Faye Kellerman - Murder 101

Melanie and Rick Sobel resided in a complex between Broadway and Amsterdam. The lobby was small and spare with a black, granite floor and mahogany-paneled walls. A doorman let him in. Another uniformed man who sat behind a desk rang up the Sobel unit. Once given permission to enter, Decker rode the elevator to floor 24 out of 40.

He stepped out of the lift and into an anteroom with two doors. The one on his left was closed, but the one on his right was wide open. He knocked anyway and a female voice told him to come inside. He closed the door behind him and waited in an entry hall. From his vantage point, he could peek into a white space that defined the living room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows were rooftops and then Central Park, which, in wintertime, was a quilt of snow and brown. On sunny days, the space would be flooded with light and heat. Unfortunately it was steely outside and the cold had seeped through the glass.

Melanie showed up a minute later, dressed in a white tank top and a white short skirt. She held out her hand to shake Decker’s, and then she rubbed her arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

“It’s a little frosty.”

“I’ve been holed up in the back. It’s boiling back there. Absolutely no temperature regulation in the apartment. The boiler doesn’t do anything for the living room and it turns the den into a steam bath. I’ve complained and complained, but I think that’s just the nature of prewar apartments. They just didn’t have the HVAC. Let’s go into the den. I can always open a window if it gets too hot.” She turned and Decker followed.

It was a magnificent walnut-paneled room adorned with carved beams and crown molding. The bookshelves were filled with more knickknacks than books: lots of framed pictures along with lots of models of exotic cars—Ferraris, Maseratis, Bugattis, Porsches, Mercedes, a Delahaye, a Voisin, a Pierce Arrow, and a dozen other makes he didn’t recognize. The furniture was heavy wood and the seating was leather. And, as Melanie predicted, it was warm. Within minutes, Decker was dabbing his forehead. He removed his parka.

“Can I take that from you?” Without waiting for an answer, Melanie called out to Katrina. A uniformed maid came in, took Decker’s coat, and left. Then Melanie cranked open a window and immediately Decker felt a welcome shot of cold air. She pointed to a couch and both of them sat down.

“Are you warm or cold?”

Decker nodded. “I’m comfortable, thank you.”

“Then you’re a first. No one is comfortable in this place. I would have loved to be able to regulate the temperature, but Rick refused to even consider anything postwar. He had to have his prewar co-op. I admit in general the resale is better—unless you’re at 15 CPW or something—but c’mon, how many more sweltering nights do I have to put up with just to have bragging rights?”

She bent down to pick up something imaginary on the floor and gave him a full view of her cleavage. She was wearing sandals on her feet. Her face was skin stretched over pronounced cheeks, a big forehead, and a sizable chin. She had artificial lips that were puffed out like a sausage. Her complexion was just short of leathery: probably from hours in a tanning bed.

“I don’t know how I can possibly help you. I don’t even know why you’re here. Actually, I do know why you’re here. Max sicced you on me, didn’t he?”

“Your father-in-law gave me a list of people who knew about the Tiffany panels. You’re on the list.”

“Am I the first person you’ve talked to?”

“Third.”

“Who were the two before me?”

“Max and Ken.”

“And I repeat, Max sicced you on me, right? He can’t stand me. The feeling is mutual.”

“What don’t you like about Max?”

“Other than his arrogance, his pompousness, and his bullying, he’s fine.”

Decker took out a notebook and began to take notes. His wont was to sink into the back of the couch. Instead, he chose to be professional, precariously perched on the cushion’s edge, feeling about as balanced as a Cezanne painting. Weird that he should be thinking in art metaphors. “This is the deal, Mrs. Sobel.”

“Melanie, please. Mrs. Sobel is my mother-in-law.”

“Okay, Melanie, let me explain the logic. Detectives always work from the inside out—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s always the husband who knocks off the wife.”

“I wasn’t thinking about guilt although you’re making a good point. I was thinking those closest to the victims of the crime usually know the most. I started with Ken, now I’m interviewing his children.”

“But there are a zillion people who know about the panels. My father-in-law has two brothers. My husband has cousins. Why start with Ken?”

“First of all, I’ve got your entire family on my list. I started with Ken because he was my first contact. And he seems to be the leader of the family.” Decker waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “I’m just going down in order. Your husband is working and you were kind enough to let me talk to you at ten in the morning. So here I am.”

She threw up her arms. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Ask away.”

“I’m going to ask some pretty obvious questions, so bear with me. Did you know that the crypt had original Tiffany pieces?”

“Of course. Everyone in the family knows. And probably a lot of people not in the family. Ken is not the model of discretion. And if you’re looking for someone to grill, I would suggest you talk to Max again. It’s like the one thing he wants that he can’t get hold of. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Decker tried to keep his face flat. “Really?” She didn’t answer. He said, “I went online and looked at the Stewart and Harrison gallery inventory. The place has things far more valuable than the windows.” She still didn’t answer. “Does Max have any vices I should know about?”

“If you call greed a vice, then yes. With Max, it’s always about having more, more, more. And he accuses me of being a spendthrift.”

“He’s a spendthrift?” No response. “Is he in hock?”

Melanie blushed. “I wouldn’t know about that. I mean he has all this jewelry but do you think his wife ever gets to wear anything … well, maybe she wears it, but she certainly doesn’t own it. I suppose she can borrow it if she wants.” She looked at Decker. “The point is that everything that Max and his family own is in that store. I mean he and my sister-in-law own this tiny, tiny duplex where they couldn’t even entertain a gnat. C’mon already. Just sell a couple of lamps and get something decent. Not something where the kitchen has a view of an air shaft. See what I’m getting at?”

“Not exactly.” Decker looked up. “Maybe you should explain it to me.”

“The gallery belongs to Max’s father and his uncle, Joe. Max is nothing more than a glorified salesman. I think it eats at his kishkas.”

“So he doesn’t own anything in the gallery? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know what he owns or what he doesn’t own. All I’m saying is he always wants more.”

“So you’re thinking that maybe he stole the windows so he could resell them and get some of his own money?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m not trying to do that, Melanie. Do you think Max was involved with the theft?”

She turned bright red. “Not really.” She sat up. “But if he’s telling you that I was involved, he’s crazy.”

“Why would he think you’re involved?”

“C’mon, I know what he told you.”

“What did he tell me?” Decker prompted.