“Can I see them—the index cards?”
Susan paused. “I don’t know if I can show them to you.”
“Ma’am, it’s a murder investigation.” No one spoke. “Please don’t make me go get a warrant. It’s very time-consuming.”
Susan didn’t answer. Instead, she put the cards down and slid the pile across the desktop. “You have thirty seconds.”
“Thank you.” McAdams shuffled through them as fast as he could. One name gave him pause—he showed it to Rina—and then he continued on until he’d seen them all. He slid the cards back to the librarian and regarded the book box. It was custom made: around a foot by two feet. “Could you open the Petroshkovich box, please?”
“Me?”
“Yes, I’d really appreciate it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Please. It’s important.”
“All right.” Slowly, she lifted the wooden lid. The actual book was in a cloth sleeve.
“Could you take it out for me?”
“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”
“It’s about two people who were murdered and about someone who feels it’s okay to shoot the police. Please just do it.”
Susan flinched. “Yes, of course.” She took the book out of the sleeve. The cover was old and water stained. “What next?”
“Can you flip through the plates?”
“Detective, one doesn’t flip through plates. You turn the pages slowly.”
McAdams held his tongue. “Can you do that for me?”
“I’m sorry if I’m sounding brusque. If you’d just tell me . . .” When he didn’t answer, Susan began turning pages. When she got to the fourth plate, she paused for a moment. “This is a forgery.”
“You’re sure?” Rina asked.
“Of course, I’m sure! If you compare it side by side . . . the paper is original, but the quality is lacking.” She looked at the duo. “Of course, you suspected this.”
“We did,” Rina said.
“It must have happened at Pretoria.” She turned to the next plate, which was original. But the following two were not. “Oh my heavens! I must report this. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t have you checking this out right now.”
“We understand. And in light of what happened, we have other things we need to do right now.” McAdams tried out a smile. “Do we have to sign out?”
Susan was still in shock. “Uh . . . yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m floored. How did this happen? How did you know?”
Neither answered. They both signed out and slowly, Rina helped McAdams back into the chair while Susan watched. She said, “You must think I’m terrible . . . upset by a book when you’ve suffered so much. I am very sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” McAdams said. “There are two dead bodies out there. I’m the lucky one. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome.”
Rina pushed him to Schultz. The guard said, “That didn’t take too long.”
“Something’s come up,” McAdams said. “We need to set our priorities elsewhere.”
“You handled Mrs. Devry very graciously, Detective,” Rina said.
“Wow. I never thought I’d hear gracious and me in the same sentence.”
Rina laughed. Schultz said, “So where to?”
“The hallowed dormitories. Specifically Elm Hall.”
DECKER HADN’T SPENT this much time in a car since his patrol days. On the road again, this time to New York City with the kid sitting shotgun while Oliver, Rina, and Schultz were squished into the backseat. It was five in the evening, traffic was terrible and everyone, except Rina, was tired and grumpy. She had the most reason to be in a bad mood. She was in the middle seat, but as usual she seemed oblivious, soldiering on with pleasant conversation that was answered with grunts.
After a half hour of stalling in traffic, Rina knew that if the men didn’t get something to eat, the car would decombust. She reached down to the bag under Oliver’s feet, took out sandwiches, and passed them around. Amid begrudging thanks, everyone ate. It wasn’t a tricky thing to pull off. With cars backed up on the highway, they were moving about five miles an hour. Ten minutes later, Rina passed around coffee with lids and cookies and napkins.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Your cookies make it almost worth the traffic.”
“Call me Rina.”
“Thank you, Rina.”
“What can truly compete against a fine chocolate chip cookie?” McAdams said. “My nanny used to bake them. At first I just watched. Then I participated. Hence my baking skills.”
“Your nanny?” Oliver said.
“Yeah, of course I had a nanny. The wealthy don’t raise their kids.” McAdams took a sip of coffee. “Not that my mother ever worked a real job. Her days were filled with society obligations.” A pause. “She does a lot of charity work. Her largesse never extended to me. As far as jobs go, I’ve worked a few interships but it’s always been with connections. I just waltzed in ahead of everyone else. Man, I’ve worked more in the past couple of weeks than I ever have in my life.”
Oliver said, “Why’d you pick police work?”
“To spite my father.”
“And?”
“What makes you think there’s an ‘and’?”
Decker smiled. “You have a terrible game face, Harvard. If you ever decide to make policing your profession, you should work on that.”
“Let me guess,” Oliver said. “You wanted the experience to write a screenplay.”
McAdams laughed. “Am I that transparent or did you get that idea from Decker? And BTW, it started off as a novel. Later, it morphed to a screenplay. Like the Loo said, I’m kind of Hollywood.”
“And I stand by that statement,” Decker said.
“I always thought that I was kind of Hollywood,” Oliver said. “Then I met real Hollywood sharks. I’ll take criminals over them any day of the week.”
