“Don’t see it,” Oliver said.
“Why not?” McAdams said.
“Just a gut feeling based on experience. Do you disagree?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to figure out your conclusions logically.”
“That’s a mistake,” Oliver said.
Decker said, “I believe Sobel when he says he hadn’t seen Angeline for a long time. For now he’s out of the picture. Terry’s another story. I think something scared him enough to drop out of school and come running to the safety of home.”
“At least they didn’t shoot him,” McAdams said.
“True. If someone had, he would have phoned the police.” Decker sipped coffee. “We have a recent link of Lance to Angeline. The Petroshkovich book. But did he know that she was razoring out the prints?”
“He seemed genuinely surprised,” Oliver said. “But the point is, even if Terry didn’t know what she was up to, maybe someone saw them go into the library together. Maybe that someone thought they were up to mischief.”
“So you think the murders had to do with the Petroshkovich book?” Rina said.
“No,” Decker said. “The murders had to do with something very big and I don’t see the Petroshkovich book as being that big. But it does point the finger at another forgery that Angeline was involved in.”
Oliver said, “How did she reproduce the pictures if she never checked out the book? She would have had to have seen the originals, right?”
“Of course,” Decker said. “The book was coowned by Pretoria College in Marylebone. If we checked out the reference library there, do you think we’d find John Latham’s name on a sign-up sheet?”
Oliver said, “He took the plates, gave them to her, and she put the phony ones back when Terry checked the book out for her.”
“I’ll call Pretoria in the morning,” McAdams said.
“Let’s roll with that for a moment,” Decker said. “Angeline and Latham now have some original Nikolai Petroshkovich plates. What’s their next step?”
“To find a dealer,” Oliver said. “What about that Goddard guy you were talking to in Boston? The shootings happened right after you two came up to visit Summer Village.”
“What do you think?” Decker asked McAdams.
“Don’t like Goddard for the fence,” McAdams said. “The plates are too valuable to be sold as pretty works on paper. You need someone who specializes in Russian art.”
“Jason Merritt?” Decker asked.
“Kind of small stuff for him,” McAdams said. “I called him to ask about some items on his website as a prospective buyer for a fictitious museum. Like everything else in art, not all icons are alike. Some very old icons sell in the thousands. His icons are in the hundred-thousand-dollar range because they are very old and in very good shape.”
Oliver said, “Do you know if he deals in rare books?”
“No, I don’t know,” McAdams said. “Nothing like that is on his website.”
“But if something came his way?”
“The Petroshkovich book is worth about a hundred thousand intact. A single plate would be worth much less. I don’t see him selling anything like that. He’d have to know the plate was stolen.”
“Not even once?” Rina asked.
McAdams thought a moment. “He prides himself on being a reputable art dealer. Why would he buy a single plate or even two or three? He’d be risking everything to make a few bucks.”
“I still want to talk to him,” Decker said.
Rina said, “Even if Merritt doesn’t sell individual art plates, maybe someone in his gallery has a side business.”
McAdams raised his eyebrows. “That’s a thought.”
“I get them every once in a while,” Rina said.
“What about the guy who works there? Victor Geronimo or something like that?”
“Victor Gerrard.” Decker turned to Rina. “Want to come with us tomorrow, darling? You can assess Gerrard while we talk to Merritt.”
“Sure. I’ve got nothing to do.” Rina shook her head. “Other than luxuriate in this fabulous place.”
Decker said, “Let’s keep Schultz at the apartment, guarding Mrs. McAdams. Unless Oliver would like the job?”
“It’s tempting but since you asked me out here to help, I might as well deliver.”
Rina said, “What specifically would you like me to do?”
“Just be a good distraction.”
McAdams smiled, “No offense to Rina’s beauty, but in this case, I think I may be a better distraction.”
“Already thought of that and that’s why you’re coming, too.” Decker shrugged. “You can’t tell with these art dealers so I might as well cover all bases.”
CHAPTER 32
MULROONEY SAID, “WE found Latham’s storage bin.”
Decker switched his cell to the other ear. “That’s amazing!” It was eight in the morning and he only knew it was Tuesday because of his watch. The days seemed endless and he needed something external to keep him grounded. He was finishing his continental breakfast of orange juice, tea, and a croissant and jam when he got the call. The table was set with fine china. He was balancing a scalloped coffee cup with one hand and the phone with the other. He tried not to drop anything. “What’s inside?”
“That’s the bad part. The place had been cleaned out except for one lone key.”
“A key?”
“Yes, a key.”
Decker sighed. “I already know the answer but any idea what it’s for?”
“I wish. No identification other than the lock is a Schlage. But it wasn’t randomly left behind. It was jammed into a corner and taped to the wall. If Latham was dealing in stolen art, I’m thinking he took his hot merchandise elsewhere.”
“He probably knew that the police had found out about the forgeries. Maybe Angeline saw us poking around the crypt. Or maybe the tip came from another person. I’m betting the key is another storage bin and that puts us back to square one.”
