Murder 101 (36 page)

CHAPTER 36

T
HEY HIT THE
road for Greenbury at ten in the morning, leaving the crush of hump day Manhattan traffic behind. It had been good to see the family, but the commute was getting cumbersome, especially with a carload of people. Decker was at the wheel with Greg Schultz sitting shotgun, peering out the window with steely eyes. In the back, Rina was seated between Oliver and McAdams. She wasn’t grumpy, and that made her mood the best of the bunch.

“So Victor Gerrard is gone?” she asked.

“Appears that way,” Decker answered.

“Is he a victim or a bad guy?” Her question was met with shrugs and grunts. “That he took off so quickly could indicate either one.”

“Right,” Decker answered. He was trying to be polite since no one else was talking.

Rina kept at it. “What do you think?”

McAdams blew out air. “I’m too tired to think.”

Shultz continued to stare out the window. “Your grandmother is very nice. She wants to hire me as a bodyguard.”

“You’re
kidding
me.” Tyler rolled his eyes. “Her place is a fortress.”

“Exactly what I told her. She replied that her apartment couldn’t accompany her down Madison Avenue.” His eyes swept over the highway—front, back, and sides. “I declined, but I thanked her for her vote of confidence. I’m only telling you in case she says anything to you.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” McAdams answered.

“Can we get back to Victor Gerrard?” Caffeine had kicked into Oliver’s system. “The names were deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list about two weeks before the murders.”

“Yes,” Decker said. “And it appears that Gerrard left the gallery right after our first visit.”

Oliver said, “So could be that Gerrard deleted the names, executed the killings, and then stuck around to shoot you two before he packed up and ran.”

Decker said, “I suppose he’s as good a candidate as any since he’s not around to offer an alibi.”

“Curator by day, hit man by night,” McAdams said. “Not as loony as it sounds. Art people are a foul bunch.”

“I’m questioning Merritt’s innocence in all this,” Oliver said. “The guy’s a sophisticated dealer and then he leaves his computer unprotected for anyone to hack into.”

“Doesn’t even sound like Gerrard had to hack into anything,” McAdams said. “Just went inside Merritt’s office and fiddled with the files.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Oliver remarked. “I think Merritt’s involved.”

“He’s been cooperative with us,” Decker said.

“So you don’t think he’s involved?”

“Reserving judgment. He could just be one of those academic types with his head in the clouds. I’m betting Gerrard ran the nuts and bolts of the gallery.”

“Victor Gerrard,” Rina said out loud. “The name has a foreign feel to it. Maybe German?”

McAdams took out his phone and called up his search engine. “Gerrard is English originally derived from the Old German name Gerhard meaning ‘spear/brave.’ And I can tell you without looking it up that Victor is Latin and it means victorious.”

Rina was quiet. “How is Victor spelled? With a ‘c’ or with a ‘k’?”

“Good question,” Decker said. “I never bothered to ask.”

“If he spells it with a ‘k,’ it could be Russian.”

“Or German,” McAdams said.

“Or German as in from
East
Germany,” Rina said. “In which case, Viktor with a ‘k’ might speak Russian. And maybe that’s why Merritt hired him. He was Russian speaking.”

“You know, Rina, maybe Deck should have hired you instead of me,” Oliver said.

“Why thank you, Scott.”

“She’s always been the brains in the family,” Decker said. “Want to give Merritt a call, Tyler?”

“On it.” McAdams waited. When his phone kicked in, he said, “Mr. Merritt, this is Detective McAdams from Greenbury . . . I know. I am sorry to bother you, but your gallery man, Victor Gerrard, is still missing and we’re still working two murder cases . . . I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Victor Gerrard. Does he speak Russian by any chance? . . . he does. Is he Russian? . . . okay, okay . . . so he was born in East Berlin? So he speaks German as well? Okay. His first name Victor—is spelled with a ‘k’? It is spelled with a ‘k’ . . . no, that’s all for now, thank—” The kid looked at the phone. “He hung up on me.”

