Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

The kid smiled. “Who knew about the panels? Uh, the caretakers of the cemetery, maybe a few locals, and of course, the family.”

“Bingo. The theft was either ordered by a family member or someone in the family yakked to the wrong person. We need to go back to New York.”

“When?”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow. I’m going to tell my wife to stay put. Let her enjoy the kids a little longer.” A pause. “The murders have just given us ammunition to start asking the family very serious questions.”

“You keep using first person plural. Is annoying little me tagging along?”

“You’re not tagging along, McAdams. You’re discharging your duties as a sworn officer of Greenbury Police.”

“Between you and me, I never swore any kind of an oath.”

“You can take notes on your iPad.”

“That I can do.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

McAdams laughed. “I have several places to stay, all on the Upper East Side, FYI.”

“Hence, my reason for taking you to the Big Apple. Your upper-crust upbringing and connections will come in handy. Unless you have loyalties to your East Side homies.”

“No loyalties whatsoever.” When Decker laughed, he said, “Blunt but true.”

“Then I could use your insider perspective.”

“I can certainly talk the talk.”

“Tyler, all you need to do is walk the walk.” Decker smiled. “Let me handle the talking.”

CHAPTER 16

FOUR FIFTY-THREE IN the afternoon and a mile away from the station, Decker said, “Go home and get some rest, McAdams. If all goes as planned, I’d like to leave for Manhattan by seven tomorrow morning. That should put us into the city by ten.”

“Are you going home?” McAdams asked.

“Not yet. I’ve got to talk to Angeline’s parents and catch up on forensics.”

“How long will that last?”

“I suppose it depends on what the parents have to say and if CSI came up with anything significant.”

“Drop me off at the colleges and I’ll start looking up antique books.”

“You’re not tired?”

“I’m beyond tired and into delirious. I probably won’t get much out of anything, but I’ll be damned if I quit before you do.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“With me, it’s always a competition. How about if we meet up for dinner when you’re done and we can swap notes?”

Decker studied the kid. “I don’t know, McAdams. I just get a feeling that you’re up to something.”

“Because I’m trying to be conscientious?” The kid got huffy. “Can’t win for losing.”

“You’re right. I should be applauding your work ethic. Okay, let’s meet up for dinner. It might be late. What time do the libraries close?”

“College libraries close late, late.”

“That’s fine,” Decker said. “I probably won’t be done until late, late.”

McAdams said, “Most of the restaurants in town aren’t open late, late.”

“What about the bars? They’re open late, late and they serve food.”

“They’re a little loud for talking business. And sometimes stinky, too.” McAdams paused. “I’m showing my age.”

“And you call me Old Man?”

“Irony of ironies.”

“You know, Tyler, when I was much younger, I felt much older. Now that I really am older and retired . . . well, semiretired . . . I feel young again. I think it’s because I no longer have anything to prove.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m hearing sarcasm.”

“Not sarcasm . . . jealousy. I’ve been jumping hoops since I was born: the right schools, the right university, the right friends, the right address, the right clothes, the connections, the right shit in the right gold-plated toilet. You can drop me off here.”

Decker pulled the car to the curb in front of Duxbury’s administration building. It was an imposing limestone edifice: Federalist in style and reminiscent of a courthouse. There were a fair number of students milling about, huddled and bundled as they trudged through the snow. The skies were dark and clear, the campus grounds frosted in pure white. In the daytime sun, walkway sludge had melted to water. When the temperature dropped, the pathways froze over to a black sheet of ice. Despite the shoveling, the clearing and the salting, the local emergency room dealt with lots of slips and falls in the winter. Cleats would have been helpful.

“I think we both could use a good night’s rest,” Decker said.

“I think I could use some meaning in my pathetic life. And I don’t think I’m gonna find it at Harvard Law.” He got out and slammed the door.

Decker blew out air. He called up Rina and brought her up to date.

“So now you’re dealing with two murders?”

“Yes.”

“That’s horrible. Poor victims.” A pause. “Poor you.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m coming back to Manhattan. It makes more sense for you to stay put.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm. This actually works out perfectly. Cindy has the day off tomorrow and we were planning to go to King of Prussia. This way I won’t have to rush.”

Decker felt a twinge of envy. “Have fun.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No . . . I’m just a little peeved that I always seem to be missing out.”

“We’re going to a shopping mall, Peter. A very, very big shopping mall. Last I heard, malls are your version of hell.”

