Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“They’re ready to play pro basketball.”

A moment later, Merritt returned with several sheets of paper in hand. “It goes back five years, but I haven’t updated in years. Some of the people may even be deceased.” He handed it to Decker. “And should someone ask, you didn’t get the names from me.”

“Got it.” Decker scanned the names with Oliver looking over his shoulder. “It’s your complete client list, though.”

“It’s the only list I have, yes.”

“Could you look it over for me? Make sure no one important has been erased.”

“It’s over three hundred names.” When Decker didn’t answer, Merritt grabbed the list back and with an index finger went over the names. It took him more than a minute, which meant he was paying attention. “I’m not positive but it looks complete.”

Rina stood on her tiptoes and whispered into Decker’s ear. He turned to her. “Can you do that?”

“I can’t. Maybe Tyler can.”

“Do what?”

“See if the client list was recently updated,” Decker said.

“I told you I haven’t updated it in a while,” Merritt said.

“And you also told me that it isn’t hard to get access to your computer. We’re wondering if this list was updated right before Gerrard left.”

“How would I know that?”

“Check previous versions of the file,” McAdams said. When the dealer didn’t answer, he said, “I could check. If you have an automatic backup, it’s not hard to do.”

“You’re not touching my computer.”

“You can watch me.”

“It’s a murder investigation,” Decker reminded him.

Merritt gritted his teeth. “I suppose it would be okay if I was there.”

“We’ll all come.” Decker smiled. “If it’s okay with you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The dealer marched off and the crew followed him to his office. It was a decent-size office but not meant to accommodate five people let alone a wheelchair. McAdams elected to leave the appliance outside. He hobbled over to the desk chair, sat down, and it didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. “The list was updated three weeks ago.”

“That’s not possible!” the dealer exclaimed.

Decker said, “Tyler, can you pull up an older version of the list?”

“Yep.” A few moments later. “Here we go. Can I press the print button?”

“Yes, yes.” Merritt removed it from the printer and gave it to Decker who put the two lists side by side and started going down the names. Within a few moments, he found his first discrepancy. Two more followed, making it three clients missing from the updated version of the file. He showed the names to Merritt.

“Alex Beckwith?” Merritt said. “Why on earth would anyone delete him?”

“Who is he?”

“He heads the Cultural American-European Liaison Association.”

“Which is?”

“Just what it sound like. Beckwith acts as a go-between when museums want to borrow from each other. For instance, if the Met was having a Renoir exhibit and wanted a painting from the Louvre, he’d liaison from one museum to another. He’s a very prominent individual.”

“Does he buy stolen art?” Oliver said.

“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” Merritt said. “His position is critical. Since Chabad’s challenge to the pieces in the Russian Library, European countries are disinclined to loan anything out to the United States without an indisputable provenance.”

“I should hope so,” Rina said.

Merritt looked incredulous. “Art is above politics, my dear.”

“Not when it comes to theft, sir.”

Merritt bristled. “I’m afraid we are of two minds.”

“Guess my mind comes from being the daughter of Holocaust survivors.”

McAdams had already pulled out his iPad. “Twelve thousand religious items and fifty thousand books assembled over two centuries by the Chasidic movement are in the Russian Library in Moscow. In 1991, a Moscow court ordered the library to turn over the items to Chabad, but then the Soviet Union collapsed and the judgment was set aside by the Russians. Then an American court sided with Chabad, but the Russians are refusing to honor the judgment claiming America has no jurisdiction in Russia.”

“That means loaned art—especially Russian art—might be seized in America,” Merritt said. “It really has had grave consequences for museum loans.”

“Such a pity,” Rina said.

Decker couldn’t quite hold back the smile. “Mr. Merritt, what can you tell me about the other two men left off the list? The names look Russian.”

“They are Russian and, honestly, I don’t remember them. Obviously they bought from me a while ago but I can’t place their names with faces.”

