Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 27

RINA SHOWED THE library guard her deputized license as well as her concealed weapon permit. The provost, who was accompanying them to the third floor—where Rayfield stored its reference material—gave a sniff of contempt. “Do you have to make it so obvious?”

“Would you rather I set off the metal detector with my gun?”

The man’s cheeks pinkened. He was in his forties with glasses perched on his ski slope nose. He whispered, “You have an armed officer. How much do you need?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Rina spoke softly but definitely not in a hush. “How much protection do you need after someone tried to kill you?”

McAdams bowed his head and stifled a smile.

Greg Schultz, the armed guard, cleared his throat. He was a retired mechanic in his sixties who often helped out Greenbury PD and FD when they needed extra brawn. He was built like a tractor. “We’re causing a backup line.” He unlocked the brake on Tyler’s wheelchair. “Can I take him through now?”

Quickly, the provost escorted them through the metal detector, the guard bypassing Rina’s purse. The four of them squeezed into an elevator. On the third floor, there was a long table in the corner with books of old textile photographs along with several pairs of white gloves. Natural light was provided by a window with a view to the outside quad, students milling in the snow like ants in spilled salt. The glass also let in a draft. Rina had dressed in layers. She took off her overcoat but kept on her sweater over a sweater.

The reference librarian was a young woman in her thirties with a short bob of straight blond hair and deep green eyes. Her name was Lisa Pomeranz and she recognized Tyler McAdams from his previous research foray. Her eyes tried to hide the shock at seeing him so disabled. “I read about the incident in the papers. I’m so sorry.”

McAdams tried to put her at ease. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow . . . especially snow.”

“I thought that was mailmen,” Schultz said.

“If the shoe fits . . .”

Rina said, “Any more adages, Tyler, or can we get to work?”

McAdams smiled. “I’ll be fine, Ms. Pomeranz. The bullets missed all the crucial areas so I count myself as very lucky.”

“I’m not supposed to do this, but I can get you some hot water. It’s chilly up here.”

“I wouldn’t want to spill anything,” Rina said. “Not even water. We’re fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” McAdams said.

“I’m speaking for both of us.” Rina donned the white gloves and sat down. “Thank you.”

“Anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Lisa said.

After she walked away, McAdams said, “Man, she did a one-eighty from the first time I was here.”

Schultz took up a seat that afforded him a view of the elevator as well as the staircase. “I’ll just sit here and try not to fall asleep.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Rina pulled two magnifying glasses from her briefcase and laid them on the table. Then she carefully pulled out the first reference book entitled Textiles of the Far East. It was published at the beginning of the twentieth century. Placed on the inside cover was a sign-in sheet of those who had used the book as a reference. She whispered, “Tyler, look at this.” She put the book in front of him and pointed to Angeline Moreau’s name. She had used the book six times.

“It was her thesis,” he said.

“To quote my daughter: I’m just saying.”

McAdams picked up Mid-Eastern Textiles from the Silk Route in the Fifteenth Century. He regarded the sign-up sheet. “Looks like Moreau was a busy bee.” He turned to Rina. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Simultaneously, they opened their respective books to the title page. The room fell silent except for the gentle swish of paper turning, each of them carefully studying the binding of the prints with the magnifying glass to make sure that a razor blade hadn’t done any mischief.

It was going to be a long and tedious day.

BY TEN IN the morning, Decker was on the way to the Summer Village Police Department to pick up Chris Mulrooney. While riding on the highway, he and Oliver kept a constant lookout for tails. With another set of experienced eyes, Decker could relax a tad. Being with Scott felt like home, the two in conversation that ran the gamut from the good old days to the puzzling case of present days. Drinking coffee and chomping on bagels, they exchanged ideas both logical and far-fetched. Neither had much to add from last night.

“Kid seems okay, manning up under his trial by fire,” Oliver said.

“I think he’d be a great detective. But he’s doing the smart thing and going to Harvard Law.”

“Too bad. He certainly won’t get this kind of adrenaline rush there.”

