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

by Kellerman, Faye

Decker stepped in a moment later and kissed his wife. “Hello, gorgeous.” To Tyler. “How are you feeling, Harvard?”

  “No one wants to hear my bitchin’ so I guess all right.”

  Decker smiled. “Is Scott here?”

  “He arrived around five minutes ago,” Rina said. “He’s settling into his room.”

  Decker took off his coat and scarf. “I’ll just hang these up and go say hello.” To Tyler, he said, “Seriously. Are you feeling better?”

  “Ready to take on the library, Old Man.” A pause. “Actually, it’ll feel good to do something even if it’s menial.”

  “It’s not menial, but it is tedious. Get to know your adjectives.”

  “Did you hear back from Professor Gold about the codebook?”

  “Mulrooney gave him a copy, but I don’t know if he’s looked at it yet. I’m planning to see him tomorrow. Maybe being there in person will spur him on. I need a warm body in the car with me before Mike and my wife will let me go do my job. Scott will serve that purpose.”

  “I’m sure.” McAdams looked pissed.. “For one thing, he knows how to shoot.”

  Rina patted the kid’s shoulder. “Anything new with the case. Peter?”

  “Well . . . we’ve called just about every hospital within a hundred-mile radius and have come up empty. Maybe I just grazed him.”

  “I heard the unmistakable thud, Peter. You definitely hit bone.”

  “You can’t go around for long with a gunshot wound. He has to have been treated somewhere. Maybe he has a private doctor who knows how to extract bullets and doesn’t ask too many questions.”

  Rina said, “Someone he knew he could go to in case he got shot?”

  “Yep.” Decker turned to McAdams. “That’s why I’m thinking a group of people are involved.”

  “And you’re wondering why I don’t want you traveling by yourself,” Rina said.

  “I’ll be fine.” Decker knew he shouldn’t be talking in front of her. After what happened four days ago, she was still scared. But often she had interesting things to add. More important, it wasn’t fair to keep her in the dark when she could be in danger. She should know everything he knew, which, at the moment, was paltry.

  “Are you interested in dinner?” Rina asked.

  Mercifully, she had switched the conversation. Decker said, “Always.”

  “Then go change. I just have to warm everything up.”

  “Need help?”

  “You can set the table.”

  “I can do that,” McAdams said.

  “You baked the cake, he can set the table.”

  Decker grinned. “You baked a cake?”

  “Apple with a cinnamon streusel,” McAdams said. “Damn good especially considering I did it from a sitting position.”

  “That is a feat. Did you meet Scott?”

  “Not yet. I figure we’ll be forced to talk to each other over dinner.”

  “It won’t be a strain. He’s a friendly guy, Tyler.”

  “He may be . . . but I’m not.”

  AFTER A GOOD meal and flowing wine, Oliver had shed ten years in his face.

  In vino veritas.

  Decker cleared the dishes while Rina brought out coffee and Tyler’s cake. “I’m full right now. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business.”

  “Not this time.” Decker patted her seat. “You need to know what’s going on.”

  “He’s right,” McAdams said. “Someone tried to kill you. And I’ll be insulted if you don’t try my cake.”

  “And here I was thinking I could eat it by myself with a big cup of coffee.” She turned to Oliver. “The one thing about living in a cold climate is the sheer joy of curling up in front of a fire with dessert and a good book.”

  “You know how I hate to get you involved, Rina, but this is an exception.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “And I can always use a different point of view.”

  “I can grow six inches and pretend I’m Marge.” Rina poured coffee for all and then she sat down. “Marge was the designated barista and I’m sure not by choice.”

  “I made coffee.” Decker was offended.

  “Not cappuccino.”

  “No, not that. But I made many a pot of rotgut coffee in my time at LAPD. And speaking of Marge, I got a report on Chase Goddard. Hold on, I’ll go get it.”

  “Who’s on watch tonight?” McAdams asked.

  “Sam Brook.”

  “Sam?” He shook his head. “All righty dighty.”

  “What’s wrong with Sam Brook?” Rina asked.

  “Nothing if you like your guards around twelve years old and weighing ninety pounds.”

  Decker said, “He’s a good shot.”

  “Well . . . then he has one up on me.”

  After Decker left, Oliver turned to McAdams. “How do you feel?”

  “It sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does. Deck likes working with you.”

  “Now that’s a lie.”

  “No, it isn’t. He didn’t at first, but now he does. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Decker didn’t tell you about the case?”

  “Of course he did. But I’d like to hear what you have to say.” Oliver took out a notepad. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Let me go get my iPad . . . which I should have had with me.” He wheeled himself from the dining room and down the hallway.

