Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Decker poured hot water into two mugs—for McAdams and for himself. After he made the introductions, he said, “How long were you with the Marylebone PD, Detective Sugar?”

“It’s Allan and I was with them for thirty years. Wish I’d come up when you did, with AFIS and CODIS and all that razzamatazz. You don’t even have to work anymore. Just plug in fingerprints or DNA and the machines pop out the answers.”

“It’s been a boon,” Decker said.

“NCIC was just about all we had. That was back in ’67 when J. Edgar created it. Probably to spy on the Reds but he dropped a few criminals in the files just to make it look legit. None of it was linked up to any computer. Everything was done by hand. It took forever to make a request and forever for it to get processed.”

Sugar sat down.

“So you’re interested in the missing Nikolai Petroshkovich icons. You and all Rhode Island. And the Russian Orthodox church—St. Stephen’s. The thefts became an international cause célèbre. Did I pronounce that right?”

“I think you did.”

“After I failed to get anywhere, they brought in all the experts.” He made a quotation with his fingers. “Paid all this money and not a damn clue closer to what the hell happened.”

“What do you think happened?” Decker asked.

“Douglas and I entertained a number of possibilities. You know Douglas?”

“Detective Arrenz. He was your partner on the case.”

“Yep. Retired in Florida. Not for me. I don’t like to sweat.” He sipped his tea. “The theft wasn’t the cleanest job I’d ever seen. At first we considered vandalism. Back then, adolescent crime was confined to car stealing, petty theft, and graffiti done by the drunk, pot-smoking, or coked-up lads and lassies. It’s worse now. All those designer drugs . . .”

“When are we talking about?” Decker asked. “The eighties?”

“Yeah, the late eighties. Douglas and I kicked around the possibility that it was a bunch of thugs and punks. We checked the regular troublemakers and didn’t get anywhere. Even the worst of the town miscreants denied thieving from a church. After we found out how valuable the icons were, we fanned out in other directions. We talked to the professionals and found out, much to our chagrin, that churches are easy targets for theft. They’re not occupied most of the time and they contain valuables. We also found out that there are thieves who specialize in hitting churches and synagogues. The common burglars concentrate on fencing things like silver candlesticks and silver chalices. The more sophisticated thieves concentrate on the artwork contained within the hallowed walls of God. That kind of material, as you might imagine, is much harder to fence. You need a specialized dealer.”

“Black market dealers.”

“Of course. The thing is that most of the black market art dealers are or were respectable dealers who dabbled in the underworld.”

“Did you get names?”

“We got a lot of names. None of them got us anywhere.”

“Do you still have those names? Maybe they can point us in the right direction.”

“They didn’t do much good for us, but you’re welcome to try. They’re all in the case files. I’ve got a copy for you so there’s no need to ask. The dealers are ancient by now: senile, in jail, or dead. But knock yourself out.”

Decker took another sip of tea. Since Sugar had turned down the heat, the room was more comfortable. “Since the Petroshkovich thefts became a cause célèbre and the Russian Orthodox Church became involved, I take it you ruled out random vandalism.”

“In the end, we all decided it was a professional job made to look like amateurs. Wasn’t the first time iconography has been stolen and it won’t be the last.”

Decker seemed perplexed. “What other cases of stolen iconography have you come across? I wouldn’t think it would be a very common occurrence.”

“Not here in the US of A. But there once was a Soviet Union that devalued religious art—opium of the masses and all that razzamatazz—so it happened more often than you’d think. Even great artworks, if they had religious contents, were denigrated. Lucky the Reds never got hold of Italy, otherwise we might not have the Sistine Chapel.”

Decker smiled. “They might have made an exception to Michelangelo.”

“You’d be surprised. Look what they did to St. Isaac’s.”

“Which St. Isaac’s?” McAdams asked. “I’m assuming there is more than one in a country as big as Russia.”

“St. Isaac’s in St. Petersburg.”

McAdams immediately started typing on his iPad. “Do you have a password so I can connect to the Internet?”

