Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22)

by Kellerman, Faye

  Number three was the charm. The kid used all his muscle, the blades cut through the shank, and the lock snapped off. When McAdams started to go in, Decker held him back.

  “How about if we pick up the lock from the floor and stow it in the paper evidence bag. Just perhaps there is a crime scene involved and maybe the lock has a fingerprint. And as luck would have it, I just happen to have a few bags in my pocket.” Decker handed him a small paper bag. “Or would you prefer that I pick it up, boss?”

  McAdams swore, but he bent down and picked it up with his gloved hand.

  Decker said, “Place it in the bag. Then you write your name, the date, the time, and the location.”

  McAdams did as he was told then gave the bag back to Decker. “Only because your wife fed me.”

  “And fed you well.” Decker took out a flashlight and a magnifying glass. He peered through the lens and studied the door. “No pry marks.” He pushed the door open and swept the beam across the crypt. There were a number of horizontal marble headstones in the ground, but no bodies that weren’t six feet under. Decker counted the marble tombstones. At current, the crypt was hosting ten graves with room for more. Decker handed McAdams an extra flashlight. “In case you didn’t bring one. Keep it.” He turned to Pellman. “Could I borrow your light? It’s stronger than mine.”

  “You betcha.” The watchman handed him his battery pack.

  “Thanks.” Decker crossed over the threshold and stepped inside. The temperature wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be. Thick walls kept out the sunlight and heat but they also kept out the extreme cold. Decker swept the beam around to get the lay of the land.

  The space was as big as his current living room, around two hundred square feet, and beautifully adorned. There was carved molding on the ceiling, and jeweled stripes of iridescent colored glass tiles were inset into the walls. Each gravestone was marked by the inhabitant inside—name, beloved husband/wife father/mother, grandfather/grandmother/date of birth/date of death. Nothing unusual except that the headstones of the matriarch and the patriarch were inset with tile work—two different pastoral scenes elegantly laid out in tiny pieces of glass mosaic. He squatted down to study the artwork. McAdams kneeled next to him. Decker whispered, “Doesn’t matter now, but for the record, don’t kneel. It might mess up something. You want as little contact with the ground as possible.”

  McAdams squatted. “Not only am I a solid chunk of ice, I’m gonna be sore.”

  Decker ignored him. “Nice tile work, no?”

  “It’s okay . . . actually more than okay. It’s done well.”

  “Somebody put money into these headstones.” Decker stood up and inched the light up and across the walls until he reached the windows. They stood about ten feet above the floor. Hanging just under the dome in the upper four windows were stained-glass panels. Decker didn’t notice them when he first came in because it was dark. He illuminated each panel with his flashlight, letting the beam rest on each for a minute or so before moving onto the next one. They probably sparkled beautifully in the daylight.

  “It’s the four seasons.” Decker turned to McAdams. “See, that one’s winter, that’s spring, and summer and autumn.” He regarded the kid. “I think they were custom made.” He turned to Pellman. “Have those stained-glass windows always been inside the crypt?”

  “For as long as I’ve been here and even before.”

  Decker turned to the kid. “What do you think?”

  McAdams shone his light on the four panels. “My mother has some Tiffany lamps. I’m not saying they are Tiffany, but it looks like good quality.”

  “Agreed,” Decker said.

  “You do know that the company made stained-glass windows for religious purposes.”

  “Go on.”

  “Just that the studio made a lot of devotional items for churches and synagogues. Do you know Manhattan at all?”

  “Not too well.”

  “There’s a famous synagogue on Fifth Avenue that has an original Tiffany. As does the Portuguese synagogue on the west side.”

  “Courtesy of your ex-Jewish girlfriend?”

  “You have a honed mind, Old Man. The studio also made windows for wealthy people’s mausoleums. So if they were real, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Could you tell if those are Tiffany or not?”

  “Not at this distance. You could look for a signature, but that can be forged. It happened all the time. Mostly you tell by quality.”

  Decker turned to Pellman. “Do you have a ladder?”

  “Not on me, but I can get you a ladder.”

  “Thank you. That would help.”

  “Be right back.”

  After he left, McAdams said, “Why in the world are you climbing up there? Are you that bored with the job?”

  “Harvard, it always helps to get up close and personal. I’ll do the climbing, you just hold the ladder.” The two men didn’t speak. McAdams was fidgety. Decker said, “You okay?”

  “Kinda creepy in here.”

  “Yeah, cemeteries are a little spooky.” Decker paused. “Not this place, though. Someone took the time to make it pretty.”

  Pellman came back with the ladder. “Here you go.”

  Decker handed him his big, bulky battery pack flashlight and took his smaller light. He started climbing toward the windows. “Guys, shine the lights on the window, okay? I want to see them up close.”

  The two men focused the light on the “autumn” stained-glass window. It was about fourteen by twenty inches in size and was hanging from two chains that were hooked into the ceiling.

  “Is there a signature,” McAdams shouted.

  “What kind of signature should I look for?”

  “Tiffany Studios . . . something like that.”