  Decker came back. “Where’d the kid go?”

  “To fetch his iPad. Then he’s going to give me a rundown on the case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s good for him to do it, good for Rina to hear the basics, and good for us to hear his point of view.”

  “Still got the gray matter, Scott.” Decker grinned. “It matches your hair.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. AARP, I think going au naturel shows the sign of a confident man.” No one spoke. “Do they sell Grecian formula here?”

  “Yes.” Rina sliced the cake. “The population here is either college age or retirement age with very little in between.”

  McAdams returned and proceeded to give a complete recap up to the point of his getting shot.

  Oliver tapped his pencil against his pad. “You didn’t see anything?”

  “As soon as I heard the noise, I locked myself in the closet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Decker had spooked me with the silver van that was tailing us, and it was a good thing he did.” He looked down. “He tried to shoot the lock, but the closet is double reinforced wood and has a Medico.”

  “What was in there that’s so valuable?” Oliver asked McAdams.

  “I have a safe with a lot of cash.” No one spoke. “Fifty grand.”

  “Whoa!” Oliver said. “That’s a lot of greenery to keep around. Maybe someone was out to rob you, son.”

  “My first thought . . . until Decker showed up. Besides no one knew about the money.”

  “What’s wrong with the bank?” Decker said.

  “People talk around here . . . even bank tellers. I was hoping to fly under the radar.”

  “It’s true,” Rina said. “People do talk.”

  Oliver turned back to McAdams. “What else do you remember?”

  “Not much after I got shot. Sorry.”

  Rina distributed slices of the cake, licking her fingers when she was done. “So any theories as to what’s going on?”

  “The whole thing sounds nutty,” Oliver said. “If you’re a professional, the last thing you want is attention from the heat. And the quickest way to bring heat on is to take swipes at police officers.”

  “In America, that’s true,” Decker said. “Only stupid people try to bring down cops. Not so in foreign countries. Look at Mexico or Latin America. Gangs and cartels are always taking down cops.”
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  “You think this is the work of a Mexican gang?”

  “He thinks we’re dealing with Russian mafia,” McAdams said. “Bratva is the local name for it.”

  “Because of some stolen Russian icons?”

  “The Petroshkovich icons . . . which is a thirty-year-old case, FYI,” McAdams said.

  Decker said, “I think it has to do with Russian mafia because John Latham was the primary target and Latham’s specialty was Soviet art. I’ve worked what . . . three hundred homicides? This one feels foreign. These guys don’t care about cops because they’re not beholden to American law. And then when you throw in this codebook.”

  “Yeah, it is kinda spy versus spy,” Oliver said.

  McAdams said, “It could be a red herring—the codebook.”

  “Someone went to all that trouble to produce a very complex and educated red herring?” Decker said. “I don’t think so.” He opened the manila envelope and pulled out the fax. “Marge’s report on Chase Goddard.” His eyes scanned the page. “Nothing much. A couple of DUIs in Miami.”

  “He had a gallery in Florida?” McAdams asked.

  “Uh . . . ten years ago . . . about two years before he moved to New York. He’s certainly hopped around.”

  “So maybe we are dealing with a drug cartel,” McAdams said.

  “Why do you say that?” Decker handed Oliver the fax.

  “Isn’t Florida an entry point for drugs?” McAdams said. “Maybe the codebook has nothing to do with art. Maybe it has to do with shipments of drugs from Florida.”

  “So now we’re tagging John Latham as a drug dealer?”

  “It was one of your theories early on,” McAdams reminded him.

  Oliver held up his hand. “Let me get this straight. Chase Goddard has had art galleries in Miami, New York, and Boston.”

  “Not to bolster my theory, but maybe he’s distributing,” McAdams said.

  “Or maybe he’s just following the money,” Rina said. “Most galleries are in big cities or resorts because who else can afford art and antiques.”

  “Where there’s money, there’s drugs,” McAdams said. “And like Oliver said . . .” He turned to him. “Do I call you Oliver or Scott?”

  “Oliver’s fine.”

  “Like he said, who shoots up the police unless they’re in a chase or a shoot-out or they have utter disregard for the law. Drug dealers have utter disregard of the law.”

  “Do you see Chase Goddard as a drug dealer, Deck?” Oliver said.

  “Not really. He’s a little old and most dealers aren’t Harvard educated. Plus he was obsequious when Tyler mentioned his father. He seems to want business. I can see him buying stolen art and drinking too many martinis. I can’t see him in the back room castrating bodies and cutting heroin with quinine.”

  “Heroin’s cut with quinine?” McAdams asked.

  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 shr
ugged, 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.”