“Wow!” Liza said. “That’s incredible.”
On the screen, there was the mug shot of a middle-aged man with a name and address to go along with the photograph. He lived about four blocks from the pizza shop he had robbed, and he was in the NYPD’s tattoo database from the last time he was arrested for mugging a man on Broadway in broad daylight.
“The cops had the perp in custody within the hour, and the clerk identified him in a lineup,” Richie said. “Case closed.”
Richie held out his hand with a thumbs-up to Liza.
“Show us what else you can do,” I said. “It’s not just New York City data, is it?”
“I don’t have much in here from Argentina, but let’s do some test runs,” he said. “We can access 911 calls going back a decade or more, those millions of mug shots are from departments all over the country, and there are at least thirty million criminal complaints in the system, so we can compare MOs—that means …”
“Modus operandi,” Liza said. “Got that.”
“Yeah, we can even compare them from case to case, with no arrests ever made.”
“So take a name like Walter Blodgett, Richie. What happens when you run him through the system?” I asked.
“Is he an imaginary friend, Dev,” Richie asked, typing in the name, “or can I really show you two the bells and whistles in my database?”
“He’s the real deal.”
“I’m trusting that you don’t know any criminals, Dev. I can only let you see stuff that’s public record.”
“He’s a businessman, detective. A friend of a friend of mine,” I said, referring to my new bestie, Ms. Bland. “It’s just more fun to enter a real name than to make one up. That’s how my mother always shows my friends.”
“That’s okay, then,” he said. “Looks like we got sixty-seven Walter Blodgetts in the United States. Can we narrow him down?”
“I can help,” Liza said. “He’s probably fifty years old or more. And he lives in Atlanta.”
“Now you’re talking,” Richie said.
Another keystroke and our Walter Blodgett was the only one from the long list that appeared on the screen. His name and home address, business, phone, car, and license plate number—it seemed as though all his major statistics were laid out in front of us.
“Can an ordinary citizen get this info?” I asked, leaning in to skim the words.
“A lot of this information is available online, if you have the time to search dozens of different sites, Dev. But if you stick with me and my Real Time Crime database, mostly all of it will come up in one place,” Richie said. “So you said you actually know this Mr. Blodgett?”
“He’s sort of a business associate of our friend,” Liza said.
Her confidence level peaked when she was within the safe confines of the palace. I liked her attitude.
“Do you think he ever committed a crime, Liza?” I asked.
She shook her head and almost snickered when she answered me. “Not our Mr. Blodgett. How could you even think that, Dev? He’s a friend of—well, he’s a friend of Ms. Bland.”
Richie was showing off. He cleared the monitor and typed in Blodgett’s date of birth along with his name and social security number.
“That’s a mug shot!” Liza squealed, pointing up at the screen.
“Isn’t it always those guys you don’t expect?” Richie asked.
“What did he do?” I almost bounced out of my chair. “Who’d he kill?”
I stood behind Richie, quickly held up my phone, and took a photo of Blodgett’s face without using a flash—not that a mug shot ever flattered its subject. I was certain Richie Marcus didn’t see me do it or he might have protested.
Richie laughed. “Nothing that bad, Dev.”
“What, then? A theft, right?”
“One collar.”
“That’s cop slang for an arrest,” I said to Liza.
“Collared for assault,” Richie said. “Punched a guy in the face.”
He was scrolling through the information on the report.
“Who’d he hit, Richie?” I asked. “Where did it happen?”
“The ‘who’ is a problem. Looks like the vic refused to press charges,” he said. “Happened in Massachusetts about two years ago. The case was dismissed because the guy who was hit wouldn’t prosecute, so his name’s been been taken out of the official documents.”
“No fair,” I said, backing down into my seat. “Where in Massachusetts? My grandmother would love it if the assault had been at Fenway Park and Mr. Blodgett clocked a Yankee fan.”
“Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
I slapped my hand on his desk. “That’s where Harvard University is, Liza.”
“What was the address on the complaint.”
“It just says Harvard Yard.”
“Does Harvard have a rare map collection?” Liza asked.
“It must,” I said, not wanting to derail Richie who was getting such great information for us so quickly. “Can your system do that kind of search?”
“Hey, Dev, my machine can beat the smartest Jeopardy! champion,” Richie said. “Here goes. Yep, the Pusey Library in Harvard Yard.”
“So Mr. Blodgett got in a fistfight outside a rare map collection, Dev,” Liza said. “I hope he’s on our side of things and not against us.”
“Can you run another name for us, Richie?” I asked.
There were dozens of knots in my brain, and I was trying to untangle them and keep all the strings in place.
“Savage,” I said, revealing the real purpose of my visit. “What can—?”
“Did you say Savage, as in beast?” he asked.
Liza’s mouth dropped open. She was thinking of BookBeast and his xmail address.
“Exactly. Preston J. Savage.”
“Are you sure your mother will be okay with this?” Richie Marcus asked.
“She was actually going to have Tapp run this for us on Monday.”
“Really?”
“No joke. I mean it’s not like we’re going public with this. You can ask her on Monday.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
Lulu had unlocked the library door that gave us the name of the man Liza saw defacing a rare book. The Real Time Crime Center was bringing him closer to home.
