Murder 101 (28 page)

CHAPTER 28

A
FTER COMBING THROUGH
piles of the antique textile and art books with zero results, Rina suggested a break. She had been working for two hours straight and her eyes needed to rest. She—along with McAdams and Schultz—left the library and found a school café called The Hop. The place made an attempt to resemble a 1950s malt shop: red fake Naugahyde stools at a fake linoleum countertop that was even cheesier than the original cheesy decor. Rina bought coffee for the three of them and they sat in an outside patio under a heat lamp. She took out a sack lunch that she had prepared for Tyler and herself, but there was certainly enough to go around in case Greg Schultz hadn’t brought his own food.

During the first five minutes, the gang ate in silence. Tyler took out his iPad and was lost in concentration. Rina made small talk with Greg, asking him about various cars: always a good topic with guys but especially good with someone who had worked with vehicles for the past thirty years.

McAdams finally spoke. “I was looking up vintage prints and not all print books are the same in value—as if that should be a startling revelation.”

“Go on,” Rina said.

“Not surprising, it appears that the older the book, the more valuable the prints are. Prints in Basil Besler’s book published in 1613 are selling from eighteen hundred to five thousand whereas prints in Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book, published between 1799 and 1805, sell in the thousands.” He continued searching on Safari. “But Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book
The Temple of Flora,
published just ten years later . . . those images sell for a lot less.”

“Probably depends on the rarity of the book.”

“Yeah, of course. All I’m saying is the prices really swing and without knowing what is valuable, we’re kind of shooting in the dark with choosing which books to look at. To make it worthwhile for a thief, he’d have to steal from the expensive books, which are rare and damn near impossible to find.” He looked up at Rina. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Way better than what I packed for myself.”

“You’re both welcome.”

Schultz stood up. “I’m going to make a quick pit stop. Keep your eyes open.”

“No problem.” Rina patted her purse. “We’re fine.” After Schultz left, she said, “The prints you saw in Chase Goddard’s gallery. How much is he asking for them?”

“I can tell you in a minute.” McAdams clicked away on his pad. “They’re priced between a hundred and three hundred each. I should really put his inventory as a favorite place.”

“What about his vintage books?”

“He doesn’t have that much inventory. He has a
Swann’
s Way
and a Chandler,
The Long Goodbye,
but without the dust jacket. That’s the most valuable. The rest are in double digits.”

“Not worth stealing,” Rina said.

“No one thinks that Goddard was actually stealing. We were just wondering if Goddard was buying hot merchandise. And if he was purchasing stolen items, it probably makes sense for him to buy things that don’t attract that much attention . . . like cheap prints.”

“I agree.” Rina stared out at the barren landscape. Nothing seemed suspicious. But would she even recognize “suspicious”? “Even if Goddard is buying small items of hot property, it’s certainly not worth murdering over.”

“Unless he’s trying to keep his reputation unsullied, except that heretofore it had already been sullied.”

“Even if he did pay Moreau and Latham a few bucks for stolen art prints, you certainly can’t amass designer bags with a couple hundred extra bucks.”

“Right.” McAdams sat back and sipped coffee. This morning he had removed the sling from his arm and felt better with the freedom of motion. It still hurt, but he could move it and his balance was much better. Within a few days, he’d probably be on crutches. “No offense, but I think your husband is on the wrong track. I think this is a total waste of time.”

“Not that I’m defending Peter, but he’s more right than wrong. If he thinks the library needs to be checked out, I’m not going to argue.”

“I know he’s trying to tie Moreau to something more than Tiffany windows, but I still can’t see her being a mover and a shaker in the nefarious world of looted art. Maybe her murder had nothing at all to do with the stolen panels. Her ex-boyfriend was pretty shaken when she dumped him. He followed her to Boston and even went by John Latham’s apartment. I know he had an alibi for both murders, but friends lie for one another all the time.”

“Was it just one person who alibied him?”

“No, it was several people who saw him. And he was in class like he said. But no one can perfectly account for every minute of his day. And people get the time wrong.”

Rina said, “Peter feels that some foreign entity is involved.”

