Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Decker thought a moment. “Stolen art?”

“The Russians would call it disputed art.”

“Depends whose ox is being gored.”

“You’re correct about that. It is clear that the paintings were looted from Germany. For fifty years, they sat in the basement of the Hermitage until the museum decided to do the audacious and display the pieces. Whenever the German government starts making waves about the ownership, the Russians come back with the Amber Room.

“There are quite a few people out there whose full-time occupation is recovering looted art. Most of the time, the art is hiding in plain sight. Look at the Gurlitt collection in Munich. Everyone around knew about Hildebrand Gurlitt for years, including the German government. But no one said a word. What is really needed is for violating countries to start fessing up.”

“That’s not going to happen,” McAdams said.

“I agree with you,” Merritt said. “The Vichy government looted thousands of pieces. Most of the paintings never made it back to their rightful owners. It’s rumored that billions of dollars of art is languishing in the basement of the Louvre. The museum can’t display it for obvious reasons. They won’t even admit they have it. And France was an Allied country. You’d think it would rush to do the proper thing. But where money is concerned, ethics fly out the window.”

“Politics and art,” McAdams said. “In the case of Soviet art, they’re one and the same.”

Decker nodded. “Does the name John Jeffrey Latham mean anything to you, Mr. Merritt?”

The dealer appeared to give the questions some thought. “No, I don’t think it does. Who is he?”

“How about Angeline Moreau?”

“Neither name is familiar. Who are they?”

“Could either one be a client?”

“Spell them for me, please?” When Decker complied, Merritt sat down at his computer and typed on the keyboard. “Not on my current list. What do they have to do with your case?”

“Supposedly, Latham was an expert on Soviet art,” McAdams said.

A long silence. “You used the past tense,” Merritt said.

“Our case has branched out from stolen Tiffany.” Decker gave him a brief and startling recap. “We know the theft isn’t big enough to warrant two bestial murders.”

“That’s . . .” His face was white. “Just horrible.”

“That’s why we need any help we can get.”

“I can’t help you at all. Nor do I think that I want to get involved.”

“A few more questions then we’re out of your hair,” Decker said. “Just give us some direction. What would be worth murdering over?”

“Murder is not my area of expertise, Detective.”

“But art is. What, in your opinion, what art is worth murdering over?”

“That question is obscene.”

“So is homicide. Help me out.”

Merritt sighed. “There are tens of thousands of priceless masterpieces out there.”

“I’ll narrow it down for you. What kind of Russian art work could lead to murder?”

“Oh dear . . .” He sighed. “Since we’ve been talking about Nazi looting . . . I suppose if you had the crates that contained the original Amber Room . . . well, it’s something that would be very near and dear to many a Russian heart.”

CHAPTER 21

AFTER NUMEROUS CALLS, neither Decker nor McAdams could find a connection between Angeline Moreau and any of the New York galleries. The same was true with John Jeffrey Latham. No disappointment because Decker didn’t expect anything, but it was a procedural step that had to be done. He and Rina spent Shabbat with the kids in Brooklyn, sleeping on a pull-out sofa, while McAdams luxuriated at his grandmother’s apartment on Park. The trio left the Big Apple on Sunday evening at nine, arriving in Greenbury a little before midnight. He and Harvard had switched off driving while Rina slept in the backseat.

The colleges were beacons of light in a little dark town. As Decker drove past the campuses, he heard the punctuation of drunken shouts as party-hard students wended their ways back to the dorms. A light flurry of snow was falling, enough to use the windshield wipers. As soon as Decker pulled up in front of Tyler’s house, Rina woke up and took a quick intake of air. “How long was I out?”

“About two hours,” Decker said.

McAdams opened the passenger door and in came a gush of cold air. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Old Man. Have a good night, Mrs. Decker.”

“You too, Tyler.” Rina got out of the car and moved to the front seat. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep. Now my schedule will be all messed up.”

“Maybe you needed sleep after caring nonstop for your grandchildren.”

“Isn’t that the truth? There’s a reason for having children when you’re young.”

“You are young, especially compared to me.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “Your mother is ninety-three. You have many more years on this planet . . . if you don’t wear out your engine with homicide cases.”

“I hear you.” Decker parked in front of his house and killed the engine. Outside was deadly silent. “We’re going up to Summer Village tomorrow. I’m hoping the detectives had better luck with Latham because I’m not getting anywhere.”

“You can’t just call them?”