“Ordinarily this job is very banal.”

“Right now, I’d definitely take banal over retirement.”

“Send out applications. You could have your pick of any small town.”

“A good idea, better than feeling sorry for myself.” He was quiet. “I’m thinking about Florida. I don’t like the cold.”

“Want me to talk to my brother?”

“Where is Randy?”

“Miami PD. But I’m sure he could make inquiries in smaller towns. Unless you want to go big again.”

“No, not big . . . but bigger than Greenbury. Marge was real smart. Can’t get more perfect than Ventura PD. Man, it’s beautiful up there.”

“So why don’t you apply to Ventura?”

He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. We’re both in different places now. I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. I’m willing to uproot myself.”

“What about your kids?”

“They’re scattered and busy. If they want to see me, I’ll get a spare bedroom in my seaside condo that must have a pool. Certainly enough of those around in Florida.”

“You might have a problem, though,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A single man around all those widows.”

Oliver laughed. “Stand in line, ladies, there’s enough to go around.”

“Here we are.” Decker pulled into the Summer Village PD parking lot. He called up Chris Mulrooney who came bounding out five minutes later holding a briefcase. He wore a parka bomber jacket, thick denim jeans over bulky boots, shearling gloves, a knit hat, and a black scarf. Decker made the introductions after Mulrooney had slid into the backseat. He peeled off his winter wear in the hot car’s climate.

Mulrooney patted his leather valise. “Got a copy of the codebook right here. We can follow along with the professor.”

Decker pulled out several sheets of paper. “The kid has been looking at it for the past three days. He’s been counting phrases and is using them to plot a frequency chart. Not that he knows for certain if the phrases correspond with letters but he figured it was a good start.”

Mulrooney’s eyes scanned over the deciphered words. “How’s he feeling?”

“He’s laid up in a wheelchair but I’ve got him working in the library.”

“It’ll do him good to work.” Murooney stowed the papers in his briefcase. “We’ve been going through Latham’s papers, trying to locate things that might be opened from that janitor ring of keys we found. No local storage units yet. And the keys that open safe-deposit boxes aren’t local either. His local bank had two hundred and fifty-six dollars, forty-eight cents in a check deposit. Two credit cards with small balances. He had a bundled account for cable and Wi-Fi. No landline. Utilities and rent were paid up every month. Didn’t seem to splurge on himself except for the occasional restaurant and bar bills. We checked them out. The ones who do remember him said he was just a regular guy. We did pass around the picture of Angeline Moreau. Couple of bartenders thought that she looked familiar but they couldn’t be sure. They certainly couldn’t put her with him at a specific time.”

“That’s too bad.”

“They do remember Latham often chatting up the ladies, but not being obnoxious about it. He was okay just being a guy, watching the Celts and the Patriots on the screen with the locals. He owned his car. To me, he’s suspicious because he was so unsuspicious. For a guy who was murdered so brutally, he was trying to keep his outward appearance squeaky clean.”

“Did his colleagues have anything to add?”

“Nope. Just a typical visiting lecturer. He shared an office with four other lecturers but they rarely see one another because their schedules are different. One of the gals I spoke to said she doesn’t even work there because the space is so small. She works at home and only uses the shared space for posted office hours with her students. People don’t remember him hanging around the campus too much. But everyone I spoke to about Latham did say he was very knowledgeable about his field, which was . . .”

Mulrooney flipped through his notes.

“Here we go. The official title is History of Art and Propaganda in the Soviet Union. It was an upper-division class for majors in art, history, and art history; and he had forty students, which is a very big number. We’ve interviewed almost all the students and have come up empty. If the codebook doesn’t tell us something, we’re shooting in the dark. And that’s really making all of us nervous after what happened to you guys down there.”

Oliver said, “Deck thinks we’re dealing with foreign criminals.”

“Yeah, even stupid people usually don’t take out detectives. And when they do try, it’s usually to prevent testimony. Somebody clearly doesn’t know the rules.” Mulrooney hesitated. “Which foreign country? Are you thinking Russia because of Latham’s specialty?”