“Actually I’m dealing with real hell right now,” Decker said. “King of Prussia has just been downgraded to purgatory.”

THE STATION HUMMED with activity. As soon as Decker stepped through the door, Ben Roiters got up from his desk and walked over to him. “Mike wants to see you.”

“Where are Angeline Moreau’s parents?”

“They’re at Littleton, talking to someone in the administration. Since it happened off-campus, the college is punting to us.”

“It might not have anything to do with college. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I think the parents were planning on dinner after the meeting, but I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you.”

“Could you call them for me? Tell them I’m back and I’ll meet with them whenever they’re ready.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” Decker walked into Mike Radar’s office and shut the door. The captain’s lair was tiny. There was a desk, a file cabinet, two chairs, and lots of pictures and plaques on the wall.

Mike pointed to the chair. “Did you ask for the coroner’s office in Boston to send down any identifying marks on Angeline Moreau?”

“Yeah, I asked them to send it to your e-mail in case I got hung up.”

“They sent me two tattoos so far. As the gases dissipate, the doc told me that more marks might become visible. I forwarded the tats to you: some kind of flower vine on her shoulder and a flower on the small of her back. I think they call those tramp stamps, although I’m not going to say that to the parents.”

“Hardly. Can you bring up the tats on your computer?”

“Sure.” Radar played with his keyboard. “Here.” He turned the screen around for Decker to see. A wisteria vine cascaded down Angeline’s shoulder, and a peony rested on the junction between her spine and buttock. It was of note that she had chosen flowers used by Clara Driscoll in the Tiffany glass lamps.

“Can you print them out for me?”

“You want to show them to the parents?”

“It’s easier than showing them her body. I also told them to bring her toothbrush in case you wanted to confirm with DNA, but these might do it.”

“Fine.” Radar produced a latex glove and small paper bag. “Forensics found this with the vacuum. Be careful. We’re talking sharp.”

Decker put on the glove, opened the bag, and looked inside. He shone a light and then gingerly picked up a pinch of tiny colored fragments. “Stained glass.”

“Angeline had been a busy girl. Where are the forgeries from the mausoleum? Did the family take them?”

“No, no, no. I’ve got them in bubble wrap and put them in the lost and found since it’s the only cage that locks. We really should get an official evidence room.”

“Become a real big-city police department.”

Decker smiled. “Let’s see if the fragments match to the forgeries. We’ll need a big-city lab with equipment for something this sophisticated. Boston will probably do it since her murder is most likely connected to Latham’s murder.”

“That was Boston territory?”

“No, it’s Summer Village territory, but they use Boston if they need something specific.”

“Tell me about Latham.” After Decker did a brief recap, Radar said, “That’s one vicious murder.”

“It was bad. I’d like to go back to his apartment when I have time and riffle through it myself. The Summer Village detectives seem like good guys and eager to share. But Latham isn’t my case. I’d also like to return to New York and reinterview the extended Sobel family.”

“Why?”

“Because I think that’s how Angeline Moreau found out about the Tiffany windows.”

“Someone in the family was behind the theft?”

“Or talked to her too freely. There were people I didn’t interview because I came back to investigate Moreau’s murder.”

“Yeah, about that. How do you feel about handling the murder investigation? Are you comfortable with it?”

“I’m okay for right now.”

“So then it’s yours. If it becomes too much or too complicated—and it might be with Latham’s murder—let me know.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“How’s the kid?”

“McAdams? Surprisingly motivated. I told him to go home and get some rest, but he insisted on doing additional research. I’d like to take him with me to New York.”

“Why?”

“It’s his home turf. He has connections there.”

“Does he ever.”

“You want to fill me in with that.”

“His father, Jack McAdams, is in international banking; his mother, Alberta, is currently married to someone else in international banking. But it’s the grandfather with the real money. He did the backing for a lot of the high-tech companies when the field was in its infancy. He passed about six years ago and Tyler’s father amassed most of the fortune. Jack went to Duxbury as an undergrad.”

“Not Harvard?”

“Harvard Law School. Jack is not only a major benefactor of Duxbury, he sits on the board. He also built the new rec center for the town. Actually, it’s about four years old but we still call it the new rec center. He is also instrumental in building the new stage theater and revamping the swimming center. It has endeared him to the mayor.”

“Got it.”