Sugar rolled his eyes. “I think it’s the word Admin. Never use the damn thing but when the grandchildren visit, I can’t get them here unless they can use their gadgets.”

“Uh, that worked.” McAdams smiled. “Thank you.”

“What happened at St. Isaac’s?” Decker asked.

“Ancient history,” Sugar said. “After years of trying to recover the Petroshkovich icons and all the research I did for the case, I became interested in Russian Orthodox religious art. The first thing I did after I retired was take the wife to Russia. It didn’t help me make headway with the Petroshkoviches but it did make me feel better that even a big city like St. Petersburg hadn’t fully recovered all its stolen art.”

McAdams read out loud from what he had pulled up. “St. Isaac’s was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds after a design by Montferrand . . . Frenchman who studied with Napoleon’s architect and designer, Charles Percier. The cathedral is in honor of St. Isaac’s of Dalmatia. Interior artwork originally done by Karl Bryullov. When the original oil paintings started to deteriorate because of cold and moisture, Montferrand had the artwork re-created as mosaics.”

“And truly spectacular mosaics they are,” Sugar said. “In quality as well as quantity. It’s meant to dazzle and it does.”

“You know, I think I might have been there . . . in this church.” McAdams looked up. “I’m sure I was.”

Decker said, “You were in St. Petersburg?”

“Yeah, when I was eleven or twelve. I was in boarding school so every summer my mother made it her mission to drag me to Europe from one church to another for a cultural experience. I must have seen one hundred churches over the years. They all begin to look alike especially if you see one right after the other. At that age, all I wanted to do was go to a Yankees game. I was resentful . . . stupid me.” McAdams chuckled. “Anyway, correct me if I’m wrong but St. Isaac’s is the tallest building in St. Petersburg.”

“It is. Which was why it was of use during the Second World War,” Sugar announced. “St. Petersburg was bombed badly. All the famous palaces that the tourists see were rebuilt, including the Hermitage.”

“The Hermitage?” Decker asked. “You mean the art museum?”

“Yes, indeed. It was built as a palace.”

“It was bombed?”

“Left to rot in ruins. They have pictures there of what it looked like. It was a mere shell of its former glory until the Russian artisans rebuilt it.”

“What happened to all the artwork inside? Don’t tell me that was destroyed as well?”

“No, the Ruskies knew they were in trouble. They stored it all in the basement of St. Isaac’s, which the Nazis did not bomb wholesale. Because St. Isaac’s was the tallest building in the city, the Luftwaffe used it as a navigational guide for its Messerschmitts. It’s one of the few buildings that, except for some random shelling, remained intact.”

McAdams was still reading. “I can’t find anything about St. Isaac’s being used for art storage . . . or for the Nazis using it as a navigational guide,” McAdams said. “Matter of fact, it says that the dome was painted over to avoid enemy aircraft detection.”

“Young lad, you are missing critical parts of the tale because you’re probably using some condensed encyclopedia site. If you really want to know history, you have to read something with more depth. Or take the lazy man’s way out and just go to St. Petersburg again as an adult and listen to one of their many well-informed guides.”

Decker said, “What does St. Isaac’s have to do with the Petroshkovich icons?”

“Nothing as far as I know,” Sugar said. “I just found it interesting because the cathedral had works missing from its iconography that have never been recovered.”

“Are they also Petroshkoviches?”

“No, nothing to do with Petroshkovich. These works were done in an earlier period.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “And you don’t think there’s a connection.”

“Can’t see how. The thefts were years apart.”

“Any ideas on who was responsible for the St. Isaac’s thefts?” Decker asked.

“Not a clue. When the Reds took over, the church was converted into a museum for scientific atheism. It was looted and then it fell into disrepair. During the war, it was used to store sacks of potatoes. If you’d see the church today, you’d realize how appalling that was. The refurbishing started in the fifties under Khrushchev. The mosaics were black, but otherwise in good condition. Good thing the original paintings were turned into tile art. Otherwise they’d probably be sold out or stolen as well.”