“Yes, exactly,” Decker said. “Latham’s takeout was very surgical. Maybe it’s not even the Russian mob. Maybe it’s Russian spooks.”

“That would be very bad,” Oliver said.

“It certainly would mean we’re over our heads. But I don’t have anything to go on other than a queasy feeling.”

“This is making me very, very nervous,” Mulrooney said.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Decker said. “But I’m not about to back off before I find out why someone wanted me dead. Maybe the answers will be in the codebook.”

No one spoke for a minute. Then Mulrooney said, “Maybe we should take the book to Quantico. I know we don’t have anything to tell them, but we can’t figure out the code on our own and I’m nervous about involving a Harvard math professor in something so potentially dangerous.”

“I hear you, Chris, and I was thinking the same thing last night. And that’s why I called Gold up and gave him a brief rundown over the phone. I told him about what happened to me and McAdams. I told him he may be setting himself up for trouble by getting involved. You know what he said? He insisted we come up and that he’s absolutely fine with it.”

“But are we absolutely fine with it?”

“I wasn’t at all until Gold told me where he learned all about codes.”

“He’s CIA?”

“Retired CIA. I don’t think he saw much fieldwork but he did spend ten years doing codes in Virginia. He developed some of the programs way back when, that the CIA still uses for electronic hacking. And he says he can shoot, goes to the range whenever he can. But it’s your book and your call, Chris.”

Mulrooney shrugged. “I guess he’s in no more danger than we are . . . if that’s any comfort.” A pause. “If he knows what he’s getting into, we might as well talk to him.”

“That was my thought,” Decker said. “You know, Gold, Oliver, and I have one thing in common besides being over sixty. We’re all looking for action. Problem is we seem to be looking in all the wrong places.”

CHAPTER 28

AFTER COMBING THROUGH piles of the antique textile and art books with zero results, Rina suggested a break. She had been working for two hours straight and her eyes needed to rest. She—along with McAdams and Schultz—left the library and found a school café called The Hop. The place made an attempt to resemble a 1950s malt shop: red fake Naugahyde stools at a fake linoleum countertop that was even cheesier than the original cheesy decor. Rina bought coffee for the three of them and they sat in an outside patio under a heat lamp. She took out a sack lunch that she had prepared for Tyler and herself, but there was certainly enough to go around in case Greg Schultz hadn’t brought his own food.

During the first five minutes, the gang ate in silence. Tyler took out his iPad and was lost in concentration. Rina made small talk with Greg, asking him about various cars: always a good topic with guys but especially good with someone who had worked with vehicles for the past thirty years.

McAdams finally spoke. “I was looking up vintage prints and not all print books are the same in value—as if that should be a startling revelation.”

“Go on,” Rina said.

“Not surprising, it appears that the older the book, the more valuable the prints are. Prints in Basil Besler’s book published in 1613 are selling from eighteen hundred to five thousand whereas prints in Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book, published between 1799 and 1805, sell in the thousands.” He continued searching on Safari. “But Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book The Temple of Flora, published just ten years later . . . those images sell for a lot less.”

“Probably depends on the rarity of the book.”

“Yeah, of course. All I’m saying is the prices really swing and without knowing what is valuable, we’re kind of shooting in the dark with choosing which books to look at. To make it worthwhile for a thief, he’d have to steal from the expensive books, which are rare and damn near impossible to find.” He looked up at Rina. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Way better than what I packed for myself.”

“You’re both welcome.”

Schultz stood up. “I’m going to make a quick pit stop. Keep your eyes open.”

“No problem.” Rina patted her purse. “We’re fine.” After Schultz left, she said, “The prints you saw in Chase Goddard’s gallery. How much is he asking for them?”

“I can tell you in a minute.” McAdams clicked away on his pad. “They’re priced between a hundred and three hundred each. I should really put his inventory as a favorite place.”

“What about his vintage books?”

“He doesn’t have that much inventory. He has a Swann’s Way and a Chandler, The Long Goodbye, but without the dust jacket. That’s the most valuable. The rest are in double digits.”