  Decker was face-to-face with the artwork. He shone his light through the colored glass. He wasn’t an expert, but it looked pretty good to his eye. It took him a few seconds to find the signature: Tiffany Studio. New York.

  “Do you think it’s real?” McAdams asked from below.

  “No idea.”

  McAdams said, “There must be someone in one of the colleges who could authenticate it.”

  “Good thinking.” Decker continued to study the work: each cut piece of glass, each thread of metal that held the glass into place. All the metal, including the frame, was dark bronze in color but with a hint of dark green peeking through. He knew from watching those antique shows that the patina—the way the metal aged over time—was important in authentication and to his eye, the metal work between the glass pieces and frame had plenty of patina. So did the chain from which the panels hung.

  All the links had plenty of patina except for the two metal loops soldered to the frame and attached to the hanging chains. Those two loops were darker than the frame and looked flat when compared to the rest of the metal. Decker saw a raised chip of what he thought was a metal shard poking up, but when he touched it, dark paint flicked off and fell onto the back of his hand. Carefully, he climbed down the ladder and folded it up. “Uh, with the family’s permission, I’d like to get an art expert down here to look at all four windows.”

  McAdams said, “Why? What did you find?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’d like someone to take a closer look.”

  Pellman shuffled his feet. “I suppose I can call up the family.” He hemmed. “Maybe it would sound better if it came from the police.”

  “I’d be happy to call them up and tell them my thoughts.” Even in the dark shadows, Decker could tell that Pellman was relieved. The watchman gave Decker Ken Sobel’s telephone number. “Do you have something to secure the door with?”

  “No, not on me.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a hardware store open at this time of night?”

  Pellman said, “Just call up Glenn Dutch. I’m
sure he has something around his house. If not, he’ll open the store for you.”

  McAdams said, “Dutch’s Hardware is on Gable Street.”

  “Do you have the number?” Decker asked Pellman.

  “I don’t have it, but Roy might have it. Roy’s a friend of Glenn’s and I have Roy’s number.”

  “Could you get Glenn’s number from Roy, then?”

  “Surely, I can.” He checked his contact list on his phone. “I must have it at home . . . Roy’s number. I’ll call up my wife and she can get me Roy’s number who can get you Glenn’s number.” Pellman walked a few feet away to make his calls.

  McAdams said, “You want to tell me what you found or are you going to make me play twenty questions?”

  Decker said, “I found paint.”

  “Paint?”

  “Paint flicked off on one of the loops soldered onto the frame. It was painted to make the solder joints look old. And, come to think of it, whoever put those loops on the frames did a sloppy job of soldering. Now it could have been a recent repair. I’m just saying it wasn’t in keeping with the original work.”

  McAdams said, “What did the glass look like? The individual pieces, I mean.”

  “The glass was beautiful . . . really iridescent.”

  “Did you find any cracks?”

  Decker regarded him in the shadows. “Interesting you should ask. I remember thinking that the glass was in really good shape. Why?”

  “This may not be true for window panels, but my mom always said that the lamps have been around for a while. It’s nearly impossible to find something in pristine shape—without any cracks—that hasn’t been forged.”

  “Good to know,” Decker said. “On the other hand, the panels have been hanging in the same place for over a hundred years untouched.” A pause. “On the third hand, the works are hanging in a noncontrolled environment. With all the weather fluctuations, you might expect a few cracks. On the fourth hand, I only looked at one panel so maybe the others have cracks in the glass.”

  “So that’s the way you do it. You just keep talking to yourself until you hit on something.”

  “Sure, I talk to myself if no one else is around. When I was head of the detectives’ division, I used to talk to my other detectives. We’d bounce stuff off one another and we were right more than we were wrong.”

  “You know, I am standing right here, freezing my ass off. You could bounce shit off me.”

  “McAdams, I’ve been trying to bounce shit off you for the last six months and all I’ve had to show for it was a face full of crap. S’right. I know I’m a terrific detective. If you want to learn, I’ll be happy to share what I know. And if there’s something that I don’t know but you do know, well, that’s fine with me also. A great detective starts by being a great listener.”

  CHAPTER 3

  WITH THE BERGMAN crypt once again secured by a padlock courtesy of Glenn Dutch’s Hardware, they left the crypt at 11:30. It was late to be making calls, but if it had been Decker’s crypt, he would have wanted to know right away. He handed a slip of paper to McAdams. “This is Ken Sobel’s number—the one who was up here most recently and seems to be in charge. You can do the honors.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re my superior.”

  “So I’m assigning you to the task of making the call.”

  “It’s my Sabbath. Can you do me the favor?”

  “It’s late.”

  “I know. But I still think we should call him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the proper procedure. Pellman has already told him that there was something wrong with the lock. He’s probably waiting to hear from him.” A pause. “Look, if you don’t feel comfortable—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” McAdams took out his phone. “I’ll do it.”

  But he didn’t do it. Decker said, “Start by introducing yourself.”