“I’ve already called them. They don’t tell me anything over the phone. I need a face-to-face. I’ve got an appointment with Chris Mulrooney. After him, I want to start looking into some of the Boston galleries since New York was a bust.”

“Are they open on Monday?”

“Some of them are. The one I’m interested in, isn’t open usually, but I have an appointment.”

“So you really think the murders have to do with the art theft?”

“Right now, it’s the only thing I have to go on.”

They both got out of the car and went into the house, Decker flicking on the hallway light. He hung up his jacket and Rina’s jacket as well. He took off his boots, his scarf, and his mittens and turned on a living room lamp. Inside it was warm and cozy. Greenbury was beginning to feel like home. Rina had put on a kettle. “Tea?”

“Love some.” He sat down on the couch and threw his head back.

Rina sat down and put her hand on his knee. “Tell me where you are in the case.”

Decker explained what he knew so far. “Now that we have the connection between Angeline and the panels, I can at least go forward. If she and Latham were fencing stolen material, they’d need a middleman. Since Latham lived up north, I’ll try hunting around the Boston area.”

“You can do that without stepping on Summer Village’s toes?”

“That’s why I want to see them personally. We can compare notes and since they’re busier than I am, maybe they wouldn’t mind a little help.”

Rina nodded, and then she went into the kitchen to fetch the tea. They sipped a while in silence, watching the snow fall from the living room picture window. There was a light outside the house emphasizing the delicate white flakes: a live screen saver. She said, “Are you taking Tyler with you?”

“It always helps to have another point of view.” A pause. “Before we left for New York, Tyler was in the middle of searching for valuables that could be stolen from a library: things like old reference material with original prints or vintage maps or collectors’ books that could be sold on the black market. If they were stealing from graveyards, I wouldn’t put it past them to steal from libraries.”

“Makes total sense.”

“The problem is none of that material is worth killing over. Even if their fence was caught, the most he’d get is a slap on the wrist. So far I have nothing that says that Angeline was anything more than a two-bit hustler. I have nothing on Latham. I’m going to exhaust all my leads very soon. I’m missing something.” The room fell silent. “It’s times like this when I really miss Marge.”

“You do own a phone.”

“I don’t want to bother her.”

“While Ventura is a bigger city than Greenbury, it isn’t LAPD. I’m sure she’s going through ‘homicide withdrawal’ as well. And I know she loves hearing from you. It’s not late on the West Coast and you know she’s not working on Sunday. Call her up.”

Decker checked his watch as if to verify the time. “Why not? At the very least, it’ll be nice to talk to someone who doesn’t call me Old Man.”

HALFWAY THROUGH THE ride to Boston, Decker said, “I spoke to my old partner last night.” A beat. “Not my old partner, my former partner. She’s younger than me.”

“Isn’t everyone?” McAdams snapped.

Decker raised his eyebrows but said nothing. It appeared that he had hit a jealous nerve in the kid. It was always surprising what set people off.

The kid fidgeted. “Why’d you call her? Never mind. It’s none of my business. Unless you were talking about the case. Then it is my business. Aren’t you the one who told me to keep my mouth shut?”

Decker ignored his ’tude. “Her department isn’t nearly as big as LAPD, but it’s in a major city and she has access to a lot more databases than we do. I’ve asked her to look into any art crime that might have involved homicide within the last five years. It’d be interesting to see if she comes up with anything new.”

McAdams was silent. He sipped coffee from a thermos.

“Anything left in that thing?” Decker asked.

“Dregs.”

They drove for five minutes without speaking. Then Decker spotted a Dunkin’ Donuts. “Let’s get a refill.”

“Doughnuts and coffee. Very cop of you.”

“You want something to eat? I’m going to get a bagel.” When McAdams remained silent, Decker said, “I’ll take that as a no.” It took him five minutes to make the round-trip. When he came back, he unwrapped his bagel and took a bite. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m fine, okay?”

“Sure.” Decker continued eating.

McAdams blew out air. Then he got out of the car and came back a minute later with his own bagel and a cup of coffee. “Did she have anything illuminating to add to the case?”

“She’s smart enough not to offer opinions without having the facts in front of her. Mostly she just listened to my frustration. She agrees with us, that it has to be something more than just a couple of Tiffany panels.”

“Insightful, that woman is. What’s her name again? Maude?”

“Marge Dunn. She and her fiancé may come out in the summer to visit.”

“How old is she?”

“Marge is a little older than Rina’s age . . . early fifties. We both left LAPD at the same time. I don’t miss the department, but I do miss her. You’re with someone that long, it’s like a marriage.”