“So you’re okay with the kid? That’s good. He’s a trust fund baby, you know. So I suppose it’s laudable that he’s trying to work, although I can’t help but think that he has something up his sleeve.”

“Me, too,” Decker said. “What’s your take on it?”

“I don’t know. But why would a kid like that want to work with a small-town police department?”

“Probably this is the only place that would take him without a lick of experience.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. I gave him a six-week crash course. He was a quick learner, very smart, but obnoxious. I don’t get him. Why not go to law school, sit back on your ass, and spend Daddy’s bucks. Something’s on his mind.”

“Maybe he wants to write a Pulitzer Prize exposé.”

“Here? We’re boring. Not a scandal in fifty years.”

“Maybe he’s after a screenplay with verisimilitude.”

“Yeah, that would fit.” Radar handed Decker the printouts of the tattoos. “All right. Go back to New York and see if you can’t make something happen. If you happen to meet Tyler’s old man, tread lightly.”

“Tyler detests him, you know.”

“Nobody likes him. Jack’s a real schmuck. One day that man’s going to wind up with a bullet in his back and no one will be surprised.”

IN ANOTHER CONTEXT, Karen Bronson might not be beautiful, but she might have appeared fit: a good figure, nice tan, brown, straight hair cut in a neat bob. She had a lithe body and long arms and legs. Her face was long with thin lips and light, red-rimmed eyes with deep circles under the orbs. Like Decker, she hadn’t slept for many hours. Her husband also had an athlete’s build—long and lean with broad shoulders. They appeared to be in their early fifties. They had dressed strictly for comfort: sweatpants and sweatshirts. Decker came into the small interview room holding the printouts and a cup of coffee.

“Can I refill your cups for you?” Both of them shook their heads. “Peter Decker.” He shook their hands and sat down. The square footage of the place was very small. Intimacy was forced. “I’m so sorry for your terrible loss. This is my case and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to find out what happened and who did this.”

Jim spoke up. “No offense, Detective, but this is a very small town. I mean . . .” He threw up his hands. “Have you done this before?”

“I was a Los Angeles Police Department lieutenant before I came out here. And I’ve worked hundreds of homicides. I promise I’ll do everything I can. And I’ll be sure to keep in touch. Like I said, call me anytime.”

“So this was like a retirement job or . . .”

“Exactly.”

“When did you leave Los Angeles?”

Karen broke in. Her voice was husky. “Jim, we can ask the questions another time.”

“I want to make sure he’s competent.” Jim looked at Decker. “We’re thinking about hiring private . . . if we don’t get results.”

“Sure, if you want. I’ll coordinate with him if you do.”

“And you’re sure it’s Angeline.”

Decker clenched his jaw. “Does she have tattoos?”

“Oh God!” Karen’s eyes watered. “Yes.”

“We have some pictures.” He slid them across the table. She gasped and then broke into open sobs. Jim held her shoulders and shoved the papers back to Decker.

“I’m sorry.” When neither responded, Decker said, “I need to ask you some questions. They might be unpleasant. I’m sorry if they are.”

“What did you find out about this John character?” Jim demanded. “Is he important?”

“John Latham. You’re sure that you’ve never heard the name before?”

“No. Never. Who is he?”

“I know the bare minimum about him.” Decker blew out air. “He was murdered by the time we got to his apartment. That’s why he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh my God!” Jim hugged Karen tighter as she continued to sob. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“Has . . . has Angeline ever been in trouble before?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I told you the questions might be unpleasant. I have to ask them. Has she ever shoplifted, for instance?”

“Shoplifted? ”

“Yes,” Karen broke in.

“She did?” Jim asked.

“Years ago. When she was eleven or twelve—during the divorce. She was having a hard time. Nothing since that one incident . . . actually it was two . . . two incidents. But I begged the owner to let me pay and not press charges and she was very kind about it. Two charges would have meant juvenile hall.” Karen wiped her eyes. “What mess did she get herself into?”

“I’m not positive about anything.” Decker took out his notepad. “Let me tell you what I do know. Last Friday night, one of the cemetery mausoleums was broken into. There were some items taken.”

“What kind of items?”

“Valuable stained-glass window panels. Not all of them. Two original panels were still there. But the other two panels had been forged. The forensic team found shards of glass in your daughter’s apartment—”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” Karen said. “When you mentioned her apartment, I thought you meant her dorm room. But then her dean told us that it happened off-campus . . . that the university wasn’t even technically responsible.”

