Katherine Brooks - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

“No, some were mosaics — you know, with little inlaid stones, glass, or tiles—”

“Tiles?”

“Certainly. Tiles are nothing but baked clay, usually glazed or painted. The technique was known long ago.”

“Have you ever come across fake icons, with the painting or mosaic work made to appear much older than it is?”

“I never have, but I’ve read about such things. There are some people, especially in Eastern Europe, who are quite skilled at faking antique furniture and art objects.”

“Do you think this icon could be faked?”

Rachel Dean shook her head. “I’d stake my reputation on its being authentic.”

“You said he had more of them?”

“So he implied. He mentioned at least four which could be offered for sale, though I suggested it might be best to wait a bit before producing the other three.”

“But he took this icon with him?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why. Perhaps he wanted another opinion. Can you leave it with me now?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s possible evidence in a murder case. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Dean.”

“I’d appreciate your keeping me advised of the icon’s fate.”

“I’ll try to do that,” he promised.

Leopold returned the icon to Fletcher’s office along with Rachel Dean’s appraisal. Fletcher studied it and gave a soft whistle. “Four hundred thousand — that’s motive enough for murder. We’d better lock this away in the evidence vault.”

“I hope it helps with your investigation.” He told Fletcher what he’d learned about the possible faking of mosaic icons.

“You’re thinking of those tilers working at the condo, aren’t you?”

Leopold nodded. “I may be on the wrong track, but if Vladimir Petrov was trying to fake an ancient mosaic he might seek the help of a skilled tile worker.”

“There’s one thing wrong with your theory,” Fletcher said with a smile. “The only icon we’ve recovered so far isn’t a mosaic. It’s a wax—” He glanced again at the appraisal, “—encaustic painting.”

Leopold stood up. “I’ll leave that to you. Good luck with it.”

“One more thing, if you’re interested. Mrs. Petrov is in the interview room. Do you want to speak with her?”

“Sure, if you want me to. I’ve gone this far. I guess I can talk with one more person.”

Sally Petrov was not what he’d expected. For one thing, she was American, with a decidedly Brooklyn accent. Her tailored tan suit looked expensive, as did the wrist watch and rings she wore. “Have you found the killer?” she asked as soon as she entered the room.

“Not yet, Mrs. Petrov. We’re working on it.” He introduced himself and sat down opposite her. “I gather you met your husband in this country?”

She nodded. “About four years ago, after he’d emigrated here from Russia. He had an apartment in the Russian colony down near Coney Island. We were married within six months.”

“He was a great deal older than you,” Leopold observed.

“Well, yeah. I’m twenty-seven now and he was forty-seven, but twenty years isn’t so bad. We were both interested in art. He’d collected some while he was in Russia and I’d posed a few times for a life class. That’s where we met.”

“I see.” Leopold watched her nervously fidgeting with a gold bracelet on her wrist. “What can you tell me about the Russian icon we found in the trunk of your husband’s car?”

“He brought it over with him, from Russia. There were four in all.”

“What happened to the others?”

“I don’t know. He told me he had six originally, part of an iconostasis — a large screen. He got them into the country past customs somehow, and he sold two soon after his arrival here. Certainly he had plenty of money when I first met him.”

“I understand he was an art dealer in Manhattan.”

“He didn’t work much at it,” Sally Petrov said, twisting her long brown hair back behind her shoulder.

“Do you know a local dealer named Rachel Dean?”

“Not personally, but he mentioned her. She did an appraisal on one of the icons for insurance purposes.”

Leopold stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Petrov. I know this must be hard for you.”

“Will I get the icon back?”

“You’ll have to speak with Captain Fletcher about that.”

Back in Fletcher’s office the younger man asked, “What did you think of her?”

“She’s a cool one,” Leopold replied. “I think we could safely say she married him for his money.”

“Maybe she killed him for it.”

“Is that your current theory?”

“I’ve got one other,” Fletcher admitted. “Connie’s free of her other case and we’re going to check it out tonight. One of the workers on the tile crew, a fellow named Max Rosen, has a conviction for armed robbery. Served a few years for it back in the eighties. He’s been clean since then but we figure he’s worth a look.”

Leopold glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was after five. “I’ll be heading home. Give me a call if you need me for anything.”

Molly was home before him, just slipping two frozen dinners into the microwave. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be late,” she said. “I’m starving.”

“Hard day in court?” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Not easy. I think I’m losing this one. How about you? What did Fletcher want?”

“He’s short-handed. I’m helping him out on a case.”

“Just like the old days.”

“We’ll see.”

He could tell Molly was done in by her long day in court, with another session looming in the morning. They went to bed earlier than usual, just after eleven o’clock.

When the door chimes awakened him some time later, Leopold immediately looked at the glowing digits on the clock radio. It was 2:05. He slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Molly from her sleep, and took his old .38 from the bedside drawer. As he went down the stairs he could see the red light flashing from the top of a waiting car.

He opened the door and faced Lieutenant Connie Trent, her face drained of color except for the pulsating red flasher that bathed them both.

“Connie?”

“I didn’t know what to do. I had to come for you. Fletcher’s been shot.”

Molly came with them, because Fletcher was like one of the family. She threw on a bulky sweater and jeans and was in the car with Connie and Leopold within minutes. “What happened?” she asked Connie as they headed toward the hospital.

“Fletcher wanted to check out a man named Rosen who had a criminal record. He was working on the condo where Petrov was killed. We drove to Rosen’s apartment over on Snyder Street, above a bodega. There was a back entrance, and as we approached it in the dark Fletcher saw someone moving. He drew his weapon and identified us as police. There were two quick shots and he went down—” Her voice broke as she said it. “I fired once but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. Whoever it was got away. I ran to Fletcher and he was bleeding heavily from chest wounds.”

“Wasn’t he wearing his bulletproof vest?” Leopold asked.

“We weren’t expecting trouble. You know Fletcher. Like most older cops, he hates those things.”

“You never set him a very good example,” Molly told her husband.

Connie swung her car into the hospital emergency room’s parking lot and pulled the flashing red light from the roof of the unmarked vehicle. They hurried inside. “Captain Fletcher?” Connie asked the nurse behind the desk.

“The doctor will see you in a moment.”

“I want to see someone now,” Connie insisted.

“In a moment.”

A greying man in a white coat appeared within five minutes. “I’m Dr. Slocum,” he told them. “We’re preparing Captain Fletcher for surgery now. His wife is with him.”