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

by Kellerman, Faye

  “Hold on,” McAdams said. “E-b-e-l-l?”

  “Yep.”

  “Right you are, boss. It was a William Wendt and the secretary sold it to a gallery in Laguna Beach.”

  “Same pattern,” Decker said. “Swiping valuables from unsuspecting places.”

  McAdams was still playing with his phone. “William Wendt is a California impressionist. Some of his big canvases are worth a lot of money.” He looked up. “Lots of times these clubs don’t even really know what they have. Although you’d think they’d be careful with a Cole or a Durand.”

  Decker said, “It would take Angeline too long to copy a painting. More than likely, she just replaced them with a cheap landscape. All that green . . . probably no one would notice at least for a while.”

  “Good point,” McAdams said. “You know there are tens of thousands of period landscapes in period frames floating around. Most aren’t worth that much.”

  “Breaking and entering into cemeteries is one thing,” Oliver said. “But there’s something really brazenly cocky about swiping a painting off the wall.”

  “I agree,” Decker said. “They got cocky. And that’s what got them killed.”

  CHAPTER 36

  THEY HIT THE road for Greenbury at ten in the morning, leaving the crush of hump day Manhattan traffic behind. It had been good to see the family, but the commute was getting cumbersome, especially with a carload of people. Decker was at the wheel with Greg Schultz sitting shotgun, peering out the window with steely eyes. In the back, Rina was seated between Oliver and McAdams. She wasn’t grumpy, and that made her mood the best of the bunch.

  “So Victor Gerrard is gone?” she asked.

  “Appears that way,” Decker answered.

  “Is he a victim or a bad guy?” Her question was met with shrugs and grunts. “That he took off so quickly could indicate either one.”

  “Right,” Decker answered. He was trying to be polite since no one else was talking.

  Rina kept at it. “What do you think?”

  McAdams blew out air. “I’m too tired to think.”

  Shultz continued to stare out the window. “Your grandmother is very nice. She wants to hire me as a bodyguard.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Tyler rolled his eyes. “Her place is a fortress.”

  “Exactly what I told her. She replied that her apartment couldn’t accompany her down Madison Avenue.” His eyes swept over the highway—front, back, and sides. “I declined, but I thanked her for her vote of confidence. I’m only telling you in case she says anything to you.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” McAdams answered.

  “Can we get back to Victor Gerrard?” Caffeine had kicked into Oliver’s system. “The names were deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list about two weeks before the murders.”

  “Yes,” Decker said. “And it appears that Gerrard left the gallery right after our first visit.”

  Oliver said, “So could be that Gerrard deleted the names, executed the killings, and then stuck around to shoot you two before he packed up and ran.”

  Decker said, “I suppose he’s as good a candidate as any since he’s not around to offer an alibi.”

  “Curator by day, hit man by night,” McAdams said. “Not as loony as it sounds. Art people are a foul bunch.”

  “I’m questioning Merritt’s innocence in all this,” Oliver said. “The guy’s a sophisticated dealer and then he leaves his computer unprotected for anyone to hack into.”

  “Doesn’t even sound like Gerrard had to hack into anything,” McAdams said. “Just went inside Merritt’s office and fiddled with the files.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Oliver remarked. “I think Merritt’s involved.”

  “He’s been cooperative with us,” Decker said.

  “So you don’t think he’s involved?”

  “Reserving judgment. He could just be one of those academic types with his head in the clouds. I’m betting Gerrard ran the nuts and bolts of the gallery.”

  “Victor Gerrard,” Rina said out loud. “The name has a foreign feel to it. Maybe German?”

  McAdams took out his phone and called up his search engine. “Gerrard is English originally derived from the Old German name Gerhard meaning ‘spear/brave.’ And I can tell you without looking it up that Victor is Latin and it means victorious.”

  Rina was quiet. “How is Victor spelled? With a ‘c’ or with a ‘k’?”

  “Good question,” Decker said. “I never bothered to ask.”