Decker turned to McAdams. “Anything on St. Isaac’s stolen icons?”

“Images of what was there.” McAdams read to himself. “And there was lots of looting of churches by the Germans during the war.”

“Between the Reds and the war, it’s a miracle that any religious institution survived,” Sugar remarked.

Decker said, “No connection between those lootings and the Petroshkovich thefts.”

“Nothing,” Sugar said. “Not that I was trying to find a link: different cities, different countries, different times. I just relate it to you as a cautionary tale. If a major city like St. Petersburg can’t find its own treasured artwork, you can see what you’re up against.”

“This is more than an art theft case. It’s a double murder.”

“All the more reason why I think you’re up against something bigger than yourself. But I realize you still have to try. Good luck.”

Sugar placed his teacup on the scarred coffee table, then he shuffled over to a hutch and opened the bottom cabinet. He pulled out a box and lifted it to his chest, his legs sagging under its weight. Quickly Decker relieved him of the box. “Lot of forests died for this file. Are you going to read every page?”

“Maybe even twice,” Decker said.

“Tell me if you find anything I might have overlooked. I’ll help you in any way I can. My brain isn’t what it used to be, but this case is burned into the gray matter. It’s the one that got away.”

Decker said, “We all have those.”

“Yes, we do. For me and the Petroshkovich artwork, time is running out. I’m happy to pass the mantle onto someone younger and more clever.”

“Younger is a fact,” Decker said. “The clever part remains to be seen.”

CHAPTER 18

WHEN HE OPENED the door to the West Side condo, Decker heard a tiny female voice.

“Hello?”

He and McAdams stepped inside. Decker was holding a bag and a thermos of coffee. Tyler dropped the Petroshkovich file box on the floor. Yasmine Nourmand was at a small, round table, papers spread out so that the surface looked more white than wood. She looked up with her big brown eyes and flipped her black hair off her shoulder. “Oh, Lieutenant.” She stood up. “I’m sorry. Gabe said you went back upstate.”

“No apologies necessary. I did go back. Unfortunately we have more business in the city. Are you staying here, honey? We can move somewhere else.”

“Oh no, definitely not! I can go to the library. ”

An awkward pause.

Yasmine said, “Gabe told me you might be coming and going.” She stood up straight—all five feet two inches, one hundred pounds of her. “I just study here sometimes. It’s a little quieter.” She managed a tight smile and stuck out her hand to McAdams. “Yasmine Nourmand. I’m Gabe’s girlfriend.” A pause. “Do you know who Gabe is?”

McAdams cocked a thumb in Decker’s direction. “His foster son.” He shook her hand. “Where do you go to school?”

“Barnard. And you?”

“Graduated.”

“Lucky you.”

“It depends on the day.”

Another forced smile. Yasmine said, “I’ll just gather up my things—”

“You can study in the bedroom if you want,” Decker said. “You won’t bother us. If anything, we’ll bother you with our talking.”

“If you don’t need the bedroom, I’d really prefer to study here. I’m not real good with dorm life. I’m a little claustrophobic.”

McAdams looked around the spotless, modern apartment: gleaming dark floors, a sleek white couch, a simple oak table with four Plexiglas chairs upholstered in white leather backs and a baby grand Steinway. Good light from two big windows. It had an over-the-rooftops view of the park. “This is definitely preferable to a dorm.”

“Is Mrs. Decker coming in?”

“I’m meeting her tonight.”

“Okay. Say hi.”

“Would you like to go to dinner with us?”

A genuine smile. “That would be great.” A pause. “I’m not much on dorm food, either. It might be late. Like eight. I have a lab class. Is eight okay?”

“Eight is perfect. I’ll have Rina choose a place and make a reservation.” He turned to McAdams. “You’re welcome to come, Harvard, but I suspect you made plans.”

“You suspect wrong.”

“Then come.”

“Thanks.”

