Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Sure.” McAdams punched in search letters. “Here you go.”

Terry shook his head with conviction. “Don’t know him.”

“Take another look,” Decker said.

“I don’t have to. I don’t know him.”

Decker pointed to his suitcases. “Where were you planning to go?”

“I have an aunt who lives near Los Angeles. Actually, she lives in a small little town about seventy miles north of L.A. She has this converted garage that she rents out to surfers because she lives close to the shore. It’s currently empty and she said I could use it. I thought I’d spend some time up there until this all blows over.”

“I’ll need the name of your aunt, the address, and her phone number,” Decker said.

“No problem.” A pause. “So I can go visit her?”

“You can go, but don’t leave Ventura without telling me where you’re going.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you . . . ?”

“The end part of Malibu is around forty miles from L.A. Sixty miles is Oxnard, seventy miles plus is Ventura. Ninety miles plus is Santa Barbara. I know that because I spent thirty years of my life with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Oh . . . so you were, like, in L.A.?”

“Yes, Lance, LAPD is indeed in L.A.,” Decker said. “You know what that means? It means don’t piss me off because over there, I have all sorts of friends in very high places.”

CHAPTER 35

OLIVER WENT TO fetch the car while McAdams, Rina, and Decker shivered in the cold. McAdams was upright, resting on his cane as Rina and Decker tried to figure out how to fold up the wheelchair.

The kid said, “The Boston contact is Goddard.”

“Could be,” Decker said.

“But we have no proof.”

“If Lance never met Angeline’s Boston contact, we don’t have a link.”

“Back to Boston?”

“Maybe. First things first. How do you fold up this chair?”

“There should be a latch near the footrest.”

“Ah. Right.” Decker and Rina managed to squash the chair down to a flat rectangle of metal and wheels. “Even if there was a link between Goddard and Angeline, a marble statue isn’t worth killing over.”

Rina said, “Maybe the statue turned out to be priceless, like that Degas that was just sitting outside the French embassy for years.”

Decker smiled. “I don’t think so.”

Rina smiled back. “Well, neither do I.”

“Where are we off to in the immediate?” McAdams asked. “Victor Gerrard’s apartment?”

“Yes, and that reminds me . . .” Decker pulled out his phone and punched in Cindy’s number, got her machine, and left a message. He turned to his wife. “How are you doing?”

Rina checked her watch. “Rachel’s home by now. I’d love to go see our granddaughter.”

“Not without Schultz.”

“He can come along.”

“How about we drop you off at Nina’s? And then you and Greg can take a cab to Brooklyn. We’ll meet you there later.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

“Be careful.”

“Of course.”

Finally Oliver inched over to the sidewalk with the car. Traffic, as usual, was terrible. It took a few minutes to load everyone up, to buckle everyone up, and to pull out into the cacophony of horns.

“We’ll drop Rina off at Nina’s and then we’ll head out to Gerrard’s New York address.”

“I pulled up several images of Gerrard,” McAdams said. “We can pass those around to the neighbors.”

Oliver slammed on the brakes and the car skidded. “I hate this city.”

“It’s meant for carriages, not cars,” McAdams said. “If you walk, there’s nothing like it . . . in good weather . . . without a cane.”

“You’re doing pretty well with the walking stick, Tyler,” Rina said.

“Yes, I am. Take the wheelchair back. I’d really prefer to walk.”

“It’s slippery out there,” Oliver said.

“I’ll manage. I hate feeling like a cripple.” He sighed. “This whole thing has been truly humbling.”

“You’ve handled it all very well,” Decker said.

“I’ll miss it . . . the job. I was finally feeling like I was contributing something.”

Rina said, “You’re leaving Greenbury?”

“He’s going back to law school.”

“Good decision,” Rina said.

“That’s what Jack McAdams says.”

“You know law is one of those fields that you can do anything with,” Rina said. “With what you’ve been doing, you can specialize in stolen art.”

“When do you start?” Oliver asked.

“August.” McAdams stared out the window.

Rina said, “It’s a ways off. Who knows what could happen?”

“That’s the good part about a future,” Decker said. “It’s always open.”