“Rude little man,” Rina said. “Although he did give me a free book.”

“Speaking of books,” Decker said, “what’s going on with the codebook? Do you have Mordechai Gold’s cell number?”

“Affirmative on that one as well.”

“Ring him up.”

“Right-o.” A few moments later, McAdams left a message. “I could call his office number.”

“I don’t want to leave a message on a public machine.” Decker tapped the wheel.

Tyler said, “Penny for your thoughts, Loo.”

“Just trying to summarize things in my mind.”

“Go on,” Oliver said.

“First of all, what we know. Lance Terry stole a statue from a cemetery. Angeline Moreau sold it and decided that this was a business with a decent return since no investment capital was required. They did it together for a while but eventually Terry got nervous and stopped stealing—or so he says. But we’ll take it on face value for the moment. Angeline wasn’t ready to give up her life of crime. So she found another partner—John Latham.

“We know that Latham and Angeline hooked up but we don’t know how they met. Maybe at a party, maybe they met through a common fence, or maybe she began to see his name on the date stamp in every book that she razored and made a logical connection that he was also doing funny stuff. However they met, they began thieving together, storing their take in a bin that was mutually rented: both of them had keys.”

He paused.

“So that’s Latham and Angeline. Now we have Gerrard to consider. We don’t know if he’s connected, but we do know that Viktor with a ‘k’ is missing and we know that three names were deleted from Merritt’s client list—one American who sets up traveling exhibitions between top museums, one rich Russian, and one Finnish art dealer. It’s possible that Gerrard deleted the names, but we don’t know why.”

“So actually you do know a lot,” Rina said.

“Always a cheerleader,” Decker said. “The sad truth is we don’t know who killed Angeline and Latham. We don’t know who tried to take down Harvard and me. We don’t know if Gerrard is victim or perpetrator. And we don’t know anything about Latham’s codebook or if it’s even relevant to the murders.”

McAdams said, “If Gerrard was dead, we probably would have found his corpse by now. Whoever killed Latham and Angeline left the bodies in the open.”

Decker said, “You’re right, Harvard. The killer wanted to make a show of his handiwork. He was trying to impress someone.”

“Which makes Gerrard more perpetrator than victim,” Oliver said.

“Listening to all of you, I do have a question,” Rina said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Why go to all that trouble with a very complex codebook in a bunch of languages to hide things when it seems that Latham and Angeline weren’t stealing items of major value?”

Decker said, “I think in the process of stealing minor items, Latham hit on something very big that he felt was worth hiding in code.”

“Or,” Rina said, “maybe Latham and Angeline didn’t have anything worth hiding in code. Maybe the book belonged to someone else. Maybe Latham or Angeline stole it and then Lathem figured out the code and realized that he had hit on something big. Maybe Latham tried his hand at blackmail. And finally, since both of their apartments were tossed, perhaps whoever murdered them was looking to get the codebook back. And maybe that someone was Viktor Gerrard. We know he spoke a few languages. Maybe he knew other languages as well.”

The car fell silent. Then McAdams said, “You go, girl.”

Rina beamed. “You live with a guy for nearly three decades, something rubs off.”

Oliver said, “Gerrard also had access to Merritt’s contacts. I’m liking him as the bad guy.”

Decker gathered his thoughts. “The codebook was found behind a piece of paneling around the bathtub skirt where the Jacuzzi motor should have been. Mulrooney said the pipes were capped off and it was placed behind the pipes and well hidden. Latham’s place had been trashed. All the logical spots to hide the codebook had already been checked out: the freezer was open, the toilet tank top was off, a few loose floorboards were ripped off, the walls had been pierced for hiding places—”

McAdams said, “So that’s why the living room walls had those round holes punched into them?”

“Yep. They were checking for hollow spots or a safe that had been walled up.”

“Aha!” Oliver said. “You’re wondering why the killers didn’t check the Jacuzzi motor area, which is a prime stashing spot for drug dealers and thieves.”

