Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Her voice was a whisper. “You don’t want me to see the body.”

“It isn’t necessary to put you through that anguish. I’ll be back down by late afternoon. We’ll get a DNA profile. And I’ll tell you everything I know.” There was a long silence. “Karen, are you still with me?”

“Go to Boston, Detective. Don’t let us stop you from doing your job.”

“I’ll try to make it back as soon as I can.”

“We’ll wait. We’ll wait as long as it takes. As long as it takes for you to get back and as long as it takes to get some answers.”

CHAPTER 14

MCADAMS SIPPED COFFEE from a paper cup while staring out the passenger window. Decker was behind the wheel. It was in the high twenties outside, but the skies were clear. It made for easy driving even with arid heat blasting in their faces.

“Any specific reason why you asked me to come with you?” the kid said.

“Why do you think?”

“You know you always answer my questions with another question.”

“It’s effective in getting people to talk. So why did I ask you to come?”

“I’ve been mulling several options in my head.” He ticked them off. “I’m keeping you awake so you don’t fall asleep at the wheel, I can drive home in case you do get too sleepy, you want me close so I don’t fuck something up in your absence, or maybe, just maybe, I may actually be of some use to the investigation and you value my opinions.”

“Bang on the money, Harvard.”

“Admit it, Old Man. I’m growing on you.”

“Mea culpa.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of like lutefisk: strictly an acquired taste.” McAdams put the coffee cup in the holder and rubbed his hands together. “I could tell by your conversation with the mom that Angeline did stained glass. So that makes her a strong candidate for the Tiffany forgeries. The thefts must have something to do with her murder.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you just being cagey or is that a sincere maybe.”

“This is what I think. The thefts weren’t what caused her problems . . . it was you and me uncovering the thefts. Someone wanted to silence her. But do I really believe that someone would murder over a few Tiffany panels? Doubtful. We’re dealing with something bigger . . . no offense to Tiffany . . . or Clara Driscoll.”

“Who’s that?”

“Karen Bronson, Angeline’s mother, told me that Angeline like stained glass because Clara Driscoll, a woman who worked for Tiffany, actually made a lot of the designs.”

“Hold on, let me look her up.” McAdams took out his iPhone. “It may take a minute. I think we’re in a dead zone.” He looked up. “For the phone, I mean. My brain, that’s another story . . . what’s it going on without sleep? Like thirty hours? How do you think, let alone stay awake?”

“That’s why I brought you here, Harvard.”

“I’m a fancified alarm clock. Okay, here we go. Wikipedia at its finest.” McAdams paused while he read. “Clara Driscoll was indeed the head designer for Tiffany and worked there for twenty years. She chose the colors and the type of glass and designed some of his most famous lamps. Before her, the designs were more symmetrical and static. Her first design was the Daffodil, but she is also known for the Wisteria, the Dragonfly, and the Peony. She was given her just due when the New York Historical Society gave her an exhibition in 2006 entitled ‘A New Light on Tiffany.’ ”

“Angeline would have been about fourteen at that time,” Decker said. “That’s the age when she became interested in stained glass according to her mom. Maybe she saw the exhibition or read about it.”

“How would Angeline have heard about it if she was in Florida?” McAdams said.

“There’s a museum in Orlando that features lots of Tiffany. Damned if I can think of the name.”

“Morse Museum of American Art.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Decker turned to him. “Did you just look that up?”

“I’ve been there. My grandfather had a place in Bal Harbour.”

“I also keep you around because you have a memory.” Decker grinned. “Anyway, Karen Bronson told me that Angeline liked that Clara Driscoll because she appealed to Angeline’s ideas of talented, strong women and the arts.”

“Makes sense. Girls in college were always yakking about being strong and independent. God, it got so damn sophomoric. Just quit your bitching and actually do something.”

“I can see that patience isn’t your strong suit.”

“You’re right about that.” McAdams gave out a mirthless chuckle. “Most of my classmates at Harvard were living away from home for the first time. But there were some like me: boarding school since first grade with absentee parents. Granted we were privileged as far as education, money, and connections go. And yes, we were spoiled beyond the point of ridiculousness. But we were independent. The first timers . . . man, they were still attached to the umbilical cord. They had absolutely no concept of how utterly dependent they were on mommy and daddy. God, how I envied them.”

Decker was quiet.

McAdams said, “Don’t mind me. Go on.”

“Pour me more coffee. Just half full so I don’t burn my fingers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re allowed to call me Peter.”