OVER THE PHONE, Cindy said, “I got the manager to open up the apartment. Aside from the furniture that comes with the place, it’s empty, Dad. Nothing in any of the closets or drawers. No personal effects anywhere. Even the trash was cleared and that’s unusual. There’s always scattered paper left behind. Wherever he went, it appears he didn’t want to be followed.”

Oliver ran over a pothole. The car jumped and shook. “Hope no one was holding coffee.”

Decker talked into the phone. “Was Gerrard’s rent paid up?”

“Through the end of the month.”

“So he left in a hurry. He’s running.”

“Who’s running?” Oliver asked.

“Hold on, Cindy. I’ll put you on speaker so McAdams and Oliver can hear.” Decker depressed a button and Cindy’s voice, made tinny by the phone speaker, rang through the space.

“Hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Cindy. How’s it shaking?”

“Pretty well. And you?”

“Not bad for an old guy. Did you find any moldering bodies?”

“Not a one. But I did talk to a few neighbors. No one remembers seeing him leave with suitcases, but one of his next-door neighbors remembered hearing a lot of noise in the middle of the night.”

“When was this?”

“About ten days to two weeks ago. She didn’t hear any confrontation or angry voices. Just a lot of heavy footsteps. It could have been that he was packing.”

“Or he was being packed.”

“You have a way with words, Daddy.”

“I think in images.”

“What’s going on in New York?”

“We’re making our way to Gerrard’s apartment. I suspect if we talk to his roommates, we’ll find out he just didn’t show up one day.”

“Let me know what you find out. I’m not opening up an MP file, by the way. It appears he left on his own accord. Just keep me posted. I’ll see you next week.”

“What’s next week?”

“Grandparents’ day.” A pause. “Didn’t we just talk about this three hours ago?”

Decker took the phone off speaker. “I’ve got it written down. No worries.”

“Sure you do. I’ll call Rina. She’s good at keeping her appointments—and her promises.”

“Another low blow.”

“I love you. I’ll see you next week.”

“I love you, too—” But she had already disconnected the line. His cell buzzed again. This time it was Radar.

“This is one for the good guys. We found the bin. It was under a pseudonym but not a very good one. Jeffrey Morrow spelled M-o-r-r-o-w. Her last name Anglicized and his middle name. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It’s crammed with stuff: stone statues, marble urns, silver urns, pottery, antique books that were stolen from libraries . . . the date stamps were still inside.”

“Brilliant.”

“What’s brilliant?” McAdams said.

“They found the bin.”

“The storage bin?” Excitement in the kid’s voice.

“Are you there, Decker?” Radar said.

“Hold on, Mike, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Hi, Captain,” McAdams said.

“How are you feeling, Tyler?”

“Coming along. You found the storage bin?”

“We did and it was filled with material that was probably taken from cemeteries or churches. We also found a half-dozen small paintings, and two file cabinets filled with art plates and maps. Plus . . . we found the two Tiffany panels along with boxes of stained glass. One case down and a bunch more to go.”

“Ken Sobel will be thrilled.”

“Good work on your first solve, McAdams. You give Sobel the good news.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“What are you up to, Pete?”

“We’re about to go look into an apartment that Victor Gerrard sublet. I don’t suspect I’ll find anything.” He took the phone off speaker and recapped his conversation with Cindy. “Looks like he’s rabbited.”

“Maybe he and Lance Terry are meeting up at Lance’s aunt’s house near Malibu. Didn’t Terry say that Victor looked familiar?”

“He did,” Decker said. “I have a friend in Ventura PD. I’ll have her drive by the place and keep an eye out for one or both of them.”

“Good.”

“We should probably get someone to start cataloging the stolen items.”

“I’ve already contacted Littleton. They’re sending over several professors.”

“I know you haven’t gone through all of it, Mike, but did you find anything in there that looks really valuable?”

“Nothing worth killing over. At least not to my eye.”

“What about the paintings? Did they swipe a Da Vinci or something?”

“Not unless Da Vinci painted New England landscapes.”

“Are they signed?”