Decker said, “They missed the Jacuzzi spot because they were
foreign
. They know about wall safes and floorboards and toilet tanks, but unlike we spoiled Americans, how many Russian goons have familiarity with Jacuzzis?”

McAdams said, “But Viktor Gerrard had lived in America for years.”

“He lived in New York. How many regular Joes in Manhattan have a Jacuzzi?”

“I thought he lived in Philadelphia.”

“Even if he was renting a weekend apartment in the heart of Philly, it probably wasn’t high on luxury features. I’m just saying that everywhere I turn, I see the Brown Bear staring us down.”

The car went silent.

Decker continued on. “Gerrard spoke Russian, Latham’s field was Soviet art, and one of Angeline’s last known thefts was plates from the Petroshkovich art book.” He shook his head. “This case is dealing with a different set of rules. I think it’s time we clue in Quantico. I usually don’t like multiple agencies because communication is so poor, but . . .” He threw up his hands, and then he clutched the wheel. “Maybe you’re right, Harvard. Maybe I am an Old Man or at the very least too old for this job.”

“You don’t mean that and neither do I,” McAdams said. “If you think we need help, then we need help.”

“Once it’s dropped into Quantico’s lap, we’ll have to bow out. And viewing that someone had no qualms about shooting us, that may be a good thing.”

“I agree,” Oliver said. “Retirement is boring, but you’re dead for a very long time. You took it as far as you could, Deck. I’m sure Radar will be happy to punt.”

Rina said, “Nobody could have done any better with what you were given.”

A band of cheerleaders. But it did little to calm Decker’s sense of failure. “I’d still like to know what’s in the codebook.”

“If that’s worth killing over, Peter, maybe it’s better not to know.”

“And what do I say to Angeline Moreau’s parents? Whatever happened, she didn’t deserve to die. And whatever happened, her parents deserve to know the truth.”

Decker’s phone buzzed. The call was from Radar and it immediately went into Bluetooth. “Hi, Captain, we’re two hours away.”

“So that will put you into Greenbury around one?”

“That sounds right. When we see you, we’ll update you with what’s going on.”

“Like what?”

“Some names had been deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list. Viktor Gerrard spoke fluent Russian and German. We’re thinking that maybe he was dealing art behind Jason Merritt’s back. The whole case is feeling like a foreign entity is involved.” Decker paused. “I hate to say this but I think we might have taken this as far as we can on our own.”

“Interesting to hear you say that because I just got off the phone with our friends in Virginia.”

Decker was stunned. “You called them?”

“Of course not. I’d let you know before I made a move like that.”

“My bad. So who called them?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect it was your contact at Harvard, McAdams.”

“Mordechai Gold?”

“Didn’t you say he was a former agent?”

“I did?”

“That’s what he told me when I first spoke to him, Tyler,” Decker said. “So what’s our next move, Mike?”

“It’s the CIA. What do you think happens next?”

“A meeting.”

“Three o’clock at the police station.”

“Will Gold be there?”

“Since he knows all about the codebook and called them in, I suspect he will be there. No need to feel defeated, Decker. The case would have been yanked from you anyway.”

“I suppose that is some solace. Maybe we can get some answers.”

“From the CIA?”

“Then again, maybe not.”

“Wear a suit and tie and sunglasses and try to look very officious,” Radar said. “That way, we’ll blend in very nicely.”

CHAPTER 37

C
HANGE OF PLANS,”
Radar told Decker over the phone. “They want to meet at your house.”

“My house?”

“Yes. They claim there are too many people to meet at the station and they’ll draw too much attention. All that is true.”

“How many?”

“Last count we’re up to eight: Dr. Gold, some Russian, an American big shot, two agents, the mayor and the lieutenant governor of the state of New York, and Chris Mulrooney, who’s already here. I don’t know what you all hit on, but it’s big.”

“Meeting at my house . . . taking over my personal space. That’s pure intimidation.”