“I prefer Old Man.”

“Am I like your real old man?”

McAdams shrugged. “Yes and no. He’s a prick in a bad way.” He handed Decker his coffee. “You’re a prick also, but in a good way.”

“You have a way with words. Can we get back to the case now?”

“Gladly.”

“Being that Clara Driscoll made the designs and Tiffany put his name on it, do you think that it might have mitigated Angeline’s conscience when she was making the forgeries?”

“Huh!” McAdams was quiet. “She was doing to Tiffany what he did to Driscoll. I like it. Not that it helps us understand why she was murdered, but there is a sort of lex talionis to the whole thing. That means—”

“Eye for an eye, I know.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You were a lawyer. What kind of law again?”

“Estates and wills.” When McAdams started to snore, Decker said, “Exactly. You know eye for an eye doesn’t mean exacting retribution. It’s actually tort law.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because it’s in the section of the Bible that deals with property law. You injure a guy’s eye through negligence, you pay the victim for the value of what he would have earned with the eye versus what he makes because he’s missing an eye. Courts do that all the time. It’s called economic forensics.”

“Yeah, I know. I interned for several white shoe law firms in my college days courtesy of Daddy.” He took out his phone. “Where is the saying in the Bible?”

“Eye for an eye?”

“Yes.”

“It’s in Exodus . . . in the Hebrew section called Mishpatim if that helps.”

“Hold on . . . Exodus 21 paragraph 22 through 25 . . .” He read. “It doesn’t say anything about monetary compensation.”

“It’s in the commentary from Rashi. He was a great, eleventh-century—”

“I know who Rashi is. I took Moderation and Extremism at Harvard—Twersky’s class—although he was dead by the time I took it. But people still refer to it as Twersky’s course. The point is why should I believe some guy’s commentary? Just go with the text.”

“Law is always about interpretation. Nothing is ever face value. And the background of the biblical section deals more with torts than with capital cases.”

“Aren’t you the hotshot, biblical scholar?”

“This is pretty rudimentary, Tyler, but if you’re impressed, I’m fine with that.”

McAdams was still reading text. “The sections deal with tort law as well as capital cases. It’s all mixed together.”

“Traditionalists go by rabbinic law because the sages can interpret Jewish law better than the layman.”

“You need a learned mind,” McAdams said.

“Exactly.”

The kid grinned. “Or a Learned Hand.”

Decker groaned at the pun. “You were setting me up for that one, weren’t you.”

“I was.”

“Clever, but awful!”

“It wasn’t awful!” McAdams sniffed. “It was just . . . Harvard.”

THE RURAL NORTHEAST was white and stark, giving the region an aesthetic minimalism. Urban Northeast was gray and depressing. Grime mixed with snow equaled sludge, and the old factories and crumbling brick warehouses were bereft of any kind of beauty. The only saving grace today was the bright sunshine and the clear skies, which only served to highlight the sprawl. According to the GPS, Decker was only a mile from Latham’s address. He said, “Are we near the university?”

“I take it you mean Tufts. We’re not far in distance, but worlds away socioeconomically. If Latham was doing something illegal, it wasn’t paying him big dividends.”

“Or he chose the area because petty criminal activity might go unnoticed.”

“That’s certainly possible.”

“Or Latham was a poor grad student who was strapped. Or he was just cheap.” Decker pulled up to the apartment building and killed the motor. “Hopefully, we shall find out something about the lad.” He clicked open the glove compartment and took out his gun.

McAdams said, “I don’t think you’ll need that in the daytime.”

Decker strapped it into his harness. “I’m not leaving a loaded Beretta in the car.”

“Why’d you bring a piece? I mean, do you routinely carry it in Greenbury?”

“No. Don’t need it there. But here we don’t know what we’re dealing with so I like to err on the overcautious side.” Decker opened the door. “Let’s go.”

“I’m with you, partner.”

Together, they walked up to the apartment building—an old square made of bricks and stucco. In a perfect world, the glass front door was locked for security. But the hasp appeared to be broken so they slipped inside, walking up a flight of stairs, down the hallway until they found Latham’s unit. Decker knocked on the door. After a few minutes of futile banging, Decker gave up.

“What now?” McAdams asked.

“We leave a card, then we drive over to the morgue and see if they’ve started Angeline’s autopsy. I’d like to get a blood sample for DNA. See if we can get a match from her toothbrush. If that doesn’t work, we’ll do a match with Mom. Anything’s better than a visual identity. No parent should have to see a son or a daughter in that condition.”

