“Are you looking in New York or in Philly?”
“We’re looking in New York. I’ve got feelers out in Philadelphia. And it looks like I should talk to Terry again. So I’m saying we’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”
“Tonight would be better. I’ll keep Ben and Kevin on the storage bin hunt. You call up Allan Sugar and find out if Latham checked out the book. Then you let me know.”
“I’ll call you back right away.”
Ten minutes later, Decker sat back down at the table with a smile on his face after speaking to Allan Sugar. The appetizers were gone and there were no entrées as of yet. He was starved, but in too good a mood to be his usual famished, grumpy self.
“Entrées should be here soon,” Rina said. “Service is a might slow.”
“I can tolerate the slow service. But I’m a little miffed that you didn’t save me an egg roll.”
“I thought you were off fried foods.”
“I’m never consistent. You should know that by now. Good news.” Decker brought everyone up to date. “So now we have two definitive links between Latham and Moreau—the same key on both their key rings and they both checked out the Petroshkovich book—or at least Terry did it for Angeline.”
“Or maybe he didn’t do it just for her,” Oliver said.
“What do you mean?” McAdams asked.
“Ask the boss,” Oliver said.
Decker hit his forehead. “He means there is a possibility that Lance Terry was in on the thefts and now he’s scared.”
McAdams raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“Didn’t you mention that he was a theater arts major?” Rina said. “As in acting?”
“Yes, I did,” Decker said. “Let’s pay him a visit right after lunch.”
“What about Gerrard?”
“It’s been about two weeks, he can wait another couple of hours.”
“Should I call Lance up?” McAdams asked.
“No. We’ll pop in. I don’t want him rabbitting. Eventually, we should check out Terry’s key ring. Maybe he has a copy of Latham’s key.”
“Like he’s going to incriminate himself in the theft?”
“If he doesn’t show us his keys, it says something,” Oliver said. “There’s a reason he’s running scared and it probably has to do with more than a few hang-up calls.”
“His alibis checked out for both murders,” McAdams said.
“He could have always hired out. He was rich enough.”
“What are you thinking, Scott?” Rina asked.
“Maybe originally Terry and Angeline had this little art theft thing going on. And then Latham comes in and not only takes over the operation, he steals the girl. So Terry cuts off his dick. ‘You cut me, I cut you.’ The Latham murder was personal.”
“I don’t know,” Decker said. “This feels like something bigger than a love triangle and a few pieces of stolen art. I keep thinking about that codebook.”
Rina said, “Maybe it started as something simple and Latham made it more complicated. And that’s when the real bad guy decided to show up.”
McAdams said, “It’s crazy: a codebook, a missing storage bin, three names erased from Jason Merritt’s client book, and we’re still missing Victor Gerrard.” The kid looked around. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, this is ridiculous.” Decker got up.
“Be kind,” Rina said.
But Peter had already stalked off. Five minutes later the entrées arrived. Different types of tofu meant to simulate meat, all of it drowned in tomato sauce and covered with cheese.
McAdams picked up his fork. “It looks awful. But at this point, they could serve me dog food in a chow bowl and I wouldn’t say anything.” He speared something oozy and gave it a taste. “Not bad.” He finished chewing and turned to Decker. “While you were out talking to Radar, I looked up Alex Beckwith, Ph.D. For the last ten years, he had been trying to persuade European museums to curate a traveling Da Vinci exhibit that would eventually come somewhere in the U.S., probably the Met.”
“That sounds ambitious,” Rina said. “And unrealistic.”
“Especially now,” McAdams said. “Between Nazi-looted art and the Chabad thing that Merritt was talking about, no one is loaning anything to the United States. Everyone is afraid that the pieces will get confiscated. Beckwith’s plans have clearly hit a roadblock.” McAdams smiled. “Looks like the Mona Lisa isn’t going anywhere.”
“He was trying to bring over the Mona Lisa?”
“I was being facetious. But any painting by Da Vinci is priceless because there are so few of them.”
“So that would be worth killing over,” Oliver said.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But even if you were bold enough and smart enough and connected enough to steal a Da Vinci, you couldn’t sell it anywhere.” McAdams was checking his notes. “I would think that Beckwith was working on something smaller in scope for an exhibition—like works on paper: also rare but not as priceless. Anyway, it’s all moot.”
“What about the other two Russians?” Decker asked. “Find anything on them?”
“Lars Dotter Hemellvich is actually Finnish. He lives in Norway and Croatia and is an art dealer who specializes in Byzantine Italian and Russian arts and mosaics. Martin Kosovsky is a Russian industrialist from Odessa.”
“What kind of industrialist?” Oliver asked.
“Oil and natural gas. I didn’t pull up much beyond that. For an oligarch, he keeps a low profile.”
“He’s an oligarch?”
“He’s very rich and he’s Russian and he isn’t Putin. Isn’t that the definition of an oligarch?” McAdams ate some mock chicken: it tasted like chicken. “I’ll delve a little deeper when I have more time. So next is Lance Terry?”
“Yes,” Decker said. “I’m hoping against odds he can lead us to Victor Gerrard.”