“Passing the buck,” Jim said. “They’re all fucking weasels!”

“Jim—”

“You know it’s true. All they care about is their own asses. They are petrified we’re going to sue. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to sue someone. Somebody is to blame for my daughter’s death!”

“Who gives a damn about money,” Karen snapped.

“I’m just saying that somebody has to take responsibility!”

“That would be me,” Decker said. “I’m responsible for this investigation right now. So if you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”

“Why would I yell at you? You’re trying to help.”

“I am,” Decker said. “So you knew nothing about an apartment off-campus?”

“Not a thing,” Jim said. “We weren’t paying for it, that’s for certain.”

“Okay. Going back to the apartment, we found glass shards in it. We also have the forged panels. Our next step is to see if the glass that we found in the apartment matches the glass in the forgeries.”

“Even if it does match, it doesn’t mean that Angeline did the forgeries,” Jim said. “There could be dozens of people owning that glass—”

“Jim, just listen to what the man has to say, okay.” Karen wiped her eyes. “You think she forged the panels.”

“I have to consider it, yes.”

“And she was murdered because of the forgeries?” Karen’s eyes shed new tears.

“Maybe.”

“How valuable are these panels?” Jim said. “Are they priceless or something?”

“Pricey but certainly not priceless.”

“How much? Like thousands?”

“Probably.”

“If she was carrying around expensive bags, you’re thinking that she has done some other types of forgeries before and that’s how she got the spending money,” Karen said.

“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.” He paused. “Could there be other illegal activities that she’s done in the past?”

“Like what?”

“Drugs maybe?”

“No, not Angeline,” Karen insisted. “Yes, I can see her . . . possibly . . . copying some art pieces, but not drugs.”

“Why can you see her copying other art pieces, Mrs. Bronson?”

“Karen.”

“Okay, sure. Karen. Tell me why you said that.”

The woman sighed. “Angeline was every bit the typical college student, idealistic and a bit . . . radical. She often spoke about art, saying it should be available to the masses. In museums and public places, not holed up in big mansions. Her goal was always nonprofit . . . getting major pieces back to public places from private places. So . . . maybe she got carried away, imagined herself to be a modern-day Robin Hood.”

Stealing from the rich and buying designer handbags. Decker said, “Anything else you’d like to tell me about her?”

“No.” Karen wiped her eyes. “And I’m not saying she did anything illegal. I’m just trying to give you background on my baby.”

“I appreciate it.”

“What’s with this Latham guy? How does he fit in?”

“I’m working on that. It’s not my case—it happened in Summer Village, which is a suburb of the Boston area—so I can’t just charge in and demand answers. But when I find out, I’ll certainly let you know.”

“So he’s not a student anywhere here?”

“I haven’t checked every student on the roster, but I don’t believe so. He’s older. He lives an hour and a half away. I think he might be associated with Tufts University but I’m not even sure about that. Is there anything I can do for you two right now?”

Jim said, “When can we take her home?”

“I’ll check with Boston. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

“When can we start packing up her . . .” Karen hung her head and stopped talking.

“I’ll check with Forensics and let you know about that as well,” Decker said. “Do you have a place to stay tonight? I can help you arrange something if you need it.”

“No, we’re . . . we’re staying at the Greenbury College Inn for the next two nights.”

“And you have my number?” Decker said.

“We do,” Jim said.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“We need a lot of things right now,” Jim snarled out. “And it’s nothing that you or anyone else can give us.”

CHAPTER 17

KENNEDY’S PUB WAS one of the busier college hangouts because it had a reputation for cheap drinks and decent bar food. As the kid predicted, the place was arid hot, noisy, and stinky, especially at ten in the evening. They found a corner table away from the oversized and overcrowded bar. The dance floor was packed with students doing all kinds of moves and it took a while before a server was even visible. Finally, McAdams grew impatient, got up, and a moment later, a surly student took their orders: crudités and a Grolsch for Decker, a Manhattan and the lamb sliders for the kid.

“I like bourbon,” he said. “One of the few things that my father and I have in common.” He drummed his fingers. “That and we both live off my grandfather’s money. Now that guy was a true visionary. Not the most grandfatherly type. I think I waved to him in passing when I was five. Real warm people the McAdamses are.”

Decker nodded. “At least if he wasn’t warm, he was generous.”

