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“Just remember what I said, Doc: Police business.”
It was a parting shot. I took off across campus, eager to drop in on Decker and schmooze with him a little on his turf, maybe exchange some information.
Campus Security is located on the lower level of the Physical Plant. Cops and janitors, we keep ’em together. The cop shop is underground at the front, but opens to grade at the rear. Decker’s office enjoys an entire wall of glass facing a greenbelt that should stay green for at least another three years until it gets paved over for parking. Decker was in.
“Don’t you know it’s a Saturday?” I joshed.
“What the hell,” he said, “you think I work full professors’ hours - two classes a week and all summer off?”
He had a printed form in one ham-like hand and a pen in another. Paperwork always makes him grumpy.
Without waiting for an invitation, I sat myself in a stuffed chair in front of Decker’s Formica-topped desk. The desk is a huge thing, not elegant but practical. The framed photo on top pictured Decker’s wife and four kids. The girl, Cindy, is a student at St. Benignus. There wasn’t anything else on the desk except a LIEUTENANT J. EDGAR DECKER nameplate, a telephone, a laptop computer, a fancy pen holder, and a piggy bank made out of a coffee can by Decker’s third-grader.
“How’s Cindy doing, Ed?” I asked.
“Mostly B’s.”
“Good.”
“Not good enough. She’s smart, should be getting straight A’s. You didn’t come here to talk about my daughter’s academic career, Cody.”
“Well, I did hope we could discuss this Chalmers Collection case. It’s kind of politically sensitive for me because of Ralph and the corporate sponsors and the bad press, if you see what I mean.”
Decker grunted. He didn’t want to hear about campus politics.
“So,” I continued, “I was hoping you could tell me a little more than you did on the phone.”
He exhaled a bushel of air. “Means of entry still unknown. Somebody got in and out of that room with the goods clean as a whistle. It’s weird, man.”
“Anything else taken?”
He shook his head. “No. Pfa
“How about fingerprints?”
“Pretty useless. We picked up partials from Chalmers and his wife and Pfa
“So what’s your best hope?”
“Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“Beats me. A lot of crooks get nabbed when they try to fence the goods, but this time...” He shook his head again. I knew what he was thinking: No ordinary fence was going to handle this kind of merchandise.
“Can’t you do something visible,” I said, “just so Ralph and his friends in the business community know that something’s being done?”
“Investigations aren’t supposed to be visible, Cody. But how about this: I can send my team in to interview everybody at this...”
I scotched that idea before it was even out of his mouth. “No, thanks, Ed. There are a couple of people you might want to keep an eye on, though.” I explained about Hugh Matheson’s antagonism toward Woollcott Chalmers, apparently exceeded only by Graham Bentley Post’s lust for the Chalmers Collection.
“Sounds pretty thin for me to do anything,” Decker said.
“I know,” I admitted gloomily. “Well, I’ll be seeing these people around. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything more solid.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
Chapter Eleven - Power Lunching
So there I was, practically commissioned by Lieutenant Ed Decker himself to investigate this crime as well as challenged into it by Mac. And what had my brilliant brother-in-law been up to in the meantime?
Lunch.
At least, I assumed so. According to the agenda for the colloquium, chowing down had been underway for half an hour.
I did a quick-step to Muckerheide Center, to the President’s Dining Room on the same floor as the Hearth Room. The luncheon crowd already had thi
I went through the salad bar, picking up cottage cheese, tomatoes, onions, and peppers, while eschewing the greasy slices of pepperoni even though I love the stuff. For dessert I grabbed a banana. When I had piled my tray high with nutritious food - and made a mental note to tell Lynda about that article I read saying neurotic people live longer - I maneuvered through the sparsely populated dining room as if searching for a seat in a crowded bar. Finally I stopped at the woman sitting by herself.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all. I’ve been deserted.”
Her name tag identified her as Molly Crocker from Cinci
“Having fun?” she asked.
“Fun doesn’t begin to describe it,” I assured her. “I’m Jeff Cody, Sebastian McCabe’s brother-in-law.”
“Molly Crocker. I saw you at Mac’s party, but we didn’t formally meet.”
“Right. Since you’re from Cinci
“Hugh? Enormously successful in his field, but you must know that. Just last week he won a damage award for six and a half million dollars based on a woman’s loss of pleasure as a result of u
I stopped peeling my banana, impressed. “You’re really up on that stuff.”
She chuckled. “I ought to be.”
“Opposing counsel?” I guessed.
“I was the judge in the case.”
I dropped the banana. “Obviously you know a lot more about Matheson than what you read in People magazine.”
Judge Crocker pushed away her salad, half eaten. “That’s a valid deduction. What’s your interest, Jeff?”
My main interest was in showing up Mac in the sleuthing department, with getting Ralph off my back a close second. But total candor was not called for in this situation.
“I’m fascinated with the collector mentality,” I replied. “Chalmers spent - what, forty years? - building his collection, then today I heard that Matheson is a Holmes collector as well.”
She nodded. “You’ve hit on a good phrase there. I know both of those men and they do share a certain ‘collector mentality.’ It isn’t restricted to Sherlock Holmes, either, especially not with Hugh.”
“What do you mean?” I looked across the room at Matheson and Lynda. He gestured with his hands, the classic motion signaling a slit throat. Lynda laughed.
“I mean,” Judge Crocker said, “that he also collects women.”
* * *
I took my cup of decaffeinated coffee and plunked myself down next to Lynda.