Murder 101 (27 page)

Oliver said, “Quinine, powdered sugar, caffeine, powdered milk, gypsum, baby formula. That’s the powdered stuff. With black tar heroin, dealers will cut it with brown sugar, coffee . . . heat it all up into one big goop and then smoke it.”

“I don’t see Chase Goddard as a drug dealer,” Decker said.

“What about John Latham dealing drugs?” Oliver asked.

“No indication.”

“No indication he was an art thief, either,” McAdams said.

“He had an association with Angelina Moreau who most likely forged the Tiffanies,” Decker said. “And you know she didn’t steal or fence them on her own.”

Rina said, “It sounds like you could go in a thousand directions. What you do know is that someone wants you two dead.”

Oliver said, “If it had to do with Latham’s death, why haven’t the triggermen shot at the Boston cops?”

“Summer Village,” Decker corrected.

“Whatever,” Rina said. “They were the ones who found the codebook. So if that’s the key, they should be targets just like you two.”

Decker said, “First off, they’re a bigger force so there’d be too many to kill. Second, maybe Harvard and I are much closer than we know. The problem is the triggerman probably thinks we know more than we do.”

“Who’s on the radar right now?” Oliver asked. “Just Chase Goddard?”

Decker shrugged. “It’d be nice to tie him to the case but I don’t have anything on him.”

“What about . . .” Oliver flipped through his notes. “Justin Merritt?”

“Jason Merritt,” McAdams corrected. “He’s the specialist in Russian art. His gallery is in New York and we don’t have a damn thing on him, either.”

“Just like John Latham,” Oliver said.

“No, John Latham’s field of expertise was Soviet-era art,” McAdams told him. “It’s an entirely different field than Russian art. And Soviet art is not very collectible.”

“Why not?”

“Because most of it was propaganda. I’m not saying it’s worthless. Some of the posters are pricey. But because it’s so stylized, it’s more important as a recording of history and culture than as fine art. That’s what John Latham won the Windsor Prize for: Soviet art as a tool for dissemination of propaganda during Stalin’s administration.”

“How’d you find all this out?” Decker asked.

“I’ve had time on my hands, Old Man.”

“What about Russian art?” Oliver asked. “You don’t hear of great Russian artists like you do French impressionists.”

“That’s because the czars were way more interested in western European culture than promoting their own heritage,” McAdams said. “The Hermitage is loaded with great Western art. Most of Russia’s own homegrown painters have been relegated to storage. And once the Bolsheviks took over, they denigrated anything that smelled of Western society.”

Oliver said, “But you just said that the Hermitage is filled with great western European art.”

“That installations came later when Khrushchev made it a point to rebuild all the incredible buildings that the Nazis had destroyed. Probably that was propaganda, too. He wanted to show the West that Russia wasn’t a backwater country.” McAdams thought a moment. “I was talking to my dad in one of the rare moments when he wasn’t screaming at me. We got on the subject of the Hermitage . . . which actually I brought up because I knew my grandfather had been to the Soviet Union when it was mostly closed off to Westerners. Dad told me my grandfather had seen the Hermitage way back when . . . in the forties or fifties maybe. It was an absolute mess . . . just piles and piles of all this invaluable art. The Soviets originally put it on display to show the extreme wealth of the aristocracy at the expense of the proletariat.”

“So you’re saying that there is no valuable Russian art?” Oliver asked.

“No, no,” Decker said. “The older stuff is quite valuable because a lot of it was destroyed in the revolution. Mostly religious stuff like icons.”

“So is there any kind of Russian art worth killing for?” Oliver asked.

Decker and McAdams spoke at the same time. “The Amber Room.” They gave Oliver a rundown on World War II Russia. Decker said, “Supposedly twenty-seven cartons of the dismantled room were shipped to a castle where the cartons along with the building were destroyed by fire. Since then the trail has gone cold . . . or cool, I should say. Because pieces of amber from the original room keep showing up. The amber and the jewels are not only worth a small fortune, the room has national significance.”