“Was she your little piece of action on the side?”

Slowly, Decker smiled. “No, she was not my little piece of action on the side. I don’t have action on the side. I’m a true blue guy. But I thank you for the compliment: that I could get action on the side . . . had I wanted it.”

McAdams just shook his head. “You are absolutely unflappable.”

“I’ve asked Marge to look up Jason Merritt, Maxwell Stewart, and Chase Goddard. See if any of them has ever been in trouble before. It would help to know Goddard’s background before we see him.”

“What’d she tell you?”

“I called her last night.” Decker checked his watch. “It’s seven in the morning on the West Coast. I’m hoping to hear from her in a couple of hours. In the meantime, we can talk to the Summer Village PD, a guy named Chris Mulrooney. They’re done with the search of Latham’s apartment. Mulrooney was generous enough to share what they found . . . which doesn’t look like much so far. We’re meeting with him at eleven.”

“What about Latham’s computer?” McAdams asked.

“The dees didn’t find his computer. They’re trying to find his e-mail server via his phone service but that takes a warrant. They’re hoping to have it today or tomorrow along with his phone and text logs. If he was using a throwaway phone like Angeline, we probably won’t find much, but no stone unturned, right?”

The kid rubbed his eyes. “Do we know that Angeline was definitely using a throwaway phone?”

“We do. Ben Roiters texted me last night during dinner. He found the mobile phone store where she bought her throwaways. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

McAdams’s face darkened. “No prob, boss. What I think doesn’t matter anyway.”

Decker shrugged and finished his bagel. He wiped his hands, put the key in the ignition, and started up the engine. “There’s a CPR class at the hospital this Sunday. It’s given by the local Red Cross. I could use a refresher. Want to come with me?”

“No, I don’t . . .” McAdams stopped himself. “Yeah, sure, why not. I’ll come. Never can tell when a date might choke on a potato chip.” He stared out the window. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to come down to the shooting range.”

Decker pulled the car onto the highway. “I’d be happy to give you a few pointers.”

“I don’t own a gun.”

“That can be remedied. I’m most comfortable with a Beretta 92FS or 92F 9 mm: they’re standard LAPD issue. Do you know anything about guns and ammo?”

“Mike taught me a few things about slugs and casings and bullets from different types of guns. Since it hasn’t been remotely relevant to anything I’ve done here, I don’t remember much.”

“It won’t take you long to learn if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested.”

“What about going to the range with me?”

The kid sighed. “Sure.”

“Good. I’ll get a gun for you and we can start whenever you want.”

McAdams clenched his jaw. “I’m having a hard time figuring you out . . . whether you’re friend or foe.”

“I’m, neither, Harvard. I’m a professional. I want a partner who knows CPR in case I choke on a potato chip. As far as the guns go, I don’t expect it to happen, but should we ever be in a situation with our backs to the wall, I’d prefer a partner who could shoot. And I do apologize for not telling you about Ben’s text. It was during the family dinner and Rina said no business. And then because I’m senile, I forgot to tell you.”

“I know I’m being touchy and obnoxious.” A pause. “So you consider me your partner.”

“I’ve been assigned to ride with you, so yes, you are at present my partner. And for a rookie who hasn’t had much formal police training, you’re not half bad. And if you’d lose the chip on your shoulder, you could be very good because you’re not only smart, you’re organized and that’s even more important than smart. And since you are my current partner, I’d appreciate if you stopped calling me Old Man. I don’t need to be reminded of my age.”

McAdams tried stifling a smile. It didn’t work. “I don’t mean anything by it, but if it’s important to you, I’ll stop.”

Decker waited a beat. “Maybe I’m being touchy. I’ll stop calling you Harvard if it bothers you.”

“It did bother me at first . . . like you were mocking me.” A pause. “Were you mocking me?”

“Of course.”

“You can call me Harvard although it’s not such a badge of honor. Lots of mediocre minds there.” A smile. “I’m just not one of them.”

Decker smiled and pointed to the kid’s iPhone. “As long as I’m driving, start phoning the Boston galleries on the list. They should be open by now. Let’s get a schedule going so we won’t be wasting time. We can start meeting with them at around 12:30. Our appointment with Chase Goddard isn’t until 3:00.”

“I can do that.” McAdams picked up the phone and regarded the list the two of them had prepared. “A lot of them are on Newbury Street. I’ll start there and pick up as many as we can do on foot. Parking is terrible. Once we find a spot, we’ll want to camp out as long as we can. I know you don’t mind walking. You certainly do a lot of it.”

