Murder 101 (29 page)

“They are actually transliteration for Russian words . . . Greek words as well. If I translate from Russian into English, the words mean nothing. But . . . if I translate from Russian into German, they appear to translate back into Latin phrases.”

The three men nodded solemnly. Mulrooney turned to Decker and Oliver. “You men ever work a case like this?”

“Never,” Oliver said. “Hardly ever worked with the FBI.” He looked at Decker. “What about you?”

“I worked with the spooks once in a multinational child porno ring back in Foothill. I remember it well because believe it or not, they did wear sunglasses. My involvement was minimal.”

“This is a first by me.”

“Anything else you notice, Professor?”

“A few things here and there.” Gold looked up and folded the codebook. “The parsimonious thing for me to do would be to translate all of what I can into Latin and then I can try to break the Latin code and see if it makes sense in English or German or Russian or whatever language the code was originally written in. I’ll tell you one thing. This was either done by a polyglot or more than one person. There are a lot of idiomatic phrases. And while I recognize most of the idioms, it would take me a while to write them up in code.”

He smiled and stood up. “I’ll do my best, gentlemen.”

“Thank you for helping, Professor Gold,” Mulrooney said.

“You realize that this may be something you might not want to deal with. That it may be beyond police work.”

“Tyler and I were targets,” Decker said. “Before I relinquish control, I want to have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“It’s a safety issue,” Mulrooney said.

“Exactly,” Decker agreed. “We have to know who the bad guys are. And once the spooks get it, they’ll cut us out of the loop.”

“I understand. But do be careful.” Business cards were exchanged as well as handshakes. “This would be amusing for me except I know that real people were murdered.” Gold shook his head. “I’ll do whatever I can. Do send my best to Tyler. I hope his recovery is swift.”

“I’ll do that.” Decker strolled over to the window and took one last look outside. The campus must have been ten times bigger than all the Upstate colleges put together. “Must be a great place to work.”

“It is,” Gold said. “Although in all honesty, despite all the trappings of this office and the prestige of Harvard, I could work in a closet and be happy. People like me . . . we live in our heads.”

CHAPTER 29

W
HILE SCHULTZ KEPT
watch, Rina pushed McAdams’s wheelchair up to the historical reference desk, located on the third floor of Rayfield Library. It was in a separate, caged area where books of value and historical significance were kept, a step back into another time with musty red carpeting and walnut tables and chairs. The librarian in charge was a woman named Susan Devry. She was in her sixties with a curly nest of short, gray hair that framed a round, mocha face. Her frame was thin, her oversized sweater draping over a free-flowing midi skirt and black boots. She regarded Rina’s request for the Petroshkovich book and frowned. “I have to see if it’s back for loan.”

“Back from where?” McAdams had to look up to talk.

“Pretoria College in Marylebone.” She regarded the pair. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you two about the art theft of the Petroshkovich icons.”

Rina nodded. “We’re aware of the heist, yes.”

“How tragic,” Susan said. “There used to be a lot of interest in Petroshkovich—a lot of papers and theses—especially right after the icons were pilfered. But Nikolai seemed to have had his day in the sun. And since the artwork was never recovered, students lost interest.”

“Not everyone lost interest in him if his book went out on loan,” Rina said.

“Yes, but it’s usually more from an amateur detective point of view than from something scholarly.” Susan smiled sheepishly. “I’m not saying that’s bad . . . to be interested in the theft. I suppose anything that generates enthusiasm.”

“I’m surprised that the library loans out something so valuable,” McAdams said. “The book is worth six figures.”

“It’s not really on loan to Pretoria.” Susan gave another sheepish smile. “It’s actually coowned by the two libraries.”

“How does that work?” Rina asked.

“We just courier it over when it’s requested.”

“How’d it come to pass that the libraries coowned it?”

Susan seemed apprehensive. Rina waited her out. Finally, the librarian said, “Long ago each library had a copy. There are only around ten original copies left. It’s a very long story.”

McAdams smiled. “We’ve got time.”

Rina said, “I’d love to hear it.”

Susan checked her watch. “Very briefly, Pretoria had some financial difficulties. And Littleton, being the newest college here, didn’t have the largest of endowments. The book was given to Rayfield from Huntington Library because it was an art book and as sort of a welcome present. But Rayfield was still wanting for funds. This was years ago before the icons were stolen.” She rolled her eyes. “It was agreed that one of the books would be sold and the proceeds would be split between Pretoria and here. They couldn’t get away with that today!”

“Who bought the book that was sold?”

“The buyer was anonymous. But it was rumored that the book went overseas.”

“To Russia?” McAdams asked.

“Who knows, but that would be logical.” Susan’s eyes were outraged. “Let me check on the one copy we have left.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” McAdams’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “It’s from the Loo.”

