Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 29

WHILE SCHULTZ KEPT watch, Rina pushed McAdams’s wheelchair up to the historical reference desk, located on the third floor of Rayfield Library. It was in a separate, caged area where books of value and historical significance were kept, a step back into another time with musty red carpeting and walnut tables and chairs. The librarian in charge was a woman named Susan Devry. She was in her sixties with a curly nest of short, gray hair that framed a round, mocha face. Her frame was thin, her oversized sweater draping over a free-flowing midi skirt and black boots. She regarded Rina’s request for the Petroshkovich book and frowned. “I have to see if it’s back for loan.”

“Back from where?” McAdams had to look up to talk.

“Pretoria College in Marylebone.” She regarded the pair. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you two about the art theft of the Petroshkovich icons.”

Rina nodded. “We’re aware of the heist, yes.”

“How tragic,” Susan said. “There used to be a lot of interest in Petroshkovich—a lot of papers and theses—especially right after the icons were pilfered. But Nikolai seemed to have had his day in the sun. And since the artwork was never recovered, students lost interest.”

“Not everyone lost interest in him if his book went out on loan,” Rina said.

“Yes, but it’s usually more from an amateur detective point of view than from something scholarly.” Susan smiled sheepishly. “I’m not saying that’s bad . . . to be interested in the theft. I suppose anything that generates enthusiasm.”

“I’m surprised that the library loans out something so valuable,” McAdams said. “The book is worth six figures.”

“It’s not really on loan to Pretoria.” Susan gave another sheepish smile. “It’s actually coowned by the two libraries.”

“How does that work?” Rina asked.

“We just courier it over when it’s requested.”

“How’d it come to pass that the libraries coowned it?”

Susan seemed apprehensive. Rina waited her out. Finally, the librarian said, “Long ago each library had a copy. There are only around ten original copies left. It’s a very long story.”

McAdams smiled. “We’ve got time.”

Rina said, “I’d love to hear it.”

Susan checked her watch. “Very briefly, Pretoria had some financial difficulties. And Littleton, being the newest college here, didn’t have the largest of endowments. The book was given to Rayfield from Huntington Library because it was an art book and as sort of a welcome present. But Rayfield was still wanting for funds. This was years ago before the icons were stolen.” She rolled her eyes. “It was agreed that one of the books would be sold and the proceeds would be split between Pretoria and here. They couldn’t get away with that today!”

“Who bought the book that was sold?”

“The buyer was anonymous. But it was rumored that the book went overseas.”

“To Russia?” McAdams asked.

“Who knows, but that would be logical.” Susan’s eyes were outraged. “Let me check on the one copy we have left.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” McAdams’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “It’s from the Loo.”

Rina grinned. “Since when did you start calling Peter the Loo?”

“It’s what Oliver calls him. I kinda like it. Anyway, they just finished up with Professor Gold and he and Oliver are on their way back. And Gold says hello.” McAdams stowed his phone. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know who I am.”

Rina looked him in the eye. “Where did all the arrogance go, Tyler? I miss it.”

He smiled. “Getting shot is a humbling experience. But fear not. I’m sure when I’m up and about I’ll be my old obnoxious self.”

“I’m sure Professor Gold does remember you.”

“I dunno, Rina, I was pretty forgettable . . . quiet, believe it or not. I was only in the PC because of my legacy of my grandfather. Not because of my charm.”

“PC? As in personal computer?”

McAdams laughed. “Porcellian Club . . . it’s a final club.”

“I . . . don’t know what that is, Tyler.”

“It’s like an exclusive fraternity. We don’t have a lot of Greek at Harvard, we have clubs instead. They’re also called eating clubs because meals are served. The Porcellian Club, better known to those who hate us, which is almost everyone, is sometimes called the Pig’s Club not because of its all-male members—although the appellation certainly fits—but because the club’s tradition is to roast a whole pig.”

“Not many Orthodox Jews in the mix?”

“Nary a one who’d admit it.” McAdams slowly stood up in front of his wheelchair, supporting himself on one leg and a cane.

Rina knew better than to try to help. “Getting a little numb?”

“My butt is frozen. It feels good to be upright even if I am a little off-balance.” McAdams took out his iPad and began to punch in topics using Safari. A minute later, he spoke in a whisper. “Ach, this isn’t getting anywhere.”

“What?”

“Trying to locate a book that was sold years ago.”

“We could try the archives of Pretoria.”

“It might be worth a trip.” McAdams checked his watch. “It’s taking a while, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is and this section of the library is small.”