“If you hold on, I can tell you.”

“Sure, I’ll wait.” He took the phone off speaker. “I’m on hold.”

“Your first solve,” Oliver said to McAdams. “Congratulations.”

Decker looked at Tyler. “It’s okay to smile, Harvard. You did do a good job. Go call up Ken Sobel and tell him the good news . . . although I suppose it would be better news if we found out who shot you.”

“You know, Old Man, you’d make a terrible therapist.” McAdams took out his phone. “And I should know. I’ve been to a thousand of them.”

“Anything in the bin worth shooting people over?” Oliver asked.

“There are some landscape paintings. He’s checking out the signatures now.”

Radar came back on the line. “Okay. I’ve written down the names the best I can figure out. One was unsigned. The first is by a guy named H. Herz or Herg or something like that. It’s faint. I’m looking for a magnifying glass.”

“Can you spell it for me?”

Radar complied. “There’s one by Jasper Pressley. There’s a K. Kennedy, a T. Cole, an A. Durant or maybe it’s Durand. There are two by a guy named Gifford and the last one is by H. Matusse.”

“Matisse?”

“No, not Matisse. I know who he is and this is definitely not Matisse. It’s H. Matusse.” He spelled all the names. “Like I said they’re all pretty landscapes of what looks like New England.”

“Hold on. I’ll give the list to Harvard and he’ll look the artists up.”

McAdams stowed his phone. “Ken Sobel’s not in. I told him to call you.”

“Could you look up these names,” Decker said. “See if these artists are worth anything? I’ll put the phone back on speaker.”

McAdams regarded the names. “Captain, are the paintings landscapes?”

“Yes, they are. You know the artists?”

“I certainly know Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. They’re well-known Hudson River Valley painters.”

“Yeah, it does look like the Valley,” Radar said. “What are the paintings worth?”

“How big are they?”

“Small. Eight by ten . . . a few a bit bigger.”

“Okay, so probably not major works. They’re still worth in the thousands. More like four figures rather than five although Thomas Cole can be pricey. But that’s usually the big canvases. I’ve also heard of Gifford. Hold on . . .” He clicked. “Okay, he’s Sanford Robinson Gifford. Also worth something. The H. Herz is probably Hermann Herzog.”

“Where are you finding all this information?” Oliver asked.

“Ask Art. It’s an art website that, among other things, has auction histories. And speaking of which, there are no auction histories for K. Kennedy or H. Matusse or Jasper Pressley.” He looked up. “Too bad it wasn’t Matisse. That could be worth killing over.”

“If you like that kind of stuff,” Radar said. “Thanks, Tyler. This helps. We’ll be sorry to lose you in August.”

“Not as sorry as I am to go. This detective stuff isn’t half bad—aside from the bullet wounds.”

Oliver saw a car pull out and abruptly swerved to get the parking space. The car bumped and jostled. He backed in amid an angry chorus of blaring horns.

McAdams said, “Done like a true New Yorker.”

Decker said, “We’re almost at Victor Gerrard’s apartment. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.” Radar paused. “Good work, everyone. And keep safe.”

Oliver killed the motor. “Shall we?”

But McAdams was playing on his phone. “The Thomas Cole and the Asher Durand were stolen from the Auxiliary Ladies’ Club in Joslyn, Rhode Island.”

“Art Loss Register?”

“Yep. Let me look up the club. It’s gonna take a minute.”

“You got any more coffee in the box, Deck?” Oliver asked.

“I do. Black?”

“That’s fine.”

“Here we go,” McAdams said. “The club was started in 1878 for care and support of a local orphanage. Now it organizes local charity functions and events and holds a ladies’ luncheon once a month.” He stowed his phone. “You know, these clubs were gifted a lot of early twentieth-century paintings. The artists were contemporary and weren’t worth the big bucks that they are today. It was like me going to the local art fair and picking up a painting for five hundred dollars.”

“Security on these old places isn’t too tight,” Oliver said. “Didn’t something like that happen at the Scottish Rite Temple in L.A.?”

“I think it was the Wilshire Ebell,” Decker said. “They had some old paintings and the secretary stole one of them.”