“So maybe we shouldn’t be looking at Russian icons at all,” Oliver said. “Maybe we should be looking at Nazi-looted art. Maybe that’s what the kids were onto—a cache of looted art. If a wealthy and prominent collector had a disputed painting, it might be worth killing over.”

“You’re thinking that John Latham was blackmailing a wealthy collector and the guy hired a hit man or hit men to whack him?” When Oliver shrugged, Decker said, “It would make way more sense for the collector to pay him off. Certainly he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and take down the police
unless
you are foreign and you don’t like Americans and you get a thrill out of mutilating bodies as part of the retaliation.”

McAdams said, “He still likes the Russian mob.”

“I’m just saying it feels foreign.”

“Maybe it’s a collection of looted art,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “The Gurlitt stuff is worth a small fortune. And he’s still alive and kicking. It doesn’t feel like a German crime.”

“Well, I still like drugs,” McAdams said.

“If you like drugs, then go back to the college and talk to Angeline Moreau’s friends again. Find out if she has any hint of dealing dope.”

“Uh, I’m not too mobile right now. Besides we’ve already blanked out on that one.”

“Which is why I’m still pursuing an art angle,” Decker said. “Once that’s exhausted, we’ll try drugs again.”

“Maybe it’s both . . . like drugs hidden in art shipments from Florida,” McAdams suggested.

“One thing at a time, Harvard. You and Rina go back to the reference libraries at the Five Colleges and make it a point to ensure that all the valuable books are intact. Start with Rayfield at Littleton. Since Moreau specialized in textiles, see if there are any antique print books on textiles that she might have pilfered from.”

“I agree with Deck and the art angle for what it’s worth,” Oliver said.

“I knew you were going to be trouble,” McAdams said.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, kid. I’m just saying that you have to approach it going from most reasonable to most unreasonable.”

Decker said, “Tomorrow Oliver, Chris Mulrooney, and I have an appointment to see Professor Gold. We’ll find out what he has to say if anything.”

“I thought you were going to Skype me in with that.”

“We’ll Skype you in when we know something. In the meantime, I’ll send him your regards.”

“He won’t remember me.”

“I’m not sure about that, McAdams.” Decker patted his good shoulder. “From what I’ve observed, you seem to make your mark wherever you go.”

CHAPTER 27

R
INA SHOWED THE
library guard her deputized license as well as her concealed weapon permit. The provost, who was accompanying them to the third floor—where Rayfield stored its reference material—gave a sniff of contempt. “Do you have to make it so obvious?”

“Would you rather I set off the metal detector with my gun?”

The man’s cheeks pinkened. He was in his forties with glasses perched on his ski slope nose. He whispered, “You have an armed officer. How much do you need?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Rina spoke softly but definitely not in a hush. “How much protection do you need after someone tried to kill you?”

McAdams bowed his head and stifled a smile.

Greg Schultz, the armed guard, cleared his throat. He was a retired mechanic in his sixties who often helped out Greenbury PD and FD when they needed extra brawn. He was built like a tractor. “We’re causing a backup line.” He unlocked the brake on Tyler’s wheelchair. “Can I take him through now?”

Quickly, the provost escorted them through the metal detector, the guard bypassing Rina’s purse. The four of them squeezed into an elevator. On the third floor, there was a long table in the corner with books of old textile photographs along with several pairs of white gloves. Natural light was provided by a window with a view to the outside quad, students milling in the snow like ants in spilled salt. The glass also let in a draft. Rina had dressed in layers. She took off her overcoat but kept on her sweater over a sweater.

The reference librarian was a young woman in her thirties with a short bob of straight blond hair and deep green eyes. Her name was Lisa Pomeranz and she recognized Tyler McAdams from his previous research foray. Her eyes tried to hide the shock at seeing him so disabled. “I read about the incident in the papers. I’m so sorry.”

McAdams tried to put her at ease. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow . . . especially snow.”

“I thought that was mailmen,” Schultz said.

“If the shoe fits . . .”

Rina said, “Any more adages, Tyler, or can we get to work?”