My skin tingled when I saw the information pop up on the screen in black and white.
“Preston James Savage,” Richie read aloud. “Male, white. Thirty-eight years old. Single. No children.”
“Why isn’t there a photograph?” I asked.
“Be patient, Dev. This is just his vital stats.”
“Where does he live?”
“LKA was …”
“Sorry, but what does that mean?” Liza asked.
“Last known address,” Richie said, “was in Garrison, New York.”
“Not far from Poughkeepsie, Liza,” I said. “Same train line.”
“But why is it the last known one?” she asked.
“Could be a lot of reasons,” Richie said. “Maybe he moved out, maybe he stopped paying rent, maybe it was just temporary. But he’s not getting any mail or bills there now.”
“Who’s he working for?” I asked.
“Shows him as unemployed. Lists his occupation as teacher, but he’s currently not working.”
I was trying to keep up with Richie as he read through all the data. “Looks like he had a car. A Honda Civic,” he said. “But he sold it last year. There’s nothing registered to him now.”
“Let’s try for a criminal record check,” I said, impatient that the body of information about Savage was so vague.
“What’s all this about, girls?” Richie asked. “Another business associate or a family friend?”
I grinned at him sheepishly and tried to flash my most innocent look. “What else would it be, Richie? You think we’re on the scent of a career criminal?”
“You must have a lot of your mom’s DNA, Dev. That’s what I think you’re up to
. Auditioning to be top cop.”
Preston Savage’s name and date of birth flashed up on the screen. Below them were the words NO CRIMINAL RECORD.
“No rap sheet, so no photo of Savage comes up. Haven’t I worn you two out yet?” he asked, pushing away from his desk. “Why don’t we go back upstairs? How about I get somebody to fingerprint both of you?”
“There must be five sets of my prints on file here, Richie. It’s how my mom used to keep me quiet whenever she brought me here,” I said. “I’ve got one more thing I think we should show Liza.”
“What would that be?”
“So this Preston Savage fellow? Well, he seems to be a friend of my grandmother’s,” I said. “And she always looks out for me, so I want to make sure to do the same for her.”
“That’s kind of sweet, Dev,” Richie said.
“He used to own a car, right?” I asked. “Why don’t you show Liza how your system can even check to see whether something as minor as a parking ticket can sweep you into Real Time Crime?”
Richie looked at his watch and suppressed a scowl. “Why don’t you have Sergeant Tapply do that on Monday, like your mom said?”
“C’mon, Richie,” I said. “My mother told me that the worst serial killer in New York City history was caught because of the parking tickets he’d gotten at the crime scenes, decades ago when it took months to get those records by a hand search.”
“Are you serious?” Liza asked. “Parking tickets caught a murderer?”
“Son of Sam,” Richie said. “That was his nickname.”
The Son of Sam arrest was a great moment in the NYPD’s history, long before the invention of computers and hi-tech crime-solving strategies. I let Richie brag on about it to Liza while he sat back down at his desk.
Then he plugged in the info about Preston Savage again, asking for a motor vehicle record search from every state in the country.
“Looks like we got a scofflaw, Dev,” Richie said as a list of six tickets loaded on the giant screen. “You tell your granny to have her friend pay his bills.”
“Will do,” I said. “May I ask one more favor, please? Just don’t tell my mom that my grandmother’s hanging out with a deadbeat, okay? I don’t need them to bicker over something like that.”
“How’s this? You call me on Monday, after Tapp has done his thing for your mom, and then we’ll all be on the same page,” Richie said.
Mission accomplished. No need for anyone to tell the commissioner about this aspect of our investigation before tomorrow’s visit to the exhibition. Liza and I didn’t need to be shot down again before we have a chance to make our case.
I was scouring the list while Richie turned to Liza. “Son of Sam was a scofflaw, too. He was stupid enough to land a parking ticket while he was committing a crime.”
Savage had managed to get two tickets in New Haven, Connecticut, which may have overlapped with his teaching time at Yale. There were three he picked up in Poughkeepsie—probably also when he lectured there. They weren’t recent, of course, since he no longer had a car.
The last one on the list stopped me cold. Somehow the Puzzle Palace never disappoints. Preston Savage had been ticketed when he parked in Harvard Yard, on the very same night almost two years ago that Walter Blodgett had assaulted a man.
Like I always said, in my line of sleuthing, there was no room for coincidence.
23
“That was your mom on the phone,” Natasha said to me while I was washing the dishes. “She’s about to leave the hospital and grab a bite to eat with Sam. The injured officer came through the surgery well and is going to be just fine.”
“What good news,” I said.
“She’s glad you and Liza had such a great time at One PP. At least she didn’t need to worry about what you were up to.”
“We had a really interesting tour, and the guys showed Liza all the bells and whistles,” I said. “Are you going out tonight?”
“No, I’m staying home to study. And you’d better turn in early because you’ve got swim practice tomorrow,” Natasha said. “Wait till you see her in the pool, Liza. She’s a regular speed demon.”
“Liza’s not coming with me.”
“Why not?”