“When you’re old like me, you take any exercise you can get.”

“I hope I’m as sharp as you are, Decker, when I’m your age. I don’t mean that as a compliment, just a fact.” The kid started making phone calls. His voice sounded pleasant but professional. He was focused and all business. And that was the way it should be. He was doing the job. If the job was done well, the trust and finally friendship would come later on. Tyler had a long way to go before he’d prove himself. But he was getting there, working without complaint. In this so-called entitled generation, that was pretty good.

CHAPTER 22

OPENING A LOCKED cabinet, Detective Chris Mulrooney took out a spiral blue notebook with gloved hands. “We found it this morning, hidden behind a paneled door in the bathtub enclosure where a Jacuzzi motor should have been. The pipes were capped off.” He opened up to a random page. “English letters, Greek letters, Cyrillic letters, Hebrew, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, crap that looks like cuneiform. It’s some kind of code.”

Decker slipped on a latex glove. “Can I take a look?”

“Knock yourself out.” Mulrooney was short, squat, and bald with a constant smile on his face, like he loved what he was doing and loved life in general. He wore a sweater over an oxford weave shirt, slacks, and rubber-soled shoes. “You find anything in code in the girl’s apartment?”

“No, we didn’t.” Decker felt McAdams peering over his shoulder, mouthing words in a whisper. “You make any sense of this, Harvard?”

“Can I take a closer look?”

“Yeah, but glove up,” Mulrooney said. “We’ve dusted it for prints and came up dry, but we’ll give it a second go. Our victim might have been some kind of language guy. I know he was smart. He won some kind of prestigious award.”

“The Windsor Prize,” Decker said.

“Yeah, that’s it. I put a call into the committee office and got an answering machine. I don’t know if I’ll get a call back soon because the prize is given every four years. When I talked to the people in his department, they told me that he got a two-year lectureship because of the award.”

“What did his colleagues have to say?”

“The usual. They’re all shocked by his murder, he was a quiet guy. And he was young: a lot younger than the professors around him.”

“What was he lecturing in?”

“His research was . . . hold on, let me get this right.” Mulrooney took out his notebook. “Political art and propaganda in the Soviet Union during the period between the two world wars. If I didn’t know about your vic and the stolen Tiffany windows, I would have assumed that he was one of these nerdy academic types who was killed for his research or something stupid like that . . . except, well, you saw the body. Someone was royally pissed off. That was one horrific crime. Not the cozy professor kind of killing.”

“Are we sure that this codebook belongs to Latham?” Decker said.

Mulrooney paused. “You think otherwise?”

“It could have been stolen. Both Latham’s and Angeline’s apartments were tossed.”

“Whoever did it had a lot of languages at his disposal.” McAdams was turning the pages. “We need a cryptologist to break this down. There are dozens of them at Harvard and MIT. They’d do it for you for fun.”

“Yeah, this city is filled with people who can do everything,” Mulrooney said. “Before I show this to anyone outside the department, I’d like to know what we’re dealing with. Latham was one nasty murder.”

“Latham came to Tufts for a lectureship?” Decker asked.

“A joint appointment for two years with the art department and IR. What Soviet art has to do with Tiffany panels, I don’t know. But he’s obviously an art guy. One art guy talks to another art guy and pretty soon, you’re an expert in something.”

“Where did he study before he came to Tufts?” Decker said. “I heard he went to Oxford.”

“Don’t recall seeing that. Hold on, lemme see what I got on him.” Mulrooney peered through some file folders. “Uh, he had a master’s of arts from the Center for Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies. Sounds like something political or an online scam.”

“CREES,” McAdams said. “It’s a legitimate university program. Hold on.” He started playing with his iPhone. “It’s for people who have an interest in foreign languages of those regions and who want to work for government and diplomacy. There’s a CREES at Harvard, there’s one at U Mich, there’s one at Kansas University, there’s one at Stanford, there’s one at U Texas—”

“What about the Five Colleges of Upstate?” Decker asked.

“Let me check.” His fingers went flying across his phone. “Good call. There’s one at Morse McKinley that offers a B.A. as well as an M.A.”

Mulrooney said, “Then why didn’t he list the college on his résumé ?”

“Yeah, that is a little weird,” Tyler said. “Maybe he didn’t finish the degree.”

“And yet he got the Windsor award and a lectureship,” Decker said. “Any kind of college job is pretty hard to snag these days, let alone one at a major university in a major city.”