McAdams smiled. “I’ll be fine, Ms. Pomeranz. The bullets missed all the crucial areas so I count myself as very lucky.”

“I’m not supposed to do this, but I can get you some hot water. It’s chilly up here.”

“I wouldn’t want to spill anything,” Rina said. “Not even water. We’re fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” McAdams said.

“I’m speaking for both of us.” Rina donned the white gloves and sat down. “Thank you.”

“Anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Lisa said.

After she walked away, McAdams said, “Man, she did a one-eighty from the first time I was here.”

Schultz took up a seat that afforded him a view of the elevator as well as the staircase. “I’ll just sit here and try not to fall asleep.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Rina pulled two magnifying glasses from her briefcase and laid them on the table. Then she carefully pulled out the first reference book entitled
Textiles of the Far East
. It was published at the beginning of the twentieth century. Placed on the inside cover was a sign-in sheet of those who had used the book as a reference. She whispered, “Tyler, look at this.” She put the book in front of him and pointed to Angeline Moreau’s name. She had used the book six times.

“It was her thesis,” he said.

“To quote my daughter: I’m just saying.”

McAdams picked up
Mid-Eastern Textiles from the Silk Route in the Fifteenth Century
. He regarded the sign-up sheet. “Looks like Moreau was a busy bee.” He turned to Rina. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Simultaneously, they opened their respective books to the title page. The room fell silent except for the gentle swish of paper turning, each of them carefully studying the binding of the prints with the magnifying glass to make sure that a razor blade hadn’t done any mischief.

It was going to be a long and tedious day.

BY TEN IN
the morning, Decker was on the way to the Summer Village Police Department to pick up Chris Mulrooney. While riding on the highway, he and Oliver kept a constant lookout for tails. With another set of experienced eyes, Decker could relax a tad. Being with Scott felt like home, the two in conversation that ran the gamut from the good old days to the puzzling case of present days. Drinking coffee and chomping on bagels, they exchanged ideas both logical and far-fetched. Neither had much to add from last night.

“Kid seems okay, manning up under his trial by fire,” Oliver said.

“I think he’d be a great detective. But he’s doing the smart thing and going to Harvard Law.”

“Too bad. He certainly won’t get this kind of adrenaline rush there.”

“Ordinarily this job is very banal.”

“Right now, I’d definitely take banal over retirement.”

“Send out applications. You could have your pick of any small town.”

“A good idea, better than feeling sorry for myself.” He was quiet. “I’m thinking about Florida. I don’t like the cold.”

“Want me to talk to my brother?”

“Where is Randy?”

“Miami PD. But I’m sure he could make inquiries in smaller towns. Unless you want to go big again.”

“No, not big . . . but bigger than Greenbury. Marge was real smart. Can’t get more perfect than Ventura PD. Man, it’s beautiful up there.”

“So why don’t you apply to Ventura?”

He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. We’re both in different places now. I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. I’m willing to uproot myself.”

“What about your kids?”

“They’re scattered and busy. If they want to see me, I’ll get a spare bedroom in my seaside condo that must have a pool. Certainly enough of those around in Florida.”

“You might have a problem, though,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A single man around all those widows.”

Oliver laughed. “Stand in line, ladies, there’s enough to go around.”

“Here we are.” Decker pulled into the Summer Village PD parking lot. He called up Chris Mulrooney who came bounding out five minutes later holding a briefcase. He wore a parka bomber jacket, thick denim jeans over bulky boots, shearling gloves, a knit hat, and a black scarf. Decker made the introductions after Mulrooney had slid into the backseat. He peeled off his winter wear in the hot car’s climate.

Mulrooney patted his leather valise. “Got a copy of the codebook right here. We can follow along with the professor.”

Decker pulled out several sheets of paper. “The kid has been looking at it for the past three days. He’s been counting phrases and is using them to plot a frequency chart. Not that he knows for certain if the phrases correspond with letters but he figured it was a good start.”

Mulrooney’s eyes scanned over the deciphered words. “How’s he feeling?”