“Don’t you need both parents for a profile match?”

“The lab can do a mitochondrial match. Unless there are other sisters missing, it’s good enough for an ID.” Decker took out his card and stuck it into the doorway. As he turned to leave, a neighbor came out. She lived two doors down and was wearing a housecoat. She was dark complexioned with gray hair: midsixties to early seventies.

“Finally!”

“Excuse me?” Decker said.

“You’re the police, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, it took you long enough to come down.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. Then he took out a notebook. “When did you call?”

“Around ten last night. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Remind me of the complaint. I just got a notice to come down and talk to the man in this unit . . . I believe his name is John Latham.”

“It’s John. I don’t know his last name. He wasn’t very friendly.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “And you are . . .”

“Inez Camero.”

“How long have you lived in the building?”

“Ten years.”

“How long has John been here?”

“Under a year. And like I said, he’s not very friendly. But at least he was quiet . . . until last night. Music was blasting so loud, my other ear nearly went deaf. You could have probably heard it in Cambridge.”

“It was blasting all last night?”

“It started around nine-thirty. I know because my favorite show, Real Estate Buddies, was on the television. I had my tea, I had my biscotti, all set to enjoy a nice quiet evening, but nooooo. I called the police at ten during the commercial break. When nothing happened, I finally went over myself and banged on the door. That musta been around ten-thirty right after my show. Leslie Avila saw me. She was getting ready to do the same thing. Finally the jerk turned down the volume.”

“Inconsiderate neighbors can be a real problem,” Decker said.

“What’s a real problem is an apathetic police department. What good are you if I have to do it myself because you don’t show up until the next morning?”

Decker nodded. “I understand your frustration.”

“Sure you do.” Inez was actively glaring by this time. “Sorry to have disturbed you. I’m sure you have important stuff to deal with like where to get your doughnuts.” With her parting shot, Inez marched back into her apartment and slammed the door.

McAdams said, “She wasn’t very nice.”

“She’s frustrated.” Decker swirled his tongue inside his cheek and thought a moment. He squatted down and sniffed underneath the door. While he was down there, he saw the tip of a small white card. With deft hands, he pulled it out and read. “Officer James Marx.”

“The police did come out.”

“Apparently.” Decker stood up and turned it around to the back side. “No time on the card. Maybe when Marx showed up, the music had stopped.” He handed McAdams the card. “Give him a call. Find out when he came out.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” Decker bit his lower lip. “Someone was here last night inside Latham’s apartment because someone turned down the music. But the card was still there under the door in the morning.”

“Maybe he didn’t see it when he left the apart– Uh, hello, can I talk to Officer James Marx, please?”

“Identify yourself first, Tyler.”

“Right.”

Decker dropped to a squat, once again sniffing under the door.

McAdams said, “Could you please have him call Detective Tyler McAdams of the Greenbury Police Department. We’re in the area investigating a crime that occurred south of here. I’ll give you my cell number.”

Decker stood up. “I definitely smell something.”

“Like what?” Tyler stowed his cell in his pocket. “Decay?”

“More metallic—like blood.”

McAdams started to bend down. Decker pulled him up by his collar before his hands and knees touched the ground. “If there was a murder, everything on the floor is possible forensic evidence—”

“I know. Don’t kneel, squat. My quads leave something to be desired.”

Decker pointed to the floor. “Go on. Take a whiff.”

The kid complied. “Yeah, it does smell a little funky in there. Can you help me up?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

McAdams took in a deep breath and managed to hoist himself back up on his feet. “If I get a leg cramp, can I apply for workman’s comp?” When Decker didn’t answer, he said, “I’m just trying to add a little levity in an otherwise grave situation . . . no pun intended.”

But Decker was lost in thought. “There was a report of unusually loud music, which could have been used to mask criminal activity. The police card wasn’t taken off the floor. And I think I smell blood.” He looked at Tyler. “I’d say we have probable cause.”

“Probable cause for what? You’re going inside?”

“I’m going to try.” Decker took out a credit card, worked it between the door frame and the lock.

“What if the guy’s still there?”

The lock snapped open. Decker took out his gun. “This is basic police work, McAdams. Stay here and guard my ass.” The kid had turned ashen. “You’re not going to pass out on me, right?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” A forced smile. “I don’t have a weapon on me, Old Man.”