“Hold on,” McAdams said. “E-b-e-l-l?”

“Yep.”

“Right you are, boss. It was a William Wendt and the secretary sold it to a gallery in Laguna Beach.”

“Same pattern,” Decker said. “Swiping valuables from unsuspecting places.”

McAdams was still playing with his phone. “William Wendt is a California impressionist. Some of his big canvases are worth a lot of money.” He looked up. “Lots of times these clubs don’t even really know what they have. Although you’d think they’d be careful with a Cole or a Durand.”

Decker said, “It would take Angeline too long to copy a painting. More than likely, she just replaced them with a cheap landscape. All that green . . . probably no one would notice at least for a while.”

“Good point,” McAdams said. “You know there are tens of thousands of period landscapes in period frames floating around. Most aren’t worth that much.”

“Breaking and entering into cemeteries is one thing,” Oliver said. “But there’s something really brazenly cocky about swiping a painting off the wall.”

“I agree,” Decker said. “They got cocky. And that’s what got them killed.”

CHAPTER 36

THEY HIT THE road for Greenbury at ten in the morning, leaving the crush of hump day Manhattan traffic behind. It had been good to see the family, but the commute was getting cumbersome, especially with a carload of people. Decker was at the wheel with Greg Schultz sitting shotgun, peering out the window with steely eyes. In the back, Rina was seated between Oliver and McAdams. She wasn’t grumpy, and that made her mood the best of the bunch.

“So Victor Gerrard is gone?” she asked.

“Appears that way,” Decker answered.

“Is he a victim or a bad guy?” Her question was met with shrugs and grunts. “That he took off so quickly could indicate either one.”

“Right,” Decker answered. He was trying to be polite since no one else was talking.

Rina kept at it. “What do you think?”

McAdams blew out air. “I’m too tired to think.”

Shultz continued to stare out the window. “Your grandmother is very nice. She wants to hire me as a bodyguard.”

“You’re kidding me.” Tyler rolled his eyes. “Her place is a fortress.”

“Exactly what I told her. She replied that her apartment couldn’t accompany her down Madison Avenue.” His eyes swept over the highway—front, back, and sides. “I declined, but I thanked her for her vote of confidence. I’m only telling you in case she says anything to you.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” McAdams answered.

“Can we get back to Victor Gerrard?” Caffeine had kicked into Oliver’s system. “The names were deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list about two weeks before the murders.”

“Yes,” Decker said. “And it appears that Gerrard left the gallery right after our first visit.”

Oliver said, “So could be that Gerrard deleted the names, executed the killings, and then stuck around to shoot you two before he packed up and ran.”

Decker said, “I suppose he’s as good a candidate as any since he’s not around to offer an alibi.”

“Curator by day, hit man by night,” McAdams said. “Not as loony as it sounds. Art people are a foul bunch.”

“I’m questioning Merritt’s innocence in all this,” Oliver said. “The guy’s a sophisticated dealer and then he leaves his computer unprotected for anyone to hack into.”

“Doesn’t even sound like Gerrard had to hack into anything,” McAdams said. “Just went inside Merritt’s office and fiddled with the files.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Oliver remarked. “I think Merritt’s involved.”

“He’s been cooperative with us,” Decker said.

“So you don’t think he’s involved?”

“Reserving judgment. He could just be one of those academic types with his head in the clouds. I’m betting Gerrard ran the nuts and bolts of the gallery.”

“Victor Gerrard,” Rina said out loud. “The name has a foreign feel to it. Maybe German?”

McAdams took out his phone and called up his search engine. “Gerrard is English originally derived from the Old German name Gerhard meaning ‘spear/brave.’ And I can tell you without looking it up that Victor is Latin and it means victorious.”

Rina was quiet. “How is Victor spelled? With a ‘c’ or with a ‘k’?”

“Good question,” Decker said. “I never bothered to ask.”

“If he spells it with a ‘k,’ it could be Russian.”

“Or German,” McAdams said.

“Or German as in from East Germany,” Rina said. “In which case, Viktor with a ‘k’ might speak Russian. And maybe that’s why Merritt hired him. He was Russian speaking.”

