Murder 101 (17 page)

“Passing the buck,” Jim said. “They’re all fucking weasels!”

“Jim—”

“You know it’s true. All they care about is their own asses. They are petrified we’re going to sue. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to sue someone. Somebody is to blame for my daughter’s death!”

“Who gives a damn about money,” Karen snapped.

“I’m just saying that somebody has to take responsibility!”

“That would be me,” Decker said. “I’m responsible for this investigation right now. So if you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”

“Why would I yell at you? You’re trying to help.”

“I am,” Decker said. “So you knew nothing about an apartment off-campus?”

“Not a thing,” Jim said. “We weren’t paying for it, that’s for certain.”

“Okay. Going back to the apartment, we found glass shards in it. We also have the forged panels. Our next step is to see if the glass that we found in the apartment matches the glass in the forgeries.”

“Even if it does match, it doesn’t mean that Angeline did the forgeries,” Jim said. “There could be dozens of people owning that glass—”

“Jim, just listen to what the man has to say, okay.” Karen wiped her eyes. “You think she forged the panels.”

“I have to consider it, yes.”

“And she was
murdered
because of the forgeries?” Karen’s eyes shed new tears.

“Maybe.”

“How valuable are these panels?” Jim said. “Are they priceless or something?”

“Pricey but certainly not priceless.”

“How much? Like thousands?”

“Probably.”

“If she was carrying around expensive bags, you’re thinking that she has done some other types of forgeries before and that’s how she got the spending money,” Karen said.

“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.” He paused. “Could there be other illegal activities that she’s done in the past?”

“Like what?”

“Drugs maybe?”

“No, not Angeline,” Karen insisted. “Yes, I can see her . . . possibly . . . copying some art pieces, but not drugs.”

“Why can you see her copying other art pieces, Mrs. Bronson?”

“Karen.”

“Okay, sure. Karen. Tell me why you said that.”

The woman sighed. “Angeline was every bit the typical college student, idealistic and a bit . . . radical. She often spoke about art, saying it should be available to the masses. In museums and public places, not holed up in big mansions. Her goal was always nonprofit . . . getting major pieces back to public places from private places. So . . . maybe she got carried away, imagined herself to be a modern-day Robin Hood.”

Stealing from the rich and buying designer handbags.
Decker said, “Anything else you’d like to tell me about her?”

“No.” Karen wiped her eyes. “And I’m not saying she did anything illegal. I’m just trying to give you background on my baby.”

“I appreciate it.”

“What’s with this Latham guy? How does he fit in?”

“I’m working on that. It’s not my case—it happened in Summer Village, which is a suburb of the Boston area—so I can’t just charge in and demand answers. But when I find out, I’ll certainly let you know.”

“So he’s not a student anywhere here?”

“I haven’t checked every student on the roster, but I don’t believe so. He’s older. He lives an hour and a half away. I think he might be associated with Tufts University but I’m not even sure about that. Is there anything I can do for you two right now?”

Jim said, “When can we take her home?”

“I’ll check with Boston. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

“When can we start packing up her . . .” Karen hung her head and stopped talking.

“I’ll check with Forensics and let you know about that as well,” Decker said. “Do you have a place to stay tonight? I can help you arrange something if you need it.”

“No, we’re . . . we’re staying at the Greenbury College Inn for the next two nights.”

“And you have my number?” Decker said.

“We do,” Jim said.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“We need a lot of things right now,” Jim snarled out. “And it’s nothing that you or anyone else can give us.”

CHAPTER 17

K
ENNEDY’S PUB WAS
one of the busier college hangouts because it had a reputation for cheap drinks and decent bar food. As the kid predicted, the place was arid hot, noisy, and stinky, especially at ten in the evening. They found a corner table away from the oversized and overcrowded bar. The dance floor was packed with students doing all kinds of moves and it took a while before a server was even visible. Finally, McAdams grew impatient, got up, and a moment later, a surly student took their orders: crudités and a Grolsch for Decker, a Manhattan and the lamb sliders for the kid.