“Not worth stealing,” Rina said.

“No one thinks that Goddard was actually stealing. We were just wondering if Goddard was buying hot merchandise. And if he was purchasing stolen items, it probably makes sense for him to buy things that don’t attract that much attention . . . like cheap prints.”

“I agree.” Rina stared out at the barren landscape. Nothing seemed suspicious. But would she even recognize “suspicious”? “Even if Goddard is buying small items of hot property, it’s certainly not worth murdering over.”

“Unless he’s trying to keep his reputation unsullied, except that heretofore it had already been sullied.”

“Even if he did pay Moreau and Latham a few bucks for stolen art prints, you certainly can’t amass designer bags with a couple hundred extra bucks.”

“Right.” McAdams sat back and sipped coffee. This morning he had removed the sling from his arm and felt better with the freedom of motion. It still hurt, but he could move it and his balance was much better. Within a few days, he’d probably be on crutches. “No offense, but I think your husband is on the wrong track. I think this is a total waste of time.”

“Not that I’m defending Peter, but he’s more right than wrong. If he thinks the library needs to be checked out, I’m not going to argue.”

“I know he’s trying to tie Moreau to something more than Tiffany windows, but I still can’t see her being a mover and a shaker in the nefarious world of looted art. Maybe her murder had nothing at all to do with the stolen panels. Her ex-boyfriend was pretty shaken when she dumped him. He followed her to Boston and even went by John Latham’s apartment. I know he had an alibi for both murders, but friends lie for one another all the time.”

“Was it just one person who alibied him?”

“No, it was several people who saw him. And he was in class like he said. But no one can perfectly account for every minute of his day. And people get the time wrong.”

Rina said, “Peter feels that some foreign entity is involved.”

“The Russian mafia.” McAdams rolled his eyes. “Even if I agreed with him on that end, what would that have to do with Chase Goddard and a few stolen prints?”

Rina went silent. Then she said, “Tyler, can you look up on your iPad to see if there are any rare Russian books that have an auction history?”

“That’s a thought.” He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

Schultz had returned and that made Rina feel a lot better. She said, “All’s quiet.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

McAdams said, “There is a book by D. A. Rovinski—five books actually published in St. Petersburg, 1881. Russkie Narodnye Kartinki better known as Russian Folk Pictures. They sold for auction in 2013 for 11 million rubles. And that would convert to . . . wow, that’s surprising . . . 315,500 dollars.” He continued typing. “God, the prints are gorgeous. Want to take a look?”

“Love to.” She looked as he swished through the images. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yes, they are,” McAdams said. “I’m assuming that is a very, very rare book and not the kind of thing that would be sitting around Rayfield Library collecting dust.”

“Unless the library doesn’t know what they have.”

“That’s why you have a reference librarian. She should know her inventory.”

“It’s worth a shot to ask her,” Rina said. “What else goes for big money?”

“Books by Pushkin . . . Eugene Onegin . . . okay, this sounds interesting. A book commemorating three hundred years of Romanov rule, published during the diamond jubilee in 1913. This one went for . . . roughly 115,000 dollars. At least these books are in the vicinity of worth killing over.” A pause. “I don’t really see Chase Goddard dealing in them. Maybe Jason Merritt.”

“Does it say anything about who owned the books and who bought them?”

“Nope.” His eyes were still on his pad. “I don’t believe this! Son of a bitch!” He looked up. “Sorry.”

“What?”

“Nikolai Petroshkovich . . . a signed copy of his History of Iconography with original prints of his designs and works. One of twenty original editions. Two hundred pages, forty plates published in 1926 . . . 4 million rubles three years ago, which was, hold on . . . 115,000 dollars.”

“Petroshkovich?”

He winced. “Yes.”

“So maybe Peter’s not so far off.”

He exhaled. “Maybe not.”

“How far is Marylebone from here?”

“About an hour.”

“Where’s the nearest big reference library in Marylebone?”