“Something’s amiss.” McAdams continued to play with his iPad. Five minutes later, Susan came back with a wooden box and white gloves. “I don’t know how this happened, but it was misplaced.” She handed them each a pair of white gloves and a cloth to set the book on while turning the pages. “I can only loan this out to you for two hours. And you can only look at the book at the tables here. You cannot take it anywhere else in the library.”

“We understand.” Rina donned the gloves.

“I’m not done.” Susan stopped herself. “You have to sign up for it.”

“Already done,” McAdams said.

“That was the general sign-up sheet. On a book this rare, we have a specific sign-up sheet. Your name, your official ID number . . . I suppose you can use your driver’s license or badge number . . . and your time in, and the book you are looking at—title and author, please.”

McAdams smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Both McAdams and Rina inked the sheet. Then Susan pulled out a large lockbox of index files. “Let’s see . . . Petroshkovich . . . ah, here we are. You both also have to sign the index cards for the book. One for each of you. That way we can keep track of who’s checking out rare books with art plates . . . precisely why I told you that I’d be shocked if you two found something missing. We’re very careful.”

Rina and McAdams exchanged glances. The thought came to both of them at the same time. Rina said, “You’re the one who has the badge. Go for it.”

McAdams said, “So . . . that means you have the names of everyone who has ever looked at the Petroshkovich book?”

“Not everyone.” Susan shuffled through the cards. “These currently date back . . . three years ago. The rest have been archived.”

“Can I see them—the index cards?”

Susan paused. “I don’t know if I can show them to you.”

“Ma’am, it’s a murder investigation.” No one spoke. “Please don’t make me go get a warrant. It’s very time-consuming.”

Susan didn’t answer. Instead, she put the cards down and slid the pile across the desktop. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Thank you.” McAdams shuffled through them as fast as he could. One name gave him pause—he showed it to Rina—and then he continued on until he’d seen them all. He slid the cards back to the librarian and regarded the book box. It was custom made: around a foot by two feet. “Could you open the Petroshkovich box, please?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What’s going on?”

“Please. It’s important.”

“All right.” Slowly, she lifted the wooden lid. The actual book was in a cloth sleeve.

“Could you take it out for me?”

“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s about two people who were murdered and about someone who feels it’s okay to shoot the police. Please just do it.”

Susan flinched. “Yes, of course.” She took the book out of the sleeve. The cover was old and water stained. “What next?”

“Can you flip through the plates?”

“Detective, one doesn’t flip through plates. You turn the pages slowly.”

McAdams held his tongue. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’m sorry if I’m sounding brusque. If you’d just tell me . . .” When he didn’t answer, Susan began turning pages. When she got to the fourth plate, she paused for a moment. “This is a forgery.”

“You’re sure?” Rina asked.

“Of course, I’m sure! If you compare it side by side . . . the paper is original, but the quality is lacking.” She looked at the duo. “Of course, you suspected this.”

“We did,” Rina said.

“It must have happened at Pretoria.” She turned to the next plate, which was original. But the following two were not. “Oh my heavens! I must report this. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t have you checking this out right now.”

“We understand. And in light of what happened, we have other things we need to do right now.” McAdams tried out a smile. “Do we have to sign out?”

Susan was still in shock. “Uh . . . yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m floored. How did this happen? How did you know?”

Neither answered. They both signed out and slowly, Rina helped McAdams back into the chair while Susan watched. She said, “You must think I’m terrible . . . upset by a book when you’ve suffered so much. I am very sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” McAdams said. “There are two dead bodies out there. I’m the lucky one. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rina pushed him to Schultz. The guard said, “That didn’t take too long.”

“Something’s come up,” McAdams said. “We need to set our priorities elsewhere.”

“You handled Mrs. Devry very graciously, Detective,” Rina said.

“Wow. I never thought I’d hear gracious and me in the same sentence.”

Rina laughed. Schultz said, “So where to?”

“The hallowed dormitories. Specifically Elm Hall.”

DECKER HADN’T SPENT this much time in a car since his patrol days. On the road again, this time to New York City with the kid sitting shotgun while Oliver, Rina, and Schultz were squished into the backseat. It was five in the evening, traffic was terrible and everyone, except Rina, was tired and grumpy. She had the most reason to be in a bad mood. She was in the middle seat, but as usual she seemed oblivious, soldiering on with pleasant conversation that was answered with grunts.