“I like bourbon,” he said. “One of the few things that my father and I have in common.” He drummed his fingers. “That and we both live off my grandfather’s money. Now that guy was a true visionary. Not the most grandfatherly type. I think I waved to him in passing when I was five. Real warm people the McAdamses are.”

Decker nodded. “At least if he wasn’t warm, he was generous.”

“You take what you can get. The old man was married three times with a lot of lady friends in between. Lots of divorces and lots of alimony, but he had enough to go around.” The server brought over their drinks and plopped them on the table. McAdams sipped the richly colored bourbon. “I like his third wife, Nina. Matter of fact, I’m staying with her in the city.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy-two. My grandfather would have been . . . eighty-six or -seven. He died six years ago. That’s when I came into a small part of our inheritance. I know my other sibs got something but his third wife told me that, as the eldest and most precocious, I am due to get the lion’s share, probably as much as my father.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yes, oh boy. It took our already explosive relationship and brought it that much closer to total obliteration.”

Decker saw that McAdams had polished off his bourbon and ordered another one for him. “You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe in a hundred years.” McAdams pulled out his iPad. “I got the names of the detectives on the Petroshkovich theft. Douglas Arrenz and Allan Sugar. Both are still alive.”

“Hold on.” Decker took out his notepad. “Can you spell the names for me?”

Tyler complied. “Marylebone has a small police department, about the size of Greenbury’s. The case was huge. It took up headlines for months. The department even brought in several experts on art thefts, but the case didn’t go anywhere.”

“Any theories about where the icons went?”

“I found a retrospective article on the theft that came out ten years ago. When the icons were taken, the iron curtain was still up. Now that there is easier access to Russia, the hypothesis is that they were sold to some oligarch to adorn the walls of his dacha. Petroshkovich is better known in Russia than here. No doubt they could command high prices from the newly minted bourgeoisie. I really don’t see them as having any connection to the theft of two small Tiffany panels, but it’s your call.”

“I’m sure you’re right, McAdams. However, if the detectives are on our way to the city and they’re willing to talk to us about it, we should meet with them. Maybe they’ve come across some black market dealers.”

“Sure.” The server brought a refresh on the alcohol and the food. McAdams picked up the drink. “This is truly going to put me under. As if I’ll need help. I have a very loud alarm clock. You still want to leave at seven.”

“Yep. Find out anything tonight?”

“I found out that the student libraries are open late, late, but not the reference desks. The biggest one—at Duxbury—closed at eight. There are hundreds of books of antique plates and maps in that one library alone. I’ve paged through seven of them and they all looked clean. Then I went to Rayfield at Littleton—which closes at nine. I went through another five—all clean. The assignment is going to take hours.”

“God is in the details.” Decker munched on a celery stick. “You should go to law school, Tyler. You’ll be overworked but at least you’ll be compensated.”

“And this coming from a man who walked away from the title esquire.”

“I’m blue collar. You’re not. You know the salaries of an average working detective. You’re a rich kid. Why would you want to deal with all that jealousy from the department?”

“Are you jealous?”

“I might have been in my younger years.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need anything from anyone. You seem like a decent kid, Harvard. As a cop, you’ll always be an outsider. Why set yourself up?” When he didn’t answer, Decker said, “Let me tell you what I found out this evening.” He gave McAdams a recap while the kid typed away on his iPad.

Afterward, McAdams said, “Colored glass shards. So Angeline did the copies.”

“Seems like it.”

“Not surprising considering she shoplifted. Once a thief . . .”

“There were two incidents that her mom knew about. I’m betting there were more that she didn’t know about. So yes, she seems like a good candidate for the forgeries. The questions are: Was she forging things other than stained glass and who was the mastermind behind it?”

“Latham?”

“Living like he was, I see him as a middleman, maybe a broker with connections to the rarefied world of art collecting.”