“Let me get this straight,” Oliver said. “They bought Russian art from you here in the United States and took it back to Russia?”

“I have better art than most of the Russian dealers. Like I told you, the crème de la crème was bought by my grandfather when no one wanted it.”

“If these men are clients, you must have invoice files on them,” Decker said.

“I should.” He sat down at his desk. After a minute, he sighed. “Their files are gone.” He looked at Tyler. “Perhaps you can find previous files?”

“You read my mind,” McAdams said. He poked away on the keyboard. “I can’t find any copies. Maybe he trashed them.” He kept typing. “Nothing in the recycle bin.” He looked up. “You could get an expert to go into the hard drive and see what was erased, but I can’t do it.”

“Are we done?” Merritt asked.

“For the moment.” Decker nodded. “Thank you.”

“Do I still get my free book or have you changed your mind?” Rina asked.

“Of course.” Merritt smiled. “I admire your grit.”

“Tell that to my husband.”

The crew left the gallery in search of a place open for an early lunch. McAdams said, “At least, we’ve narrowed down the list to three names.”

“Good work, Harvard.”

“I did the work, but I wasn’t the creative part of the equation.”

“A-hem,” Rina said.

Decker laughed. “Thank you very much, my brilliant wife.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So where does that leave us now?” McAdams asked.

“We’ve got names,” Decker said. “We do it the old-fashioned way: legwork. Or in your case, McAdams, we can call it wheel work.”

CHAPTER 33

NO MISSING PERSONS report has been filed,” Cindy told him. “How long has this Victor Gerrard been out of contact?”

“Around ten days to two weeks.” There was a pause on the line and Decker knew what Cindy was thinking, what any cop would be thinking.

“And you’re just reporting it now?”

“I just found out about it now.” He switched his cell to his other ear. “Look, honey, all I need is for someone to go over to his apartment just to make sure he’s not moldering.”

“I think someone would have reported a moldering body. It kinda stinks.”

“Please?”

“And you’re sure this is the right address?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“And you don’t want to place an MP report? Make it a little more professional?”

“No need for the bureaucracy yet. It’s possible that we could locate him in New York.”

“So why don’t you let me know what happens in New York before I do anything.”

“It may take us a while. I just want to know if you have a dead body.”

Cindy said, “This is what I’m going to do because I love you. I’ll go to the apartment and see if I have a body. If I can’t find a body, I’ll see if something looks off. If something’s off, I’ll start the paperwork. But I’ll do it all in about an hour because it’s already been a while and I’d like to finish up my shift because it’s bad form to piss off your partner.”

“Thank you, Cynthia. You are the bomb. How are the kids?”

“Doing great. They love their new school. Come visit them for grandparents’ day. It’s in a few weeks.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Call me a cockeyed optimist. I choose once again to believe you.”

“Low blow. I’ll be there, I promise. I love you, dear.”

“Same.” She hung up. Decker walked back to the table where the gang had been seated for lunch. It was an overcrowded kosher vegetarian storefront with long wooden tables and hardback chairs, making the wheelchair the most comfortable seating in the café. There were a half-dozen mixed appetizers on the tabletop that probably looked better than they tasted and a pitcher of diluted, organic tea.

“She’s going over to his apartment in an hour, God bless her.” Decker sat down.

“Do we think Gerrard is still alive?” McAdams asked.

“I have no idea.” Decker picked up a mock chicken egg roll. Not too bad but then again anything fried, sugary, or salty always tasted okay. His cell rang. The window showed Radar’s cell. He depressed the button. “Hold on, Mike. Let me get to a spot where I can hear you.”

He stood up again and walked outside into the cold. The skies were gray and there were snow flurries, but it wasn’t as cold as it had been up north. He had gloves on his hands and a scarf around his neck, but he’d taken off his hat and left it in the restaurant. Icy flakes landed on his head like a bad case of airborne dandruff. “What’s going on?”