“You take what you can get. The old man was married three times with a lot of lady friends in between. Lots of divorces and lots of alimony, but he had enough to go around.” The server brought over their drinks and plopped them on the table. McAdams sipped the richly colored bourbon. “I like his third wife, Nina. Matter of fact, I’m staying with her in the city.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy-two. My grandfather would have been . . . eighty-six or -seven. He died six years ago. That’s when I came into a small part of our inheritance. I know my other sibs got something but his third wife told me that, as the eldest and most precocious, I am due to get the lion’s share, probably as much as my father.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yes, oh boy. It took our already explosive relationship and brought it that much closer to total obliteration.”

Decker saw that McAdams had polished off his bourbon and ordered another one for him. “You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe in a hundred years.” McAdams pulled out his iPad. “I got the names of the detectives on the Petroshkovich theft. Douglas Arrenz and Allan Sugar. Both are still alive.”

“Hold on.” Decker took out his notepad. “Can you spell the names for me?”

Tyler complied. “Marylebone has a small police department, about the size of Greenbury’s. The case was huge. It took up headlines for months. The department even brought in several experts on art thefts, but the case didn’t go anywhere.”

“Any theories about where the icons went?”

“I found a retrospective article on the theft that came out ten years ago. When the icons were taken, the iron curtain was still up. Now that there is easier access to Russia, the hypothesis is that they were sold to some oligarch to adorn the walls of his dacha. Petroshkovich is better known in Russia than here. No doubt they could command high prices from the newly minted bourgeoisie. I really don’t see them as having any connection to the theft of two small Tiffany panels, but it’s your call.”

“I’m sure you’re right, McAdams. However, if the detectives are on our way to the city and they’re willing to talk to us about it, we should meet with them. Maybe they’ve come across some black market dealers.”

“Sure.” The server brought a refresh on the alcohol and the food. McAdams picked up the drink. “This is truly going to put me under. As if I’ll need help. I have a very loud alarm clock. You still want to leave at seven.”

“Yep. Find out anything tonight?”

“I found out that the student libraries are open late, late, but not the reference desks. The biggest one—at Duxbury—closed at eight. There are hundreds of books of antique plates and maps in that one library alone. I’ve paged through seven of them and they all looked clean. Then I went to Rayfield at Littleton—which closes at nine. I went through another five—all clean. The assignment is going to take hours.”

“God is in the details.” Decker munched on a celery stick. “You should go to law school, Tyler. You’ll be overworked but at least you’ll be compensated.”

“And this coming from a man who walked away from the title esquire.”

“I’m blue collar. You’re not. You know the salaries of an average working detective. You’re a rich kid. Why would you want to deal with all that jealousy from the department?”

“Are you jealous?”

“I might have been in my younger years.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need anything from anyone. You seem like a decent kid, Harvard. As a cop, you’ll always be an outsider. Why set yourself up?” When he didn’t answer, Decker said, “Let me tell you what I found out this evening.” He gave McAdams a recap while the kid typed away on his iPad.

Afterward, McAdams said, “Colored glass shards. So Angeline did the copies.”

“Seems like it.”

“Not surprising considering she shoplifted. Once a thief . . .”

“There were two incidents that her mom knew about. I’m betting there were more that she didn’t know about. So yes, she seems like a good candidate for the forgeries. The questions are: Was she forging things other than stained glass and who was the mastermind behind it?”

“Latham?”

“Living like he was, I see him as a middleman, maybe a broker with connections to the rarefied world of art collecting.”

“Why do you think he has those kinds of connections?”

“The Windsor Prize . . . art culture and politics. He’s a better candidate for connections than Moreau. Find out about the Windsor Prize, okay?”

“Will do.” McAdams typed it into his iPad. “We’re still headed for New York?”

“Yes. I’m still interested in the Sobel family and Max Stewart. He’s an art dealer, ergo he has connections. I’m not saying he’s dirty, but he needs to be interviewed again. When I talked to him the first time, he played it close to the vest. When you were around at the cemetery, he seemed more relaxed, like the two of you were sharing an inside joke.”

McAdams shrugged.

“I noticed that as well when we interviewed Angeline’s friends. That they kept looking at you as an ally.”

“Then they’re delusional.”

“I can read people, Harvard. You’re young and you’re relaxed around money in a way that I’m not. You’re a good person to have around when I’m knocking on the co-op doors of Park Avenue.”

“Glad to help even if I’m just a prop.”

Decker smiled. “As of last night, you’re pulling your weight. No complaints.”