“Why do you think he has those kinds of connections?”

“The Windsor Prize . . . art culture and politics. He’s a better candidate for connections than Moreau. Find out about the Windsor Prize, okay?”

“Will do.” McAdams typed it into his iPad. “We’re still headed for New York?”

“Yes. I’m still interested in the Sobel family and Max Stewart. He’s an art dealer, ergo he has connections. I’m not saying he’s dirty, but he needs to be interviewed again. When I talked to him the first time, he played it close to the vest. When you were around at the cemetery, he seemed more relaxed, like the two of you were sharing an inside joke.”

McAdams shrugged.

“I noticed that as well when we interviewed Angeline’s friends. That they kept looking at you as an ally.”

“Then they’re delusional.”

“I can read people, Harvard. You’re young and you’re relaxed around money in a way that I’m not. You’re a good person to have around when I’m knocking on the co-op doors of Park Avenue.”

“Glad to help even if I’m just a prop.”

Decker smiled. “As of last night, you’re pulling your weight. No complaints.”

“Stick around and I’ll give you plenty.” When Decker was quiet, McAdams said, “I want you to know something. That rarefied world isn’t me . . . even if I don’t know what exactly me is.”

“Frankly, I don’t care about your existential issues. Two people were murdered. I’ve got a job to do. You can help in that regard.”

“I’m down with that.” He finished his drink. “And by the way, I don’t mind being an outsider in Park Avenue or in Greenbury Police. In my opinion, popularity is highly overrated.”

AFTER MAKING A
dozen phone calls, Decker found out that Douglas Arrenz had retired to Florida. But Allan Sugar lived in East Hampton and agreed to see them any time after ten in the morning. That meant he was the first stop on their way to the city. The business districts of the beach areas were made up of quaint villages: cute little shops and cafés, one after another. The skies were gray and the sidewalks looked deserted with only a few hardy souls braving the snowdrifts.

Mansions abounded.

Since it was after the holidays, the residences that Decker could make out through the iron gates looked shut down for the winter. He wondered how a retired detective could afford this piece of paradise. That was made clear by the address. Sugar lived in what looked like the carriage house to the original dowager estate next door. It was a compact brick one-story with black trim around two multipane windows. Decker parked in a blanketed driveway, snow crunching underneath the tires. The chimney was emitting pine-scented smoke and there was a hint of ocean beyond the house.

McAdams said, “Looks like the Rhode Island PD pays well.”

“How much do you think the house is worth?”

“Well . . .” He thought a moment. “It’s small—about two thousand square feet. And it’s in the wrong part of the Hamptons. But it is on the shore. Maybe around three, four million.”

“Whoa.” Decker was taken aback. “That’s a lot of zeros.”

“My grandfather’s house isn’t a whole lot bigger, but it has more property and it’s in Southampton, which jacks up the price. It’s also got a good beach front.”

“Do you own that as well?”

“I have no idea. I do know it’s in a thirty-year trust for the good and use of all the grandchildren. So I have access to it for the next twenty-four years. After that.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Somebody knows.”

“That is true, but I’m not privy to that information. I rarely use it in the summer. The Hamptons are a scene. I actually like it at this time of year. There’s something serene in the desolation.”

“It’s calming. I can understand that.” Decker put on his jacket, gloves, and his hat and got out of the car. The kid followed, both of them stepping in fairly deep drifts. January was turning out to be a particularly cold month everywhere on the eastern seaboard.

“If you ever want to use my grandfather’s house, let me know,” McAdams said. “I’ll slot it in for you.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, Harvard.”

“Share the wealth.”

They made their way up the walkway to a paneled front door painted in black and without a knocker. There also didn’t appear to be a doorbell.

Someone wanted privacy.

Decker rapped as hard as he could on the wood with a gloved hand. Behind the wall, an elderly voice said, “I hear you, I hear you.” A moment later the door opened and a gush of hot air blasted their faces. “Detective Sugar?”