“I just got a call from a retired detective named Allan Sugar. I have no idea who he is, but since he asked for you, I’m assuming you know something about that.”

Oops. Decker said, “Sugar is the original detective on the Petroshkovich icon thefts. We think that Angeline Moreau was stealing plates from one of the original Petroshkovich books and subbing them with forgeries. To do that, she’d have needed copies of the originals and it would have looked suspicious if she checked the book out in her library. So I asked Sugar if he could go to Pretoria College and see who else might have checked it out since it was shared between the two libraries.”

“You think John Latham pulled out the plates and gave them to Angeline to copy.”

“Exactly. I knew you were short of manpower and I figured Sugar wouldn’t mind. I should have filled you in but it slipped my mind. Sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s not cool to look like a doofus. Find out what he found out and call me back.”

“Right away.”

“In the meantime I went over to Littleton and spoke to a few of Lance Terry’s friends, asked them what spooked the kid to leave midsemester.”

“And?”

“Hang-up calls: several of them. And then Terry began to think he was being followed. His buddies tell me he became a little paranoid. In view of everything that has happened, I’d label the paranoia as being perceptive.”

“I’ll talk to Terry again. Maybe he noticed a silver van. Any luck with that?”

“We’ve checked about fifty of them in the area. All registered and accounted for. On a positive note, Moreau does have a copy of the key found in Latham’s empty bin.”

“Yes!” Decker pumped his arm, eliciting a few stares from startled passersby. “Our first tangible link between Latham and Moreau.”

“We’re getting warmer. And that means you need to watch your back. I’d like you here in Greenbury where bad things stick out. When are you coming home?”

“I’ve still got business down here.” He gave Radar an update on his conversation with Merritt. “After lunch, we’re on a hunt to find Victor Gerrard.”

“Are you looking in New York or in Philly?”

“We’re looking in New York. I’ve got feelers out in Philadelphia. And it looks like I should talk to Terry again. So I’m saying we’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”

“Tonight would be better. I’ll keep Ben and Kevin on the storage bin hunt. You call up Allan Sugar and find out if Latham checked out the book. Then you let me know.”

“I’ll call you back right away.”

Ten minutes later, Decker sat back down at the table with a smile on his face after speaking to Allan Sugar. The appetizers were gone and there were no entrées as of yet. He was starved, but in too good a mood to be his usual famished, grumpy self.

“Entrées should be here soon,” Rina said. “Service is a might slow.”

“I can tolerate the slow service. But I’m a little miffed that you didn’t save me an egg roll.”

“I thought you were off fried foods.”

“I’m never consistent. You should know that by now. Good news.” Decker brought everyone up to date. “So now we have two definitive links between Latham and Moreau—the same key on both their key rings and they both checked out the Petroshkovich book—or at least Terry did it for Angeline.”

“Or maybe he didn’t do it just for her,” Oliver said.

“What do you mean?” McAdams asked.

“Ask the boss,” Oliver said.

Decker hit his forehead. “He means there is a possibility that Lance Terry was in on the thefts and now he’s scared.”

McAdams raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Didn’t you mention that he was a theater arts major?” Rina said. “As in acting?”

“Yes, I did,” Decker said. “Let’s pay him a visit right after lunch.”

“What about Gerrard?”

“It’s been about two weeks, he can wait another couple of hours.”

“Should I call Lance up?” McAdams asked.

“No. We’ll pop in. I don’t want him rabbitting. Eventually, we should check out Terry’s key ring. Maybe he has a copy of Latham’s key.”

“Like he’s going to incriminate himself in the theft?”

“If he doesn’t show us his keys, it says something,” Oliver said. “There’s a reason he’s running scared and it probably has to do with more than a few hang-up calls.”

“His alibis checked out for both murders,” McAdams said.

“He could have always hired out. He was rich enough.”

“What are you thinking, Scott?” Rina asked.