  “I know how to handle this, okay.” Decker didn’t answer and McAdams regarded his phone. “How much should I tell him? I mean, what if he ripped the panels off himself? Aren’t we giving him a heads-up that we’re suspicious?”

  “Let’s just stick to what we know, okay.”

  “We don’t know anything for certain so why are we even calling him?”

  “We’re calling him to let him know that everything looks fine, but we’d like for completeness sake to have him authenticate the panels. But you’ve got to lead into that conversation. First tell him that everything looks okay. Then compliment the panels, then ask if they’re real Tiffany—”

  “I get it!” Abruptly, McAdams shoved the phone into Decker’s hand. “You’ve obviously got some script in your head. Just do it and get it over with, okay. I’m freezing . . . beyond freezing. I’m numb everywhere.”

  “I’ll make the call but could you at least punch in the numbers for me?”

  “I don’t think I can move my fingers.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “I’m kidding, Old Man.”

  Decker said, “Put it on speaker so I won’t have to repeat the conversation.” McAdams was sulky—his pride was wounded—but he did as told. Decker waited for the line to connect. The two of them were walking back to the house in a cold that had turned positively polar. He usually paced while talking on the phone. At least this time, his movement had a purpose.

  After he heard the hello, he said, “This is Peter Decker from the Greenbury Police Department, I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m looking for Ken Sobel.”

  The voice on the other end was alert. “This is Ken Sobel. What took you so long? What’s going on up there?”

  “We broke the lock on the crypt, sir. From what I could see, everything appears in order.”

  “Phew! Good to know. It would be really ghoulish if someone had broken into the mausoleum and did some mischief. So why didn’t Isaiah Pellman’s key work?”

  “We don’t know. Could someone else in the family have changed the lock?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I’m usually the only one who bothers to go up there . . . except for the funeral six months ago. I was up there about four months ago and everything was in perfect order.”

  “Who else besides you has a key?”

  “My sister . . . some of my other cousins.”

  “Mr. Pellman checked the lock about four days ago and it worked. So if anyone had changed the lock, it had to have been in the last few days.”

  “I assure you that none of my relatives have been up in the last few days.”

  “Okay. I do have a question or two if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I’m here.”

  “There are four beautiful stained-glass panels inside the crypt. The scenes look like the four seasons. I even got on a ladder and looked at the autumn panel. I found a Tiffany signature. Are they real Tiffany?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m a suspicious guy, which is a good thing for a detective. When I first talked to Isaiah Pellman, it sounded to me that someone broke the original lock on purpose. And then I saw those panels. If they’re real Tiffany, they’re worth stealing.”

  “But you said everything looks in order.”

  “It does.”

  “So I’m confused.”

  “Are the panels Tiffany?”

  “Yes, and they do represent the four seasons. My grandmother commissioned them at the turn of the century.”

  “Okay. It might be a good idea to send someone up here and have them authenticated. Or my partner suggested that maybe someone from one of the colleges could authenticate them with your permission, of course.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course, they’re real!”

  “I’m sure they were at one point.”

  “What?” A long pause. “You think someon
e broke in and replaced the panels with forgeries?”

  “Mr. Sobel, I’m certainly no art expert. But I did climb up on a ladder to get an up-close look. That’s how I found the Tiffany signature. And I only looked at the autumn panel, sir, so I don’t know about the others. But on that panel, someone had painted the two soldered loops on the lead frame that secures the two chains that hang from the ceiling. The loops were painted dark brown to match the patina. The paint flaked off on my hand. Did you do a repair on that work?”

  “No, I did not! And it would be absurd to think that Tiffany Studios would paint something to make it look like old patina. Because when they did it, it wasn’t old. Furthermore, the glass is held in place by copper channels, not lead. It was a very expensive way of doing stained glass. Tiffany invented it as far as I know. So when it was new, it would have been shiny.”

  “Tell him about the perfect glass,” McAdams whispered.

  Decker nodded. “Also the stained glass in the panel was in perfect shape. My partner says that with authentic Tiffany, it’s more usual than not to find a crack or two somewhere.”

  “I don’t fucking believe this!” Sobel said. Decker heard a female voice in the background. Sobel was talking to it in an angry muffled voice. “Someone may have ripped off our Tiffany panels . . . yes, in the crypt!” Back to Decker. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Not at all. It’s up to you on how you want to proceed.”

  Sobel was still muttering curse words under his breath. “I’ll bring someone down . . . I can’t do it tomorrow. Is the crypt secured?”

  “Yes, we put a new padlock on it.”

  “I’ll see if my appraiser—better known as my son-in-law—can come down with me on Sunday. His place is closed so he’ll do me the favor for gratis. Well, not quite gratis. I’ve spent a fortune at his gallery . . . figure it benefits my grandchildren. Does Sunday work for you?”

  “Sunday would be fine. I’ll give you my phone number and my partner’s phone number.” After he gave Sobel the digits, Decker said, “Feel free to call either one of us. In the meantime, I’ll make sure that the watchmen check the crypt lock during their work hours.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”