“He’s laid up in a wheelchair but I’ve got him working in the library.”

“It’ll do him good to work.” Murooney stowed the papers in his briefcase. “We’ve been going through Latham’s papers, trying to locate things that might be opened from that janitor ring of keys we found. No local storage units yet. And the keys that open safe-deposit boxes aren’t local either. His local bank had two hundred and fifty-six dollars, forty-eight cents in a check deposit. Two credit cards with small balances. He had a bundled account for cable and Wi-Fi. No landline. Utilities and rent were paid up every month. Didn’t seem to splurge on himself except for the occasional restaurant and bar bills. We checked them out. The ones who do remember him said he was just a regular guy. We did pass around the picture of Angeline Moreau. Couple of bartenders thought that she looked familiar but they couldn’t be sure. They certainly couldn’t put her with him at a specific time.”

“That’s too bad.”

“They do remember Latham often chatting up the ladies, but not being obnoxious about it. He was okay just being a guy, watching the Celts and the Patriots on the screen with the locals. He owned his car. To me, he’s suspicious because he was so unsuspicious. For a guy who was murdered so brutally, he was trying to keep his outward appearance squeaky clean.”

“Did his colleagues have anything to add?”

“Nope. Just a typical visiting lecturer. He shared an office with four other lecturers but they rarely see one another because their schedules are different. One of the gals I spoke to said she doesn’t even work there because the space is so small. She works at home and only uses the shared space for posted office hours with her students. People don’t remember him hanging around the campus too much. But everyone I spoke to about Latham did say he was very knowledgeable about his field, which was . . .”

Mulrooney flipped through his notes.

“Here we go. The official title is History of Art and Propaganda in the Soviet Union. It was an upper-division class for majors in art, history, and art history; and he had forty students, which is a very big number. We’ve interviewed almost all the students and have come up empty. If the codebook doesn’t tell us something, we’re shooting in the dark. And that’s really making all of us nervous after what happened to you guys down there.”

Oliver said, “Deck thinks we’re dealing with foreign criminals.”

“Yeah, even stupid people usually don’t take out detectives. And when they do try, it’s usually to prevent testimony. Somebody clearly doesn’t know the rules.” Mulrooney hesitated. “Which foreign country? Are you thinking Russia because of Latham’s specialty?”

“Yes, exactly,” Decker said. “Latham’s takeout was very surgical. Maybe it’s not even the Russian mob. Maybe it’s Russian spooks.”

“That would be very bad,” Oliver said.

“It certainly would mean we’re over our heads. But I don’t have anything to go on other than a queasy feeling.”

“This is making me very, very nervous,” Mulrooney said.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Decker said. “But I’m not about to back off before I find out why someone wanted me dead. Maybe the answers will be in the codebook.”

No one spoke for a minute. Then Mulrooney said, “Maybe we should take the book to Quantico. I know we don’t have anything to tell them, but we can’t figure out the code on our own and I’m nervous about involving a Harvard math professor in something so potentially dangerous.”

“I hear you, Chris, and I was thinking the same thing last night. And that’s why I called Gold up and gave him a brief rundown over the phone. I told him about what happened to me and McAdams. I told him he may be setting himself up for trouble by getting involved. You know what he said? He insisted we come up and that he’s absolutely fine with it.”

“But are we absolutely fine with it?”

“I wasn’t at all until Gold told me where he learned all about codes.”

“He’s CIA?”

“Retired CIA. I don’t think he saw much fieldwork but he did spend ten years doing codes in Virginia. He developed some of the programs way back when, that the CIA still uses for electronic hacking. And he says he can shoot, goes to the range whenever he can. But it’s your book and your call, Chris.”

Mulrooney shrugged. “I guess he’s in no more danger than we are . . . if that’s any comfort.” A pause. “If he knows what he’s getting into, we might as well talk to him.”

“That was my thought,” Decker said. “You know, Gold, Oliver, and I have one thing in common besides being over sixty. We’re all looking for action. Problem is we seem to be looking in all the wrong places.”