“What’s it about, McAdams?” Decker asked. “Your screenplay.”
“What do you think?”
“An art theft,” Decker said. “Under the circumstances, you might think about debuting with something that won’t get you killed.”
“I deleted everything after I was shot. It was garbage anyway. My main character was obnoxious and derivative of everything I’ve ever seen on TV or in the movies.”
“It takes time to develop,” Rina said.
McAdams smiled. “Thanks, but the truth is, I have no imagination.”
Decker braked hard. “I detest traffic. Also this kind of stop and go makes us sitting ducks.”
“I’ve got my eyes peeled out my window, sir,” Schultz said.
“Ditto,” Oliver said. “I’ve seen a lot of noses being picked, a lot of women putting on makeup, and everyone’s texting. Nothing suspicious, but my guard is still up. How much longer?”
“Maybe an hour for what should be a fifteen-minute ride.”
“Just as long as we get there in one piece,” Rina said.
“Amen to that, sister,” McAdams said.
“How are you feeling, Tyler?”
“With no horrible pain, I could probably move up to crutches very soon.”
“Don’t push it,” Oliver said. “You’ll heal faster.”
“I’m just happy to be out of the hospital and working again.” He paused. “And you honestly don’t think he took off?”
“Why would he take off?” Oliver said. “We didn’t call him. He has no idea we’re coming down.”
“But he must know he’s in trouble, right?”
“Maybe,” Decker said. “And even if he suspects he’s in the weeds, most people don’t disappear underground. People with money hire lawyers.”
“Which is why you don’t call him,” Oliver said. “
No warning works to our advantage.”
Decker said, “Anyway, it’s moot right now. At this rate, we won’t make it until midnight.”
Rina yawned. “We’ll be there by seven at the latest.”
“Take a nap, Rina,” Decker said. “You’ve certainly earned it.”
“Maybe I will close my eyes for a moment. It’s been a long day.”
No one spoke for the next five minutes. Then McAdams said, “Maybe I should make my protagonist a woman.”
“Good idea,” Decker said. “Model her after my wife.”
Rina smiled. “That’s a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”
McAdams laughed. “Call me crazy but I don’t see an Orthodox Jewish woman who bakes chocolate chip cookies and makes sandwiches as a gritty crime fighter.”
“Excuse me?” Rina said from the backseat. “Cookies notwithstanding, I’ve had as much input in this case today as you have, Tyler.”
“You’re right about that,” McAdams said. “Don’t take offense, Rina. You know how I am.”
“I do. No offense taken.”
“Like I said before I have absolutely no imagination.”
CHAPTER 30
THE PREWAR BUILDING, fashioned in brick and stone, was located on the Upper East Side between Fifth and Madison: two ten-story towers with a six-story edifice connecting them. The street, framed by small, bare trees, was filled with slush, and the sidewalk and steps had been salted. Awnings and eaves dripped ice as well as ice cold water. The double glass doors were unlocked, so the three of them went inside where the temperature was warmer but still leaked cold from the doors. A uniformed man sat behind a desk off to the left side. A sign said that all visitors needed to be announced.
The doorman was about to call, but then McAdams reached over the desk from his wheelchair and put his hand over the phone. “We’re all cops. Let’s keep it low key.”
“But—”
“If anyone gets pissed, I’ll take responsibility. Seventh floor, 3A, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shouldn’t there be two of you down here?” McAdams asked. “Where’s the other man on duty?”
“Karl’s taking out the trash.”
“I take it in a building this big, there’s no specific elevator man.”
“No—”
“So it’s on automatic. Great.”
“I think I should take you up.”
“Don’t bother.” McAdams wheeled up to the doors and pressed the up button.
“I’m going to call up right now.”
The elevator doors opened. “I wouldn’t if I were you. It might get you in trouble.” McAdams wheeled inside the cage with Oliver and Decker in tow and pressed the seventh-floor button. The doors closed. “Poor guy. Taking all this shit for around 40K a year.”
“That’s all they make?” Oliver said. “I thought it was unionized?”
“It is. But the cap is small. They depend on Christmas tips. Dad and Mom were always generous. I’ll say that much for them.”
“How do they live on 40K a year?”
“Well, for one thing, they don’t live in the city.”
Decker said to McAdams, “This is your baby. You do the talking about the Petroshkovich book. Keep your questions short. Don’t give away anything prematurely.”
“Got it.”
“We might talk if we think of something,” Oliver said. “Also we like to throw out questions just to keep them off balance.”
“Sure.”
Decker said, “I’ll start then nod when you should go.”
“Got it.”
“You have your pad?”
“Yep.”
Decker took out his own notebook. “Then we’re all set.”
The elevator dinged and the trio got out. The door to the apartment was already open and Lance Terry was waiting in the hallway. The kid had on a sweatshirt, jeans, and slippers. His eyes immediately went to McAdams’s wheelchair, then up to Decker and Oliver. They held the terror of uncertainty. “What’s going on?”