  “If he spells it with a ‘k,’ it could be Russian.”

  “Or German,” McAdams said.

  “Or German as in from East Germany,” Rina said. “In which case, Viktor with a ‘k’ might speak Russian. And maybe that’s why Merritt hired him. He was Russian speaking.”

  “You know, Rina, maybe Deck should have hired you instead of me,” Oliver said.

  “Why thank you, Scott.”

  “She’s always been the brains in the family,” Decker said. “Want to give Merritt a call, Tyler?”

  “On it.” McAdams waited. When his phone kicked in, he said, “Mr. Merritt, this is Detective McAdams from Greenbury . . . I know. I am sorry to bother you, but your gallery man, Victor Gerrard, is still missing and we’re still working two murder cases . . . I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Victor Gerrard. Does he speak Russian by any chance? . . . he does. Is he Russian? . . . okay, okay . . . so he was born in East Berlin? So he speaks German as well? Okay. His first name Victor—is spelled with a ‘k’? It is spelled with a ‘k’ . . . no, that’s all for now, thank—” The kid looked at the phone. “He hung up on me.”

  “Rude little man,” Rina said. “Although he did give me a free book.”

  “Speaking of books,” Decker said, “what’s going on with the codebook? Do you have Mordechai Gold’s cell number?”

  “Affirmative on that one as well.”

  “Ring him up.”

  “Right-o.” A few moments later, McAdams left a message. “I could call his office number.”

  “I don’t want to leave a message on a public machine.” Decker tapped the wheel.

  Tyler said, “Penny for your thoughts, Loo.”

  “Just trying to summarize things in my mind.”

  “Go on,” Oliver said.

  “First of all, what we know. Lance Terry stole a statue from a cemetery. Angeline Moreau sold it and decided that this was a business with a decent return since no investment capital was required. They did it together for a while but eventually Terry got nervous and stopped stealing—or so he says. But we’ll take it on face value for the moment. Angeline wasn’t ready to give up her life of crime. So she found another partner—John Latham.

  “We know that Latham and Angeline hooked up but we don’t know how they met. Maybe at a party, maybe they met through a common fence, or maybe she began to see his name on the date stamp in every book that she razored and made a logical connection that he was also doing funny stuff. However they met, they began thieving together, storing their take in a bin that was mutually rented: both of them had keys.”

  He paused.

  “So that’s Latham and Angeline. Now we have Gerrard to consider. We don’t know if he’s connected, but we do know that Viktor with a ‘k’ is missing and we know that three names were deleted from Merritt’s client list—one American who sets up traveling exhibitions between top museums, one rich Russian, and one Finnish art dealer. It’s possible that Gerrard deleted the names, but we don’t know why.”

  “So actually you do know a lot,” Rina said.

  “Always a cheerleader,” Decker said. “The sad truth is we don’t know who killed Angeline and Latham. We don’t know who tried to take down Harvard and me. We don’t know if Gerrard is victim or perpetrator. And we don’t know anything about Latha
m’s codebook or if it’s even relevant to the murders.”

  McAdams said, “If Gerrard was dead, we probably would have found his corpse by now. Whoever killed Latham and Angeline left the bodies in the open.”

  Decker said, “You’re right, Harvard. The killer wanted to make a show of his handiwork. He was trying to impress someone.”

  “Which makes Gerrard more perpetrator than victim,” Oliver said.

  “Listening to all of you, I do have a question,” Rina said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Why go to all that trouble with a very complex codebook in a bunch of languages to hide things when it seems that Latham and Angeline weren’t stealing items of major value?”

  Decker said, “I think in the process of stealing minor items, Latham hit on something very big that he felt was worth hiding in code.”

  “Or,” Rina said, “maybe Latham and Angeline didn’t have anything worth hiding in code. Maybe the book belonged to someone else. Maybe Latham or Angeline stole it and then Lathem figured out the code and realized that he had hit on something big. Maybe Latham tried his hand at blackmail. And finally, since both of their apartments were tossed, perhaps whoever murdered them was looking to get the codebook back. And maybe that someone was Viktor Gerrard. We know he spoke a few languages. Maybe he knew other languages as well.”