“It is. I suggested my house, but they seem bent upon making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine, Mike. I can deal. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Pete, you and the kid and Oliver did good. Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

“Thank you.” Decker hung up. To Rina he said, “The phone isn’t the right place, but I promise I’ll let him know about all your input, honey.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Rina said.

“Credit where credit is due.”

“I thank you, but I’m fine in the background,” Rina said. “Besides, there are lots of advantages of being that pesky fly on the wall.”

RINA WAS USED
to men. She had grown up the youngest behind two brothers. Her first two children were sons. She could usually speak their language and rarely had to use feminine wiles to get what she wanted. But in this instance, she knew she’d do anything to calm Peter down because he was seething. Men with suits and steely eyes had invaded his domain and while she knew he wouldn’t do anything reckless, he wasn’t going down easily.

Counting Mike, Scott, Tyler, Greg, and Peter, there were thirteen men crowded into a living room meant for six to eight adults. Dining room chairs had to be brought in. She had gone into the kitchen to make coffee and tea and to prepare a plate of whatever baked goods were in the freezer. While everything was brewing, she took the opportunity to size up the enemy.

The two CIA agents were easy to spot. Both of them were good-looking, tall men with broad shoulders and very short hair: one was fair haired, the other was brunette, and that was about the only way she could tell them apart. They could have been cast in the movies to play what they did in real life.

She knew the mayor, Logan Brettly. He was in his fifties with curly white hair, a stocky build, and a bulldog face. In the past, all her dealings with Brettly had been positive. He was a nice man who cared about his constituency. In this setting, he looked decidedly tense.

She supposed the professor with the scant, woolly gray hair was Mordechai Gold. His dress was more collegiate: corduroy jacket with patch pockets over a sweater over a shirt, and slacks with boots on his feet. He had perceptive eyes, taking in everything.

Of the other four men, she guessed that the blond man in his fifties with the perpetual tan was Alex Beckwith, the big-shot American. The suit with him was the lieutenant governor of the state of New York. Being a newcomer, Rina couldn’t remember his name.

The most exotic in style and dress was a man in his fifties, built like a professional wrestler. He wore an expensive jacket with working buttons on the sleeves, and there was a gold Rolex on his wrist, a bejeweled stickpin that kept his tie in place, and a large diamond winked from his pinkie. She figured he had to be the Russian and most likely, he was one of the names that Gerrard had erased from Jason Merritt’s client list. The remaining man looked like a cop: basic suit, tie, and rubber-soled shoes. Irish face, uncomfortable eyes and hands that he continually clasped and unclasped. Probably Chris Mulrooney from Summer Village.

Introductions had been made by the time she brought in the refreshments. She lowered the tray onto the coffee table. Then they thanked her, thinking that she’d make herself scarce.

They were wrong.

Rina sat on the arm of the couch next to Peter. “I’m Mrs. Decker. Depending how this conversation goes, perhaps by the end you can call me Rina.”

McAdams clamped his mouth with his hands to keep from smiling. The mayor grimaced with displeasure.

“Mordy Gold.” The professor stood up. “Please take my chair.”

“I’m fine but thank you.”

“Thank you for allowing us to invade your house. I’m actually the one who went to the officials. I felt that they had to be notified.”

“And here we all are.”

The man who looked like a cop stuck out his hand. “Chris Mulrooney.”

Peter said, “He’s the detective from Summer Village PD working on the Latham case.”

“Good to meet you, Detective,” Rina said.

“Chris, please. Sure you don’t want a chair?”

“I’m okay.”

It was the tall, tan man’s turn to be polite. “Alex Beckwith. I insist you take my seat.”

“All this chivalry is very heady,” Rina said. “I’m fine next to my husband.” She patted Peter’s shoulder. “Actually, sitting on the arm of the sofa makes me feel taller.”

The room went silent. Her presence was clearly not wanted. Rina stood and sighed. “I see no one is going to take anything unless I pour.” She turned first to the wrestler, the one who hadn’t introduced himself. “What can I get for you, sir?”