Rina put down her napkin. “Not my best choice of restaurants, I’m afraid.”
“It was fine,” Oliver said.
“If you like bad food and slow service, it was great.” Decker waited for Rina to punch him. Instead she just laughed. Decker kissed her cheek. “You’re a good sport. I’m always needling you.”
“That is true, but I love you anyway. Mainly because I get my way and needling is your attempt to balance the powers.” She kissed him back and regarded McAdams. “Poor Tyler. You hardly ate.”
“Not the most satisfying of meals, but maybe you did me a favor.” The kid shrugged. “Victor Gerrard may be dead and moldering. So given my track record with corpses, it’s best I don’t go hunting on a full stomach.”
CHAPTER 34
ARMS FOLDED ACROSS his barrel chest, Lance Terry was flushed and sweating. “You have no right to come down here and harass me. If my father was here—”
“If your father were here, I’d tell him that you were in danger and your best option is to talk to the police.” Decker looked around the hallway. “You already think people are following you. Who knows? Maybe someone is spying on us right now.”
The boy’s face drained of color, red to white. “Is someone following you?”
“If he is, he can see us talking. So how about if we come in? It’s a good first step.”
“Yeah . . . right.” Terry swung the door open and let the crew inside, his eyes on Rina, wondering about the new person in the mix. The place was quiet except for the distant clatter of laundry being spun in a dryer. There was a half-packed suitcase on the couch, another closed one on the floor.
Decker’s eyes went to the valise and then to Terry. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your housekeeper?” McAdams asked.
“I gave her the afternoon off.”
Oliver said, “You didn’t want her to see you packing and asking questions.”
/> Terry said nothing. He wore a body-hugging long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. There were hiking boots on his feet. His sandy hair swept across his damp brow.
“Where did your friend go? Livingston Sobel?”
“How should I know?” A pause. “He left last night. I suppose he went home.” His eyes refused to focus on any one spot. “Do you really think I’m in danger or is that just a pretense?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Decker said. “Obviously you think you’re in trouble. You’re packing way too much to be going back to school.”
“I’m not going back to school,” Terry said. “At least not this semester. Too much has happened.”
“What are you worried about, Lance?” When Terry didn’t answer, Decker said, “Why don’t we all sit down and you can tell us the truth.”
“I have been telling you the truth!” Terry insisted. “I didn’t have anything to do with Angeline’s death . . . or the dude.”
“His name was John Latham.”
“I didn’t kill her and I didn’t kill him!”
“I believe you,” Decker said. “But you certainly know more than you’ve been telling us. There have been hang-up calls. You think you’re being followed. We’re here because we’re concerned about your welfare.”
Terry seemed to wilt. He sat down next to his open suitcase. “You showing up here isn’t good for my health.”
“On the contrary,” Oliver said. “Our presence tells the bad guys that we got to you before they did. So hurting you wouldn’t serve any purpose for them other than to spur us to redouble our efforts. Right now the more people you tell, the better off you are.”
McAdams said, “What’s your password for your Wi-Fi?”
“My password?”
“The password for the apartment. I’d like to get on the Internet.”
“Terrypark. Capital T.”
“Thanks.”
Decker opened up his notepad. “Tell me about the hang-up calls.”
He whispered behind his hands. “A blocked call would come through my cell. When I answered it, I’d get heavy breathing—to let me know someone was there. And then whoever it was would hang up. I put in a *82 feature on my phone . . . so no one could get through without revealing the number. The calls would still come through as blocked. It freaked me out.”
“How long has this been happening?” Oliver asked.
“They began a few days after Angeline was murdered. And then after you guys were shot at, I—”
“Detective Decker was shot at,” McAdams interrupted. “I was shot.”
“I know, I know. I got nervous. I had to get out of there.”
“And you thought you were being followed,” Decker said.
“Could have been my imagination.”
“Probably not,” Oliver said. “Tell us about it.”
“I’d see things. Fleeting shadows but then I’d turn around to really look and it wouldn’t be anything.”
“So you felt like a person was following you?”
“As opposed to a dog, yes.”
“As opposed to a car, Lance.”
“Oh. I get what you’re saying. It’s hard to tail someone on campus with a car because you’re walking across quads and fields and things that don’t intersect streets. So no. I never noticed a car following me.” He furrowed his brow. “Like what kind of car?”
Decker said, “Silver Hyundai Accent van. Maybe two years old.”
Terry shuddered while he shook his head no.
“Detective Oliver is right,” Decker told him. “The more people who know your secrets, the better off you are. So start at the beginning.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“No, you haven’t, Lance. So either tell us or you’ll wind up telling someone who’s holding a gun to your head.”
He slapped his hands over his face. “It . . . God . . . it was so long ago.” No one spoke. “Just a stupid dare.” He looked up. “Hazing. To get into the frat.”
Everyone waited.
“I had to steal something from the cemetery. Not the one near the school, the big one in Bainbridge about ten miles away.”
“When did this happen?” Oliver asked.
“When I first started Littleton about three and a half years ago. That’s why I’m having a hard time believing that this whole mess has anything to do with me!”
“What did you steal?”
