Murder 101 (23 page)

“John Latham?” Goddard thought about the name for a decent amount of time. “No, I don’t know him.” A beat. “I certainly don’t know the name.”

“What about Angeline Moreau?” Decker asked.

Again, he didn’t speak right away. “No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”

“She is our murder victim,” Decker said. “Latham’s case belongs to Summer Village. We think the two of them were working together on something illegal and were murdered because of it.”

Goddard winced. “And you’re from . . . where again?”

“Greenbury, New York.”

“Ah, near the Five Colleges.”

“Yes. Do you have any association with the colleges, Mr. Goddard?”

“No, no, but of course I’ve heard of them. They’re quite respectable.”

“But they’re not Harvard,” McAdams said.

Goddard said, “There are other universities, Detective.”

“Not to me.”

The art dealer paused. “You’re a Crimson man, I take it.”

“Graduated almost four years ago.”

“And you’re working as a policeman?”

McAdams simply shrugged. “There’s a real world out there that Harvard chooses to ignore.”

Goddard raised his eyebrows. “I was in Harvard ages ago, when there was still a Radcliffe. As a matter of fact, I was there when it went co-ed.”

“Seventy-seven,” McAdams said. “My father had just started law school. James McAdams.”

“James McAdams . . . James Mc— Do you mean Jack McAdams?”

“That’s my dad.”

“Well, that does take me back. I’m sure he wouldn’t know me. Your father was a big man not only in the law school but in general.” A pause. “What’s he doing now?”

“He was in law. Now he fills his time by managing his inherited fortune from my grandfather. It seems to be a full-time job.”

“Oh . . . right.” Goddard colored slightly. “I know this sounds terribly crass, but if he’s interested in buying or selling . . .”

“I’ll pass the word on.”

He gave Decker a forced smile. “Anything else?”

“I do have a few more questions.”

Goddard sighed. “Can I interject something?”

“Of course.”

“You know Summer Village has a high homicide rate. It’s not unusual for murder to take place in that area.”

“The homicide of a visiting lecturer is not routine for them. And the murder of a college student in Greenbury is not routine for us. Neither are art thefts.”

“Tell me again what happened?”

Decker bit his lip. The guy didn’t need a recap, but he gave it to him anyway.

Goddard tented his hands. “So from a small break-in at a local mausoleum, you’ve constructed this . . . art theft ring that you think is responsible for two murders?”

“We haven’t constructed anything, Mr. Goddard. We’re just trying to make sense of what happened.”

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you. I don’t deal in stolen art.”

“You deal in antiques. You must get people trying to sell you things.”

“I do and most of what is brought to me is worthless.”

“But not all.”

“I get the occasional gem. And I do my best to make sure the piece is genuine and the ownership is flawless. And that is why most of what I buy is from private clients and estates. Over the years, I’ve worked very hard to establish a list of people who stay with me because I’m as fair and competitive with anyone out there.”

“
Fortes fortuna adiuvat,
” McAdams said.

Goddard smiled. “Well, fortune certainly doesn’t appear ex nihilo.” An awkward moment of silence. He took his hands in and out of his pockets several times. “My business is strictly on the up-and-up. I wouldn’t deal with scum because it is not only dishonest, but it’s also bad business practice. In this field, all you have going for you is your knowledge and your reputation.”

“You’ve never accidentally bought something with a less than a perfect provenance?”

Goddard made a sour face. “If you’d look around the gallery, you would see that there are a variety of objects from inexpensive to very expensive. I work hard to check out provenance but if some youngster comes in with a piece of Meissen and tells me it’s from his grandmother’s attic, I might not go through the provenance as rigorously as if he had brought me a . . . Thomas Moran or Frederic Church for instance. Now if that same youngster came in a day later and brought in a piece of Daum and a day later, brought in a piece of Hester Bateman silver, I would be suspicious. The pieces have no relevance to one another and the piecemeal sale would make me think, he’s stealing. I’ve been in this business a long time. You know what’s legitimate and what isn’t.”

“You had a gallery in New York, didn’t you?”

The dealer huffed. “I’m sure you know I did. And I’m sure you know that I didn’t have a lot of success. And that was because I was attacked by a hateful campaign started by some unscrupulous dealers. Their venal little clique isn’t open to anyone else unless you pay homage to them. I refused to play the game and they spread vicious rumors. I’ve never ever done a deal mala fide. Anything else?”

“What can you tell me about the Petroshkovich icons?”

“Good Lord, that happened years ago.”

“It did. Have you ever dealt in icons?”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything. Just asking a question.”

“Then I’ll ask you one. What do
you
have to do with the Petroshkovich case?”