Mulrooney said, “Except that we do have a key. But why hide it in an empty storage bin? Why not in a safe-deposit box?”
Decker said, “If he got caught, we’d look for a safe-deposit box. But if we found out about his storage bin, we’d look and find it empty and we’d have nothing. Your guys did good to find it.”
“Be even better if we found a bin with the art,” Mulrooney said.
Decker said, “If he rented another a storage bin, we’ll find it.”
“We’re doing the paper trail. Nothing yet but we’ll keep at it.”
“You know? Maybe this is where Angeline Moreau entered the picture. Maybe she took care of renting the bins.”
“Did you find any bills for storage rentals?”
“No. But maybe she paid cash and used an assumed name. We know that they used throwaway phones. No doubt they were careful.”
“Then she’d have a copy of the keys,” Mulrooney said. “Do you have her keys?”
“I have some of her keys. They’ve been filed as evidence. Can you send me a copy of the key you found in the empty bin? I’ll see if it matches up to anything we’ve got.”
“I’ll courier it over to Greenbury.”
“I’m not in Greenbury. I’m in New York.” Decker brought him up to date.
Mulrooney said, “Do you think Lance Terry was involved in the murders?”
“No, but something scared him away from Greenbury.”
“A shooter?”
“If it was a shooter, he’d have gone to the police. Maybe a harassing phone call or someone tailing him. All of us think he’s still hiding something. We all think that it could be that he was involved in the thefts.”
“Could be if he took a header. I’ll make a dozen copies of the keys and we can begin to search for the missing bin—if there even
is one. When are you back in Greenbury so I can send you a copy to compare it with Angeline’s keys.”
“I’ll call up my captain and let him know. He’ll take care of it.”
“Good. What’s your next step?”
“Since it appears that Angeline was stealing art plates from the Petroshkovich book, I’m going to visit Jason Merritt—the dealer who specializes in Russian art. It seems a little lightweight for him, but I have to check it out. Any word from Professor Gold?”
“Nope. I’ll give him a call. Keep me informed.”
“I will. Bye.” Decker hung up, called up Mike Radar, and explained the situation.
Radar said, “So you want me to see if Angeline has an identical key on her ring. And if she does, to start looking for storage bins in our area.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll assign the hunt to Ben and Kevin. If there is a match, they’ll let you know.”
“So can you call Chris Mulrooney in Summer Village and set it up?”
“Yeah, sure. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Tonight, hopefully.”
“Good. I’m going to Rayfield Library to pull Lance Terry’s card. While I’m there, I’ll nose around, talk to some of Terry’s pals, find out if the kid was actually threatened. We’ll trade notes later in the day. Just watch your back. No heroics.”
“I hear you.” Decker disconnected the line. Oliver came into the breakfast room: he was back to his old dapper self—pressed white shirt, red tie, black suit, and polished shoes. He sat down and picked up a slice of toast. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t bother. It’ll only make it harder in the long run.”
“I say live in the moment. Oh, before I forget . . .” Oliver pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Courtesy of Detective Dunn. Mr. Merritt isn’t Mr. Squeaky Clean.”
Decker looked over the rap sheet. Merritt had been cited twice for drunk driving. The two incidents had been six years apart and the last one was eight years ago. Those priors weren’t nearly as interesting as the fraud charge ten years ago.
“Two years’ probation,” Oliver said. “I’m thinking that he represented something as genuine when it wasn’t.”
“But to get the charge to stick, he had to have known it wasn’t genuine.”
“He pled a nolo. But that begs the question. If the item was fake, why didn’t he just return the money?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the money to return.”
McAdams limped into the room, using a cane for balance. Oliver said, “Are you sure you should be walking?”
“I’m tired of people giving me pitiful looks when I’m perfectly healthy.” He sat down. “The reference library at Pretoria doesn’t open until nine. I left a message.”
Decker thought a moment. “Give Allan Sugar a call. Ask him if he’d like to go to Pretoria and check out the sign-up sheets personally.”
McAdams poured a cup of coffee. “He’s kinda old to be running around.”
“It was his case. Let’s give him the courtesy.”
McAdams took out his phone and made the call. A minute later, he hung up. “He sounded eager. Go figure.”
“I know how old cops think because I am one,” Decker said.
“It’s the jones of police work,” Oliver said. “It never goes away.”
McAdams sipped coffee. “Anything new?” Decker brought him up to date. Then Tyler said, “Interesting but not shocking. Merritt’s an art dealer.”
“Are they particularly more dishonest than anyone else?” Oliver said.
“Probably not, but they deal with rich clients. More temptation to fudge because the stakes are higher.” McAdams buttered toast. “I’d like to think I’m honest, but I’ve never been tested. Money isn’t my thing. Of course, I have a lot of it.”
“So what’s your Achilles heel?” Oliver asked. “Power? Women? Drugs?”
“I dunno. Maybe power. How about you?”
