Faye Kellerman - Murder 101

Does the word delusional mean anything? He said, “I’ll hide the glass somewhere safe. I won’t even tell you about it. If you’re questioned by the cops, you can honestly be in the dark. When things cool off, you can get your glass back. You’re graduating in June anyway. You’ll leave this dump and no one will be the wiser.”

“I can’t wait. I am so sick of small-town living. I can’t wait to go back to a real city.” Angeline kissed him passionately. “I want to be with you.”

“I want to be with you, too. But we have to be patient.” Once inside, he whispered, “You know I’m just as vulnerable as you are, Angeline. I still have the two original panels.”

She was flabbergasted. “You do? I thought you already sold them.”

“The client didn’t want to pay me in installments. The truth is I think he has an overseas buyer who will only pay for all four works. So he didn’t want the responsibility of having any until we had all four to give him.”

“Where are they?”

“Need-to-know basis, Angeline. Especially now.”

She was aware that he had several places to hide the stuff because he had given her keys—just in case. One bin she had even rented out for him. But as far as she knew, it was empty. But maybe not.

Need-to-know basis.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she told him.

He kissed her again. “You know you are my girl.”

“I sure hope so.” She broke away and sat on the futon, the cogs in her brain beginning to turn the wheels. She had spent almost all the money he had given her on her latest handbag. “Can’t we just sell the two panels we have?”

“We can’t do anything right now.”

“I know that. But maybe later.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Right now we’re in the weeds. First we have to get ourselves out of this mess and then we can move on. In the meantime, we just shut up and deny.”

“But, like, can’t we use the panels as leverage? Either your client buys them or we’ll get rid of them as we see fit.”

He glared at her. “Are you being deliberately thick-headed? We can’t touch the Tiffanies. They are stolen, Angeline! The police know they’re stolen! Have patience and then when we’re thinking more clearly, the solution will be evident.”

She nodded. “I guess you’re right. The panels aren’t going anywhere. I suppose somewhere down the line, we should be able to make a little money out of this.”

“Exactly.” He could feel his mojo coming back “I’ve been doing this for a while, babe. Long before you came into the picture.”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda.”

He smiled. “You want to fuck before I go?”

She hadn’t penciled in fucking. She still had a paper to finish up and she was going to meet a couple of friends later in the day and get shitfaced at Morse McKinley: the best parties, the nicest RAs and the most lax on booze. She looked at her watch. She supposed there was enough time to rip off a quick one. She shrugged, sat on her twin mattress, and began to undress.

Within twenty-four hours, a preliminary list from Ken Sobel had come through the station-house’s fax machine. Since most of the extended Bergman/Sobel family lived in Manhattan, Decker began to make preparations for an overnight into the city. That meant gearing up not only for the three-hour drive, but also packing a few gifts since he and Rina would be visiting the kids.

Rina’s oldest son, Sam, his wife, Rachel, and their baby daughter lived in a rented tiny one bedroom in Brooklyn. They could have rented a bigger place but the kids wanted to save up to buy something after they were done with their training. Jacob, Rina’s second son, had moved from Baltimore to Williamsburg where the kid, now in his thirties, was as comfortable with the Chasidim as he was with the hipsters. He and a college friend rented a modest two-bedroom flat that was party central. Hannah, Peter and Rina’s daughter, lived a few blocks away from Sam, sharing a place with three roommates. Decker’s oldest daughter, Cindy and her husband, Koby, lived in Philadelphia. There was absolutely no room to stay unless they wanted to share the nursery with the twins and sleep on an air mattress on the floor.

The days of roughing it were long gone. Decker was willing to stay at a hotel in Queens or some other borough that was cheaper than Manhattan. But this week they got lucky. Their foster son, Gabriel Whitman, owned a roomy two-bedroom condo bought by his father’s money, which was about the only thing that his dad had to offer besides good genetics. The place included a big living room with a piano, two bathrooms, and a refrigerator that was actually in the kitchen. It sat two blocks away from Juilliard right near Columbus Circle. At the moment, he was touring so he was more than thrilled to lend his digs to the Deckers. Not only was it quiet and spacious, Gabe was compulsive so it was cleaner than most five-star hotels.

Once the car’s trunk and backseat were packed with luggage and bags, Decker and Rina took off at four A.M. Monday in bitter darkness, hoping to beat Manhattan traffic. Rina had a cooler filled with fruit, cheeses, and Danishes and two thermoses filled with coffee. After the heat kicked in, Rina was comfortable enough to remove her gloves and hat and bulky jacket.

She saw sweat coming off Peter’s brow. “Do you want me to help you off with your jacket?’

“No, I’ve always wanted a portable sauna.”

“A simple ‘Thank you, darling. That would be lovely’ is sufficient.” She helped him pull his arms out and removed his parka and threw it on the backseat. “Coffee?”

“Will it burn my lip if I drink it while I drive?”

“I’ll test the waters.” She poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Something between lukewarm and hot.”

“Bring it on.”

She gave him the coffee and put on one of Gabe’s CDs. “If you get tired, I’ll be happy to drive. You’ve got work to do. I don’t.”

“I’m fine. I like to drive.”

“Great.” Five minutes passed without a word exchanged. Rina finally pushed her seat back and closed her eyes. Just as she was drifting off, she heard Peter talking to her. “Come again?”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“I’d love to talk instead of sleep, but I know you use your time in the car to think.”

“Not much to think about. Just got a bunch of people to interview.”

“You want to talk about it with me?”

“Why not? You’re a captive audience.” Decker told her what he learned. When he was done, Rina said, “Interesting. Do you suspect someone in the family?”

“Can’t say until I interview them. But the extended family is very large and then there’s the daughter-in-law with a spending problem. The crime was calculated. We’ll just have to see how it shakes out.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No, just enjoy the kids and grandchildren.”

He grew quiet and so did she.

Decker said, “The expert that Ken Sobel brought in—who also happens to be his son-in-law—has an art glass gallery in Manhattan. I looked up the website. That place has more Tiffany lamps than most museums.”

“Are you thinking that he stole the windows and is using the gallery to fence them?”

“Maybe, but the gallery has pieces way more valuable than the panels. And it’s been in the same two families for fifty years—Harrison and Stewart, two brothers-in-law.”

“There’s always room for more profit.”

“True and that’s why I’d like to interview Max Stewart away from his father-in-law, especially since he’s the one who mentioned the spendthrift sister-in-law. It’s always interesting when someone points the finger at someone else. Plus he knows the Tiffany market.”