Decker said. “It’s an unsolved art theft case. And like our theft, it happened in a small town. The items were stolen from a church, not from a museum: easy pickings and the thieves knew exactly what they were looking for.”

Goddard was quiet. Then he said, “Icons are a specialized item. You should talk to Jason Merritt in New York.”

“We have. He says he doesn’t know anything about the theft.”

“I’m sure he would say that.” A pause. “Did . . . Jason sic you on me?”

“Your name came up.”

Goddard’s cheeks colored. “Like grandfather like grandson.”

“What can you tell me about his grandfather?”

“Nothing. It’s all just rumors and having been the victim of flapping tongues, I should know better than to pay credence to idle talk.”

“Jason told me that his great-grandfather and his grandfather had special privileges in Russia during the Soviet regime. In the early years, they picked up a lot of religious art and icons at discounted prices because no one wanted it.”

Goddard looked upward, debating what to say. “Discounted prices may be an understatement.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s just say the regime was unstable and a lot of looting was going on. And that’s all you’ll get out of me.”

Decker knew when to push and when to move on. “I know you don’t recognize the names of the victims. Could I show you pictures? Maybe they used different names.”

A sigh. “Why not?”

“This is Angeline Moreau,” Decker told him. “She was an art major at Littleton College. She made frequent trips to the Boston area as well as trips to New York City.”

Goddard barely gave the photo a glance. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“Okay.” Decker wondered why people made statements like that. How do you know everyone you have or haven’t seen? “What about John Latham?”

It took Goddard even less time to blow Decker off. “I’ve never seen him, either.”

The man was reaching the end of his tether. Decker said, “And you’re sure you’ve never had any contacts—”

“I don’t know them, sir, and I’ve certainly never dealt with them. Is there anything else?”

McAdams said, “Would you mind if we took a look around the gallery?”

“Whatever for?”

“How can I tell my dad about you if I don’t know what you have?”

“Oh . . . yes, of course. I’m sorry if I seem so rude. All this nonsense and rumors with New York has stirred up old memories. It was a bad time for me.”

McAdams said, “
Fortis in arduis.
”

“Isn’t that the truth!” Goddard sat down at his desk. “Of course, take a look around. And I won’t hover. I’ll be doing paperwork if you have questions. If not, please enjoy.”

The two men left his tiny office and began perusing the inventory. Goddard had everything in no particular order. Some of it was displayed, some of it seemed incidental. There was furniture, paintings, silver, porcelain, old lamps and lighting fixtures hanging from the ceilings, carpets on the pine floors. There were sets of china, antique linens, vintage cookware, and fireplace accoutrements. Shelves and racks and rows of curios were stuffed into every nook and cranny. Decker said, “Do you know anything about antiques?”

“Only to say that this is pretty standard stuff: eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European. Not the right place to fence Tiffany.” McAdams picked up a Rosenthal cobalt platter.

Decker pointed to the wall. He whispered, “Framed antique map.”

“I noticed.” The kid put the platter down. “Also antique plant prints.”

The men continued to hunt around. McAdams whispered, “I was using phrases from the notebook by the way.”

“I gathered that.”

“Tried to work them in as seamlessly as possible.”

They regarded a shelf of silver. Decker said, “Go tell him good-bye and I’ll meet you outside. He likes you better than he likes me.”

McAdams smiled. “Must be my charm.”

A moment later, they were walking back on Newbury, headed toward the rental. It was dark, cold, and misty, but the street was well lit, which mitigated the gloominess.

“Do you want to pick up some coffee before we head back?” Decker asked.

“Sure. Let’s go to Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve developed a taste for cronuts.”

Decker got into the driver’s seat, turned on the motor, and warmed up the engine. “Want to tell me what the Latin meant?”

“Sure.
Fortes fortuna adiuvat
means ‘fortune favors the bold.’
Fortis in arduis
literally means ‘strong in difficulties’: sort of what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. He used the phrase
Mala fide
means—”

“In bad faith.” When McAdams looked at him, Decker said, “Not hard to figure out. Also law school.”

“Right.” McAdams rubbed his hands together.

Decker said, “Who do you know at Harvard who does codes?”

“A professor I had. Brilliant guy. Codes are his hobby.”

“Hold on.” On speakerphone, Decker called Mulrooney and asked the Summer Village detective if it was all right to show the notebook to a third party at Harvard.

“I could probably find someone at Tufts,” Mulrooney said.

“Latham worked at Tufts,” Decker said. “I’d rather use another university.”

“That makes sense,” Mulrooney said. “What’s that guy’s name?”