“You know, Rina, maybe Deck should have hired you instead of me,” Oliver said.

“Why thank you, Scott.”

“She’s always been the brains in the family,” Decker said. “Want to give Merritt a call, Tyler?”

“On it.” McAdams waited. When his phone kicked in, he said, “Mr. Merritt, this is Detective McAdams from Greenbury . . . I know. I am sorry to bother you, but your gallery man, Victor Gerrard, is still missing and we’re still working two murder cases . . . I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Victor Gerrard. Does he speak Russian by any chance? . . . he does. Is he Russian? . . . okay, okay . . . so he was born in East Berlin? So he speaks German as well? Okay. His first name Victor—is spelled with a ‘k’? It is spelled with a ‘k’ . . . no, that’s all for now, thank—” The kid looked at the phone. “He hung up on me.”

“Rude little man,” Rina said. “Although he did give me a free book.”

“Speaking of books,” Decker said, “what’s going on with the codebook? Do you have Mordechai Gold’s cell number?”

“Affirmative on that one as well.”

“Ring him up.”

“Right-o.” A few moments later, McAdams left a message. “I could call his office number.”

“I don’t want to leave a message on a public machine.” Decker tapped the wheel.

Tyler said, “Penny for your thoughts, Loo.”

“Just trying to summarize things in my mind.”

“Go on,” Oliver said.

“First of all, what we know. Lance Terry stole a statue from a cemetery. Angeline Moreau sold it and decided that this was a business with a decent return since no investment capital was required. They did it together for a while but eventually Terry got nervous and stopped stealing—or so he says. But we’ll take it on face value for the moment. Angeline wasn’t ready to give up her life of crime. So she found another partner—John Latham.

“We know that Latham and Angeline hooked up but we don’t know how they met. Maybe at a party, maybe they met through a common fence, or maybe she began to see his name on the date stamp in every book that she razored and made a logical connection that he was also doing funny stuff. However they met, they began thieving together, storing their take in a bin that was mutually rented: both of them had keys.”

He paused.

“So that’s Latham and Angeline. Now we have Gerrard to consider. We don’t know if he’s connected, but we do know that Viktor with a ‘k’ is missing and we know that three names were deleted from Merritt’s client list—one American who sets up traveling exhibitions between top museums, one rich Russian, and one Finnish art dealer. It’s possible that Gerrard deleted the names, but we don’t know why.”

“So actually you do know a lot,” Rina said.

“Always a cheerleader,” Decker said. “The sad truth is we don’t know who killed Angeline and Latham. We don’t know who tried to take down Harvard and me. We don’t know if Gerrard is victim or perpetrator. And we don’t know anything about Latham’s codebook or if it’s even relevant to the murders.”

McAdams said, “If Gerrard was dead, we probably would have found his corpse by now. Whoever killed Latham and Angeline left the bodies in the open.”

Decker said, “You’re right, Harvard. The killer wanted to make a show of his handiwork. He was trying to impress someone.”

“Which makes Gerrard more perpetrator than victim,” Oliver said.

“Listening to all of you, I do have a question,” Rina said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Why go to all that trouble with a very complex codebook in a bunch of languages to hide things when it seems that Latham and Angeline weren’t stealing items of major value?”

Decker said, “I think in the process of stealing minor items, Latham hit on something very big that he felt was worth hiding in code.”

“Or,” Rina said, “maybe Latham and Angeline didn’t have anything worth hiding in code. Maybe the book belonged to someone else. Maybe Latham or Angeline stole it and then Lathem figured out the code and realized that he had hit on something big. Maybe Latham tried his hand at blackmail. And finally, since both of their apartments were tossed, perhaps whoever murdered them was looking to get the codebook back. And maybe that someone was Viktor Gerrard. We know he spoke a few languages. Maybe he knew other languages as well.”

The car fell silent. Then McAdams said, “You go, girl.”

Rina beamed. “You live with a guy for nearly three decades, something rubs off.”

Oliver said, “Gerrard also had access to Merritt’s contacts. I’m liking him as the bad guy.”