Yasmine said, “Can I bring my roommate? I’ll pay for her and everything. Her parents were real nice to me. They live in Long Island.”

“Absolutely and you don’t have to pay, honey.”

“In that case, can I bring my grandmother?” McAdams said. “I’ll pay for her and everything.”

Yasmine blushed. Decker said, “Tyler, behave yourself.”

“I’m serious. She has expressed a genuine interest in what I’m doing and she wants to meet you. And I know she’ll pick up the tab—”

“Harvard—”

“I’m just saying.”

“My kids might be coming.”

“Nina’s always up for socializing. It will be a veritable party. Probably the first I’ve been to in two years.”

“Amen to that,” Yasmine said.

“A kindred spirit.”

She began gathering up her books and papers. “Everyone I know hates parties yet everyone goes to them. I mean what’s the point?”

“I see you don’t drink.”

Decker laughed. “Do you know when Gabe will be back?”

“Two weeks if his agent doesn’t extend the tour.”

“Must be hard with him away so much.”

“Actually, Lieutenant, I’m okay with that. I’m not a natural student. I have to study real hard to get my grades and Gabe . . .” She made a face. “I love him to death, but he takes up a lot of my time when he’s here.” Another face. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

Yasmine stuffed her material into a backpack. “See you later.” She disappeared behind a door.

McAdams said, “She reminds me of a cricket . . . all little and bony and chirpy and big eyes.”

“She’s Persian and comes from a very sheltered environment. I’ve got to hand it to her. She followed her dream by coming out here and being with Gabe.”

“The delusion of love.” Tyler picked up the box of files and laid them on the table. “What’s the plan, sir?”

“Eventually I’ll look through the files with a fine-tooth comb. Right now all we’re looking for are names of art dealers that Sugar and Arrenz interviewed. I want to run them by Maxwell Stewart. See if he or his dad knows them.”

“When are we meeting with Stewart?”

Decker checked his watch. It was twelve-thirty. “I’d like to pop by the gallery at three-thirty.”

“You didn’t make an appointment?”

“No, I did not.”

“How do you know he’ll be in?”

“Someone will be there. I assume whoever it will be has the capacity to call him up.”

“No need for sarcasm.”

“Pot . . . kettle . . . black.”

“Ha ha and ha.” McAdams opened the box. There were ten stuffed file folders inside. “What if Stewart’s name is in the file?”

Decker gave him a closed-mouth smile. “Then that should make my interview with Maxwell all the more interesting.”

AT THREE-THIRTY IN the afternoon, the sun was sinking behind the skyscrapers, casting long shadows over the avenues. The winds were strong and icy especially coming off the park. The skies had slowly dimmed as if someone had a rheostat to the ethers. Decker rang the bell to the gallery. Redheaded Jill looked up, recognized him, and buzzed them inside the sally port. A moment later, he and Tyler were standing inside warmth, light, and a lot of sparkle from gems he couldn’t afford.

“Is Max expecting you?” Jill asked.

“No, ma’am, but we’d like to talk to him.”

“Of course. Good news, I hope.” When Decker didn’t answer, she said, “He’s downstairs. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

She rushed downstairs and a minute later, she bound back up, “He’ll be up in a minute.”

“We can wait if he’s with a customer.”

“No, he’s . . . can I get either of you coffee or tea or hot cocoa?”

McAdams took off his coat. “Tea is fine. Herbal if you have it. And could you hang this up for me?”

Jill took Tyler’s coat and turned to Decker. “Can I take your coat as well?”

Decker took off his coat. “Thank you.”

“Tea?”

“That would be great.”

Jill took the heavy overcoats and came back a minute later with two teacups and saucers. “I hope it’s okay. It’s mint.” The phone buzzed. “Excuse me a moment.” She lifted the handset. “Okay. Sure.” She hung up. “Max says you can come down.”

“Thank you.” Decker picked up his tea and McAdams followed.