After a half hour of stalling in traffic, Rina knew that if the men didn’t get something to eat, the car would decombust. She reached down to the bag under Oliver’s feet, took out sandwiches, and passed them around. Amid begrudging thanks, everyone ate. It wasn’t a tricky thing to pull off. With cars backed up on the highway, they were moving about five miles an hour. Ten minutes later, Rina passed around coffee with lids and cookies and napkins.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Your cookies make it almost worth the traffic.”

“Call me Rina.”

“Thank you, Rina.”

“What can truly compete against a fine chocolate chip cookie?” McAdams said. “My nanny used to bake them. At first I just watched. Then I participated. Hence my baking skills.”

“Your nanny?” Oliver said.

“Yeah, of course I had a nanny. The wealthy don’t raise their kids.” McAdams took a sip of coffee. “Not that my mother ever worked a real job. Her days were filled with society obligations.” A pause. “She does a lot of charity work. Her largesse never extended to me. As far as jobs go, I’ve worked a few interships but it’s always been with connections. I just waltzed in ahead of everyone else. Man, I’ve worked more in the past couple of weeks than I ever have in my life.”

Oliver said, “Why’d you pick police work?”

“To spite my father.”

“And?”

“What makes you think there’s an ‘and’?”

Decker smiled. “You have a terrible game face, Harvard. If you ever decide to make policing your profession, you should work on that.”

“Let me guess,” Oliver said. “You wanted the experience to write a screenplay.”

McAdams laughed. “Am I that transparent or did you get that idea from Decker? And BTW, it started off as a novel. Later, it morphed to a screenplay. Like the Loo said, I’m kind of Hollywood.”

“And I stand by that statement,” Decker said.

“I always thought that I was kind of Hollywood,” Oliver said. “Then I met real Hollywood sharks. I’ll take criminals over them any day of the week.”

“What’s it about, McAdams?” Decker asked. “Your screenplay.”

“What do you think?”

“An art theft,” Decker said. “Under the circumstances, you might think about debuting with something that won’t get you killed.”

“I deleted everything after I was shot. It was garbage anyway. My main character was obnoxious and derivative of everything I’ve ever seen on TV or in the movies.”

“It takes time to develop,” Rina said.

McAdams smiled. “Thanks, but the truth is, I have no imagination.”

Decker braked hard. “I detest traffic. Also this kind of stop and go makes us sitting ducks.”

“I’ve got my eyes peeled out my window, sir,” Schultz said.

“Ditto,” Oliver said. “I’ve seen a lot of noses being picked, a lot of women putting on makeup, and everyone’s texting. Nothing suspicious, but my guard is still up. How much longer?”

“Maybe an hour for what should be a fifteen-minute ride.”

“Just as long as we get there in one piece,” Rina said.

“Amen to that, sister,” McAdams said.

“How are you feeling, Tyler?”

“With no horrible pain, I could probably move up to crutches very soon.”

“Don’t push it,” Oliver said. “You’ll heal faster.”

“I’m just happy to be out of the hospital and working again.” He paused. “And you honestly don’t think he took off?”

“Why would he take off?” Oliver said. “We didn’t call him. He has no idea we’re coming down.”

“But he must know he’s in trouble, right?”

“Maybe,” Decker said. “And even if he suspects he’s in the weeds, most people don’t disappear underground. People with money hire lawyers.”

“Which is why you don’t call him,” Oliver said. “No warning works to our advantage.”

Decker said, “Anyway, it’s moot right now. At this rate, we won’t make it until midnight.”

Rina yawned. “We’ll be there by seven at the latest.”

“Take a nap, Rina,” Decker said. “You’ve certainly earned it.”

“Maybe I will close my eyes for a moment. It’s been a long day.”

No one spoke for the next five minutes. Then McAdams said, “Maybe I should make my protagonist a woman.”

“Good idea,” Decker said. “Model her after my wife.”

Rina smiled. “That’s a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”

McAdams laughed. “Call me crazy but I don’t see an Orthodox Jewish woman who bakes chocolate chip cookies and makes sandwiches as a gritty crime fighter.”

“Excuse me?” Rina said from the backseat. “Cookies notwithstanding, I’ve had as much input in this case today as you have, Tyler.”

“You’re right about that,” McAdams said. “Don’t take offense, Rina. You know how I am.”

“I do. No offense taken.”

“Like I said before I have absolutely no imagination.”