“The Russian mafia.” McAdams rolled his eyes. “Even if I agreed with him on that end, what would that have to do with Chase Goddard and a few stolen prints?”

Rina went silent. Then she said, “Tyler, can you look up on your iPad to see if there are any rare
Russian
books that have an auction history?”

“That’s a thought.” He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

Schultz had returned and that made Rina feel a lot better. She said, “All’s quiet.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

McAdams said, “There is a book by D. A. Rovinski—five books actually published in St. Petersburg, 1881.
Russkie Narodnye Kartinki
better known as
Russian Folk Pictures
. They sold for auction in 2013 for 11 million rubles. And that would convert to . . . wow, that’s surprising . . . 315,500 dollars.” He continued typing. “God, the prints are gorgeous. Want to take a look?”

“Love to.” She looked as he swished through the images. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yes, they are,” McAdams said. “I’m assuming that is a very, very rare book and not the kind of thing that would be sitting around Rayfield Library collecting dust.”

“Unless the library doesn’t know what they have.”

“That’s why you have a reference librarian. She should know her inventory.”

“It’s worth a shot to ask her,” Rina said. “What else goes for big money?”

“Books by Pushkin . . . Eugene Onegin . . . okay, this sounds interesting. A book commemorating three hundred years of Romanov rule, published during the diamond jubilee in 1913. This one went for . . . roughly 115,000 dollars. At least these books are in the vicinity of worth killing over.” A pause. “I don’t really see Chase Goddard dealing in them. Maybe Jason Merritt.”

“Does it say anything about who owned the books and who bought them?”

“Nope.” His eyes were still on his pad. “I don’t believe this! Son of a bitch!” He looked up. “Sorry.”

“What?”

“Nikolai Petroshkovich . . . a signed copy of his
History of Iconography
with original prints of his designs and works. One of twenty original editions. Two hundred pages, forty plates published in 1926 . . . 4 million rubles three years ago, which was, hold on . . . 115,000 dollars.”

“Petroshkovich?”

He winced. “Yes.”

“So maybe Peter’s not so far off.”

He exhaled. “Maybe not.”

“How far is Marylebone from here?”

“About an hour.”

“Where’s the nearest big reference library in Marylebone?”

“In Rhode Island, I’d say Brown, but we’re almost as close to Marylebone as Providence. And there are a slew of other colleges in between.”

“Okay,” Rina said. “When did Petroshkovich live?”

“I will tell you in a moment . . . 1889 to 1949.”

“He was sixty when he died?”

“Fifty-nine . . . hold on . . . he did the Marylebone iconography in 1938, but he also did a lot of other work in and around New England. His icons at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone was considered his pinnacle.”

“So he was somewhat famous when he died?”

“He was pretty well known. If his book is going for 115 grand four years ago, you could only imagine what the icons would be worth today.”

“Worth dying over?”

“More than a Tiffany.”

“You said he worked in and around New England.
Where
did he live?”

“Hold on . . . Wowzers!” McAdams exhaled. “Good call, Rina. His workshop was in Bellingham, which is ten miles away from the Five Colleges.”

“So if you’re well known, older, and sick—and you want to leave copies of legacies in the form of your book somewhere . . .”

“Certainly worth asking about.” McAdams put down his cup. He turned to Schultz. “Would you mind wheeling me into the bathroom? Once inside, I can take it from there.”

“I’ll meet you guys in the library,” Rina said.

Schultz said, “How about if we all go together?”

“I can’t come in with you.” Rina laughed. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate urinals.”

“Deck says you’re good with a pistol.” Schultz smiled. “How about if you can stand guard for us?”

Again, Rina patted her purse. “Have gun will travel.”

BOSTON WAS COLLEGE
in search of a city. What wasn’t past history was current academia. Large in scope as well as top dog in its field, the Harvard campus sprawled over an endless white landscape. Brick buildings from yore battled with modern architecture interspersed with long expanses of white fields. Mordechai Gold’s office was located in the Science Center—a modern-day ziggurat of glass and steel off Cambridge Street across from Harvard Yard.

