Murder 101 (35 page)

“I have an aunt who lives near Los Angeles. Actually, she lives in a small little town about seventy miles north of L.A. She has this converted garage that she rents out to surfers because she lives close to the shore. It’s currently empty and she said I could use it. I thought I’d spend some time up there until this all blows over.”

“I’ll need the name of your aunt, the address, and her phone number,” Decker said.

“No problem.” A pause. “So I can go visit her?”

“You can go, but don’t leave Ventura without telling me where you’re going.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you . . . ?”

“The end part of Malibu is around forty miles from L.A. Sixty miles is Oxnard, seventy miles plus is Ventura. Ninety miles plus is Santa Barbara. I know that because I spent thirty years of my life with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Oh . . . so you were, like, in L.A.?”

“Yes, Lance, LAPD is indeed in L.A.,” Decker said. “You know what that means? It means don’t piss me off because over there, I have all sorts of friends in very high places.”

CHAPTER 35

O
LIVER WENT TO
fetch the car while McAdams, Rina, and Decker shivered in the cold. McAdams was upright, resting on his cane as Rina and Decker tried to figure out how to fold up the wheelchair.

The kid said, “The Boston contact is Goddard.”

“Could be,” Decker said.

“But we have no proof.”

“If Lance never met Angeline’s Boston contact, we don’t have a link.”

“Back to Boston?”

“Maybe. First things first. How do you fold up this chair?”

“There should be a latch near the footrest.”

“Ah. Right.” Decker and Rina managed to squash the chair down to a flat rectangle of metal and wheels. “Even if there was a link between Goddard and Angeline, a marble statue isn’t worth killing over.”

Rina said, “Maybe the statue turned out to be priceless, like that Degas that was just sitting outside the French embassy for years.”

Decker smiled. “I don’t think so.”

Rina smiled back. “Well, neither do I.”

“Where are we off to in the immediate?” McAdams asked. “Victor Gerrard’s apartment?”

“Yes, and that reminds me . . .” Decker pulled out his phone and punched in Cindy’s number, got her machine, and left a message. He turned to his wife. “How are you doing?”

Rina checked her watch. “Rachel’s home by now. I’d love to go see our granddaughter.”

“Not without Schultz.”

“He can come along.”

“How about we drop you off at Nina’s? And then you and Greg can take a cab to Brooklyn. We’ll meet you there later.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

“Be careful.”

“Of course.”

Finally Oliver inched over to the sidewalk with the car. Traffic, as usual, was terrible. It took a few minutes to load everyone up, to buckle everyone up, and to pull out into the cacophony of horns.

“We’ll drop Rina off at Nina’s and then we’ll head out to Gerrard’s New York address.”

“I pulled up several images of Gerrard,” McAdams said. “We can pass those around to the neighbors.”

Oliver slammed on the brakes and the car skidded. “I hate this city.”

“It’s meant for carriages, not cars,” McAdams said. “If you walk, there’s nothing like it . . . in good weather . . . without a cane.”

“You’re doing pretty well with the walking stick, Tyler,” Rina said.

“Yes, I am. Take the wheelchair back. I’d really prefer to walk.”

“It’s slippery out there,” Oliver said.

“I’ll manage. I hate feeling like a cripple.” He sighed. “This whole thing has been truly humbling.”

“You’ve handled it all very well,” Decker said.

“I’ll miss it . . . the job. I was finally feeling like I was contributing something.”

Rina said, “You’re leaving Greenbury?”

“He’s going back to law school.”

“Good decision,” Rina said.

“That’s what Jack McAdams says.”

“You know law is one of those fields that you can do anything with,” Rina said. “With what you’ve been doing, you can specialize in stolen art.”

“When do you start?” Oliver asked.

“August.” McAdams stared out the window.

Rina said, “It’s a ways off. Who knows what could happen?”

“That’s the good part about a future,” Decker said. “It’s always open.”

OVER THE PHONE,
Cindy said, “I got the manager to open up the apartment. Aside from the furniture that comes with the place, it’s empty, Dad. Nothing in any of the closets or drawers. No personal effects anywhere. Even the trash was cleared and that’s unusual. There’s always scattered paper left behind. Wherever he went, it appears he didn’t want to be followed.”

Oliver ran over a pothole. The car jumped and shook. “Hope no one was holding coffee.”

