Murder 101. Faye Kellerman

He looked at Lily and Rina.

      Rachel said, “I don’t know which one is having more fun.”

      “My vote’s with Rina.”

      “It’s so nice having both of you on the East Coast. Sammy is so happy.” Again, Rachel teared up. “So we’re all going out for dinner tonight?”

      “That’s the plan.”

      “It’s ten of us, right?”

      “Gabe is out of town and his girlfriend’s working, so it’s only eight.”

      “That’s right. You’re staying at Gabe’s apartment.”

      “We are.”

      “Can we come, too?” Rachel smiled. “I’m kidding … sort of. Sometimes this place is very small. I’ll make the rez for dinner. How long are two you staying in the city?”

      “Just overnight. Then we’re off to Philadelphia.”

      “Give my love to Cindy and Koby. Wow, the twins must be, like, four?”

      “Almost four and finally out of diapers, which is good. They’re so tall and big that Cindy was running out of disposable options.”

      “Maybe the next time we can all get together.”

      Decker said, “That would be great although I’m not sure I could handle all that energy in one room.”

      Rina spoke up from the floor. “This comment is from a man who has handled hundreds of homicides?”

      “My cases involved a different type of energy. Besides, not one homicide victim has ever given me lip.” He fished out his car keys. “I’ll pick you up in about two, three hours?”

      “That should be perfect. Lily will be napping by then anyway.” Rina looked at Rachel for confirmation.

      The young woman shrugged. “In a perfect world, that would be a yes.”

      It took a half hour to reach the apartment building and then another fifteen minutes to find a parking space. When Decker finally nabbed a spot, it was eight blocks away from the Sobels’ address and required him to back the car into a snowdrift that exploded onto his rear bumper. His blood must have thickened. It was cold but not nearly as cold as up north. He didn’t even bother with gloves. Decker had gotten used to the fresh snow crunching under his boots, slow going but pristine. The Manhattan sidewalks were awash in a thin, salty sludge that was often slippery. The current skies were dove gray and while not gloomy, there wasn’t a hint of sunshine anywhere.

      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