Decker gathered his thoughts. “The codebook was found behind a piece of paneling around the bathtub skirt where the Jacuzzi motor should have been. Mulrooney said the pipes were capped off and it was placed behind the pipes and well hidden. Latham’s place had been trashed. All the logical spots to hide the codebook had already been checked out: the freezer was open, the toilet tank top was off, a few loose floorboards were ripped off, the walls had been pierced for hiding places—”

McAdams said, “So that’s why the living room walls had those round holes punched into them?”

“Yep. They were checking for hollow spots or a safe that had been walled up.”

“Aha!” Oliver said. “You’re wondering why the killers didn’t check the Jacuzzi motor area, which is a prime stashing spot for drug dealers and thieves.”

Decker said, “They missed the Jacuzzi spot because they were foreign. They know about wall safes and floorboards and toilet tanks, but unlike we spoiled Americans, how many Russian goons have familiarity with Jacuzzis?”

McAdams said, “But Viktor Gerrard had lived in America for years.”

“He lived in New York. How many regular Joes in Manhattan have a Jacuzzi?”

“I thought he lived in Philadelphia.”

“Even if he was renting a weekend apartment in the heart of Philly, it probably wasn’t high on luxury features. I’m just saying that everywhere I turn, I see the Brown Bear staring us down.”

The car went silent.

Decker continued on. “Gerrard spoke Russian, Latham’s field was Soviet art, and one of Angeline’s last known thefts was plates from the Petroshkovich art book.” He shook his head. “This case is dealing with a different set of rules. I think it’s time we clue in Quantico. I usually don’t like multiple agencies because communication is so poor, but . . .” He threw up his hands, and then he clutched the wheel. “Maybe you’re right, Harvard. Maybe I am an Old Man or at the very least too old for this job.”

“You don’t mean that and neither do I,” McAdams said. “If you think we need help, then we need help.”

“Once it’s dropped into Quantico’s lap, we’ll have to bow out. And viewing that someone had no qualms about shooting us, that may be a good thing.”

“I agree,” Oliver said. “Retirement is boring, but you’re dead for a very long time. You took it as far as you could, Deck. I’m sure Radar will be happy to punt.”

Rina said, “Nobody could have done any better with what you were given.”

A band of cheerleaders. But it did little to calm Decker’s sense of failure. “I’d still like to know what’s in the codebook.”

“If that’s worth killing over, Peter, maybe it’s better not to know.”

“And what do I say to Angeline Moreau’s parents? Whatever happened, she didn’t deserve to die. And whatever happened, her parents deserve to know the truth.”

Decker’s phone buzzed. The call was from Radar and it immediately went into Bluetooth. “Hi, Captain, we’re two hours away.”

“So that will put you into Greenbury around one?”

“That sounds right. When we see you, we’ll update you with what’s going on.”

“Like what?”

“Some names had been deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list. Viktor Gerrard spoke fluent Russian and German. We’re thinking that maybe he was dealing art behind Jason Merritt’s back. The whole case is feeling like a foreign entity is involved.” Decker paused. “I hate to say this but I think we might have taken this as far as we can on our own.”

“Interesting to hear you say that because I just got off the phone with our friends in Virginia.”

Decker was stunned. “You called them?”

“Of course not. I’d let you know before I made a move like that.”

“My bad. So who called them?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect it was your contact at Harvard, McAdams.”

“Mordechai Gold?”

“Didn’t you say he was a former agent?”

“I did?”

“That’s what he told me when I first spoke to him, Tyler,” Decker said. “So what’s our next move, Mike?”

“It’s the CIA. What do you think happens next?”

“A meeting.”

“Three o’clock at the police station.”

“Will Gold be there?”

“Since he knows all about the codebook and called them in, I suspect he will be there. No need to feel defeated, Decker. The case would have been yanked from you anyway.”

“I suppose that is some solace. Maybe we can get some answers.”

“From the CIA?”

“Then again, maybe not.”

“Wear a suit and tie and sunglasses and try to look very officious,” Radar said. “That way, we’ll blend in very nicely.”