Faye Kellerman - Murder 101

“I was a lieutenant when I left LAPD. I ran a squad room of detectives so I’m familiar with every kind of crime imaginable, including art theft and forgery. But you can hire your own person as long as we communicate. I don’t have turf issues especially with something so specialized. You’re in Manhattan?”

“Yes.”

“So there are probably a lot of specialists in your parts. How about if we take it one step at a time?”

“I suppose that makes sense. What was your specialty?”

“As a lieutenant, I mostly supervised my detectives. I only worked the field if it was a very big and puzzling case. Before I was promoted, I was a homicide cop for twenty years.”

“Homicide! Let’s hope there’s no need for that!”

Decker smiled. “I agree.”

Sobel thanked him for calling and hung up. Decker gave the phone back to McAdams. They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they got to the house, Decker said, “Can’t say it was a hoot, but you showed some professionalism coming out with me in the cold.”

“Yeah, tell that to my frozen feet … and my frozen ears. I should have taken the car. If I come down with frostbite, I’m taking disability.”

Decker eyed him. “You know, McAdams, police forces are paramilitary organizations. Rule number one: no one wants to hear your bitching so suck it up. No guarantee they’ll like you any better, but when you don’t talk, you can’t get on people’s nerves. Do you want to come on Sunday? If you’ve got other plans, I can handle this alone. It might even be easier if I handle it alone. But it’s up to you.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“So we have to wait by the phone twiddling our thumbs?”

“Remember what I said about sucking it up five seconds ago?”

McAdams sighed. Then he said, “Do you think the panels were stolen?”

“Ah … a work-related question. Good. I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

“So we have an art theft … and if Pellman said his key worked just a couple of days ago, it’s a recent art theft.”

Decker held up his hands. “Voilà!”

McAdams smiled. “I’ll see you on Sunday. Thank your wife for me.”

“This should be evident, but I never assume anything. You don’t talk about this to anyone. You should never talk about work, period.”

“No problem there, Old Man. I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

It seemed like ages since Rina had to wait up for him to come home. In fact, it had only been months since Peter had retired and they had moved to Greenbury. She was fine with the move, but she suspected that Decker was less than thrilled. He didn’t talk about it and she hadn’t asked, but perhaps a taste of his old life would be a perfect lead-in.

When he walked through the door, Peter looked cold but not at all tired. His nose and cheeks were bright red. Rina got up from the couch and made two cups of tea in the kitchen using the hot water urn that she always set up before the Sabbath. When she returned, he was hanging up his jacket and scarf. He took off his gloves and hat. “Man, it’s good to get out of the cold.”

Rina set the hot tea on the coffee table. She was wearing thin pajamas. The radiator was spewing out puffs of hot air. “I finally understand saunas. You get hot, then cold, then the hot doesn’t feel so hot.” She fanned her face. “I’m ready to camp outside. I’m dying. Of course, it could be the M word.”

“Open a window.”

“I do. Then I get cold. No winning the war on hormones.”

Decker picked up his tea and sipped. “You look as young as the day I met you.”

“And you’re a smooth talker. You also have a gleam in your eye. Or is that an ice crystal? What’s the case, darling?”

“It wasn’t much but at least it was more than grabbing a cat from a tree.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I just told the kid not to talk about his cases with anyone.”

“I’m your wife. I have Fifth Amendment privileges.”

Decker smiled. “It’s nothing much. Could be an art theft of Tiffany panels. There are glass panels still up there but we don’t know if they’re the originals. They may be forgeries. The owner is coming up with an expert on Sunday to authenticate them.”

“I suppose the next question is, who would steal them? Who’d even know about them?”

“Excellent. Can you be my partner instead of the kid?”

“How’s the kid?”

“Obnoxious as usual.” Decker took another sip of tea. “Tonight, I did see a glimmer of curiosity.”

“Ah … maybe all he needed was a little real police work. He did go to Harvard.”

“His brain is not the problem. He needs a personality transplant.”

“He seemed polite enough when he was here. Anyway, it’s good to see you grumpy. That means you’re happy. Do you know anything about Tiffany?”

“Not much. What about you?”

“I think he used to have a studio upstate. I think it was dismantled, though.” Decker was quiet. Rina said, “What?”

“I think there’s a museum in Orlando … what’s it called? See that’s why we shouldn’t be talking about business on Shabbat. Now I can’t look it up and it’s killing me.”

“It’s a Tiffany museum?”

“It has a bunch of Tiffany windows. I was there when I visited my uncle years ago … it’s an American art museum … it’ll come to me.” Decker finished his tea. “Is stained-glass Tiffany the same Tiffany that owns the stores?”

“I think it was a father and son. The son did the stained glass.”

“Louis Comfort Tiffany.”

“Yeah, right. Good for you.”

“So the jewelry guy was the father?”

“Yes, and I think Tiffany jewelry went corporate a long time ago.”

“I’ll look it all up after Shabbos.” Decker moved closer to his wife. “Right now, let’s just enjoy being together.”

“Ooh, I like it when you’re doing real police work. It makes you romantic.”

Decker was taken aback. “Have I been a slacker in the romance department?”

“You’re always romantic, Peter. But you’ve seemed to be at loose ends since we got here.”

He took a breath and let it out. “It’s been an adjustment. At times, I’m a little bored. That’s pretty natural after working with LAPD for all those years. But I don’t want to go back. I think I just miss the rush of a real case. That first blush of excitement. And even though this art thing is probably nothing, it gave me a little jolt. I’m fine. Honestly. It’s all just part of the process of adaptation, I think. Of aging … of getting old.”

“You are not old.”

“Not according to the kid. He calls me Old Man.”

“You’re not old.” Rina kissed him again. “Besides, there’s old …” Another kiss. “And then there’s vintage.”

The cemetery seemed quaint, much less foreboding in the daylight with old headstones carved with names like Whitestone, Potter, MacDoogal, and Hawthorne. The Bergman mausoleum seemed like a dowager, too grand for the neighborhood, but since it had been there for years, Decker supposed that it was now just part of the scenery. It was chilly but not cold, brisk but not blustery. The sun was immersed in a sea of deep blue.

The man who emerged from the Mercedes was in his late sixties, white haired but with a lively step. He was around six feet and had a ski-tanned face, milky blue eyes, and a prominent chin. He was dressed in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, loafers but no socks. In tow was a younger, shorter man with brown eyes and curly brown hair. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie. On his feet were black Oxfords over black socks.

“Ken Sobel.” He pointed to the younger man. “This is Maxwell Stewart, owner of the famed Stewart and Harrison gallery. If you deal with him, you’d better have your game face on. The man is a shark.”