“Dr. Mordechai Gold,” Tyler told him. “He’s a tenured professor in the math department. I took his class on game theory. I doubt that he’ll remember me, but he’s brilliant and I know he’s an expert at code cracking. He’s probably not going to be able to help us right away, but at least we can drop off the notebook.”

Mulrooney said, “Yeah, you can call him up. Let me know what he says. Keep me in the loop, guys.”

“As soon as we have a clue, we’ll pass it on.” Decker hung up his cell.

McAdams was on his phone. “Okay, I’ve got a department number.” He punched in the numbers. “Do you want to talk to him or should I?”

“You do it.”

“Right.” McAdams pressed the green button. After being put on hold, he was finally connected to Professor Gold’s office. “It’s a machine.” He waited. “Hello, Professor Gold, this is Detective Tyler McAdams from Greenbury Police Department in upstate New York. I took your game theory class four years ago and I remember your expertise in code cracking. My partner, Detective Peter Decker, and I are working a puzzling case and could use some advice. If you could call me, I’d appreciate it.” Tyler left his cell number, Decker’s cell number, and then he hung up.

“Perfect,” Decker said. “You didn’t tell him anything specific but you piqued his interest. You’re turning pro, McAdams. I now have a partner instead of dead weight.”

“You have a way with words, Decker.”

“Don’t I though? Clearly your brains are paying off.” Decker put the car into drive and grinned. “Now all we have to do is work on the brawn.”

CHAPTER 23

F
UELED UP ON
coffee and carbs, Decker drove back to Greenbury on the highway, keeping an eye out for silver vans and black ice. He thought McAdams was dozing off, but then the kid suddenly sat up and dry washed his face.

Tyler checked his watch. “Six-thirty. It feels like eleven. I hate winter: the long, dark, cold nights. No wonder there’s so much drinking and screwing in college.”

“Don’t blame that on winter,” Decker said. “California universities have just as much drinking and screwing.” A pause. “What’s your take on Goddard? Anything in the shop worth beaucoup bucks?”

“Nothing worth killing for. His shop has a little of this and a little of that: a perfect front to fence stolen items.”

“Like the framed antique maps and prints,” Decker said. “And he had some antique books behind the glass case. I noticed
The Long Goodbye
by Raymond Chandler. That has to be worth something.”

“If it’s a first edition, yes. There was also a
Swann’s Way
by Marcel Proust.”

“Given his reputation in New York, Goddard as a fence doesn’t seem like a stretch. But do you see him as a murderer?”

“No. He’d never get his hands dirty. Maybe he hired someone.”

“Do you see him arranging contract killings? Knowing those kinds of people?”

“I know this sounds pedestrian, but I watch those true crime shows. It seems pretty easy to get some lowlife to shoot someone. It doesn’t even take that much money.”

“But Latham’s murder did not have any hallmarks of being an amateur hit. Someone was proving a point. You fuck with me, this is what happens. Do you see Goddard setting up a professional hit?”

“Maybe not.” McAdams took off his jacket. It was warm in the car. “So what do you think about Goddard?”

“Instinctively, I don’t like the man, but that doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

“I saw some Tiffany pieces from the grapevine collection, but those aren’t major Tiffany. So are we back to thinking that Maxwell Stewart is the bad guy?”

“I don’t see that, either.” A pause. “I keep coming back to the Petroshkovich icons.”

“Why? That happened ages ago.”

“Because Latham was butchered and his field was Soviet art. Plus, he had this weird codebook in educated languages, which sounds international—and I like Russian mobsters as bad guys.”

“Russian
mobsters
?” McAdams made a face. “How’d you get from stolen Tiffany to Russian mobsters?”

“Well . . .” Decker bit his lip. “With the codebook, I think Latham had been doing something illegal for a while. I think he was the intended target.”

“Agreed.”

“I think Latham had underground illegal contacts for stolen art mostly in his field of expertise, which was Soviet art. And since he did have dirty contacts, maybe he fenced lesser stuff on his own to make a quick buck. Things like stolen books and antique prints. Things like Tiffany panels that he found out about from Angeline Moreau.”

“Okay. So why was she murdered? And so brutally!”

“She put up a struggle, she was hit, but she was probably strangled and maybe stabbed. But wasn’t
dissected
. Latham was. He was the main target. He bore the brunt of someone’s uncontrolled anger. I think she was killed because of her association with Latham. Someone was nervous that she knew too much, that Latham had told her too much.”

“She was murdered first, Decker.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You’d think Latham would be first on the list.” He thought a moment. “Angeline was murdered Sunday night . . . right after we met with Sobel and Steward at the crypt, right?”