“A stone statue. It was maybe about three feet high. Some stupid goddess dressed in a Roman toga. It was in terrible condition. One arm was broken off. I found it buried in some ivy bushes and covered with dirt. So I took it because it didn’t look like anyone would miss it. Heavy motherfucker.” He exhaled. “Not my finest moment, but I was drunk and eager to please. Anyway, it sat in my dorm room for about a month or two months. And then I met Angeline. A few months later—after we were an item—she asked about it. I told her what I did. She was cool about it.”
Silence.
“More than cool. She was intrigued. She told me she had seen something like that at an antique store in Boston. She asked me if she could try to sell it and we’d split the profits. It was just sitting in my dorm so I said okay.”
Decker said, “Do you know who she sold it to?”
“No idea but she told me she got two hundred bucks—one hundred for each of us, which I blew by taking her out to dinner. I’m a moron.”
“Go on.”
“Nothing more to tell. She sold the statue, we split the money, and I never saw it again.”
“Lance, the statue was just the start. We know you did other thefts because we know the gallery owner who purchased the hot items.” A little white lie? Decker preferred to think of it as an educated guess. “So just get it all out.”
The kid deflated, drawing in his shoulders into his torso and then doubling over as if in stomach pain. “I can’t believe how this blew up in my face. It was just a stupid college prank, something you do when you’re drunk and when you’re getting pus—” He looked at Rina. “Girls can do weird things to your mind.”
“I’m aware of that,” Rina said.
“Tell us the rest of it,” Decker said.
“It was a couple of months later. She asked if I could get more things like it.”
“Like the statue.”
Terry nodded. “I told her I could look around.” A sigh. “So I lifted another statue from Bainbridge again: a smaller marble one. And then I lifted a couple of marble urns. She sold them and we split the profits. Because they were made from marble, she got more money for them.”
Decker turned to McAdams. “Check to see if the items are on the inventory list.”
“Already on it.”
“If you stole anything else, Lance, we’ll find out about it,” Decker told him. “So now is the time to tell us everything.”
He lowered his head. “I told her I wasn’t going to pinch any more statues. Too heavy and too risky a venture. So Angeline asked if there was anything else valuable in the cemetery that was smaller and less heavy . . . so I wouldn’t have to take a big risk lugging it around.”
“And you said?”
“God . . .” He shook his head. “I told her there was a meditation room that held cremated ashes in metal urns. Some of the urns looked like genuine silver.”
“You stole people’s remains?” Rina asked.
“No! No, I didn’t. Just the urns!”
“So what did you do with the remains? Dump them on the floor?”
“No! Of course not.” Everyone waited for Terry to continue. “She asked if I could get inside the room. I said the door wasn’t locked, but I wasn’t about to steal remains. That’s bad karma. Instead she told me to take pictures on my phone of the silver urns. Detailed pictures: close-ups. She said it was for a project, but I k
new she was lying.”
“But you did it anyway,” Oliver said.
“I sent her the pictures. I figured what she did with them was her own business.”
“And what did she do with them?”
“She copied the urns but used a cheap metal that she painted silver. She even engraved them with the same markings using a dremel tool.” A big sigh. “This took her about six months. When she was done, she cajoled me to go back just one more time.”
A long pause. “So I swapped out the real ones for the cheap ones.”
“This substitution is sounding very familiar.” McAdams showed him a picture on his iPad. “Uh . . . take a look at this marble urn, Lance. Does it look familiar?”
“Maybe it was one of mine, but I couldn’t swear to it.” A pause. “Wow, he’s asking a thousand dollars.”
Oliver said, “What did you two do with the silver urns?”
“On some of them, Angeline was able to polish out the inscription. On the others where the inscription was too deep, she said they were no good on the retail market. So she melted them down for the metal price. But I want you to know that I did transfer the ashes into the cheap urns. So I didn’t steal Uncle Gomer or Aunt Dottie. They’re right where they’re supposed to be . . . just not in a fancy package . . . not that it matters to them.”
His self-serving declaration was met with accusing silence.
Lance blushed. “I’ll reimburse out of my own pocket if you promise no jail time.”
“Kid, right now, that’s the least of your worries,” Oliver said.
“What other items did you steal?” Decker asked.
“Nothing after that.” Terry winced. “I swear it! I refused to go back to the cemetery. The last job gave me the creeps. Not that she didn’t try to change my mind. But when she saw that cemeteries were out, she pushed me into other things.”
“Like?”
“Razoring out antique maps from old atlases.”
“When was this?”
“About a year and a half ago, must have been in the start of our junior year. And FYI, I refused to do it. For one thing, you saw how careful they are at the reference desks. I knew I’d get caught. Then Angeline suggested that we could go to local libraries along the Hudson. Small towns are often filled with antique books. And no one cares about them. But I told her no. If she wanted to do it, she was on her own. She dropped it, but I knew her schemes weren’t over, especially when she showed up with a Movado watch on her wrist. She dumped me because I wasn’t of any use to her anymore. Finally, when she started sporting expensive stuff, it dawned on me that she got herself a new partner.”
Murder 101: A Decker/Lazarus Novel (Decker/Lazarus Novels Book 22) Page 35