The overhead lighting was reduced to emphasize the Tiffany lamps, which seemed to twinkle and dance when illuminated. Max was sitting with a man in his early twenties in front of a display case of art nouveau desk items. They both stood up as the two detectives came down the stairs. The young lad was very lanky with a full, dark beard and limp hair that grazed his shoulders. His shoulders sagged and his head drooped. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Max had on his usual suit and tie. He wore a tense expression that he was desperately trying to mask with a forced smile. Decker’s eyes were on the men, McAdams’s eyes were on the objects.

Max said, “You saved me a phone call, Detective. Please sit.”

“Where should we put our cups?” Decker asked.

Max took them and put them on the floor. He said, “This is my first cousin-in-law, Livingston Sobel.”

“The expat from Brown,” Decker said to Max.

“Indeed. Liv, this is Detective Decker and Detective McAdams.”

The men shook hands. Decker said, “Thanks for seeing us on short notice.”

“Actually it was no notice, but that’s fine. Any news?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“In that case, Livingston has just been telling me a very interesting story. I was about to phone you, but since you’re here, why not hear it from the primary source.”

“Sure.” Decker took a chair and sat as delicately as he could. The chairs were collectibles.

McAdams took out an iPad. “What’s your password so I can get on the Net?”

“Why do you need to get on the Net?” Max snapped.

McAdams looked up at the sharp tone of voice. “I don’t really need it. It’s just that at every interview we’ve had, I seem to be looking material up. The pad is much faster than my phone.” He took out his smartphone. “I’m getting bars. Don’t worry about it.”

“I haven’t given it a single fret. Why are you here?”

“I’ll fill you in. But first I’d like to hear Livingston’s story.”

Max glared at Livingston. “Tell them what you told me.” When the kid started muttering, Max said, “There is no way they can understand you, Liv. You think you can talk a little clearer?”

The kid let out a sharp exhale. “There’s this girl I know.” He stroked his beard. “I met her like . . . four years ago . . . when she came to Brown as a prospective student. When I was still in Brown. We kind of clicked right away as friends. We’re both artsy people.”

McAdams threw Decker a glance. “Name?”

“Angelina Moreau,” Max said. “By strange coincidence, she goes to school in Littleton. And she’s an art history major.”

“Angeline,” Livingston said. When Max looked up, the kid said, “Not Angelina. Angeline.”

Decker said, “Go on, Livingston. You met Angeline and . . .”

“We’ve been like friends for about four years.”

“Define friends for them, Liv.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“FWB,” McAdams said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Livingston looked at him with grateful eyes. “Exactly. We’re not destiny but she’s okay . . . kind of a free spirit.”

“More like a dishonest spirit,” Max said.

“For the millionth time, Max, we don’t know that she did anything.”

“Can you finish the story for me, Livingston?” Decker said.

“She had a boyfriend and that was always fine with me. As a matter of fact, I know him from the parties around here. Lance Terry. I don’t care who she screws, but I really don’t know what she sees in him—other than his money. That might be enough. Anyway when she comes down to the city, we get together for a few hours and talk—”

“Can you say booty call?” Max said.

Decker held up his hand. “Let him finish, please?”

Livingston stuttered out, “What is wrong with that? You sound jealous.”

“Just green with envy.”

“I don’t love her but I like her. She helped me through some rough times. We could talk to each other.”

“And you did,” Max said.

Livingston glanced at him. “Yes, we talked and, yes, we talked about art and, yes, I mentioned the Tiffany windows to her. I told her about them like three years ago so if she wanted to do something illegal, she could have done it a long time ago.”

“And she probably did,” Max snarled. “The kicker of this whole thing is that since we’ve discovered the theft, the girl is suddenly not answering her phone. You need to find her and ask her about it. My father-in-law is going to freak when he finds out. Maybe if you call, Detective, she’ll know you mean business and have the decency to answer the phone.”

Decker said, “When did you tell Max about knowing Angeline, Livingston? Just now?”

The kid nodded. “It’s probably nothing. If I would have known that Max would be so pissed, I would have kept it to myself.”