A long pause. Then he said, “Tea. Two sugars and a slice of lemon.”

“Certainly. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it to you.”

Peter’s eyes went dark, but Rina warded him off with a smile. The man’s accent was thick. “And you are . . .”

The man smiled back with Machiavellian eyes. “Martin Kosovsky.”

“That was two sugars and one lemon slice, Mr. Kosovsky?”

“It was.”

She handed him his tea. “Here you go.” It took another five minutes to pour for the remaining group. Beckwith and the mayor also took tea. Radar and Greg took coffee. The rest of the clan including the spooks passed. She returned to her armrest. It was her house and with that ownership, she had the privilege of saying whatever she wanted. But with a soft voice and a smile.

“Since you called up the dogs, Dr. Gold, maybe you can explain what’s going on. I assume it has to do with the codebook since that was your sole involvement with the case.”

Decker laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Lay it on the line, why don’t you.”

“Last I heard in America, you can speak your mind in your own house.”

“I think that’s still true.”

Rina turned to Gold. “Professor?”

“Of course, you’re right, Mrs. Decker. It has to do with the codebook. After breaking most of the code, I realized within the first couple of pages that the contents dealt with sensitive negotiations between our government and other countries. I called up Agent Marcus and Agent Grimm and explained to them what I had and at that point, I found out that the book had been stolen.”

Beckwith interrupted. “These negotiations have been going on for quite some time. It is a very good thing that the book was found and returned to the proper authorities. And for this reason, we’re actually here to thank all of you for your hard work.”

Rina looked him straight in the eye. “If all you wanted to do was thank the Greenbury Police Department, you could have just sent a bottle of wine.”

“Of course there’s more to it.” Beckwith sighed. “As I was pointing out to Captain Radar, further investigation into the current cases of Angeline Moreau and John Latham might compromise some very long and hard government negotiations. We are asking Greenbury and Summer Village to consider the consequences.”

“Consequences of solving two brutal murders?” Oliver asked.

“Of ruining delicate matters that have been going on for years.”

“How can we consider anything when we don’t know what you’re referring to?”

“It’s a government matter and that’s all you have to know,” said Agent Brunette.

Whether he was Grimm or Marcus, Rina didn’t know or didn’t care. She said, “The problem is, sir, we already know a great deal. And when there are holes, people fill them in, often with erroneous material. It’s in your interest to correct any misconceptions.”

Decker said, “She’s absolutely right. Why pretend that the two murders are just going to disappear. It doesn’t work that way. If you want help, we need answers—”

“Decker—” Radar said.

“Two people were slaughtered. My wife and I were shot at in my own bedroom. McAdams was injured; he’s on crutches for God’s sake. We deserve to know what’s going on.”

McAdams gave Decker a thumbs-up.

When Kosovsky talked, he had a condescending smile on his face. “It is terrible, what happened to you.”

“Not as bad as what happened to Angeline Moreau or John Latham,” Decker said.

Mayor Brettly’s eyes beseeched Radar, who pretended not to see.

Mulrooney said, “You just can’t call off this many people on two brutal murder cases without some explanation. I got my own men to consider.”

“It is terrible,” Kosovsky said again. “These brutal murders.”

A slight smile on his face? Maybe Rina was imagining it. While Rina was pretty certain that Kosovsky wasn’t the hit man, he seemed like the perfect candidate to order a massacre. Something cold and evil in his eyes. She said, “They were terrible murders.”

Kosovsky said, “Yes, of course. But I can assure you that there wasn’t any official government inwolwement in them.”

Decker said, “It warms my heart that the United States and Russia weren’t behind trying to assassinate my wife and me, but that begs the question of what happened.”

Kosovsky sipped his tea. “Rogue agents are big problems, Meester Decker. Just ask your friends from your CIA.”

“Who’s the rogue agent?”

“Names are irrelewant. But the rogue has been dealt with, saving your gowernment a lengthy trial and many tax dollars. So for you, it is done. There is no one to hunt down because we have already done it.”