  The car fell silent. Then McAdams said, “You go, girl.”

  Rina beamed. “You live with a guy for nearly three decades, something rubs off.”

  Oliver said, “Gerrard also had access to Merritt’s contacts. I’m liking him as the bad guy.”

  Decker gathered his thoughts. “The codebook was found behind a piece of paneling around the bathtub skirt where the Jacuzzi motor should have been. Mulrooney said the pipes were capped off and it was placed behind the pipes and well hidden. Latham’s place had been trashed. All the logical spots to hide the codebook had already been checked out: the freezer was open, the toilet tank top was off, a few loose floorboards were ripped off, the walls had been pierced for hiding places—”

  McAdams said, “So that’s why the living room walls had those round holes punched into them?”

  “Yep. They were checking for hollow spots or a safe that had been walled up.”

  “Aha!” Oliver said. “You’re wondering why the killers didn’t check the Jacuzzi motor area, which is a prime stashing spot for drug dealers and thieves.”

  Decker said, “They missed the Jacuzzi spot because they were foreign. They know about wall safes and floorboards and toilet tanks, but unlike we spoiled Americans, how many Russian goons have familiarity with Jacuzzis?”

  McAdams said, “But Viktor Gerrard had lived in America for years.”

  “He lived in New York. How many regular Joes in Manhattan have a Jacuzzi?”

  “I thought he lived in Philadelphia.”

  “Even if he was renting a weekend apartment in the heart of Philly, it probably wasn’t high on luxury features. I’m just saying that everywhere I turn, I see the Brown Bear staring us down.”

  The car went silent.

  Decker continued on. “Gerrard spoke Russian, Latham’s field was Soviet art, and one of Angeline’s last known thefts was plates from the Petroshkovich art book.” He shook his head. “This case is dealing with a different set of rules. I think it’s time we clue in Quantico. I usually don’t like multiple agencies because communication is so poor, but . . .” He threw up his hands, and then he clutched the wheel. “Maybe you’re right, Harvard. Maybe I am an Old Man or at the very least too old for this job.”

  “You don’t mean that and neither do I,” McAdams said. “If you think we need help, then we need help.”

  “Once it’s dropped into Quantico’s lap, we’ll have to bow out. And viewing that someone had no qualms about shooting us, that may be a good thing.”

  “I agree,” Oliver said. “Retirement is boring, but you’re dead for a very long time. You took it as far as you could, Deck. I’m sure Radar will be happy to punt.”

  Rina said, “Nobody could have done any better with what you were given.”

  A band of cheerleaders. But it did little to calm Decker’s sense of failure. “I’d still like to know what’s in the codebook.”

  “If that’s worth killing over, Peter, maybe it’s better not to know.”

  “And what do I say to Angeline Moreau’s parents? Whatever happened, she didn’t deserve to die. And whatever happened, her parents deserve to know the truth.”

  Decker’s phone buzzed. The call was from Radar and it immediately went into Bluetooth. “Hi, Captain, we’re two hours away.”

  “So that will put you into Greenbury around one?”

  “That sounds right. When we see you, we’ll update you with what’s going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Some names had been deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list. Viktor Gerrard spoke fluent Russian and German. We’re thinking that maybe he was dealing art behind Jason Merritt’s back. The whole case is feeling like a foreign entity is involved.” Decker paused. “I hate to say this but I think we might have taken this as far as we can on our own.”

  “Interesting to hear you say that because I just got off the phone with our friends in Virginia.”

  Decker was stunned. “You called them?”

  “Of course not. I’d let you know before I made a move like that.”

  “My bad. So who called them?”

  “I don’t know, but I suspect it was your contact at Harvard, McAdams.”

  “Mordechai Gold?”