CHAPTER 30

THE PREWAR BUILDING, fashioned in brick and stone, was located on the Upper East Side between Fifth and Madison: two ten-story towers with a six-story edifice connecting them. The street, framed by small, bare trees, was filled with slush, and the sidewalk and steps had been salted. Awnings and eaves dripped ice as well as ice cold water. The double glass doors were unlocked, so the three of them went inside where the temperature was warmer but still leaked cold from the doors. A uniformed man sat behind a desk off to the left side. A sign said that all visitors needed to be announced.

The doorman was about to call, but then McAdams reached over the desk from his wheelchair and put his hand over the phone. “We’re all cops. Let’s keep it low key.”

“But—”

“If anyone gets pissed, I’ll take responsibility. Seventh floor, 3A, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Shouldn’t there be two of you down here?” McAdams asked. “Where’s the other man on duty?”

“Karl’s taking out the trash.”

“I take it in a building this big, there’s no specific elevator man.”

“No—”

“So it’s on automatic. Great.”

“I think I should take you up.”

“Don’t bother.” McAdams wheeled up to the doors and pressed the up button.

“I’m going to call up right now.”

The elevator doors opened. “I wouldn’t if I were you. It might get you in trouble.” McAdams wheeled inside the cage with Oliver and Decker in tow and pressed the seventh-floor button. The doors closed. “Poor guy. Taking all this shit for around 40K a year.”

“That’s all they make?” Oliver said. “I thought it was unionized?”

“It is. But the cap is small. They depend on Christmas tips. Dad and Mom were always generous. I’ll say that much for them.”

“How do they live on 40K a year?”

“Well, for one thing, they don’t live in the city.”

Decker said to McAdams, “This is your baby. You do the talking about the Petroshkovich book. Keep your questions short. Don’t give away anything prematurely.”

“Got it.”

“We might talk if we think of something,” Oliver said. “Also we like to throw out questions just to keep them off balance.”

“Sure.”

Decker said, “I’ll start then nod when you should go.”

“Got it.”

“You have your pad?”

“Yep.”

Decker took out his own notebook. “Then we’re all set.”

The elevator dinged and the trio got out. The door to the apartment was already open and Lance Terry was waiting in the hallway. The kid had on a sweatshirt, jeans, and slippers. His eyes immediately went to McAdams’s wheelchair, then up to Decker and Oliver. They held the terror of uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

“Can we talk inside?” Decker said. “No sense making the neighbors curious.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The door swung all the way open. Terry took them down the hallway and into a traditionally furnished living room: hardwood parquet floors, crown molding, expensive-looking rugs, a crystal chandelier, and a roaring fire. On the coffee table in front of a jacquard silk white couch were two almost empty brandy snifters and an ashtray of butts. The throw pillows had been crushed. Terry plumped them up. “Sit wherever you want.”

“This is Detective Oliver,” Decker said. “You know Detective McAdams and me.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”

“My parents are out.”

“That’s not what he asked,” Oliver said. “He asked if you were alone.”

The group heard a door open and turned to the source of the sound. “It’s all right, Tee.” The voice was male, and he slowly ambled his way down the hall until the long hair came into view. He was sloppily dressed but the material was expensive. When he stepped into the living room, Decker said, “Hello, Livingston. What brings you here?”

Sobel didn’t answer. Instead, he sat down on the couch and poured brandy into one of the used snifters. His eyes went to McAdams. “What happened to you?”

“I was shot: the leg, the arm, and a graze to the head. I wouldn’t recommend it even for verisimilitude in a screenplay. The dude was serious.”

Sobel went mute. Terry sank down next to him. His voice was a whisper. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Why’d you take a leave of absence, Lance?” Decker asked.

It took him a while to find his voice. “I needed a break.”

“In your senior year of college?” Oliver asked.

“It wasn’t just Angeline’s death, it was the way she died. Everything went weird, the way people looked at each other, the way they looked at me! I had to get out.”

“What can you tell me about her murder?” Oliver asked.

“Nothing!” The room went silent. Finally, Terry said, “You guys know I couldn’t have done anything. You checked out my schedule. I was totally telling the truth. I don’t know anything!”

“Detective Decker filled me in, but I’m new here,” Oliver said. “You said people went weird after the murder. Maybe your friends have theories about Angeline?”

“You name it, they said it. She was everything from a prostitute and a drug dealer to a spy working for the CIA. And everyone was coming up to me for answers, like I was holding back. I’m sure some idiots think my absence means I’m guilty of something. But I swear I don’t know any more than anyone else. The break is temporary. I’m coming back for spring semester.”

Decker looked at Terry, then at Sobel. “So when did you two get so tight.”

