Murder 101 (16 page)

CHAPTER 16

F
OUR FIFTY-THREE IN
the afternoon and a mile away from the station, Decker said, “Go home and get some rest, McAdams. If all goes as planned, I’d like to leave for Manhattan by seven tomorrow morning. That should put us into the city by ten.”

“Are you going home?” McAdams asked.

“Not yet. I’ve got to talk to Angeline’s parents and catch up on forensics.”

“How long will that last?”

“I suppose it depends on what the parents have to say and if CSI came up with anything significant.”

“Drop me off at the colleges and I’ll start looking up antique books.”

“You’re not tired?”

“I’m beyond tired and into delirious. I probably won’t get much out of anything, but I’ll be damned if I quit before you do.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“With me, it’s always a competition. How about if we meet up for dinner when you’re done and we can swap notes?”

Decker studied the kid. “I don’t know, McAdams. I just get a feeling that you’re up to something.”

“Because I’m trying to be conscientious?” The kid got huffy. “Can’t win for losing.”

“You’re right. I should be applauding your work ethic. Okay, let’s meet up for dinner. It might be late. What time do the libraries close?”

“College libraries close late, late.”

“That’s fine,” Decker said. “I probably won’t be done until late, late.”

McAdams said, “Most of the restaurants in town aren’t open late, late.”

“What about the bars? They’re open late, late and they serve food.”

“They’re a little loud for talking business. And sometimes stinky, too.” McAdams paused. “I’m showing my age.”

“And you call me Old Man?”

“Irony of ironies.”

“You know, Tyler, when I was much younger, I felt much older. Now that I really am older and retired . . . well, semiretired . . . I feel young again. I think it’s because I no longer have anything to prove.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m hearing sarcasm.”

“Not sarcasm . . . jealousy. I’ve been jumping hoops since I was born: the right schools, the right university, the right friends, the right address, the right clothes, the connections, the right shit in the right gold-plated toilet. You can drop me off here.”

Decker pulled the car to the curb in front of Duxbury’s administration building. It was an imposing limestone edifice: Federalist in style and reminiscent of a courthouse. There were a fair number of students milling about, huddled and bundled as they trudged through the snow. The skies were dark and clear, the campus grounds frosted in pure white. In the daytime sun, walkway sludge had melted to water. When the temperature dropped, the pathways froze over to a black sheet of ice. Despite the shoveling, the clearing and the salting, the local emergency room dealt with lots of slips and falls in the winter. Cleats would have been helpful.

“I think we both could use a good night’s rest,” Decker said.

“I think I could use some meaning in my pathetic life. And I don’t think I’m gonna find it at Harvard Law.” He got out and slammed the door.

Decker blew out air. He called up Rina and brought her up to date.

“So now you’re dealing with two murders?”

“Yes.”

“That’s horrible. Poor victims.” A pause. “Poor you.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m coming back to Manhattan. It makes more sense for you to stay put.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm. This actually works out perfectly. Cindy has the day off tomorrow and we were planning to go to King of Prussia. This way I won’t have to rush.”

Decker felt a twinge of envy. “Have fun.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No . . . I’m just a little peeved that I always seem to be missing out.”

“We’re going to a shopping mall, Peter. A very, very big shopping mall. Last I heard, malls are your version of hell.”

“Actually I’m dealing with real hell right now,” Decker said. “King of Prussia has just been downgraded to purgatory.”

THE STATION HUMMED
with activity. As soon as Decker stepped through the door, Ben Roiters got up from his desk and walked over to him. “Mike wants to see you.”

“Where are Angeline Moreau’s parents?”

“They’re at Littleton, talking to someone in the administration. Since it happened off-campus, the college is punting to us.”

“It might not have anything to do with college. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I think the parents were planning on dinner after the meeting, but I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you.”

“Could you call them for me? Tell them I’m back and I’ll meet with them whenever they’re ready.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” Decker walked into Mike Radar’s office and shut the door. The captain’s lair was tiny. There was a desk, a file cabinet, two chairs, and lots of pictures and plaques on the wall.