“Stick around and I’ll give you plenty.” When Decker was quiet, McAdams said, “I want you to know something. That rarefied world isn’t me . . . even if I don’t know what exactly me is.”

“Frankly, I don’t care about your existential issues. Two people were murdered. I’ve got a job to do. You can help in that regard.”

“I’m down with that.” He finished his drink. “And by the way, I don’t mind being an outsider in Park Avenue or in Greenbury Police. In my opinion, popularity is highly overrated.”

AFTER MAKING A dozen phone calls, Decker found out that Douglas Arrenz had retired to Florida. But Allan Sugar lived in East Hampton and agreed to see them any time after ten in the morning. That meant he was the first stop on their way to the city. The business districts of the beach areas were made up of quaint villages: cute little shops and cafés, one after another. The skies were gray and the sidewalks looked deserted with only a few hardy souls braving the snowdrifts.

Mansions abounded.

Since it was after the holidays, the residences that Decker could make out through the iron gates looked shut down for the winter. He wondered how a retired detective could afford this piece of paradise. That was made clear by the address. Sugar lived in what looked like the carriage house to the original dowager estate next door. It was a compact brick one-story with black trim around two multipane windows. Decker parked in a blanketed driveway, snow crunching underneath the tires. The chimney was emitting pine-scented smoke and there was a hint of ocean beyond the house.

McAdams said, “Looks like the Rhode Island PD pays well.”

“How much do you think the house is worth?”

“Well . . .” He thought a moment. “It’s small—about two thousand square feet. And it’s in the wrong part of the Hamptons. But it is on the shore. Maybe around three, four million.”

“Whoa.” Decker was taken aback. “That’s a lot of zeros.”

“My grandfather’s house isn’t a whole lot bigger, but it has more property and it’s in Southampton, which jacks up the price. It’s also got a good beach front.”

“Do you own that as well?”

“I have no idea. I do know it’s in a thirty-year trust for the good and use of all the grandchildren. So I have access to it for the next twenty-four years. After that.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Somebody knows.”

“That is true, but I’m not privy to that information. I rarely use it in the summer. The Hamptons are a scene. I actually like it at this time of year. There’s something serene in the desolation.”

“It’s calming. I can understand that.” Decker put on his jacket, gloves, and his hat and got out of the car. The kid followed, both of them stepping in fairly deep drifts. January was turning out to be a particularly cold month everywhere on the eastern seaboard.

“If you ever want to use my grandfather’s house, let me know,” McAdams said. “I’ll slot it in for you.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, Harvard.”

“Share the wealth.”

They made their way up the walkway to a paneled front door painted in black and without a knocker. There also didn’t appear to be a doorbell.

Someone wanted privacy.

Decker rapped as hard as he could on the wood with a gloved hand. Behind the wall, an elderly voice said, “I hear you, I hear you.” A moment later the door opened and a gush of hot air blasted their faces. “Detective Sugar?”

“Yes, yes. Come in.” He left the door open, turned his back, and shuffled across the mudroom floor and into the living room. The men followed. Sugar said, “Hope you found the place okay. The addresses can be confusing.”

“No problem.” Decker wiped his boots assiduously on the floor mat and dried them off with a provided towel. McAdams did the same. “Great house.”

“Courtesy of a spinster aunt who willed it to me fifty years ago when the area wasn’t hoity-toity and the roof leaked like a sieve. I almost sold it after my wife died. Thank God I didn’t. The bluebloods next door are after me to sell it to them for some ridiculous price. You want some tea?”

“That would be great. Thank you for seeing us.”

“Yes, yes.” Sugar was around five five, with stooped shoulders, white hair, milky blue eyes, and a bony frame. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater and wool pants. Argyle socks covered feet that were tucked into slippers. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Decker chose a green-and-red plaid sofa that matched two green-and-red plaid chairs. McAdams took a chair. There were coffee table and end tables made from particleboard and originally stained in a deep espresso brown. Over the years—more like decades—they had suffered chips, scratches, and gouges where the lighter board was showing through. The floor was pine, covered in part by an area rug worn thin with use. Heat was pouring out of the radiator, and the flat-screen television—Sugar’s nod to modernity—was on some kind of a game show.

When Sugar returned from the kitchen, he set the tray down on the living room table. He turned off the TV and turned down the heat. He poured himself a cup of tea. “Make it how you like it. I’m not a waiter.”