“Brilliant.”

“Ken talks way more than I ever did. You know that’s true.”

“He doesn’t talk to random girls in a drunken stupor.”

“Oh fuck this!” He started to get up, but Decker stood up as well.

“We’re not done just yet. Please.”

Livingston sat back down. “Honestly, I can’t exactly see her breaking into a cemetery and stealing the Tiffany glass windows. I could actually see Lance doing it as a joke.”

Max said, “So now we have two people you should talk to. Give them Angeline’s number, Liv.”

“We don’t need it,” Decker said. “We have it.”

Stewart was taken aback. “You’re already investigating her?”

“We’re investigating her murder.”

Livingston turned pale. “Angeline was murdered?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “We think she was killed last Sunday afternoon or early evening. That would be right after you left to go back to New York. I suspect our presence at the mausoleum may be behind the murder.” Both Livingston and Max had registered shock: wide eyes and mouths agape. Decker continued. “We’re actually looking into two murders: hers and a man named John Jeffrey Latham who might have been Angeline’s boyfriend or a friend or partner. Does that name ring a bell, Livingston?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Wha . . . what happened?”

Decker said, “That’s what we’re investigating. Where were you over the weekend, son?”

“Me?” Liv pointed to himself. “I was here . . . in the city.” He was breathing hard. “You don’t think . . .”

“Where in the city? I need a timeline: Saturday and Sunday.”

“I . . . have to think.”

Max finally spoke. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“If I knew what was going on, I wouldn’t be asking all these questions,” Decker said. “We have two murders that happened after your visit to the mausoleum. Do I think the murders are related to the thefts? Yes. Do I think Angeline and this Latham character were up to something? Yes. Do I think Angeline had anything to do with the forgeries? Yes. Is any of this worth killing two people over? No. So I’m missing a lot of pieces. And that’s why I’m asking questions.” To Livingston, “Where were you? And take your time because you’re only getting one shot to get it right.”

The kid looked up, down, and then up. “Saturday?” A pause. “I was home the whole day. I went to a party in the evening . . . like around nine.”

“You were home the entire day?”

He nodded.

“Who saw you?”

“My mom, my dad, the housekeeper.”

“Did you have your cell on you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Can I have it?”

Wordlessly, he handed it over to Decker.

Scrolling through to Saturday’s calls, Decker spoke out loud. “Over twenty texts and ten phone calls . . . none of them Angeline’s number . . . or Latham’s number . . . what is his area code again? Seven oh six or Oh seven six?”

“Oh seven six.”

Decker handed the cell to McAdams. “Write down the numbers and we’ll check out them out later. Since it’s a cell, if we need to check towers, we can.” McAdams began typing on his iPad. To Livingston, Decker said, “Do you recognize the name John Latham?”

“Who is he?” Max asked.

“I don’t know details on him, just the basics. He was murdered in the Boston area so it’s not my homicide and not my jurisdiction. But we’re trading information. Livingston, who is John Latham?”

The young man ran his hand down his face. He rubbed his eyes. “I . . . she . . .”

“What!” Max said.

Decker turned to him and said, “You’re not helping.” Back to Livingston. “Look, son, unless you murdered her or stole the artwork, you’re not in trouble—at least as far as the police are concerned. So just tell me what you know about Angeline and Latham and then you’re a free bird.”

“Let me think.” The barrage of information had thrown the kid into a tizzy. “Okay. I knew that Angeline broke up with Lance about a year and a half ago.”

“Go on.”

“I knew she was dating this older guy. I don’t know his last name but his first name was John.” Livingston rubbed his nose. “She told me that he was brilliant and from Oxford, that he came to the U.S. because he got a prestigious fellowship at one of the universities. Sounded like bullshit to me.”

“Why did it sound like bullshit?”