“In Rhode Island, I’d say Brown, but we’re almost as close to Marylebone as Providence. And there are a slew of other colleges in between.”

“Okay,” Rina said. “When did Petroshkovich live?”

“I will tell you in a moment . . . 1889 to 1949.”

“He was sixty when he died?”

“Fifty-nine . . . hold on . . . he did the Marylebone iconography in 1938, but he also did a lot of other work in and around New England. His icons at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone was considered his pinnacle.”

“So he was somewhat famous when he died?”

“He was pretty well known. If his book is going for 115 grand four years ago, you could only imagine what the icons would be worth today.”

“Worth dying over?”

“More than a Tiffany.”

“You said he worked in and around New England. Where did he live?”

“Hold on . . . Wowzers!” McAdams exhaled. “Good call, Rina. His workshop was in Bellingham, which is ten miles away from the Five Colleges.”

“So if you’re well known, older, and sick—and you want to leave copies of legacies in the form of your book somewhere . . .”

“Certainly worth asking about.” McAdams put down his cup. He turned to Schultz. “Would you mind wheeling me into the bathroom? Once inside, I can take it from there.”

“I’ll meet you guys in the library,” Rina said.

Schultz said, “How about if we all go together?”

“I can’t come in with you.” Rina laughed. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate urinals.”

“Deck says you’re good with a pistol.” Schultz smiled. “How about if you can stand guard for us?”

Again, Rina patted her purse. “Have gun will travel.”

BOSTON WAS COLLEGE in search of a city. What wasn’t past history was current academia. Large in scope as well as top dog in its field, the Harvard campus sprawled over an endless white landscape. Brick buildings from yore battled with modern architecture interspersed with long expanses of white fields. Mordechai Gold’s office was located in the Science Center—a modern-day ziggurat of glass and steel off Cambridge Street across from Harvard Yard.

Classes were in session, but there were some empty rooms with open doors, enough to see that functionality ruled over form. Institutional furniture crammed into the space, whiteboards filled with abstract formulas that meant nothing to anyone outside of the field. Gold’s office was a corner on the fifth floor. The door was ajar, but Decker knocked anyway. They were invited inside.

The space was a step back to a previous time: walnut paneling, parquet floors, Persian floor rugs, wooden bookshelves, and a view of the plaza. It was warmed by an electric fireplace as well as modern heating. An enormous ebony L-shaped desk hosted the math professor who was sitting in a tufted leather chair. He stood up: a large man in height and girth, bald except for a ring of unruly gray curls around the base of his head. Bushy gray eyebrows arched over large brown eyes. He had a full face, a full nose, full lips, and a big chin. Decker could see that Gold in his younger years would have fit the mold physically for the spooks in Virginia.

Introductions were made and hands were shaken. Then everyone settled into cushy chairs. Gold smiled. “I know you gave me a brief recitation over the phone, Detective Decker, but I’d appreciate a recap of what happened now that we’re face-to-face with everyone here.”

“How long do you have?” Mulrooney said.

Gold checked an Oyster Rolex. “A little over an hour. Will it take longer? If so, I can make arrangements.”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s grand,” Gold said. “The more complicated the better.”

Decker said, “I’ll start with my involvement and then Detective Mulrooney can tell you what he’s doing.”

“Splendid.” Gold paused. “How is Tyler McAdams doing? I was horrified when you told me about the shooting.”

“He’s fine and should make a total recovery,” Decker said. “Do you remember him?”

“Five ten, slender build but not wimpy, long face, brown hair, hazel eyes. He dressed in sweaters and jeans and was always prepared. Now, I would very much appreciate a full story.”

“Absolutely.” Decker pulled out his notebook and the two other detectives did the same.

“My handwriting is atrocious.” Gold pointed to his head. “I may ask you to repeat something just to encode it into long-term memory.”

“Not a problem,” Decker said.

The recitation took twenty minutes. Gold interrupted three times asking for clarification. After the recap was finished, Mulrooney took out his copy of the codebook and said, “Did you have a chance to look at the pages?”