Classes were in session, but there were some empty rooms with open doors, enough to see that functionality ruled over form. Institutional furniture crammed into the space, whiteboards filled with abstract formulas that meant nothing to anyone outside of the field. Gold’s office was a corner on the fifth floor. The door was ajar, but Decker knocked anyway. They were invited inside.

The space was a step back to a previous time: walnut paneling, parquet floors, Persian floor rugs, wooden bookshelves, and a view of the plaza. It was warmed by an electric fireplace as well as modern heating. An enormous ebony L-shaped desk hosted the math professor who was sitting in a tufted leather chair. He stood up: a large man in height and girth, bald except for a ring of unruly gray curls around the base of his head. Bushy gray eyebrows arched over large brown eyes. He had a full face, a full nose, full lips, and a big chin. Decker could see that Gold in his younger years would have fit the mold physically for the spooks in Virginia.

Introductions were made and hands were shaken. Then everyone settled into cushy chairs. Gold smiled. “I know you gave me a brief recitation over the phone, Detective Decker, but I’d appreciate a recap of what happened now that we’re face-to-face with everyone here.”

“How long do you have?” Mulrooney said.

Gold checked an Oyster Rolex. “A little over an hour. Will it take longer? If so, I can make arrangements.”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s grand,” Gold said. “The more complicated the better.”

Decker said, “I’ll start with my involvement and then Detective Mulrooney can tell you what he’s doing.”

“Splendid.” Gold paused. “How is Tyler McAdams doing? I was horrified when you told me about the shooting.”

“He’s fine and should make a total recovery,” Decker said. “Do you remember him?”

“Five ten, slender build but not wimpy, long face, brown hair, hazel eyes. He dressed in sweaters and jeans and was always prepared. Now, I would very much appreciate a full story.”

“Absolutely.” Decker pulled out his notebook and the two other detectives did the same.

“My handwriting is atrocious.” Gold pointed to his head. “I may ask you to repeat something just to encode it into long-term memory.”

“Not a problem,” Decker said.

The recitation took twenty minutes. Gold interrupted three times asking for clarification. After the recap was finished, Mulrooney took out his copy of the codebook and said, “Did you have a chance to look at the pages?”

“I always like to hear the complete picture before I embark on any new project.” Gold took out copy given to him by Mulrooney and put on his glasses. “So the answer is no.”

“Tyler cracked part of it,” Decker said. “The Cyrillic letters are actually Latin phrases. The Hebrew letters are Latin phrases as well.”

“Ah yes. Very good. Please tell him I’m impressed.” Gold’s eyes continued to study the pages. “That poor boy. He must have been ill-prepared for police work of this sort.”

“He didn’t expect to get shot but who does? As far as the work, he’s been a quick study.”

“Yes, I remember that for a nonmath major, he caught on quite well. Quiet boy, but he always knew the answers.”

Decker watched Gold’s eyes bore into the text. “Do you have a photographic memory?”

“Yes, I do. But also I’m one of those weird people with high superior autobiographical memory.”

“I read about that.” Decker smiled. “Uh, I don’t remember where I read it but it was an article about people who remember daily details about their entire lives.”

“Correct.”

Oliver said, “Is that a blessing or a curse?”

“I do remember the bad as well as the good. Lucky for me that most of the emotional valance is long gone. I can tell you the day and the date of what was happening for the last sixty years. But only in relationship to myself. If something historical had occurred and I wasn’t aware of it, I’ll have no direct memory of it. I remember Tyler McAdams well not only because I remember the boy, but also because I knew his father, Jack McAdams. I went to law school with him.”

“You’re a lawyer.”

“I’ve done everything except medicine. Poor kid. Growing up with a father like that could not have been easy.”

“He’s aware of his father’s peccadilloes,” Decker said. “He handles him very well.”

“Good. I admire people with spine.” Gold went quiet. “The Eastern letters and symbols—the Chinese, the Japanese, the Korean . . . this is Amharic . . . whoever wrote this is really all over the place . . . anyway, the symbols and sounds point to Latin phrases as well.”

“What about the Roman alphabet?” Decker asked. “They appear to be nonsense words but they must mean something.”