  “Didn’t you say he was a former agent?”

  “I did?”

  “That’s what he told me when I first spoke to him, Tyler,” Decker said. “So what’s our next move, Mike?”

  “It’s the CIA. What do you think happens next?”

  “A meeting.”

  “Three o’clock at the police station.”

  “Will Gold be there?”

  “Since he knows all about the codebook and called them in, I suspect he will be there. No need to feel defeated, Decker. The case would have been yanked from you anyway.”

  “I suppose that is some solace. Maybe we can get some answers.”

  “From the CIA?”

  “Then again, maybe not.”

  “Wear a suit and tie and sunglasses and try to look very officious,” Radar said. “That way, we’ll blend in very nicely.”

  CHAPTER 37

  CHANGE OF PLANS,” Radar told Decker over the phone. “They want to meet at your house.”

  “My house?”

  “Yes. They claim there are too many people to meet at the station and they’ll draw too much attention. All that is true.”

  “How many?”

  “Last count we’re up to eight: Dr. Gold, some Russian, an American big shot, two agents, the mayor and the lieutenant governor of the state of New York, and Chris Mulrooney, who’s already here. I don’t know what you all hit on, but it’s big.”

  “Meeting at my house . . . taking over my personal space. That’s pure intimidation.”

  “It is. I suggested my house, but they seem bent upon making you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s fine, Mike. I can deal. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “Pete, you and the kid and Oliver did good. Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

  “Thank you.” Decker hung up. To Rina he said, “The phone isn’t the right place, but I promise I’ll let him know about all your input, honey.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Rina said.

  “Credit where credit is due.”

  “I thank you, but I’m fine in the background,” Rina said. “Besides, there are lots of advantages of being that pesky fly on the wall.”

  RINA WAS USED to men. She had grown up the youngest
behind two brothers. Her first two children were sons. She could usually speak their language and rarely had to use feminine wiles to get what she wanted. But in this instance, she knew she’d do anything to calm Peter down because he was seething. Men with suits and steely eyes had invaded his domain and while she knew he wouldn’t do anything reckless, he wasn’t going down easily.

  Counting Mike, Scott, Tyler, Greg, and Peter, there were thirteen men crowded into a living room meant for six to eight adults. Dining room chairs had to be brought in. She had gone into the kitchen to make coffee and tea and to prepare a plate of whatever baked goods were in the freezer. While everything was brewing, she took the opportunity to size up the enemy.

  The two CIA agents were easy to spot. Both of them were good-looking, tall men with broad shoulders and very short hair: one was fair haired, the other was brunette, and that was about the only way she could tell them apart. They could have been cast in the movies to play what they did in real life.

  She knew the mayor, Logan Brettly. He was in his fifties with curly white hair, a stocky build, and a bulldog face. In the past, all her dealings with Brettly had been positive. He was a nice man who cared about his constituency. In this setting, he looked decidedly tense.

  She supposed the professor with the scant, woolly gray hair was Mordechai Gold. His dress was more collegiate: corduroy jacket with patch pockets over a sweater over a shirt, and slacks with boots on his feet. He had perceptive eyes, taking in everything.

  Of the other four men, she guessed that the blond man in his fifties with the perpetual tan was Alex Beckwith, the big-shot American. The suit with him was the lieutenant governor of the state of New York. Being a newcomer, Rina couldn’t remember his name.

  The most exotic in style and dress was a man in his fifties, built like a professional wrestler. He wore an expensive jacket with working buttons on the sleeves, and there was a gold Rolex on his wrist, a bejeweled stickpin that kept his tie in place, and a large diamond winked from his pinkie. She figured he had to be the Russian and most likely, he was one of the names that Gerrard had erased from Jason Merritt’s client list. The remaining man looked like a cop: basic suit, tie, and rubber-soled shoes. Irish face, uncomfortable eyes and hands that he continually clasped and unclasped. Probably Chris Mulrooney from Summer Village.