Rina grinned. “Since when did you start calling Peter the Loo?”

“It’s what Oliver calls him. I kinda like it. Anyway, they just finished up with Professor Gold and he and Oliver are on their way back. And Gold says hello.” McAdams stowed his phone. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know who I am.”

Rina looked him in the eye. “Where did all the arrogance go, Tyler? I miss it.”

He smiled. “Getting shot is a humbling experience. But fear not. I’m sure when I’m up and about I’ll be my old obnoxious self.”

“I’m sure Professor Gold does remember you.”

“I dunno, Rina, I was pretty forgettable . . . quiet, believe it or not. I was only in the PC because of my legacy of my grandfather. Not because of my charm.”

“PC? As in personal computer?”

McAdams laughed. “Porcellian Club . . . it’s a final club.”

“I . . . don’t know what that is, Tyler.”

“It’s like an exclusive fraternity. We don’t have a lot of Greek at Harvard, we have clubs instead. They’re also called eating clubs because meals are served. The Porcellian Club, better known to those who hate us, which is almost everyone, is sometimes called the Pig’s Club not because of its all-male members—although the appellation certainly fits—but because the club’s tradition is to roast a whole pig.”

“Not many Orthodox Jews in the mix?”

“Nary a one who’d admit it.” McAdams slowly stood up in front of his wheelchair, supporting himself on one leg and a cane.

Rina knew better than to try to help. “Getting a little numb?”

“My butt is frozen. It feels good to be upright even if I am a little off-balance.” McAdams took out his iPad and began to punch in topics using Safari. A minute later, he spoke in a whisper. “Ach, this isn’t getting anywhere.”

“What?”

“Trying to locate a book that was sold years ago.”

“We could try the archives of Pretoria.”

“It might be worth a trip.” McAdams checked his watch. “It’s taking a while, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is and this section of the library is small.”

“Something’s amiss.” McAdams continued to play with his iPad. Five minutes later, Susan came back with a wooden box and white gloves. “I don’t know how this happened, but it was misplaced.” She handed them each a pair of white gloves and a cloth to set the book on while turning the pages. “I can only loan this out to you for two hours. And you can only look at the book at the tables here. You cannot take it anywhere else in the library.”

“We understand.” Rina donned the gloves.

“I’m not done.” Susan stopped herself. “You have to sign up for it.”

“Already done,” McAdams said.

“That was the general sign-up sheet. On a book this rare, we have a specific sign-up sheet. Your name, your official ID number . . . I suppose you can use your driver’s license or badge number . . . and your time in, and the book you are looking at—title and author, please.”

McAdams smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Both McAdams and Rina inked the sheet. Then Susan pulled out a large lockbox of index files. “Let’s see . . . Petroshkovich . . . ah, here we are. You both also have to sign the index cards for the book. One for each of you. That way we can keep track of who’s checking out rare books with art plates . . . precisely why I told you that I’d be shocked if you two found something missing. We’re very careful.”

Rina and McAdams exchanged glances. The thought came to both of them at the same time. Rina said, “You’re the one who has the badge. Go for it.”

McAdams said, “So . . . that means you have the names of everyone who has ever looked at the Petroshkovich book?”

“Not
everyone
.” Susan shuffled through the cards. “These currently date back . . . three years ago. The rest have been archived.”

“Can I see them—the index cards?”

Susan paused. “I don’t know if I can show them to you.”

“Ma’am, it’s a murder investigation.” No one spoke. “Please don’t make me go get a warrant. It’s very time-consuming.”

Susan didn’t answer. Instead, she put the cards down and slid the pile across the desktop. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Thank you.” McAdams shuffled through them as fast as he could. One name gave him pause—he showed it to Rina—and then he continued on until he’d seen them all. He slid the cards back to the librarian and regarded the book box. It was custom made: around a foot by two feet. “Could you open the Petroshkovich box, please?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What’s going on?”

“Please. It’s important.”

“All right.” Slowly, she lifted the wooden lid. The actual book was in a cloth sleeve.

“Could you take it out for me?”

“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s about two people who were murdered and about someone who feels it’s okay to shoot the police. Please just do it.”

Susan flinched. “Yes, of course.” She took the book out of the sleeve. The cover was old and water stained. “What next?”

“Can you flip through the plates?”

“Detective, one doesn’t flip through plates. You turn the pages slowly.”

McAdams held his tongue. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’m sorry if I’m sounding brusque. If you’d just tell me . . .” When he didn’t answer, Susan began turning pages. When she got to the fourth plate, she paused for a moment. “This is a forgery.”

“You’re sure?” Rina asked.

“Of course, I’m sure! If you compare it side by side . . . the paper is original, but the quality is lacking.” She looked at the duo. “Of course, you suspected this.”

“We did,” Rina said.

