Murder 101

“Why would they visit you?”

“Because they’ll probably talk to everyone in Littleton—me, my friends, my professors. We’re an art college remember?”

“The cops don’t touch the colleges, Angeline. Upstate owns this town.”

He was right about that. Whenever student shit spilled into Greenbury, the colleges called up the police and cleaned up the mess so mommy and daddy were none the wiser. “True, but just in case, we should plan something.”

He was still in a very dark place but not nearly as panicked as he was a few minutes ago. As she started packing up the glass, he stood up and grabbed a beer from her minifridge. “If you think that there is any chance that the cops will talk to you and will somehow magically find out that you’ve done stained glass way back when, let’s get you some new glass altogether. So when they ask if they can have a sample of your glass, you can say sure.”

“Great idea!” She walked over and threw her arms around his neck. “Now you’re thinking.”

He gently extricated himself from her grip. “I’ll go check the Dumpster for empty boxes.”

It took him a few minutes to find two big empty boxes. Since the apartment building housed a lot of students, the Dumpsters were always filled with discarded cartons from college kids ordering useless shit. She took the boxes and began the tedious job of wrapping up sheets of glass, one by one by one.

He watched her as she worked, sipping his beer, thinking about how his client had specified paying once he had all four panels . . . which of course was no longer an option. Angeline’s artistic ability was fine when the panels were twelve feet off the ground. But it wasn’t good enough to fool a trained eye. He’d have to find a way to get to the original panels—impossible now—or find a craftsperson good enough to convince a dealer that the works were genuine. And if he commissioned any noteworthy artist to copy the window, he’d have to pay for all four of the panels, because any reputable glass person would ask him why he’d only want two of the four seasons. That would cost big time and in the end, it probably wasn’t worth it. When the big one went down, all the other jobs would seem like pocket change. He just needed to hold on and hold out. He wondered if he should tell his contact about the change of plans.

When she finally finished up packing, she stood up and brushed off her jeans. “You can take it out to the car, but be careful. It’s breakable and heavy.”

He hoisted the boxes and she followed him outside, watching him stow away the prettiest glass she had every worked with. It just broke her heart. She felt her eyes moisten.

He closed the trunk and turned to her. “Don’t worry, beautiful.” He kissed her lips. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m just pissed.” Her voice was soft. “I actually loved copying those windows. I was really good at it.”

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 begi

“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. Ha

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.