“I called him up when I came back home,” Terry said. “We both knew Angeline. I . . . just wanted to talk to him.”

“You were suspicious of me,” Sobel said. “You were feeling me out.”

“And you were feeling me out,” Terry said.

“Fair enough.” Sobel regarded Decker. “It appears we’re both in the dark.” He swallowed hard. “We heard that the Latham guy got chopped up.”

Decker said, “Who told you that?”

“Word gets around,” Terry said.

“I know people in Summer Village,” Sobel said.

“He wasn’t chopped up,” Decker said. “But he wasn’t pretty to look at, either.”

“Oh God!” Terry hit his forehead. “Why are you here? I hadn’t been with Angeline for over a year . . . longer.”

Decker nodded to McAdams who said, “I was in Rayfield Library this morning—the reference desk.”

Terry shrugged. “Good for you.”

“I was looking for a specific book called the History of Iconography.” When Terry didn’t respond, McAdams said, “Want to tell us about it, Lance?”

“Tell you what?” A pause. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t remember a book you checked out only two months ago?”

A pause. “Is this some kind of trap?”

“Let’s try it again. The History of Iconography by Nikolai Petroshkovich.” The boy looked blank. “Doesn’t ring any bells?”

“Not a one.”

“You need to sign your name on an index card to check out this particular book because it’s very valuable. It’s worth six figures.”

“Interesting but it has nothing to do with me.”

McAdams licked his lips. “Your name was on one of the index cards.”

“You must have misread the card.”

“No, I did not misread the card. Furthermore, the school ID number belongs to you. Try again.”

“What was the book again?”

“The History of Iconography by Nikolai Petroshkovich. Published in 1926. An old art book with original plates?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I never checked out a book on iconography. I have no interest in iconography. I’m not even sure what an icon is. If you suspect it has something to do with Angeline’s murder, then maybe she put my name . . .” He fell silent.

“What?” Decker asked.

“That little bitch!” Terry’s face turned dark. “That scheming little bitch!” He sat down so that he was eye level with McAdams. “Angeline asked me if I could check out a reference book for her—for her thesis. She told me she’d do it herself, but she already had too many reference books out and they wouldn’t let her check out any more. She caught me at a weak moment . . . on purpose . . . fucking whore!”

“Go on,” McAdams said. “She asked you to check out a book for her and . . .”

“I don’t remember the title and I don’t remember the author. All I remember is that the book came in a big, wooden box and we had to wear gloves to look at it. We weren’t even allowed to take it out of the reference library. She looked at it for about an hour, put it back in the box, and gave it back to me and that was that.”

“So you were with her when she went through the pages?” McAdams asked.

“I was there but I wasn’t sitting next to her. I sat at a different table across the room.”

“Why was that?” Oliver asked.

“She didn’t want me around! I sat next to her at first. But then she told me it made her nervous to have me peering over her shoulder. I wasn’t peering over her shoulder. I wasn’t even paying attention to her. I took out my computer and was playing a video game. So then the bitch told me I was making too much noise, which was ridiculous because I had the sound on mute. When I pointed that out, she had the nerve to tell me that the typing was too loud. So I moved to another table. I woulda left altogether but I had to return the damn book. The area is in a cage and you can’t get out unless someone unlocks it.”

“That’s true,” McAdams said. “You didn’t think that her behavior was strange?”

“She was always acting strange . . . hot one minute, aloof the next. I have no idea why I didn’t tell her to fuck off. I suppose I was hoping for another go-around. But obviously she only fucked me to get to the book. I swear I don’t know who murdered her, but I’m sure that it musta been someone she pissed off!”

McAdams said, “And after my experience, I’d say he’s still pissed off.”

Terry blanched. “Sorry.”

McAdams said, “Not your fault.”

To Tyler, Sobel said, “Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Decker said, “Lance, can you walk us through the day she asked you to check the book out for her?”

“Uh, I’m assuming you’re not interested in the sex part.”

“I want a timeline for you. If you two had sex, I want to know when and where.”

“This was a while back.”

“Take your time,” Decker said.

“I guess we hooked up around eleven. I remember because I skipped my class. It took about an hour. Afterward, she said something about working on her senior thesis and that she needed to go to the library.”

“And you said?”

“I said okay. See you later or something like that. Then she must have asked me if I was busy because I remember asking her what she wanted.”

Decker was taking notes. “Okay. Go on.”

