take me a while to write them up in code.”
He smiled and stood up. “I’ll do my best, gentlemen.”
“Thank you for helping, Professor Gold,” Mulrooney said.
“You realize that this may be something you might not want to deal with. That it may be beyond police work.”
“Tyler and I were targets,” Decker said. “Before I relinquish control, I want to have a better idea of what’s going on.”
“It’s a safety issue,” Mulrooney said.
“Exactly,” Decker agreed. “We have to know who the bad guys are. And once the spooks get it, they’ll cut us out of the loop.”
“I understand. But do be careful.” Business cards were exchanged as well as handshakes. “This would be amusing for me except I know that real people were murdered.” Gold shook his head. “I’ll do whatever I can. Do send my best to Tyler. I hope his recovery is swift.”
“I’ll do that.” Decker strolled over to the window and took one last look outside. The campus must have been ten times bigger than all the Upstate colleges put together. “Must be a great place to work.”
“It is,” Gold said. “Although in all honesty, despite all the trappings of this office and the prestige of Harvard, I could work in a closet and be happy. People like me . . . we live in our heads.”
CHAPTER 29
WHILE SCHULTZ KEPT watch, Rina pushed McAdams’s wheelchair up to the historical reference desk, located on the third floor of Rayfield Library. It was in a separate, caged area where books of value and historical significance were kept, a step back into another time with musty red carpeting and walnut tables and chairs. The librarian in charge was a woman named Susan Devry. She was in her sixties with a curly nest of short, gray hair that framed a round, mocha face. Her frame was thin, her oversized sweater draping over a free-flowing midi skirt and black boots. She regarded Rina’s request for the Petroshkovich book and frowned. “I have to see if it’s back for loan.”
“Back from where?” McAdams had to look up to talk.
“Pretoria College in Marylebone.” She regarded the pair. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you two about the art theft of the Petroshkovich icons.”
Rina nodded. “We’re aware of the heist, yes.”
“How tragic,” Susan said. “There used to be a lot of interest in Petroshkovich—a lot of papers and theses—especially right after the icons were pilfered. But Nikolai seemed to have had his day in the sun. And since the artwork was never recovered, students lost interest.”
“Not everyone lost interest in him if his book went out on loan,” Rina said.
“Yes, but it’s usually more from an amateur detective point of view than from something scholarly.” Susan smiled sheepishly. “I’m not saying that’s bad . . . to be interested in the theft. I suppose anything that generates enthusiasm.”
“I’m surprised that the library loans out something so valuable,” McAdams said. “The book is worth six figures.”
“It’s not really on loan to Pretoria.” Susan gave another sheepish smile. “It’s actually coowned by the two libraries.”
“How does that work?” Rina asked.
“We just courier it over when it’s requested.”
“How’d it come to pass that the libraries coowned it?”
Susan seemed apprehensive. Rina waited her out. Finally, the librarian said, “Long ago each library had a copy. There are only around ten original copies left. It’s a very long story.”
McAdams smiled. “We’ve got time.”
Rina said, “I’d love to hear it.”
Susan checked her watch. “Very briefly, Pretoria had some financial difficulties. And Littleton, being the newest college here, didn’t have the largest of endowments. The book was given to Rayfield from Huntington Library because it was an art book and as sort of a welcome present. But Rayfield was still wanting for funds. This was years ago before the icons were stolen.” She rolled her eyes. “It was agreed that one of the books would be sold and the proceeds would be split between Pretoria and here. They couldn’t get away with that today!”
“Who bought the book that was sold?”
“The buyer was anonymous. But it was rumored that the book went overseas.”
“To Russia?” McAdams asked.
“Who knows, but that would be logical.” Susan’s eyes were outraged. “Let me check on the one copy we have left.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” McAdams’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “It’s from the Loo.”
Rina grinned. “Since when did you start calling Peter the Loo?”
“It’s what Oliver calls him. I kinda like it. Anyway, they just finished up with Professor Gold and he and Oliver are on their way back. And Gold says hello.” McAdams stowed his phone. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know who I am.”
Rina looked him in the eye. “Where did all the arrogance go, Tyler? I miss it.”
He smiled. “Getting shot is a humbling experience. But fear not. I’m sure when I’m up and about I’ll be my old obnoxious self.”
“I’m sure Professor Gold does remember you.”
“I dunno, Rina, I was pretty forgettable . . . quiet, believe it or not. I was only in the PC because of my legacy of my grandfather. Not because of my charm.”
“PC? As in personal computer?”
McAdams laughed. “Porcellian Club . . . it’s a final club.”
“I . . . don’t know what that is, Tyler.”
“It’s like an exclusive fraternity. We don’t have a lot of Greek at Harvard, we have clubs instead. They’re also called eating clubs because meals are served. The Porcellian Club, better known to those who hate us, which is almost everyone, is sometimes called the Pig’s Club not because of its all-male members—although the appellation certainly fits—but because the club’s tradition is to roast a whole pig.”
“Not many Orthodox Jews in the mix?”
“Nary a one who’d admit it.” McAdams slowly stood up in front of his wheelchair, supporting himself on one leg and a cane.
Rina knew better than to try to help. “Getting a little numb?”
“My butt is frozen. It feels good to be upright even if I
am a little off-balance.” McAdams took out his iPad and began to punch in topics using Safari. A minute later, he spoke in a whisper. “Ach, this isn’t getting anywhere.”
“What?”
“Trying to locate a book that was sold years ago.”
“We could try the archives of Pretoria.”
“It might be worth a trip.” McAdams checked his watch. “It’s taking a while, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is and this section of the library is small.”
“Something’s amiss.” McAdams continued to play with his iPad. Five minutes later, Susan came back with a wooden box and white gloves. “I don’t know how this happened, but it was misplaced.” She handed them each a pair of white gloves and a cloth to set the book on while turning the pages. “I can only loan this out to you for two hours. And you can only look at the book at the tables here. You cannot take it anywhere else in the library.”
“We understand.” Rina donned the gloves.
“I’m not done.” Susan stopped herself. “You have to sign up for it.”
“Already done,” McAdams said.
“That was the general sign-up sheet. On a book this rare, we have a specific sign-up sheet. Your name, your official ID number . . . I suppose you can use your driver’s license or badge number . . . and your time in, and the book you are looking at—title and author, please.”
McAdams smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
Both McAdams and Rina inked the sheet. Then Susan pulled out a large lockbox of index files. “Let’s see . . . Petroshkovich . . . ah, here we are. You both also have to sign the index cards for the book. One for each of you. That way we can keep track of who’s checking out rare books with art plates . . . precisely why I told you that I’d be shocked if you two found something missing. We’re very careful.”
Rina and McAdams exchanged glances. The thought came to both of them at the same time. Rina said, “You’re the one who has the badge. Go for it.”
McAdams said, “So . . . that means you have the names of everyone who has ever looked at the Petroshkovich book?”
“Not everyone.” Susan shuffled through the cards. “These currently date back . . . three years ago. The rest have been archived.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 30