“Something isn’t making sense,” Mulrooney said. “And I don’t see any Oxford here.”

“Could be he was padding his C.V. and no one bothered to check.” McAdams thought a moment. “Betcha he had connections. That’s really the way it’s done.”

Decker said, “What about his family? Any connections there?”

“Nope. They’re fairly local—grape farmers in the Finger Lakes District.”

“You mean wine?” Tyler asked.

“No, I mean grapes . . . Concord table grapes. They were devastated when we told them the news, but they didn’t have a hell of a lot to add. He hadn’t kept in touch with any kind of regularity. Packed out when he was eighteen and except for the occasional Christmas phone call, he had pretty much vanished from their lives. They had no idea who’d want to murder him. They didn’t even know that he went to college.”

“They were that out of touch?” Decker was skeptical.

“I think they were telling the truth, but I didn’t press them too hard. They’d just lost their son.” Mulrooney held up his hands in a hopeless gesture.

“If he was from the Finger Lakes District, he probably knew about the Five Colleges of Upstate. It would make sense that he’d choose Morse McKinley. But at his age, he wouldn’t have overlapped with Angeline Moreau . . . well, maybe with a master’s.”

Tyler had gone back to looking at the codebook. He was mouthing some of the words out loud.

“You read Russian?” Mulrooney asked.

“I can read it although I don’t know what I’m saying. The same with Greek.” He looked up. “We were required to learn the classic languages in prep.”

Decker pointed to two words. “This is Hebrew.”

Mulrooney asked, “Does it say anything?”

“I don’t know Hebrew so I couldn’t tell you. I can read it, but they don’t seem like real words. You’d never have two alefs in a row. Maybe it’s Yiddish, which uses Hebrew letters.”

Tyler said, “Is it possible to get a copy of the notebook?”

Mulrooney frowned. “How many pages is it?”

“About twenty.”

“Give it to Frosty. She’s down the hallway, first door to the left. Tell her I’m saying please.” He looked back at Decker. “Sometimes you get a case where there’s nowhere to go. This case, we’ve got too many places. Is it an art theft, something personal, something with the university, something with the estranged family that they’re not telling me? We still have to look into all those keys he had, we’ve got codes and someone who was involved with something international. And we’ve got a real, real vicious crime. The bad people are real bad. It’ll take a while to sort this one out.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Decker said.

“Yeah, your girl looks simpler than our guy. If you find something, pass it on. What’s your next step?”

“We’re going to visit some art galleries in Boston.” Decker gave a brief recap of his discussion with Maxwell Stewart and Jason Merritt. He purposely left out his appointment with Chase Goddard.

If something came up, he’d share it after the fact. No purpose in telling him about another blind alley that would no doubt turn into another dead end.

MCADAMS WAS PORING over the file as Decker, stuck in traffic, tried to make his way to Newbury Street. “Now I know why I moved to a small town.”

The kid didn’t answer, engrossed in his business. A moment later, Tyler sat up. “It’s Latin.”

“Pardon?”

“The words . . . at least the words in Greek . . . Greek script but Latin meaning. Words that don’t mean anything specific . . . like ipso facto or e pluribus unum. It’s a code within a code. I bet if we got someone who knew Chinese or Arabic, those words wouldn’t mean anything in the native language but would transliterate into Latin words also.”

“Wow, kiddo, that’s impressive.” Decker nodded. “Good for you, Tyler. Well done.”

The kid tried to stifle a smile. “If I show you the Hebrew, could you read it out loud?”

“Yeah, I could do that. Wait until I’m stopped at a light.”

Tyler waited and then showed the page.

Decker stared at the letters. He repeated them several times to himself. “Wait a sec . . .” A beat. “Kav-i-at em-f-tur . . . or maybe the fey is a pey . . .” He turned to the kid. “It’s caveat emptor.”

This time, Tyler grinned. “Really?”

“Really. Good work.”

McAdams couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Now all we have to do is find the code within the code. Once we translate the words into Latin, we can work translating it into English. Not me, personally. Someone who can do codes.”

“You don’t do codes?”

“Not these kinds of codes. I haven’t a clue. But I know someone who can. What would a trip to Boston be without a stop at the big H. Shall we?”

“We need to tell Mulrooney about it first.”

McAdams’s face soured. “Do we really have to do that?”