Mike pointed to the chair. “Did you ask for the coroner’s office in Boston to send down any identifying marks on Angeline Moreau?”

“Yeah, I asked them to send it to your e-mail in case I got hung up.”

“They sent me two tattoos so far. As the gases dissipate, the doc told me that more marks might become visible. I forwarded the tats to you: some kind of flower vine on her shoulder and a flower on the small of her back. I think they call those tramp stamps, although I’m not going to say that to the parents.”

“Hardly. Can you bring up the tats on your computer?”

“Sure.” Radar played with his keyboard. “Here.” He turned the screen around for Decker to see. A wisteria vine cascaded down Angeline’s shoulder, and a peony rested on the junction between her spine and buttock. It was of note that she had chosen flowers used by Clara Driscoll in the Tiffany glass lamps.

“Can you print them out for me?”

“You want to show them to the parents?”

“It’s easier than showing them her body. I also told them to bring her toothbrush in case you wanted to confirm with DNA, but these might do it.”

“Fine.” Radar produced a latex glove and small paper bag. “Forensics found this with the vacuum. Be careful. We’re talking sharp.”

Decker put on the glove, opened the bag, and looked inside. He shone a light and then gingerly picked up a pinch of tiny colored fragments. “Stained glass.”

“Angeline had been a busy girl. Where are the forgeries from the mausoleum? Did the family take them?”

“No, no, no. I’ve got them in bubble wrap and put them in the lost and found since it’s the only cage that locks. We really should get an official evidence room.”

“Become a real big-city police department.”

Decker smiled. “Let’s see if the fragments match to the forgeries. We’ll need a big-city lab with equipment for something this sophisticated. Boston will probably do it since her murder is most likely connected to Latham’s murder.”

“That was Boston territory?”

“No, it’s Summer Village territory, but they use Boston if they need something specific.”

“Tell me about Latham.” After Decker did a brief recap, Radar said, “That’s one vicious murder.”

“It was bad. I’d like to go back to his apartment when I have time and riffle through it myself. The Summer Village detectives seem like good guys and eager to share. But Latham isn’t my case. I’d also like to return to New York and reinterview the extended Sobel family.”

“Why?”

“Because I think that’s how Angeline Moreau found out about the Tiffany windows.”

“Someone in the family was behind the theft?”

“Or talked to her too freely. There were people I didn’t interview because I came back to investigate Moreau’s murder.”

“Yeah, about that. How do you feel about handling the murder investigation? Are you comfortable with it?”

“I’m okay for right now.”

“So then it’s yours. If it becomes too much or too complicated—and it might be with Latham’s murder—let me know.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“How’s the kid?”

“McAdams? Surprisingly motivated. I told him to go home and get some rest, but he insisted on doing additional research. I’d like to take him with me to New York.”

“Why?”

“It’s his home turf. He has connections there.”

“Does he ever.”

“You want to fill me in with that.”

“His father, Jack McAdams, is in international banking; his mother, Alberta, is currently married to someone else in international banking. But it’s the grandfather with the real money. He did the backing for a lot of the high-tech companies when the field was in its infancy. He passed about six years ago and Tyler’s father amassed most of the fortune. Jack went to Duxbury as an undergrad.”

“Not Harvard?”

“Harvard Law School. Jack is not only a major benefactor of Duxbury, he sits on the board. He also built the new rec center for the town. Actually, it’s about four years old but we still call it the new rec center. He is also instrumental in building the new stage theater and revamping the swimming center. It has endeared him to the mayor.”

“Got it.”

“So you’re okay with the kid? That’s good. He’s a trust fund baby, you know. So I suppose it’s laudable that he’s trying to work, although I can’t help but think that he has something up his sleeve.”

“Me, too,” Decker said. “What’s your take on it?”

“I don’t know. But why would a kid like that want to work with a small-town police department?”

“Probably this is the only place that would take him without a lick of experience.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. I gave him a six-week crash course. He was a quick learner, very smart, but obnoxious. I don’t get him. Why not go to law school, sit back on your ass, and spend Daddy’s bucks. Something’s on his mind.”