“Well, not right after . . . but soon after, yes.”

“Suppose the killer saw us investigating the break-in . . . or at least got word that we were investigating the break-in. He comes up to Greenbury, murders Angeline, then works his way up the coast.”

“If you’re saying his working his way
up
the coast, are you assuming he’s from somewhere south of here?”

“Good point. Maybe we should go back to New York.”

“Sure. Whatever you think, boss.”

Decker was quiet. “We do know that both of their places were ransacked. The killer was looking for something.”

McAdams held up the codebook.

“Exactly,” Decker said. “We need to get it translated. If Gold doesn’t call back soon, we’ll try someone else.”

McAdams nodded. “This is the thing I’m confused about. The Petroshkovich icons happened decades ago. Why would that theft suddenly result in murder?”

“Okay. Let me throw this out. Suppose through his studies in Soviet art, Latham found out who is in possession of the Petroshkovich icons. Suppose it was someone in Russia who was very rich—like an oligarch.”

“Okay.”

“Suppose Latham made contact with the guy who has the Petroshkovich icons and presented him with another opportunity to buy something of value that might not have been obtained through regular channels. Suppose an agreement was reached. But then suppose his ‘client’ found out that Latham had hired someone else to do his illegal work. Plus, the client found out that Latham was involved romantically with his hired help. You know . . . pillow talk. Maybe the client got nervous that too many people were involved on this buying opportunity.”

“So why didn’t the ‘client’ just back out?”

“Because Latham knew the client had the stolen Petroshkovich icons in his possession. So he had both of them killed.”

McAdams shrugged. “Over some thirty-year-old stolen icons?”

“Okay.” Decker nodded. “Maybe you have a point. So let’s go back to motive, Tyler. What’s worth killing over? And think Russian.”

“The twenty-seven cartons that supposedly contain the original Amber Room.”

“Could be.”

“Uh, I wasn’t serious.” When Decker didn’t answer, Tyler made a face. “I think the Amber Room might be a little bit hard to fence.”

“Maybe not for Jason Merritt with his extensive client list who, by the way, mentioned that the Amber Room was worth killing over.”

“After we pushed him to say something. It didn’t flow trippingly off his tongue.”

After a pause, Decker said, “No, I don’t think it’s the Amber Room, maybe not the entire Amber Room. Maybe it’s a couple of cartons that suddenly showed up. I was looking it up last night. Every so often some German claims to have original pieces.”

“How would they know if the pieces were original or not? Amber is a fossil. It’s impossible to date.”

“I did not know that,” Decker said. “Yeah, it does sound a little cloak and dagger. But we do know that Merritt has contacts in that region. He and his family have been involved there for decades. I keep thinking that we’re looking for something priceless and unique to Russia that was looted by Merritt’s grandfather.”

“So you like Jason Merritt as a bad guy?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t like him as the bad guy. He was too transparent with his family history.”

“Maybe he wanted us to hear the rumors from him rather than someone else like Chase Goddard, who wasn’t as gossipy about Jason Merritt as I would have expected.”

“And Jason Merritt didn’t tell us much about Chase Goddard, either.”

Decker said, “But both implied that the other was crooked.”

“Maybe they’re in it together.”

“I am completely open-minded at this point.”

“We should probably just wait for the codebook before we draw any conclusions.”

“I’m not one to wait around. If we assume that Latham was an opportunist and was peddling stuff on the side, he needed a quick source of valuable things. Tomorrow I want you back at the libraries in the colleges and continue looking through antiquarian atlases, print books, and missing rare books.”

“And while I’m sitting at a carrel ruining my eyes, what will you be doing?”

“Rereading the files on the Petroshkovich thefts from Allan Sugar and going down the list of art galleries,” Decker said. “I know I’m missing something.” He thought a moment. “We should drop the codebook off at the station. But the security there isn’t very good. I have a gun safe at home.”

“I have a safe also. It’s a combination lock. My father’s birthday.”

“Probably be better if you kept it,” Decker said. “If anyone comes poking around, he’ll come to me before you.”

HIS EYES SHOT
open and his heart started thumping in his chest.

The one thing that Decker appreciated about Greenbury was the quiet at night. It was possible to hear anything out of the ordinary. Next to him, Rina was sleeping soundly. Gently, he shook her shoulder and when she aroused, he put his finger to her lips. Her eyes widened and she brought her hand to her mouth.

Decker whispered, “Get under the bed.”

Rina knew better than to question. Silently, she slipped out of bed and slid under the bed frame. Once she was taken care of, Decker crept to the walk-in closet and the gun safe. Within moments, he had his loaded Beretta ready for action. He dropped down and showed Rina the gun. She nodded.