“Maybe originally Terry and Angeline had this little art theft thing going on. And then Latham comes in and not only takes over the operation, he steals the girl. So Terry cuts off his dick. ‘You cut me, I cut you.’ The Latham murder was personal.”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “This feels like something bigger than a love triangle and a few pieces of stolen art. I keep thinking about that codebook.”

Rina said, “Maybe it started as something simple and Latham made it more complicated. And that’s when the real bad guy decided to show up.”

McAdams said, “It’s crazy: a codebook, a missing storage bin, three names erased from Jason Merritt’s client book, and we’re still missing Victor Gerrard.” The kid looked around. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, this is ridiculous.” Decker got up.

“Be kind,” Rina said.

But Peter had already stalked off. Five minutes later the entrées arrived. Different types of tofu meant to simulate meat, all of it drowned in tomato sauce and covered with cheese.

McAdams picked up his fork. “It looks awful. But at this point, they could serve me dog food in a chow bowl and I wouldn’t say anything.” He speared something oozy and gave it a taste. “Not bad.” He finished chewing and turned to Decker. “While you were out talking to Radar, I looked up Alex Beckwith, Ph.D. For the last ten years, he had been trying to persuade European museums to curate a traveling Da Vinci exhibit that would eventually come somewhere in the U.S., probably the Met.”

“That sounds ambitious,” Rina said. “And unrealistic.”

“Especially now,” McAdams said. “Between Nazi-looted art and the Chabad thing that Merritt was talking about, no one is loaning anything to the United States. Everyone is afraid that the pieces will get confiscated. Beckwith’s plans have clearly hit a roadblock.” McAdams smiled. “Looks like the Mona Lisa isn’t going anywhere.”

“He was trying to bring over the Mona Lisa?”

“I was being facetious. But any painting by Da Vinci is priceless because there are so few of them.”

“So that would be worth killing over,” Oliver said.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But even if you were bold enough and smart enough and connected enough to steal a Da Vinci, you couldn’t sell it anywhere.” McAdams was checking his notes. “I would think that Beckwith was working on something smaller in scope for an exhibition—like works on paper: also rare but not as priceless. Anyway, it’s all moot.”

“What about the other two Russians?” Decker asked. “Find anything on them?”

“Lars Dotter Hemellvich is actually Finnish. He lives in Norway and Croatia and is an art dealer who specializes in Byzantine Italian and Russian arts and mosaics. Martin Kosovsky is a Russian industrialist from Odessa.”

“What kind of industrialist?” Oliver asked.

“Oil and natural gas. I didn’t pull up much beyond that. For an oligarch, he keeps a low profile.”

“He’s an oligarch?”

“He’s very rich and he’s Russian and he isn’t Putin. Isn’t that the definition of an oligarch?” McAdams ate some mock chicken: it tasted like chicken. “I’ll delve a little deeper when I have more time. So next is Lance Terry?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “I’m hoping against odds he can lead us to Victor Gerrard.”

Rina put down her napkin. “Not my best choice of restaurants, I’m afraid.”

“It was fine,” Oliver said.

“If you like bad food and slow service, it was great.” Decker waited for Rina to punch him. Instead she just laughed. Decker kissed her cheek. “You’re a good sport. I’m always needling you.”

“That is true, but I love you anyway. Mainly because I get my way and needling is your attempt to balance the powers.” She kissed him back and regarded McAdams. “Poor Tyler. You hardly ate.”

“Not the most satisfying of meals, but maybe you did me a favor.” The kid shrugged. “Victor Gerrard may be dead and moldering. So given my track record with corpses, it’s best I don’t go hunting on a full stomach.”

CHAPTER 34

ARMS FOLDED ACROSS his barrel chest, Lance Terry was flushed and sweating. “You have no right to come down here and harass me. If my father was here—”

“If your father were here, I’d tell him that you were in danger and your best option is to talk to the police.” Decker looked around the hallway. “You already think people are following you. Who knows? Maybe someone is spying on us right now.”