“She said ‘I need a favor’—in those words, ‘I need a favor.’ I asked what and she said that she needed a specific reference book for her thesis. But she had checked too many books out already. Could I check a book out for her? And since she had just done me a favor—mutual favors I’d like to think—anyway, I was in a good mood so I said sure. Because it wasn’t outrageous that she’d be working on her thesis. She worked a lot and she often worked in Rayfield.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “So then what did you do?”

“We went to the library and I checked out the book in the big wooden box.”

“Back it up for a minute,” Decker said. “Where were you when she asked you to do her a favor?”

“We were in my dorm room.”

“So she came to your dorm.”

“Yeah. I was surprised when she showed up. No phone call or text or e-mail. She just showed up.” He shook his head. “Shoulda known better.”

“So she went to your dorm room, you two had sex, and then you two went to Rayfield.”

“That about sums it up.”

“And you took your computer with you.”

“Always. I always have my phone, my pad, and my laptop. People steal things.”

“How about Angeline? What was she carrying with her?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “I didn’t pay attention.”

“If she was looking at the book for her thesis, she must have had her laptop, right?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Anything else?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even remember if she had her laptop.”

Decker paused. “She was an artist, right?”

“Yeah. A pretty good one, too.”

“Did she carry any materials with her?”

“Like an art box?”

“Or a portfolio case.”

“Yeah, she carried her portfolio case everywhere, never let it out of her sight. Like I said, she was a good artist, but it’s not like her stuff was worth anything.”

McAdams said, “Can I get back to the library for a moment? You said that while Angeline was looking at the book, you were playing with your laptop and she was sitting away from you.”

“Yeah.”

“Where was the reference librarian?”

“Beats me. I know I had to ring to get her when I wanted to turn in the book, so I guess she wasn’t at her desk the entire time.”

The men exchanged glances. McAdams said, “Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?”

“Here.” Oliver tore off a sheet of paper and gave him a pen.

McAdams drew a map. “I was at the library this morning. As I recall, the reference area has six tables.” He quickly drew up a schematic and gave it to Terry. “Where were you sitting?”

Terry looked at the map. “Do you want to know where I was sitting or where she was sitting? Because I remember she was sitting next to the window here. And I probably was sitting here; clear across to the other side.”

“So you were sitting closer to the reference desk and Angeline’s table was the farthest from the reference desk.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m not saying, I’m asking. Look at the map and tell me if I’m right?”

Terry glanced at the rudimentary drawing. “Yeah, sure. That looks about right.”

“Could you see what she was doing?” Decker asked.

“I assumed she was looking at the book.”

“Let me ask it this way,” Decker said. “Was she in your direct line of vision?”

“Because it doesn’t look that way from my map,” McAdams said.

“I guess if I had been paying attention to her, I could have seen what she was doing. But I wasn’t. Why are you asking all these questions?”

Decker said, “Her thesis was on textiles, not icons. Why would she want a book on iconography? Did you ask her about it?”

“No. I didn’t ask her about it. Why would I care?” Terry looked at McAdams. “You said the book was valuable. Did she take it? Is that why she was killed?”

McAdams looked at Decker who said, “The book is still in the library. But some of the original plates have been stolen and replaced with forgeries.”

“Just like the Tiffany windows,” Sobel said.

Decker nodded.

“She’s the connection, right?”

“Jury is still out.” Decker quickly scanned his notes and then he looked at Terry. The thefts of the art plates didn’t seem to come as a shock to him from the expression on his face. “Thanks for seeing us, Lance. I may have a few more questions later on.”

“If you do, call instead.”

“Some conversations are better in person.”

“You didn’t have to sneak up like you did. I would have told you about the book in the first place, but I didn’t remember. There was no reason to terrorize the doorman.”

“We didn’t terrorize anyone,” McAdams said. “Besides, this is the Upper East Side. He’s dealt with far worse than us.”

“I have a question.” Sobel pointed to McAdams. “I see what happened to you. Am I in danger?”

Terry looked up and down and didn’t say anything. Decker raised his eyebrows. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

“Me? No . . . I mean, yeah. Are we safe?” Terry’s voice grew loud. “This is just terrific. Another legacy that the bitch left behind.”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to tell me?”

“No,” Terry said.

“You never answered my question,” Sobel said.

“I wish I had an answer,” Decker said. “I’m carrying a gun. So is Detective Oliver. My wife is carrying a gun and has a full-time armed bodyguard.”

Terry began to pace. “You know my fucking name is on that index card. Anyone can look at it and hunt me down.”

“It’s not available to the public,” McAdams said. “I had to arm twist to get the librarian to give it to me.”