Then the two of them waited. By now, they could both hear the rustling sounds of someone going through their stuff in the living room.

Decker had a decision to make. Should he confront the burglar or should he wait until it was over. With Rina in the house, the decision was made for him. If there was more than one bad guy, he’d be putting her at risk by leaving her alone. No sense doing that unless it was absolutely necessary.

If it were punks, they probably wouldn’t come into the bedroom. They’d swipe the electronics and Rina’s purse and call it a day.

Decker’s mind kept racing, tumbling thoughts and scenarios.

How did kids get into the house? He didn’t have an alarm, but Greenbury was safe: often neighbors didn’t even bother locking their doors. But even with that, he was a stickler. All the doors had deadbolts. All the windows were double paned and locked solid.

It had to be professionals.

The sounds grew louder—and closer.

Professionals.

Silently, Decker got up from the floor. With a few deft strokes, he made the bed, stuffing pillows under the duvet to make it look like people were still asleep. Then he crouched down next to Rina, his eyes just above the mattress and locked onto the doorway.

And then he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The doorknob slowly turned.

Crunch time.

He’d been there before. His heart rate suddenly slowed as his brain cleared with the single thought of survival. Within a second, all his life experiences were cataloged as he pulled out the needed index card to continue on in the world.

The door opened and a dark shadow came inside. It raised an arm straight out, the gun pointing toward the bed. Decker shouted, “Police! Freeze!”

In slow motion, Decker saw the flash of his own gun at the same time the shadow pivoted toward his direction. As soon as the bullet hit, the figure stumbled. But he managed to remain upright, gun in hand, and took off, grabbing his shoulder and dripping blood while he fled.

If Decker had been alone, he would have given him chase. But he dared not leave Rina in case there was more than one bad guy. She suddenly emerged from her prone position under the bed. Decker barked at her. “Get down!”

“Oh my God! Are you
okay
?”

“I’m fine. Stay down, Rina.” Decker heard a car screech down the street. His heart was now beating at allegro tempo. He flicked on the lights, grabbed his landline phone on his nightstand, and then realized the connection had been cut. Stupidly, he kept his cell plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. “Where’s your cell?”

“In the closet. What’s going on?”

Decker didn’t answer. He grabbed her cell and called 911. He started to relate the information to the emergency operator when he heard Rina’s voice say, “Peter, what about
Tyler
?”

“Oh
shit
!” He spoke into the phone. “I need patrol cars sent immediately to . . . what the
fuck
is his address?” Decker was pacing now as he spoke. “Send out cars to Detective Tyler McAdams’s house immediately. It’s on Hamilton Drive . . . no, I don’t know the address! If I knew it, I’d give it to you!” He grabbed Rina while talking in the phone. “Just send someone out there
now
!”

Decker clutched the phone in his right hand while pulling Rina with his left. Running through his living room, he found Rina’s car keys, grabbed them, and sprinted out the front door.

“I know his house,” he said to her. “It’s quicker this way.” They jumped into Rina’s Volvo, which mercifully started right away He put on his seat belt, gunned the engine, and then jammed the gear into reverse. He peeled out of the driveway and skidded down the street.

“Be careful, for God’s sake!” Rina snapped on her seat belt. “No sense getting us both killed.”

Decker wasn’t listening. He tore down the street. “Keep your head down.” He pushed her head. “Down, dammit!”

“It’s down, it’s down!”

No moon out. Just a black sky except for the sporadic streetlamp.

There was also no traffic.

Decker sped through the traffic stops as well as the traffic lights.

Rina was crouched down in the front seat. “Give me my phone. I’ll call him. What’s the number?”

He gave her the phone. “God, I can’t think straight.”

Then it came to him. Not only were Rina’s hands shaking, her entire body was convulsing. It was adrenaline, it was the cold, and it was pure fear. Still, she managed to punch in the right digits.

“He’s not answering.”

It didn’t matter much. They were already outside the house. No car outside. Decker gave Rina a crowbar and then cocked his gun. “C’mon.”

They ran to his front door. He pulled her behind him and then started pounding on the wood. “Tyler?!” A pause. “Fuck it. Take my gun and cover me.”

“Got it.”

He took a three-step running start and shoved his shoulder into the wood. The door splintered but didn’t cave in or fall down. But the hole was enough for him to stick his hand in and undo the lock.

Rina gave him the gun as he opened the door and turned on the room light. “Tyler?” The living room was empty, but it had been tossed. He continued to scream the kid’s name. “Are you there?”