The boy’s face drained of color, red to white. “Is someone following you?”

“If he is, he can see us talking. So how about if we come in? It’s a good first step.”

“Yeah . . . right.” Terry swung the door open and let the crew inside, his eyes on Rina, wondering about the new person in the mix. The place was quiet except for the distant clatter of laundry being spun in a dryer. There was a half-packed suitcase on the couch, another closed one on the floor.

Decker’s eyes went to the valise and then to Terry. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your housekeeper?” McAdams asked.

“I gave her the afternoon off.”

Oliver said, “You didn’t want her to see you packing and asking questions.”

Terry said nothing. He wore a body-hugging long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. There were hiking boots on his feet. His sandy hair swept across his damp brow.

“Where did your friend go? Livingston Sobel?”

“How should I know?” A pause. “He left last night. I suppose he went home.” His eyes refused to focus on any one spot. “Do you really think I’m in danger or is that just a pretense?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Decker said. “Obviously you think you’re in trouble. You’re packing way too much to be going back to school.”

“I’m not going back to school,” Terry said. “At least not this semester. Too much has happened.”

“What are you worried about, Lance?” When Terry didn’t answer, Decker said, “Why don’t we all sit down and you can tell us the truth.”

“I have been telling you the truth!” Terry insisted. “I didn’t have anything to do with Angeline’s death . . . or the dude.”

“His name was John Latham.”

“I didn’t kill her and I didn’t kill him!”

“I believe you,” Decker said. “But you certainly know more than you’ve been telling us. There have been hang-up calls. You think you’re being followed. We’re here because we’re concerned about your welfare.”

Terry seemed to wilt. He sat down next to his open suitcase. “You showing up here isn’t good for my health.”

“On the contrary,” Oliver said. “Our presence tells the bad guys that we got to you before they did. So hurting you wouldn’t serve any purpose for them other than to spur us to redouble our efforts. Right now the more people you tell, the better off you are.”

McAdams said, “What’s your password for your Wi-Fi?”

“My password?”

“The password for the apartment. I’d like to get on the Internet.”

“Terrypark. Capital T.”

“Thanks.”

Decker opened up his notepad. “Tell me about the hang-up calls.”

He whispered behind his hands. “A blocked call would come through my cell. When I answered it, I’d get heavy breathing—to let me know someone was there. And then whoever it was would hang up. I put in a *82 feature on my phone . . . so no one could get through without revealing the number. The calls would still come through as blocked. It freaked me out.”

“How long has this been happening?” Oliver asked.

“They began a few days after Angeline was murdered. And then after you guys were shot at, I—”

“Detective Decker was shot at,” McAdams interrupted. “I was shot.”

“I know, I know. I got nervous. I had to get out of there.”

“And you thought you were being followed,” Decker said.

“Could have been my imagination.”

“Probably not,” Oliver said. “Tell us about it.”

“I’d see things. Fleeting shadows but then I’d turn around to really look and it wouldn’t be anything.”

“So you felt like a person was following you?”

“As opposed to a dog, yes.”

“As opposed to a car, Lance.”

“Oh. I get what you’re saying. It’s hard to tail someone on campus with a car because you’re walking across quads and fields and things that don’t intersect streets. So no. I never noticed a car following me.” He furrowed his brow. “Like what kind of car?”

Decker said, “Silver Hyundai Accent van. Maybe two years old.”

Terry shuddered while he shook his head no.

“Detective Oliver is right,” Decker told him. “The more people who know your secrets, the better off you are. So start at the beginning.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“No, you haven’t, Lance. So either tell us or you’ll wind up telling someone who’s holding a gun to your head.”

He slapped his hands over his face. “It . . . God . . . it was so long ago.” No one spoke. “Just a stupid dare.” He looked up. “Hazing. To get into the frat.”