“She’s opted for the cooler dude to hang with,” I said. “Booker invited her to his tennis practice.”
“Aha!” Natasha said with a laugh. “Well, I’ll bet there’ll be a long line of Hunter girls shooting daggers at you, Miss Liza. Booker seems to have a fan following wherever he goes.”
“I happen to like tennis,” Liza said.
“Give me a break and just admit it,” I said, tugging on her braid. “You have a crush on Booker.”
Liza shook her head to brush me off.
“Want me to meet up with you in the afternoon?” Natasha asked.
“I think we’ll be good, thanks. The three of us can hang out and figure something to do. We’ll all be together with you for the picnic in the park by evening.”
“Okay. I’ll be in my room reading if you need anything,” she said.
“See you later.”
I set out my swim clothes for the morning and called Booker to remind him to pick up Liza before he went to practice.
Then I got in bed and opened my laptop. I logged in to the Latitude Society site and hit the Archives section.
Several years’ worth of the newsletters were online. I punched up some random editions going back over time, frustrated by the fact that there was no membership list.
There was a board of directors that changed on the letterhead every couple of years, but no one familiar in that listing. There was a column of items for sale, which seemed to be mostly duplicates of maps of the New England colonies and the coastline of Florida.
And then there was a notice on the back page of just about every newsletter. It was entitled MISSING. These weren’t the lost children whose faces showed up on milk cartons, but instead hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of rare maps. And they appeared to be missing from every institution up and down the eastern seaboard.
Rogers’s 1816 New Chart of the Gulf of Florida and the Bahama Banks, missing from Harvard; Evans’s 1758 General Map of the Middle British Colonies, missing from the New York Public Library; Ellicott’s 1792 Plan of the City of Washington, missing from Yale. It looked as though these three great institutions alone were the hunting grounds for at least one greedy thief.
Liza finished her bath and got into bed. “Anything new?”
“Just that we could make a career out of finding rare maps. Stealing them must be a very profitable business,” I said. “Who knew?”
“Have you run across any of our names? Walter Blodgett? Preston Savage? Jack Williams?”
“Shhhhh,” I said. “Don’t let Natasha hear you. She swears Jack’s a good guy.”
“Maybe he is, but that was still weird the other night.”
“Here’s something! There was a special exhibition at Harvard, at the Pusey Library, on the very date that Blodgett punched an unidentified man and Savage got a parking ticket.”
Liza leaped off her bed in a flash and crowded next to me on the bed.
“What was it?”
“It was an exhibition of Samuel Champlain’s 1613 map of New France,” I read to Liza from the archived newsletter, “described as the single most important map in Canadian history.”
“Did we—I mean the Latitude Society—put on the exhibition?” she asked.
“No, the Harvard Library sponsored the event.”
“Any names?”
“No names,” I said, every bit as disappointed as Liza was. “Three possible perps—working alone or maybe even in a ring of criminals, and not a single name is here.”
“Don’t give up, Dev. Let me go through it again.”
“Sure,” I said, turning my laptop over to her. “You’re more careful than I am anyway.”
Liza gave the words on the screen her most intense stare. Then she pushed it away and lea
ned back against the wall.
“It’s a dead end, right?” I asked.
“Seems to be.”
We were both bummed.
“Wait a minute, Liza,” I said, retrieving my laptop and going back into the society’s archives. “Some member usually reports on the events after they happen.”
“When was the next newsletter?”
“That’s what I’m checking for,” I said. “Looks like two months after the Champlain exhibition.”
I scanned it carefully but there was nothing about the show at the Harvard Library.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Don’t give up, Dev. That’s not like you,” Liza said. “Try the next issue.”
I found a newsletter dated four months after the Champlain exhibition. “Fingers crossed. Here’s a mention.”
My eyes darted across the page, searching for highlights to read. “‘Well attended,’ ‘catered by blah-blah-blah’, ‘Boston’s Mercator Association was represented by Alexandra Denman’—she’s an old chum of Lulu’s—blah-blah-blah. Here! Liza, it’s here! ‘The Latitude Society contingent was led by Walter Blodgett.’”
“Good work, Dev.”
“Yes, Blodgett was sipping cocktails in the presence of an original Champlain just a few hours before he belted somebody in the nose.”
I continued to read, but there were no other names of note.
“Was the Champlain ever stolen?” Liza asked.
“Doesn’t appear to be. It’s in a private collection somewhere.”
Liza went back to her bed and got under the covers. “Has anyone from the Latitude Society contacted you today?”
“I’m about to log in,” I said.
I used Liza’s screen name and opened my account. The first three e-mails were blasts about tomorrow’s event. People who were looking forward to seeing the great Cortés map and so on. The fourth one was meant for me. “Ouch!”
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just some nameless dude telling me not to be so stupid as to talk about wanting to meet a thief,” I said. “Look, he can’t possibly know I’m just trying to smoke out a bad guy at the exhibition. After all, he’s right.”
“But what’s his e-mail name?”
“Nothing familiar, Liza. It’s not one of our guys, unless he’s changed his e-mail address. We might find out soon enough.”
Into the Lion's Den Page 14