“I always like to hear the complete picture before I embark on any new project.” Gold took out copy given to him by Mulrooney and put on his glasses. “So the answer is no.”

“Tyler cracked part of it,” Decker said. “The Cyrillic letters are actually Latin phrases. The Hebrew letters are Latin phrases as well.”

“Ah yes. Very good. Please tell him I’m impressed.” Gold’s eyes continued to study the pages. “That poor boy. He must have been ill-prepared for police work of this sort.”

“He didn’t expect to get shot but who does? As far as the work, he’s been a quick study.”

“Yes, I remember that for a nonmath major, he caught on quite well. Quiet boy, but he always knew the answers.”

Decker watched Gold’s eyes bore into the text. “Do you have a photographic memory?”

“Yes, I do. But also I’m one of those weird people with high superior autobiographical memory.”

“I read about that.” Decker smiled. “Uh, I don’t remember where I read it but it was an article about people who remember daily details about their entire lives.”

“Correct.”

Oliver said, “Is that a blessing or a curse?”

“I do remember the bad as well as the good. Lucky for me that most of the emotional valance is long gone. I can tell you the day and the date of what was happening for the last sixty years. But only in relationship to myself. If something historical had occurred and I wasn’t aware of it, I’ll have no direct memory of it. I remember Tyler McAdams well not only because I remember the boy, but also because I knew his father, Jack McAdams. I went to law school with him.”

“You’re a lawyer.”

“I’ve done everything except medicine. Poor kid. Growing up with a father like that could not have been easy.”

“He’s aware of his father’s peccadilloes,” Decker said. “He handles him very well.”

“Good. I admire people with spine.” Gold went quiet. “The Eastern letters and symbols—the Chinese, the Japanese, the Korean . . . this is Amharic . . . whoever wrote this is really all over the place . . . anyway, the symbols and sounds point to Latin phrases as well.”

“What about the Roman alphabet?” Decker asked. “They appear to be nonsense words but they must mean something.”

“They are actually transliteration for Russian words . . . Greek words as well. If I translate from Russian into English, the words mean nothing. But . . . if I translate from Russian into German, they appear to translate back into Latin phrases.”

The three men nodded solemnly. Mulrooney turned to Decker and Oliver. “You men ever work a case like this?”

“Never,” Oliver said. “Hardly ever worked with the FBI.” He looked at Decker. “What about you?”

“I worked with the spooks once in a multinational child porno ring back in Foothill. I remember it well because believe it or not, they did wear sunglasses. My involvement was minimal.”

“This is a first by me.”

“Anything else you notice, Professor?”

“A few things here and there.” Gold looked up and folded the codebook. “The parsimonious thing for me to do would be to translate all of what I can into Latin and then I can try to break the Latin code and see if it makes sense in English or German or Russian or whatever language the code was originally written in. I’ll tell you one thing. This was either done by a polyglot or more than one person. There are a lot of idiomatic phrases. And while I recognize most of the idioms, it would take me a while to write them up in code.”

He smiled and stood up. “I’ll do my best, gentlemen.”

“Thank you for helping, Professor Gold,” Mulrooney said.

“You realize that this may be something you might not want to deal with. That it may be beyond police work.”

“Tyler and I were targets,” Decker said. “Before I relinquish control, I want to have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“It’s a safety issue,” Mulrooney said.

“Exactly,” Decker agreed. “We have to know who the bad guys are. And once the spooks get it, they’ll cut us out of the loop.”

“I understand. But do be careful.” Business cards were exchanged as well as handshakes. “This would be amusing for me except I know that real people were murdered.” Gold shook his head. “I’ll do whatever I can. Do send my best to Tyler. I hope his recovery is swift.”

“I’ll do that.” Decker strolled over to the window and took one last look outside. The campus must have been ten times bigger than all the Upstate colleges put together. “Must be a great place to work.”

“It is,” Gold said. “Although in all honesty, despite all the trappings of this office and the prestige of Harvard, I could work in a closet and be happy. People like me . . . we live in our heads.”