Everyone waited.

“I had to steal something from the cemetery. Not the one near the school, the big one in Bainbridge about ten miles away.”

“When did this happen?” Oliver asked.

“When I first started Littleton about three and a half years ago. That’s why I’m having a hard time believing that this whole mess has anything to do with me!”

“What did you steal?”

“A stone statue. It was maybe about three feet high. Some stupid goddess dressed in a Roman toga. It was in terrible condition. One arm was broken off. I found it buried in some ivy bushes and covered with dirt. So I took it because it didn’t look like anyone would miss it. Heavy motherfucker.” He exhaled. “Not my finest moment, but I was drunk and eager to please. Anyway, it sat in my dorm room for about a month or two months. And then I met Angeline. A few months later—after we were an item—she asked about it. I told her what I did. She was cool about it.”

Silence.

“More than cool. She was intrigued. She told me she had seen something like that at an antique store in Boston. She asked me if she could try to sell it and we’d split the profits. It was just sitting in my dorm so I said okay.”

Decker said, “Do you know who she sold it to?”

“No idea but she told me she got two hundred bucks—one hundred for each of us, which I blew by taking her out to dinner. I’m a moron.”

“Go on.”

“Nothing more to tell. She sold the statue, we split the money, and I never saw it again.”

“Lance, the statue was just the start. We know you did other thefts because we know the gallery owner who purchased the hot items.” A little white lie? Decker preferred to think of it as an educated guess. “So just get it all out.”

The kid deflated, drawing in his shoulders into his torso and then doubling over as if in stomach pain. “I can’t believe how this blew up in my face. It was just a stupid college prank, something you do when you’re drunk and when you’re getting pus—” He looked at Rina. “Girls can do weird things to your mind.”

“I’m aware of that,” Rina said.

“Tell us the rest of it,” Decker said.

“It was a couple of months later. She asked if I could get more things like it.”

“Like the statue.”

Terry nodded. “I told her I could look around.” A sigh. “So I lifted another statue from Bainbridge again: a smaller marble one. And then I lifted a couple of marble urns. She sold them and we split the profits. Because they were made from marble, she got more money for them.”

Decker turned to McAdams. “Check to see if the items are on the inventory list.”

“Already on it.”

“If you stole anything else, Lance, we’ll find out about it,” Decker told him. “So now is the time to tell us everything.”

He lowered his head. “I told her I wasn’t going to pinch any more statues. Too heavy and too risky a venture. So Angeline asked if there was anything else valuable in the cemetery that was smaller and less heavy . . . so I wouldn’t have to take a big risk lugging it around.”

“And you said?”

“God . . .” He shook his head. “I told her there was a meditation room that held cremated ashes in metal urns. Some of the urns looked like genuine silver.”

“You stole people’s remains?” Rina asked.

“No! No, I didn’t. Just the urns!”

“So what did you do with the remains? Dump them on the floor?”

“No! Of course not.” Everyone waited for Terry to continue. “She asked if I could get inside the room. I said the door wasn’t locked, but I wasn’t about to steal remains. That’s bad karma. Instead she told me to take pictures on my phone of the silver urns. Detailed pictures: close-ups. She said it was for a project, but I knew she was lying.”

“But you did it anyway,” Oliver said.

“I sent her the pictures. I figured what she did with them was her own business.”

“And what did she do with them?”

“She copied the urns but used a cheap metal that she painted silver. She even engraved them with the same markings using a dremel tool.” A big sigh. “This took her about six months. When she was done, she cajoled me to go back just one more time.”

A long pause. “So I swapped out the real ones for the cheap ones.”

“This substitution is sounding very familiar.” McAdams showed him a picture on his iPad. “Uh . . . take a look at this marble urn, Lance. Does it look familiar?”

“Maybe it was one of mine, but I couldn’t swear to it.” A pause. “Wow, he’s asking a thousand dollars.”