Decker talked into the phone. “Was Gerrard’s rent paid up?”

“Through the end of the month.”

“So he left in a hurry. He’s running.”

“Who’s running?” Oliver asked.

“Hold on, Cindy. I’ll put you on speaker so McAdams and Oliver can hear.” Decker depressed a button and Cindy’s voice, made tinny by the phone speaker, rang through the space.

“Hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Cindy. How’s it shaking?”

“Pretty well. And you?”

“Not bad for an old guy. Did you find any moldering bodies?”

“Not a one. But I did talk to a few neighbors. No one remembers seeing him leave with suitcases, but one of his next-door neighbors remembered hearing a lot of noise in the middle of the night.”

“When was this?”

“About ten days to two weeks ago. She didn’t hear any confrontation or angry voices. Just a lot of heavy footsteps. It could have been that he was packing.”

“Or he was being packed.”

“You have a way with words, Daddy.”

“I think in images.”

“What’s going on in New York?”

“We’re making our way to Gerrard’s apartment. I suspect if we talk to his roommates, we’ll find out he just didn’t show up one day.”

“Let me know what you find out. I’m not opening up an MP file, by the way. It appears he left on his own accord. Just keep me posted. I’ll see you next week.”

“What’s next week?”

“Grandparents’ day.” A pause. “Didn’t we just talk about this three hours ago?”

Decker took the phone off speaker. “I’ve got it written down. No worries.”

“Sure you do. I’ll call Rina. She’s good at keeping her appointments—and her promises.”

“Another low blow.”

“I love you. I’ll see you next week.”

“I love you, too—” But she had already disconnected the line. His cell buzzed again. This time it was Radar.

“This is one for the good guys. We found the bin. It was under a pseudonym but not a very good one. Jeffrey Morrow spelled M-o-r-r-o-w. Her last name Anglicized and his middle name. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It’s crammed with stuff: stone statues, marble urns, silver urns, pottery, antique books that were stolen from libraries . . . the date stamps were still inside.”

“Brilliant.”

“What’s brilliant?” McAdams said.

“They found the bin.”

“The storage bin?” Excitement in the kid’s voice.

“Are you there, Decker?” Radar said.

“Hold on, Mike, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Hi, Captain,” McAdams said.

“How are you feeling, Tyler?”

“Coming along. You found the storage bin?”

“We did and it was filled with material that was probably taken from cemeteries or churches. We also found a half-dozen small paintings, and two file cabinets filled with art plates and maps. Plus . . . we found the two Tiffany panels along with boxes of stained glass. One case down and a bunch more to go.”

“Ken Sobel will be thrilled.”

“Good work on your first solve, McAdams. You give Sobel the good news.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“What are you up to, Pete?”

“We’re about to go look into an apartment that Victor Gerrard sublet. I don’t suspect I’ll find anything.” He took the phone off speaker and recapped his conversation with Cindy. “Looks like he’s rabbited.”

“Maybe he and Lance Terry are meeting up at Lance’s aunt’s house near Malibu. Didn’t Terry say that Victor looked familiar?”

“He did,” Decker said. “I have a friend in Ventura PD. I’ll have her drive by the place and keep an eye out for one or both of them.”

“Good.”

“We should probably get someone to start cataloging the stolen items.”

“I’ve already contacted Littleton. They’re sending over several professors.”

“I know you haven’t gone through all of it, Mike, but did you find anything in there that looks really valuable?”

“Nothing worth killing over. At least not to my eye.”

“What about the paintings? Did they swipe a Da Vinci or something?”

“Not unless Da Vinci painted New England landscapes.”

“Are they signed?”

“If you hold on, I can tell you.”

“Sure, I’ll wait.” He took the phone off speaker. “I’m on hold.”

“Your first solve,” Oliver said to McAdams. “Congratulations.”

Decker looked at Tyler. “It’s okay to smile, Harvard. You did do a good job. Go call up Ken Sobel and tell him the good news . . . although I suppose it would be better news if we found out who shot you.”

“You know, Old Man, you’d make a terrible therapist.” McAdams took out his phone. “And I should know. I’ve been to a thousand of them.”

“Anything in the bin worth shooting people over?” Oliver asked.

“There are some landscape paintings. He’s checking out the signatures now.”

Radar came back on the line. “Okay. I’ve written down the names the best I can figure out. One was unsigned. The first is by a guy named H. Herz or Herg or something like that. It’s faint. I’m looking for a magnifying glass.”