“This is going to sound terrible, but I’m going to say it anyway. Angeline didn’t grow up in the most sophisticated of families. She was easy to snow. She’d do any guy who she thought had connections. Why else would she put up with someone like me? I was terrible to her.” His eyes watered. “It’s probably what she liked about this asshole. She thought he was connected. If he was, he probably treated her terribly, too. That’s probably why she stuck with Lance for so long. He was rich and connected but a little dull in the cranium. I mean anyone with money who has gone to the right prep schools can do better than Littleton, for God’s sake.” He looked at McAdams. “I know I sound like an asshole, but it’s just the way it works.”

“Don’t look at me. I grew up around the block. Park and Sixty-Eighth.”

“Why don’t I know you?”

“Probably because I was shipped off to Phillips when I was a kid.”

“Phillips Andover?”

“Phillips Exeter.”

“Oh. Do you know Joey Seldano?”

“He was two classes below me. First string point guard. Did you play basketball?”

“Yeah. Joey and I used to go one-on-one all the time.” Livingston looked at him. “You’re a cop?”

“A Harvard-educated cop,” Decker broke in. “What else did Angeline tell you about Latham?”

“Just what I said. He was some kind of university fellow.”

“That part is true,” McAdams said. “He did win a fellowship . . . the Windsor Prize.”

Livingston shrugged ignorance. “She also told me that he was connected.”

“Connected how?” Decker asked.

“She didn’t elaborate and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t that interested. I had other things on my mind.”

“She must have told you something, Livingston,” Decker said. “Did she say he was rich, that he was political, that he had friends in high places . . . think!”

“A novel concept,” Max muttered.

“Please,” Decker pleaded. “What did she tell you about him?”

“Just that he went to Oxford and was brilliant. That he knew a lot of really rich people. When I asked her to name names, she wouldn’t do it. I thought she was pulling the story out of her butt.”

Decker thought a moment. “Do you know if Angeline ever worked in any city art gallery?”

“I don’t know.”

McAdams said, “I can make phone calls to some of the galleries.”

“Yeah, we should do that.”

Livingston said, “How was she killed?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t gotten the coroner’s report back.”

“So how do you know she was murdered? Maybe she ODed or probably drank herself to death. She binged, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So how do you know it was murder?”

“Because where we found her was definitely a crime scene.”

“God, that’s nauseating,” Max said.

Livingston put his hand to his mouth and then looked at his watch. “Can I go now? I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan and as usual, it backfired.”

Decker nodded. The kid got up unceremoniously, grabbed his coat, and was off. When he was gone, Max said, “I didn’t comport myself very well. I apologize. He gets under my skin. He gets under everyone’s skin.”

“Do you think there’s a chance that he was in on the theft? It would make a difference in how we handled the investigation.”

“Well, he came here to tell me about it. If he was in on it, I don’t think he would have done that.” He sighed. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Can you spare me an hour?”

“I need coffee and a nosh first. There’s a sandwich place around the corner.”

“I don’t want to talk in a public place,” Decker said.

“I’ll have Jill order out then.” Max rubbed his neck. “God, what a mess! And here I was worrying about a few Tiffany panels. How old was she—the girl?”

“Twenty-two.”

“God, that’s terrible. Her parents know?”

“Yes.”

“My kids are little, under someone’s care all the time.” He regarded Decker. “How do you ever let them go?”

“You pray a lot and hope for the best.”

“And you think the girl’s murder is related to the theft?”

“Yes, especially now that I found out that she knew about the Tiffany panels’ existence.”

“So what’s the next step?”

Decker said, “That’s why we’re here to talk to you. But get your food first. I’d love some coffee and a bite to eat. I’m sure McAdams would as well.”

“Blueberry muffin if they have it and coffee would be fine,” McAdams said. “Cream no sugar.”

“And you, Detective?”

“Black coffee. Maybe fruit—apple, orange, or banana.” Decker fished out a twenty, then thought better of it. This was Manhattan. He fished out two twenties. “On the department.”

“Sure. Let’s go upstairs. We’ll talk in my office.” He shook his head sadly. “Look, we can talk now. I can wait to eat.”