“Yeah, we do. This codebook is his baby and he was nice enough to let us in. Besides, Latham’s murder was gruesome. I’m sure the killer would do it again in a heartbeat. The more people who know about what we’re doing, the better off we are. The bogeyman can kill off Latham and Moreau, he can even try to whack us, but he can’t kill off an entire police department.”

TWO HOURS, SIX galleries, and no significant information later, they stood in front of the Chase Goddard Antique and Curio Gallery. The sun was out in full force, the temperatures in the high thirties, which meant melting snow and ice off the eaves and rooftops. Dripping water created puddles on the sidewalks. The gallery was on a side street off the main drag of Newbury, in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house that featured plaster molding, a big picture window, and a green-and-white-striped awning over the doorway. On the left side was a bakery with a few inside tables for coffee and a snack, and on the right was a linens store specializing in lace and embroidery.

Since it was only two-thirty, they had time before the interview. They elected to sit in the bakery rather than the car, which was beginning to smell a little dank and rank. The bakery was cute and warm and the aroma was heavenly. After ordering, they sat down and waited for their cappuccinos and snacks, neither of them speaking until the coffee came.

Decker sipped. “Man, that’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.” McAdams was still paging through the book, trying to figure out as many words as he could. “This is going to take a while.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do this right now.”

The kid looked up. “No one’s here. Besides, you told me to bring it with me.”

“Well, maybe it’s best that you put it away just in case someone has been tailing us.”

McAdams closed the notebook. “Very funny.”

“Maybe not.”

“What?” The kid dropped his voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Hyundai Accent silver van, maybe two years old. I noticed it when we left the police station in Summer Village. No front plates. About five minutes ago, I saw something very similar across Newbury Street right before we made the turn toward Goddard Gallery. I think the person spotted me looking at the car because he or she took off and unfortunately I was too far away to read the back plates.”

McAdams was quiet. “Is it the same vehicle? I mean there must be hundreds of silver Hyundai Accents.”

“I wouldn’t say hundreds.”

“Are you doing that on purpose or do you like to see me sweat?”

“I’m sure it was a coincidence. But two people are dead so I thought I’d mention it, in case we see the van again.”

“Right.” McAdams sipped coffee. “Your eyes. They’re never in one place for long unless you’re trying to spook someone. Do they teach you that at detective school?”

“My suspicious nature is all my own doing. It has served me well.”

“I know I’ve asked you this before but should I be worried?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Tyler. You said you’re in it for the long run, but if you wanted to walk, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“No, I don’t want to walk. It’s just getting interesting.” McAdams bit his lower lip. “What should I be looking for, Decker? What makes you suspicious?”

“Things that repeat themselves . . . like seeing the same car or the same guy. Also, things that don’t belong. In a small town, that’s a little easier, but harder in the big city. And then there are the basics. I lock my doors and pull down my shades and always give a twice-over before I leave my house or my car. Like I said, detectives are seldom whacked. But seldom isn’t never.”

“We live in Bumblefuck, USA. How can this happen?”

Decker smiled. “You know what they say about good things coming in small packages. Sometimes big-city bad things come to very small towns.”

CHASE GODDARD COULDN’T figure out what to do with his hands. First he clasped them together. Then they dropped by his side. Finally he elected to shove them into his tweed jacket patch pockets. He was in his fifties with a long face, short blond hair, blue eyes, thin lips, and a Roman nose. Under his jacket he wore a pastel blue V-neck sweater over an open-collar white shirt, and he had on dark trousers and black boots. His nails were clipped short and his left hand sported a gold wedding band. Goddard continued to fidget. Maybe it was the lack of space. The three of them were standing, crammed into his office, a small room with a chair, a desk, and piles of paperwork.

“John Latham?” Goddard thought about the name for a decent amount of time. “No, I don’t know him.” A beat. “I certainly don’t know the name.”

“What about Angeline Moreau?” Decker asked.

Again, he didn’t speak right away. “No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”

“She is our murder victim,” Decker said. “Latham’s case belongs to Summer Village. We think the two of them were working together on something illegal and were murdered because of it.”

Goddard winced. “And you’re from . . . where again?”

“Greenbury, New York.”

“Ah, near the Five Colleges.”

“Yes. Do you have any association with the colleges, Mr. Goddard?”

“No, no, but of course I’ve heard of them. They’re quite respectable.”

“But they’re not Harvard,” McAdams said.

Goddard said, “There are other universities, Detective.”

“Not to me.”

The art dealer paused. “You’re a Crimson man, I take it.”

“Graduated almost four years ago.”

“And you’re working as a policeman?”