“Yes, yes. Come in.” He left the door open, turned his back, and shuffled across the mudroom floor and into the living room. The men followed. Sugar said, “Hope you found the place okay. The addresses can be confusing.”

“No problem.” Decker wiped his boots assiduously on the floor mat and dried them off with a provided towel. McAdams did the same. “Great house.”

“Courtesy of a spinster aunt who willed it to me fifty years ago when the area wasn’t hoity-toity and the roof leaked like a sieve. I almost sold it after my wife died. Thank God I didn’t. The bluebloods next door are after me to sell it to them for some ridiculous price. You want some tea?”

“That would be great. Thank you for seeing us.”

“Yes, yes.” Sugar was around five five, with stooped shoulders, white hair, milky blue eyes, and a bony frame. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater and wool pants. Argyle socks covered feet that were tucked into slippers. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Decker chose a green-and-red plaid sofa that matched two green-and-red plaid chairs. McAdams took a chair. There were coffee table and end tables made from particleboard and originally stained in a deep espresso brown. Over the years—more like decades—they had suffered chips, scratches, and gouges where the lighter board was showing through. The floor was pine, covered in part by an area rug worn thin with use. Heat was pouring out of the radiator, and the flat-screen television—Sugar’s nod to modernity—was on some kind of a game show.

When Sugar returned from the kitchen, he set the tray down on the living room table. He turned off the TV and turned down the heat. He poured himself a cup of tea. “Make it how you like it. I’m not a waiter.”

Decker poured hot water into two mugs—for McAdams and for himself. After he made the introductions, he said, “How long were you with the Marylebone PD, Detective Sugar?”

“It’s Allan and I was with them for thirty years. Wish I’d come up when you did, with AFIS and CODIS and all that razzamatazz. You don’t even have to work anymore. Just plug in fingerprints or DNA and the machines pop out the answers.”

“It’s been a boon,” Decker said.

“NCIC was just about all we had. That was back in ’67 when J. Edgar created it. Probably to spy on the Reds but he dropped a few criminals in the files just to make it look legit. None of it was linked up to any computer. Everything was done by hand. It took forever to make a request and forever for it to get processed.”

Sugar sat down.

“So you’re interested in the missing Nikolai Petroshkovich icons. You and all Rhode Island. And the Russian Orthodox church—St. Stephen’s. The thefts became an international cause célèbre. Did I pronounce that right?”

“I think you did.”

“After I failed to get anywhere, they brought in all the experts.” He made a quotation with his fingers. “Paid all this money and not a damn clue closer to what the hell happened.”

“What do you think happened?” Decker asked.

“Douglas and I entertained a number of possibilities. You know Douglas?”

“Detective Arrenz. He was your partner on the case.”

“Yep. Retired in Florida. Not for me. I don’t like to sweat.” He sipped his tea. “The theft wasn’t the cleanest job I’d ever seen. At first we considered vandalism. Back then, adolescent crime was confined to car stealing, petty theft, and graffiti done by the drunk, pot-smoking, or coked-up lads and lassies. It’s worse now. All those designer drugs . . .”

“When are we talking about?” Decker asked. “The eighties?”

“Yeah, the late eighties. Douglas and I kicked around the possibility that it was a bunch of thugs and punks. We checked the regular troublemakers and didn’t get anywhere. Even the worst of the town miscreants denied thieving from a church. After we found out how valuable the icons were, we fanned out in other directions. We talked to the professionals and found out, much to our chagrin, that churches are easy targets for theft. They’re not occupied most of the time and they contain valuables. We also found out that there are thieves who specialize in hitting churches and synagogues. The common burglars concentrate on fencing things like silver candlesticks and silver chalices. The more sophisticated thieves concentrate on the artwork contained within the hallowed walls of God. That kind of material, as you might imagine, is much harder to fence. You need a specialized dealer.”

“Black market dealers.”