“Maybe he wants to write a Pulitzer Prize exposé.”

“Here? We’re boring. Not a scandal in fifty years.”

“Maybe he’s after a screenplay with verisimilitude.”

“Yeah, that would fit.” Radar handed Decker the printouts of the tattoos. “All right. Go back to New York and see if you can’t make something happen. If you happen to meet Tyler’s old man, tread lightly.”

“Tyler detests him, you know.”

“Nobody likes him. Jack’s a real schmuck. One day that man’s going to wind up with a bullet in his back and no one will be surprised.”

IN ANOTHER CONTEXT,
Karen Bronson might not be beautiful, but she might have appeared fit: a good figure, nice tan, brown, straight hair cut in a neat bob. She had a lithe body and long arms and legs. Her face was long with thin lips and light, red-rimmed eyes with deep circles under the orbs. Like Decker, she hadn’t slept for many hours. Her husband also had an athlete’s build—long and lean with broad shoulders. They appeared to be in their early fifties. They had dressed strictly for comfort: sweatpants and sweatshirts. Decker came into the small interview room holding the printouts and a cup of coffee.

“Can I refill your cups for you?” Both of them shook their heads. “Peter Decker.” He shook their hands and sat down. The square footage of the place was very small. Intimacy was forced. “I’m so sorry for your terrible loss. This is my case and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to find out what happened and who did this.”

Jim spoke up. “No offense, Detective, but this is a very small town. I mean . . .” He threw up his hands. “Have you done this before?”

“I was a Los Angeles Police Department lieutenant before I came out here. And I’ve worked hundreds of homicides. I promise I’ll do everything I can. And I’ll be sure to keep in touch. Like I said, call me anytime.”

“So this was like a retirement job or . . .”

“Exactly.”

“When did you leave Los Angeles?”

Karen broke in. Her voice was husky. “Jim, we can ask the questions another time.”

“I want to make sure he’s competent.” Jim looked at Decker. “We’re thinking about hiring private . . . if we don’t get results.”

“Sure, if you want. I’ll coordinate with him if you do.”

“And you’re sure it’s Angeline.”

Decker clenched his jaw. “Does she have tattoos?”

“Oh God!” Karen’s eyes watered. “Yes.”

“We have some pictures.” He slid them across the table. She gasped and then broke into open sobs. Jim held her shoulders and shoved the papers back to Decker.

“I’m sorry.” When neither responded, Decker said, “I need to ask you some questions. They might be unpleasant. I’m sorry if they are.”

“What did you find out about this John character?” Jim demanded. “Is he important?”

“John Latham. You’re sure that you’ve never heard the name before?”

“No. Never. Who is he?”

“I know the bare minimum about him.” Decker blew out air. “He was murdered by the time we got to his apartment. That’s why he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh my God!” Jim hugged Karen tighter as she continued to sob. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“Has . . . has Angeline ever been in trouble before?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I told you the questions might be unpleasant. I have to ask them. Has she ever shoplifted, for instance?”

“Shoplifted?
”

“Yes,” Karen broke in.

“She
did
?” Jim asked.

“Years ago. When she was eleven or twelve—during the divorce. She was having a hard time. Nothing since that one incident . . . actually it was two . . . two incidents. But I begged the owner to let me pay and not press charges and she was very kind about it. Two charges would have meant juvenile hall.” Karen wiped her eyes. “What mess did she get herself into?”

“I’m not positive about anything.” Decker took out his notepad. “Let me tell you what I do know. Last Friday night, one of the cemetery mausoleums was broken into. There were some items taken.”

“What kind of items?”

“Valuable stained-glass window panels. Not all of them. Two original panels were still there. But the other two panels had been forged. The forensic team found shards of glass in your daughter’s apartment—”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” Karen said. “When you mentioned her apartment, I thought you meant her dorm room. But then her dean told us that it happened off-campus . . . that the university wasn’t even technically responsible.”