“You’ve got the best weapon in the world, McAdams. Your vocal cords. You see anything hinky, just let out a scream.”

Decker took out a single latex glove and sheathed his left hand, keeping his right hand bare and firmly on the grip of his gun. He pushed open the door with the barrel of his gun. Stepping inside chaos, his nose was assaulted with bad news as he took in the sight of a recent struggle, not unlike the one that had taken place in Angeline’s apartment.

Upturned furniture, items pitched everywhere. He didn’t see any stereo receiver, but there was a TV and a dock for an iPad. The TV was off and cold and the dock was empty. It was hard to walk without disturbing something, including the blood on the floor and area rug. Distinct circles and ovals . . . drip blood from an injury, not splatter from an artery. He tiptoed very carefully across the room and into the kitchen.

There was more mess—overturned canisters, broken glasses, cutlery on the floor. More drips, but still no splatter, which meant no massive amount of blood loss. There were two wineglasses in the sink, and an open bottle of pinot on the counter that somehow remained intact. An empty knife block, its contents scattered on the floor. He couldn’t tell if anything was missing, but strewn knives were never good signs of anything. He tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the small hallway. The bathroom door was open. More drips on the floor, bloody towels in the sink and bathtub. The smell was getting stronger and stronger, not just metallic but putrid—discarded feces, decay . . . fetid rot. When he opened the door to the bedroom, he found the source.

The nude body on the bed: multiple stab wounds, which often meant not only rage but up close and personal. This time the fury was overt because the man’s penis and testicles had been severed and placed on his stomach. In addition to the stab wounds and the genital mutilation, his throat had been slashed.

“Decker?” McAdams called out. “You okay?”

“Don’t move, McAdams. Stay where you are.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just hold on.” Decker tiptoed out of the bedroom and saw the kid standing in the hallway of the apartment. “I’m assuming you didn’t touch anything and you were careful where you walked. There’s blood evidence in the living room.”

“I saw it. And yes, I was real careful where I put my feet.” The kid swallowed hard. “You’ve been gone a while. I peeked in and saw the blood. I got nervous . . . like you were ambushed. I guess I would have heard something if you were ambushed. Sorry to disturb you.”

“No apologies necessary. I said guard my ass and you guarded it. Sometimes I lose track of time.”

“I’ll go back and wait outside.”

“I’ll come with you.” Once back in the common hallway, Decker gently pulled the door to the jamb, making sure it didn’t close. He stowed his gun back inside his harness.

McAdams said, “James Marx called me back. He was out here at 10:42 P.M.”

“After Inez Camero took action into her own hands. They probably both missed the killer by minutes.” Decker took out his cell phone.

“Killer?” McAdams felt woozy, but kept his balance. “Latham’s dead?”

“I found a desecrated male body.” Decker punched in 911 and brought his cell to his ear. “If that was Latham, God rest his soul.”

CHAPTER 15

IT WAS AFTER three in the afternoon by the time Decker and McAdams had given their statements to the Summer Village detectives. Decker hadn’t slept for over thirty-six hours and he could feel his brain starting to shut down. He needed to pull himself together for Angeline’s parents, his scattered thoughts trying to focus on two horrific murders. The Summer Village Police Department was smaller and less bureaucratic than Boston PD, but big enough to have resources and actual detectives. That was a plus. Explaining why Decker and McAdams were there and why they broke into the apartment took up a lot of time. After the requisite questions, the detectives were generous enough to let them stick around while Summer Village brought in the coroner and their forensics team.

The apartment had not only been the scene of a struggle but it had been ransacked. No staging, at least to Decker’s eye. The killer appeared to be looking for something. No one turned up Latham’s phone, laptop, or tablet. There weren’t any Tiffany panels hiding in a closet or under the bed. But a careful probe did turn up a hidden ring of unmarked keys. Decker was allowed to make a copy at a local locksmith: maybe it contained the key to Angeline’s apartment thus providing a link between the two cases. He returned the originals to Summer Village detectives. Decker asked them if he could come back in a day or two and search for storage bins in the area. The lead detective equivocated, saying they’d be in touch. Good enough because he was way too tired and pressed for time to check today. He had to get back to Greenbury and Angeline’s parents.

Summer Village would be stuck doing the notification for Latham. Although the body was mutilated, the face was still recognizable as the image that McAdams had pulled up on the Internet. That was in marked contrast to Angeline where time, heat, and gases had distorted everything, meaning that she was probably murdered first.