“Can you spell it for me?”

Radar complied. “There’s one by Jasper Pressley. There’s a K. Kennedy, a T. Cole, an A. Durant or maybe it’s Durand. There are two by a guy named Gifford and the last one is by H. Matusse.”

“Matisse?”

“No, not Matisse. I know who he is and this is definitely not Matisse. It’s H. Matusse.” He spelled all the names. “Like I said they’re all pretty landscapes of what looks like New England.”

“Hold on. I’ll give the list to Harvard and he’ll look the artists up.”

McAdams stowed his phone. “Ken Sobel’s not in. I told him to call you.”

“Could you look up these names,” Decker said. “See if these artists are worth anything? I’ll put the phone back on speaker.”

McAdams regarded the names. “Captain, are the paintings landscapes?”

“Yes, they are. You know the artists?”

“I certainly know Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. They’re well-known Hudson River Valley painters.”

“Yeah, it does look like the Valley,” Radar said. “What are the paintings worth?”

“How big are they?”

“Small. Eight by ten . . . a few a bit bigger.”

“Okay, so probably not major works. They’re still worth in the thousands. More like four figures rather than five although Thomas Cole can be pricey. But that’s usually the big canvases. I’ve also heard of Gifford. Hold on . . .” He clicked. “Okay, he’s Sanford Robinson Gifford. Also worth something. The H. Herz is probably Hermann Herzog.”

“Where are you finding all this information?” Oliver asked.

“Ask Art. It’s an art website that, among other things, has auction histories. And speaking of which, there are no auction histories for K. Kennedy or H. Matusse or Jasper Pressley.” He looked up. “Too bad it wasn’t Matisse. That could be worth killing over.”

“If you like that kind of stuff,” Radar said. “Thanks, Tyler. This helps. We’ll be sorry to lose you in August.”

“Not as sorry as I am to go. This detective stuff isn’t half bad—aside from the bullet wounds.”

Oliver saw a car pull out and abruptly swerved to get the parking space. The car bumped and jostled. He backed in amid an angry chorus of blaring horns.

McAdams said, “Done like a true New Yorker.”

Decker said, “We’re almost at Victor Gerrard’s apartment. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.” Radar paused. “Good work, everyone. And keep safe.”

Oliver killed the motor. “Shall we?”

But McAdams was playing on his phone. “The Thomas Cole and the Asher Durand were stolen from the Auxiliary Ladies’ Club in Joslyn, Rhode Island.”

“Art Loss Register?”

“Yep. Let me look up the club. It’s gonna take a minute.”

“You got any more coffee in the box, Deck?” Oliver asked.

“I do. Black?”

“That’s fine.”

“Here we go,” McAdams said. “The club was started in 1878 for care and support of a local orphanage. Now it organizes local charity functions and events and holds a ladies’ luncheon once a month.” He stowed his phone. “You know, these clubs were gifted a lot of early twentieth-century paintings. The artists were contemporary and weren’t worth the big bucks that they are today. It was like me going to the local art fair and picking up a painting for five hundred dollars.”

“Security on these old places isn’t too tight,” Oliver said. “Didn’t something like that happen at the Scottish Rite Temple in L.A.?”

“I think it was the Wilshire Ebell,” Decker said. “They had some old paintings and the secretary stole one of them.”

“Hold on,” McAdams said. “E-b-e-l-l?”

“Yep.”

“Right you are, boss. It was a William Wendt and the secretary sold it to a gallery in Laguna Beach.”

“Same pattern,” Decker said. “Swiping valuables from unsuspecting places.”

McAdams was still playing with his phone. “William Wendt is a California impressionist. Some of his big canvases are worth a lot of money.” He looked up. “Lots of times these clubs don’t even really know what they have. Although you’d think they’d be careful with a Cole or a Durand.”

Decker said, “It would take Angeline too long to copy a painting. More than likely, she just replaced them with a cheap landscape. All that green . . . probably no one would notice at least for a while.”

“Good point,” McAdams said. “You know there are tens of thousands of period landscapes in period frames floating around. Most aren’t worth that much.”

“Breaking and entering into cemeteries is one thing,” Oliver said. “But there’s something really brazenly cocky about swiping a painting off the wall.”

“I agree,” Decker said. “They got cocky. And that’s what got them killed.”