Oliver said, “What did you two do with the silver urns?”

“On some of them, Angeline was able to polish out the inscription. On the others where the inscription was too deep, she said they were no good on the retail market. So she melted them down for the metal price. But I want you to know that I did transfer the ashes into the cheap urns. So I didn’t steal Uncle Gomer or Aunt Dottie. They’re right where they’re supposed to be . . . just not in a fancy package . . . not that it matters to them.”

His self-serving declaration was met with accusing silence.

Lance blushed. “I’ll reimburse out of my own pocket if you promise no jail time.”

“Kid, right now, that’s the least of your worries,” Oliver said.

“What other items did you steal?” Decker asked.

“Nothing after that.” Terry winced. “I swear it! I refused to go back to the cemetery. The last job gave me the creeps. Not that she didn’t try to change my mind. But when she saw that cemeteries were out, she pushed me into other things.”

“Like?”

“Razoring out antique maps from old atlases.”

“When was this?”

“About a year and a half ago, must have been in the start of our junior year. And FYI, I refused to do it. For one thing, you saw how careful they are at the reference desks. I knew I’d get caught. Then Angeline suggested that we could go to local libraries along the Hudson. Small towns are often filled with antique books. And no one cares about them. But I told her no. If she wanted to do it, she was on her own. She dropped it, but I knew her schemes weren’t over, especially when she showed up with a Movado watch on her wrist. She dumped me because I wasn’t of any use to her anymore. Finally, when she started sporting expensive stuff, it dawned on me that she got herself a new partner.”

“How’d John Latham come into the picture?”

“I don’t know how she met him. Maybe her contact in Boston fixed them up.”

“And you don’t know who this Boston contact was?”

“No.” A pause. “I thought you said you knew the contact.”

“I want to hear what you have to say.”

“I don’t have anything to say! I never knew her contact but I damn well knew she was doing something: her bling got bigger, her ski equipment was top of the line, and her sunglasses and purses were plastered with designer logos. How else did she afford any of that shit if she wasn’t doing something illegal.”

“And you have no idea how she met John Latham?”

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Are you asking me that seriously?” When Terry reddened, Decker said, “When did you find out about Latham?”

“I already told you guys that.”

“So tell us guys again.” McAdams held up his iPad. “Just for my notes.”

“About a year ago, I tailed her into Boston. I saw Latham. I turned around, I went home. I was pissed. I admit it. And I thought very hard about punching his lights out. But I was tired after the long drive. And I guess the drive also cooled me off. I didn’t kill him and I didn’t kill her.” He slumped into his chair, regarding Decker with beseeching eyes. “I’m scared. No offense, but I don’t want to end up like him.” He pointed to Tyler.

“None taken,” McAdams said. “I’m not happy about it, either.”

“What do I do now, man?”

Oliver said, “Stop stealing stuff would be a great start.”

“I was a fucking moron. I’ll reimburse whatever I took in cash. I’ll write apology letters. I’ll do community service. But badgering me won’t help because I have no idea who killed either of them.” His eyes moistened. I repeat, “What do I do now?”

“A few more questions, Lance,” Decker said. “Do you know a man named Alex Beckwith?”

Terry shook his head. “Who is he?”

Oliver said, “How about Martin Kosovsky?” When he didn’t get a response, he said. “Lars Dotter Hemellvich?”

“Never heard of them. They sound Russian.”

“What about Victor Gerrard?” Decker said.

Terry thought long and hard. “Is he kinda like in his early thirties?”

“He kinda is and he’s kinda missing.”

“Oh God—”

“What do you know about him?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

McAdams did an image search and showed the pad to Terry. “Any of these faces ring a bell?”

Lance studied the pictures. “I think I might have met this one at a college party. He might have been a friend of Angeline’s. Beyond that . . .” He shrugged.

Decker said to McAdams. “Show him a picture of Jason Merritt.”