“It must have happened at Pretoria.” She turned to the next plate, which was original. But the following two were not. “Oh my heavens! I must report this. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t have you checking this out right now.”

“We understand. And in light of what happened, we have other things we need to do right now.” McAdams tried out a smile. “Do we have to sign out?”

Susan was still in shock. “Uh . . . yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m floored. How did this happen? How did you know?”

Neither answered. They both signed out and slowly, Rina helped McAdams back into the chair while Susan watched. She said, “You must think I’m terrible . . . upset by a book when you’ve suffered so much. I am very sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” McAdams said. “There are two dead bodies out there. I’m the lucky one. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rina pushed him to Schultz. The guard said, “That didn’t take too long.”

“Something’s come up,” McAdams said. “We need to set our priorities elsewhere.”

“You handled Mrs. Devry very graciously, Detective,” Rina said.

“Wow. I never thought I’d hear gracious and me in the same sentence.”

Rina laughed. Schultz said, “So where to?”

“The hallowed dormitories. Specifically Elm Hall.”

DECKER HADN’T SPENT
this much time in a car since his patrol days. On the road again, this time to New York City with the kid sitting shotgun while Oliver, Rina, and Schultz were squished into the backseat. It was five in the evening, traffic was terrible and everyone, except Rina, was tired and grumpy. She had the most reason to be in a bad mood. She was in the middle seat, but as usual she seemed oblivious, soldiering on with pleasant conversation that was answered with grunts.

After a half hour of stalling in traffic, Rina knew that if the men didn’t get something to eat, the car would decombust. She reached down to the bag under Oliver’s feet, took out sandwiches, and passed them around. Amid begrudging thanks, everyone ate. It wasn’t a tricky thing to pull off. With cars backed up on the highway, they were moving about five miles an hour. Ten minutes later, Rina passed around coffee with lids and cookies and napkins.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Your cookies make it almost worth the traffic.”

“Call me Rina.”

“Thank you, Rina.”

“What can truly compete against a fine chocolate chip cookie?” McAdams said. “My nanny used to bake them. At first I just watched. Then I participated. Hence my baking skills.”

“Your
nanny
?” Oliver said.

“Yeah, of course I had a nanny. The wealthy don’t raise their kids.” McAdams took a sip of coffee. “Not that my mother ever worked a real job. Her days were filled with society obligations.” A pause. “She does a lot of charity work. Her largesse never extended to me. As far as jobs go, I’ve worked a few interships but it’s always been with connections. I just waltzed in ahead of everyone else. Man, I’ve worked more in the past couple of weeks than I ever have in my life.”

Oliver said, “Why’d you pick police work?”

“To spite my father.”

“And?”

“What makes you think there’s an ‘and’?”

Decker smiled. “You have a terrible game face, Harvard. If you ever decide to make policing your profession, you should work on that.”

“Let
me
guess,” Oliver said. “You wanted the experience to write a screenplay.”

McAdams laughed. “Am I that transparent or did you get that idea from Decker? And BTW, it started off as a novel. Later, it morphed to a screenplay. Like the Loo said, I’m kind of Hollywood.”

“And I stand by that statement,” Decker said.

“I always thought that I was kind of Hollywood,” Oliver said. “Then I met real Hollywood sharks. I’ll take criminals over them any day of the week.”

“What’s it about, McAdams?” Decker asked. “Your screenplay.”

“What do you think?”

“An art theft,” Decker said. “Under the circumstances, you might think about debuting with something that won’t get you killed.”

“I deleted everything after I was shot. It was garbage anyway. My main character was obnoxious and derivative of everything I’ve ever seen on TV or in the movies.”

“It takes time to develop,” Rina said.

McAdams smiled. “Thanks, but the truth is, I have no imagination.”

Decker braked hard. “I detest traffic. Also this kind of stop and go makes us sitting ducks.”

“I’ve got my eyes peeled out my window, sir,” Schultz said.

“Ditto,” Oliver said. “I’ve seen a lot of noses being picked, a lot of women putting on makeup, and everyone’s texting. Nothing suspicious, but my guard is still up. How much longer?”

“Maybe an hour for what should be a fifteen-minute ride.”

“Just as long as we get there in one piece,” Rina said.

“Amen to that, sister,” McAdams said.

“How are you feeling, Tyler?”

“With no horrible pain, I could probably move up to crutches very soon.”

“Don’t push it,” Oliver said. “You’ll heal faster.”

“I’m just happy to be out of the hospital and working again.” He paused. “And you honestly don’t think he took off?”

“Why would he take off?” Oliver said. “We didn’t call him. He has no idea we’re coming down.”

“But he must know he’s in trouble, right?”

“Maybe,” Decker said. “And even if he suspects he’s in the weeds, most people don’t disappear underground. People with money hire lawyers.”