“Women.”
“What about you, Old Man? Are you corruptible?”
“I’d have to think about it, Harvard.”
“What about your family? Would you protect them if they did something illegal?”
“I suppose it depends on what they did.”
“Would you turn them in if they murdered someone?”
“If it was premeditated, yes. Even if it wasn’t, I still think I’d do it. Going to the police is usually the best option, as long as you go in with a great defense lawyer.”
“Hedging your bets.”
“Just using the law to my advantage. What about you, Oliver? Would you turn your sons in for murder?”
“Probably, but I couldn’t swear to it. The one thing I’ve learned being a cop for all my life: justice isn’t black and white.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Decker said. “I remember once when Cindy was around sixteen. She wound up at a twenty-four-hour drugstore at three in the morning with her friends. She wasn’t supposed to be out that late. Neither my ex-wife nor I would have known about it except unfortunately for her, the store was robbed. The cops took statements of everyone there.”
“Poor kid,” McAdams said.
“Yeah, her cover was blown. We were both pretty damn pissed. Anyway, the case was handed over to a robbery detective who called up my ex-wife and asked her if Cindy could make a statement. My daughter lived with her mom. When Janet didn’t answer him right away, the detective—who didn’t know he was talking to a cop’s ex-wife—said if it was his daughter, he wouldn’t let her do it. So Janet said no and that was that. She called me later in the day, which was very unusual. She never called me for any reason other than money. She must have been sorely conflicted. She actually asked me if she did the right thing.”
“What’d you say?” McAdams asked.
“I said I agreed with her decision. First of all, it was a done deal so why make her feel bad even if she is an ex-wife. Second, I probably would have done the same thing. I know what these trials can be, the tolls that they can take on the psyche.”
“But then you’d never make a case if everyone refused to testify,” McAdams said.
“You’re absolutely right. If Cindy had been an adult, she could have decided for herself. But she was still a minor, and therefore it wasn’t her decision. All I can say in my defense is that with matters of personal safety, it’s family first.”
IT WAS HARD to tell the predominant emotion: outrage, anger, embarrassment, condescension, absurdity: Jason Merritt exhibited them all. Today he wore a black suit, blue shirt, and no tie with black ostrich boots on his feet. Russian art apparently did very well.
“Your accusations are monstrous,” Merritt snorted.
Decker tapped his toe and let the words hang in the air. Rina was wheeling McAdams through the gallery rooms, looking at the art. Oliver stood in the background. No sense ganging up on the guy. Decker said, “You’ve never dealt in books or plates at any point in your career?”
“I’ve already answered that question.”
“Even something as valuable as the Petroshkovich book?”
“Oh my God, how many times are you going to plow the same ground?”
Oliver broke in. “If someone offered you a good deal on the Petroshkovich, you wouldn’t buy it?”
“I don’t deal in rare books!”
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Oliver said. “There’s a stack of books on the front table.”
“Those aren’t rare books,” Merritt sniffed. “Those are current art books on the subjects I represent. I give them out to my clients as reference material.”
Decker was scribbling in his notepad, more to look busy than anything else. “And no one has ever offered you the Petroshkovich book or any plates from it.”
“That is correct.”
“But
you do know that Petroshkovich had left one of his copies to Rayfield Library and it was coowned with Pretoria College in Rhode Island.”
“More repetition, Detective?”
“It’s a habit, Mr. Merritt.” Decker pointed to McAdams. “We’re dealing with very serious stuff.”
Merritt lowered his voice. “I’m sorry for what happened to him. But to come in here and accuse me—”
“We’re not accusing anyone,” Oliver said. “Just gathering information.”
“Those charges you mentioned are decades old!”
“They are,” Decker said. “But because of what happened, we’re investigating everything. So please bear with us. So the last time you looked at the Petroshkovich book in the library was over two years ago.”
“At least two years ago.” Merritt had lowered his voice.
“At Littleton or at Pretoria?”
“I’ve been to both colleges, but I’ve not been to either recently. Look, I don’t know how many times I have to say this. Despite that charge, I don’t deal in stolen art. I pleaded a nolo contendere on the advice of my lawyer because I was in a no-win situation with a horribly aggressive man. I should have fought harder. But at the time, I just wanted this terrible chapter in my life to go away.”
“So why didn’t you just return the money?”
“I did return the money. He sued me anyway! And once he claimed fraud, it became a criminal charge and took on a life of its own!”
“And you won’t tell me who it was?”
“I’d love to give you his name. But I won’t as a matter of principle.”
“We can check court records.”
“You can’t. Everything was sealed at the settlement. He was a horrible man. He did it to spite me. And, may I add, it took him forever to return the piece back to me.”
“Did you give him the money right away?”
“There were some expenses that were incurred like shipping and insurance. I should have just absorbed everything but he made me mad.” Merritt shook his head. “Suffice it to say, it was an expensive lesson. Now, I don’t deal with anyone without references.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 33