“How do I explain that to Angeline’s parents?”

“You tell them it is done,” Kosovsky said. “It is a big shame about the young girl, but when you play with fire, you get the burn. To tell them about their daughter, they will find out about her inwolwement in unpleasant business. Perhaps it would be better to tell them what they want to hear rather than the truth.”

No one spoke.

Kosovsky said, “Assure the girl’s parents that her killer has been punished.”

“Without prejudice,” Decker said.

“Excuse me?”

“Just an old army term. While I’m assuring Angeline Moreau’s parents that the rogue has been taken care of, what do I say to Detective McAdams who was shot three times.”

Kosovsky turned to McAdams. “My sincere apologies, Meester McAdams. If you are ewer in Moscow, I would be honored to host you . . . show you around my city.”

“Thank you.” McAdams raised an eyebrow.

“I think we’re done here,” said Agent Blond.

“Not by a long shot,” Decker said. The room went quiet for a moment. “Let me take you on a theoretical walk and you can tell me how theoretical the walk actually is.”

Silence.

“Go on,” Kosovsky said.

“We know that the codebook was found in John Latham’s apartment hidden in an out of the way place, but recovered brilliantly by my colleague, Detective Mulrooney. We also know that someone was desperately looking for it—in Latham’s apartment and in Angeline’s apartment because both places were tossed. I believe that Viktor Gerrard—who is missing—is our key player. He was born in East Germany and spoke Russian as well as German. He was also an art dealer working in a gallery that specialized in Russian art. I suspect that Viktor had a bad case of sticky fingers.”

“I don’t understand sticky fingers,” Kosovsky said.

“He was a thief.”

“Ah . . . go on.”

Decker said, “Maybe Gerrard was the rogue agent you’re referring to. Or maybe he’s just a rogue, period. Whoever he really was, Gerrard had contacts in Russia, including you, Mr. Kosovsky. Could be he was trying to buy something from you. More likely, he was trying to
sell
you something. Because like Latham, Gerrard probably had a side business in stolen goods. I believe he accidentally came across the codebook in a client’s house in Russia and he knew he had found something big. So he decided to take it back to America. How am I doing so far?”

“I hold judgment,” the Russian said.

“Always a good thing to be open-minded,” Oliver said.

Decker held back a smile. “The problem was that Gerrard couldn’t break the code. So he enlisted help. Enter John Latham who was clever enough to figure out enough of the code and realize what he was dealing with. But instead of cluing Viktor in on what he had, he embarked upon his own blackmail scheme against you, Mr. Kosovsky.” Decker turned to Beckwith. “And possibly against you.”

“Me?” Beckwith’s cheeks had pinkened. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“Obviously something because you’re here,” Rina said.

Smiling, Decker wagged a finger at her. “I have no idea what’s in the codebook other than meaningless foreign words that transliterated into cliché Latin phrases. But . . . I suspect it was all about art negotiations between the U.S. and Russia. For the last six years, Mr. Beckwith has been trying to curate the foremost traveling exhibit of art by Leonardo Da Vinci. Because Da Vincis are so few and far between and so rare and priceless, they never travel. What’s the payoff for you, Mr. Beckwith, if you succeed in this coup? You not only get a pat on the back, you probably get a percentage of the exhibit ticket price, which, if you could pull it off, could amount to a fortune. But there was a chink along the way. No one is lending the United States valuable art, especially Russia, because the Russian government is involved in a messy lawsuit with Chabad where the U.S. judge has already sided with the Jewish organization. So you, Mr. Beckwith, were stuck, unless you had something remarkable to give Russia in return for the loan of a Da Vinci. How am I doing so far, Mr. Beckwith?”

Silence. Then Beckwith said, “For the record, we refer to the paintings as Leonardos.”

“I stand corrected.”

Kosovsky said, “And what does that haff to do with me, I wonder?”

“You, Mr. Kosovsky, were negotiating with the Hermitage to get one of their two Da Vin—excuse me—Leonardos. What are the titles, Tyler?”