Decker’s stomach was long past empty. His head was pounding and he knew if he didn’t get more than caffeine into his system he’d pass out. “I need to eat something.”

“You can eat after witnessing that . . . horror?”

“Survival, Tyler. Before we hit the road, I need to fill the tank and get some calories.” He drove about a mile, neither of them speaking, until they reached a gas station with a Stop-N-Go. “You get the gas, I’ll get food. Do you want anything?”

“I suppose I should eat. Whatever you get is fine. I don’t even have the energy to be disagreeable.”

Decker went inside the minimart and picked up a pack of six onion bagels, a tub of cream cheese, two cartons of orange juice, two bags of honey peanuts, two energy bars, and two giant coffees. They ate in the parking lot, making the most minimal of conversation. Ten minutes later, with a semifull belly, Decker put the key in the ignition and crawled through the streets until he hit the highway.

McAdams spoke first. “Are you sure you don’t mind driving?”

“No, I’m awake. Thanks for asking. You can sleep, Harvard. You’ve earned it.”

But McAdams continued to stare out the windshield. The sun grew stronger as it made its descent in the winter sky. “That was . . . intense.”

“Gruesome even for someone experienced. Not part of your job description when you signed up in Greenbury?”

“Whoda thunk?” McAdams sipped coffee from a thermos. “Not that I was staring at the corpse. Au contraire, I was watching the pros . . . trying to hold down my stomach and learn a few pointers at the same time.”

“Good for you.”

“None of it sank in—shock and fatigue took care of that.” His eyes remained forward as he spoke. His voice seemed to come from somewhere far away and deep inside. “I know that the Tiffany panels are valuable, but surely they are not worth the wholesale slaughtering of two human beings.”

“Are you making an ethical judgment or are you talking about the motive for the crime?”

“Motive.” He was still visibly upset. “The panels can’t be the motive for something that abominable, right?”

“I’ve seen men gutted for a pack of cigarettes,” Decker said. “But I know what you’re saying and I agree. These cases are not just about the panels. All we can say so far is that we have two bad murders and the killings are probably connected. Next question: Are the two murders related to the Tiffany thefts?”

“What else is there?”

“There’s probably way more. Right now, beyond the murders and the theft, do we know anything else?”

“Besides the fact that I’m exhausted and sick to my stomach?”

“Bagel didn’t go down well?”

“I ate too fast. I always eat too fast. What do we know beyond the two murders and a theft?” He shrugged. “Beats me.”

“The two murders were overkill.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

“In both cases there was not only a struggle, but the apartments appeared genuinely ransacked. The murderer was looking for something.”

“The Tiffany panels?”

“Possibly. But like you said, do you butcher your victims over stolen Tiffany panels?” Silence. Decker said, “Let’s start throwing out some ideas.”

“You go first.”

“We have two victims we suspect were doing something illegal because Angeline suddenly came into money. She started toting around designer accoutrements and only did that after she met John Latham.”

“Right.”

“We also suspect that she might have been involved with the forgery of the two Tiffany panel replacements. Angeline did stained glass and she liked Tiffany.”

“Right again.”

“And the forgeries might have something to do with the murders.”

“Correct.”

“Tyler, if we think the forgeries are even one of the reasons for the murders, then it would behoove us to look at who was wronged by the forgeries.”

“That would be the Sobel family. But I can’t believe anyone in the family would do something that extreme. That doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree. The theft per se isn’t the reason for the murder. As I said before, it was probably the discovery of the theft that put Angeline and Latham in danger.”

“Because they were involved in other thefts and did them at the behest of someone. Meaning those other burglaries might now be discovered.”

“Exactly. So any ideas?”

“Let me think.” McAdams was tapping the dashboard.

“There’s no right or wrong answer. Just say what’s on your mind.”

McAdams continued to drum the dash. “I looked at art thefts. I didn’t find anything recent in the area. If someone has been selling stolen art, I’m thinking that he or she is a pro and has been doing it for a while. He—or she—just hasn’t been caught.”

Decker nodded. “And you know about the Art Loss Register, right?”

“Yes, I do know from my father. It’s a stolen-art site. Before museums, auction houses, and galleries acquire any work, the purchaser looks up the piece in question to make sure the work wasn’t stolen.” McAdams started snacking on nuts. “Maybe I should start looking up cases on the register. I mean I’m not saying that our alleged buyer—” He paused. “Alleged? Is that even the right word? This person may be entirely fictitious.”