“Can we talk inside?” Decker said. “No sense making the neighbors curious.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The door swung all the way open. Terry took them down the hallway and into a traditionally furnished living room: hardwood parquet floors, crown molding, expensive-looking rugs, a crystal chandelier, and a roaring fire. On the coffee table in front of a jacquard silk white couch were two almost empty brandy snifters and an ashtray of butts. The throw pillows had been crushed. Terry plumped them up. “Sit wherever you want.”
“This is Detective Oliver,” Decker said. “You know Detective McAdams and me.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”
“My parents are out.”
“That’s not what he asked,” Oliver said. “He asked if you were alone.”
The group heard a door open and turned to the source of the sound. “It’s all right, Tee.” The voice was male, and he slowly ambled his way down the hall until the long hair came into view. He was sloppily dressed but the material was expensive. When he stepped into the living room, Decker said, “Hello, Livingston. What brings you here?”
Sobel didn’t answer. Instead, he sat down on the couch and poured brandy into one of the used snifters. His eyes went to McAdams. “What happened to you?”
“I was shot: the leg, the arm, and a graze to the head. I wouldn’t recommend it even for verisimilitude in a screenplay. The dude was serious.”
Sobel went mute. Terry sank down next to him. His voice was a whisper. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Why’d you take a leave of absence, Lance?” Decker asked.
It took him a while to find his voice. “I needed a break.”
“In your senior year of college?” Oliver asked.
“It wasn’t just Angeline’s death, it was the way she died. Everything went weird, the way people looked at each other, the way they looked at me! I had to get out.”
“What can you tell me about her murder?” Oliver asked.
“Nothing!” The room went silent. Finally, Terry said, “You guys know I couldn’t have done anything. You checked out my schedule. I was totally telling the truth. I don’t know anything!”
“Detective Decker filled me in, but I’m new here,” Oliver said. “You said people went weird after the murder. Maybe your friends have theories about Angeline?”
“You name it, they said it. She was everything from a prostitute and a drug dealer to a spy working for the CIA. And everyone was coming up to me for answers, like I was holding back. I’m sure some idiots think my absence means I’m guilty of something. But I swear I don’t know any more than anyone else. The break is temporary. I’m coming back for spring semester.”
Decker looked at Terry, then at Sobel. “So when did you two get so tight.”
“I called him up when I came back home,” Terry said. “We both knew Angeline. I . . . just wanted to talk to him.”
“You were suspicious of me,” Sobel said. “You were feeling me out.”
“And you were feeling me out,” Terry said.
“Fair enough.” Sobel regarded Decker. “It appears we’re both in the dark.” He swallowed hard. “We heard that the Latham guy got chopped up.”
Decker said, “Who told you that?”
“Word gets around,” Terry said.
“I know people in Summer Village,” Sobel said.
“He wasn’t chopped up,” Decker said. “But he wasn’t pretty to look at, either.”
“Oh God!” Terry hit his forehead. “Why are you here? I hadn’t been with Angeline for over a year . . . longer.”
Decker nodded to McAdams who said, “I was in Rayfield Library this morning—the reference desk.”
Terry shrugged. “Good for you.”
“I
was looking for a specific book called the History of Iconography.” When Terry didn’t respond, McAdams said, “Want to tell us about it, Lance?”
“Tell you what?” A pause. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t remember a book you checked out only two months ago?”
A pause. “Is this some kind of trap?”
“Let’s try it again. The History of Iconography by Nikolai Petroshkovich.” The boy looked blank. “Doesn’t ring any bells?”
“Not a one.”
“You need to sign your name on an index card to check out this particular book because it’s very valuable. It’s worth six figures.”
“Interesting but it has nothing to do with me.”
McAdams licked his lips. “Your name was on one of the index cards.”
“You must have misread the card.”
“No, I did not misread the card. Furthermore, the school ID number belongs to you. Try again.”
“What was the book again?”
“The History of Iconography by Nikolai Petroshkovich. Published in 1926. An old art book with original plates?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I never checked out a book on iconography. I have no interest in iconography. I’m not even sure what an icon is. If you suspect it has something to do with Angeline’s murder, then maybe she put my name . . .” He fell silent.
“What?” Decker asked.
“That little bitch!” Terry’s face turned dark. “That scheming little bitch!” He sat down so that he was eye level with McAdams. “Angeline asked me if I could check out a reference book for her—for her thesis. She told me she’d do it herself, but she already had too many reference books out and they wouldn’t let her check out any more. She caught me at a weak moment . . . on purpose . . . fucking whore!”
“Go on,” McAdams said. “She asked you to check out a book for her and . . .”
“I don’t remember the title and I don’t remember the author. All I remember is that the book came in a big, wooden box and we had to wear gloves to look at it. We weren’t even allowed to take it out of the reference library. She looked at it for about an hour, put it back in the box, and gave it back to me and that was that.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 31