“Alleged is fine, Harvard.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m not saying our alleged buyer of stolen art is the same guy who arranged the hit on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. But maybe he arranged some lesser thefts. Like the icons by Nikolai Petroshkovich.”

“I agree. Did you ever find out the names of the original detectives on the case?”

“I . . . uh.” He sighed. “I thought it was a dead end and I didn’t bother. I know, I know. I should stop thinking for myself. My initial reaction is always to bristle at orders. I fucked up. My apologies.”

“Just get it done.”

“I’d call Marylebone right now, but I’m not getting a signal on my phone.”

“Do it as soon as we get back. That way if they tell you something, you can write it down. Then go home and go to sleep.”

“Why bother? All I’ll have is nightmares.”

“Believe me, you’ll sleep. And yes, I think it’s a good idea to start investigating more local art thefts. If Latham and Moreau were stealing things, they were probably small-timers who maybe hit on something big time.”

“Makes sense.”

“So we’re now working on a possible assumption that the thefts are related to the murders and that the burglaries were done maybe at the behest of a third person who’s calling the shots. That theory can change at any time. Don’t get too wedded to it.”

“Open mind.”

“Right,” Decker said. “With that theory in mind, we both think that the murders involve more than just the theft of Tiffany panels. We suspect that Angeline was doing the stained-glass forgeries. She was talented in more than one artistic field. Perhaps she was doing other forgeries as well.”

“Like actual art painting forgeries?” McAdams said. “She’s probably not that good.”

“I agree. So maybe she was doing something that was easier to copy: like antique maps or old nature prints.”

“She couldn’t forge an Audubon, that’s for certain,” McAdams said. “He was a master at watercolors.”

“But she could be stealing . . . taking old prints and maps out of books by razoring them at the binding.”

“Again, not Audubon. Ever see a copy of his original book? I think his plates were like two feet by four feet.”

“So not Audubon. Maybe someone not as valuable or big.”

“Possibly.”

“Or,” Decker said, “maybe she was stealing outright: rare manuscripts or books. After you’re rested, I want you to check out the local libraries at the Upstate colleges and see if some of their old atlases have been messed with or see if any rare books are missing.”

“I should start writing this down.” He took out his tablet. “Find the names of original detectives in the Nikolai Petroshkovich theft, talk to the Upstate colleges’ librarians and see if any rare books are missing, check out antique reference material and see if maps or prints are missing . . . what else did you ask me to do? I’m a little fried right now.”

“Expand your search for other smaller local art thefts.”

“Right.”

“Now for the crucial question. How do we link the murders to the Tiffany theft? Just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, Tyler.”

“I’m not a good blurter outer, Decker. I’m more the well-placed zinger type.”

Decker sighed and didn’t respond.

“Right, just shut up and answer the question. Okay. I’m gonna say that since you made copies of the keys that you found at Latham’s apartment, you’re going to valiantly attempt to open some storage locker with the faint hope that it holds the stolen Tiffany panels or other objets d’art.”

“That is an avenue of exploration, yes. But unless Summer Village PD turns up a bill to a specific storage facility, that’s a long shot. Let’s go back to the beginning. If we assume a connection—murders and thefts—how did Angeline and Latham find out about the Tiffany panels in the first place?”

“Maybe they’re professional grave robbers and they hit upon the panels by luck.”

“Are those items or any items in a cemetery worth butchering two people?”

“Is anything in cemeteries worth butchering two people like that?” The kid thought a moment. “Perhaps. Just look at King Tut.”

Decker couldn’t help it. He laughed. “How about we stick to American cemeteries?”

McAdams smiled. “No, it is not likely that Angeline and Latham were murdered for items they pilfered from local cemeteries.”

“Right now, we’re working on the theory that someone hired them to rob the mausoleum. So how did Angeline and Latham discover the panels in the first place?”

“They were told by the person who hired them to steal them?”

“And how did the person find out?”

“That’s actually a very good question,” McAdams said. “Because according to my research, they haven’t been featured in an art book or loaned out for any museum exhibit.”

“Were they mentioned in the local papers?” Decker asked.

“I checked the Greenbury Tattler from the 1970s to present day and found nothing. I’ll go back further if you want.”

“Occam’s razor,” Decker said. “What’s the most expedient way to find out about the panels?”

“Somebody who knew about them blabbed.”

“And who knew about their existence?”

“This is very Socratic. Great preparation for law school.”

“I’m this close to throwing you out of the car.”