Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

Leopold Lends a Hand by Edward D. Hoch

© 1995 by Edward D. Hoch

Edward D. Hoch’s Leopold is certainly not the first character in the history of detective fiction to be resurrected after an authorial decision to retire him from the scene (remember Sherlock Holmes and Reichenbach Falls). And of course, Mr. Hoch hasn’t had to bring him back from apparent death, hut in this new adventure the author has found it necessary to temporarily reinstate Leopold in the police department.

Leopold pulled up before the little brick guardhouse at the entrance to the Bellview Sound Estates and flashed the shiny honorary badge he’d carried since his retirement. “I’m with Captain Fletcher’s squad,” he told the uniformed guard.

The guard consulted a handwritten list on his clipboard, taking no chances. “Name?”

“Leopold.”

“Go on,” he said, waving the car through. “It’s the middle building — the unfinished one.”

There were three squad cars plus Fletcher’s unmarked Pontiac parked in front of the building. A truck from the technical unit stood off to one side and the medical examiner’s vehicle was just backing into position. One of the uniformed patrolmen stood by the elevator and Leopold headed for him.

“Hello, Captain. How’s retirement treating you?”

“Can’t complain, Cahill. Captain Fletcher gave me a call. What floor are they on?”

“Top one. Number ten.”

He found Fletcher and his men in one of the unfinished condominiums, standing off to one side while still and video cameras recorded the murder scene. The victim, a well-dressed man with black hair and a bushy moustache, seemed out of place on the bare concrete floor of the building, surrounded by boxes and piles of tile waiting to be installed.

“What have you got, Fletcher?” Leopold asked.

“Thanks for coming. What I’ve got is more cases than the violent crimes squad can handle at the moment. Connie’s working on a drug stabbing and I’ve got two people on vacation. I called you because I thought you might help with some of the routine questioning.”

“I’m always happy to help out. Who’s the dead man?”

“Vladimir Petrov, a Russian businessman who emigrated to America about five years ago. That’s really all we know so far. He’d purchased the condo on this floor — the most expensive in the building, by the way — and apparently had come here today to check on progress. He was shot twice in the chest at fairly close range.”

“Anyone hear the shots?”

“There are twenty men and a couple of women working on the building today. That’s what we have to find out. I thought you could help Spencer and Frawley interview them.”

“Glad to,” Leopold said. It reminded him of his early days as a detective, before he’d been in charge of the squad, before the age barrier had forced his retirement. Fletcher’s call for help wasn’t exactly in keeping with departmental regulations but Leopold was more than willing to lend a hand. His wife Molly was in court defending a rape suspect in a difficult case and he was pretty much shifting for himself these days.

The man who’d found the body was a crew chief named Al Haskins. His men had laid tile in the condo’s three bathrooms earlier in the week, working on a subcontract from the builder of the condominium. He was a tall, slender man with dark hair and glasses, dressed in a T-shirt and work pants. “Had you seen Mr. Petrov before the shooting?” Leopold asked, jotting down notes as they talked.

“Not today. But it wasn’t unusual for him to stop by and see how things were coming. He and his wife were anxious to move in.”

“The guards allowed him onto the grounds?”

Al Haskins smiled. “He paid a million three for this place. No way you’re going to keep him out.”

“That’s expensive real estate.” They’d walked out onto the screened-in terrace overlooking Long Island Sound. Ten stories below, a few yachts were visible on the blue water.

“Part of it’s the view,” Haskins explained. “The condos are pretty much the same, but the higher you go the more expensive they get.”

“What did Petrov do for a living?”

“Beats me. Some sort of art dealer in Manhattan, I think. Didn’t seem to work very hard at it, though. He hung around here a lot. Sometimes his wife came too.”

“So he was up here today — alone?”

A shrug. “You’d have to get that from the guard at the entrance. I told you I hadn’t seen him.”

“Didn’t you hear any shots?”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes there’s a little hammering and it’s hard to tell what you’re hearing.”

“What brought you up here?”

“Like I said, my crew had tiled the bathrooms.” He led the way into one of them. “The inspector for the builder was up yesterday to check out our work. See — she puts these little blue stickers wherever there’s a flaw to be corrected. I came up to see how many things had to be fixed.”

“And you found Petrov.”

“Yeah.” He patted the two-way radio hanging from his belt. “I called downstairs and told them to get the police.”

“Your people do nice work,” Leopold said, inspecting the tile that lined the walls and floor of a shower stall. A grouping of four larger ones had been painted with the unmistakable likeness of Cleopatra. “Fancy.”

“Petrov’s wife picked those out. They’re twenty-five bucks each.”

Leopold returned to Fletcher and the others as the medical examiner was supervising removal of the body. “Did you check to see if the victim’s wife came with him today?”

Fletcher nodded. “He was alone. The gatehouse checked him in at eleven-ten, about an hour before Haskins found the body. We haven’t been able to tell his wife yet. Come downstairs with me. Spencer has been going through his car and he found something.”

The victim’s car, not surprisingly, was a foreign make that sold for better than fifty thousand dollars. Spencer had opened the trunk with keys from the dead man’s pocket and found a painted wooden panel carefully wrapped in soft cloth. It was about six by eight inches in size and seemed very old. “A religious scene,” Fletcher decided. “Some saint, judging by the halo.”

“It’s an icon,” Leopold said. “Byzantine, possibly Russian.” Fletcher raised his eyebrows and Leopold added, “Molly’s been helping my cultural awareness since my retirement.”

“Good for you.” But something clicked in his mind and he took out a business card. “This was in the dead man’s pocket too. Think there’s a connection?”

“ ‘Rachel Dean, Art Appraisals,’ ” Leopold read. “The address is local. Maybe we should give her a call. Better still, have your men photograph this icon and log it in. Then I’ll drive over and show it to Rachel Dean myself.”

“I didn’t mean to get you so deeply involved in this,” Fletcher said. “I just thought you could question some of the workmen. After all, with the security around this place, it’s likely that one of them shot him.”

Leopold remembered the blue waters of the Sound. “Unless the killer came by boat.”

Rachel Dean’s shop was in a mall across town from the Bellview Sound Estates. She sold art works on consignment and the shop was a small gallery hung with oils and watercolors, some by local painters. The woman herself was red-haired, dressed and made-up to appear both younger and more attractive than she really was. Close up, Leopold could see the lines of middle age beginning to show. Leopold introduced himself, keeping the icon wrapped and under his arm for the moment.

“We’re investigating a homicide,” he said. “Your card was found in the victim’s pocket.”

“Vladimir Petrov,” she said at once. “My God!”

“How did you know?”

“You’ve got one of his icons under your arm. I wrapped it in that cloth to protect it. What happened to him?”

“He was shot and killed at the condominium he purchased in Bellview Sound Estates. The icon was in the trunk of his car and your business card was in his pocket. What do you know about it, Ms. Dean?”

“It’s Mrs. Dean, although we’ve been separated for years. Come into my office, Mr. — ?”

“Captain Leopold, retired. I’m helping the police on this.”

He followed her into a back office with a locked and barred window. Several paintings were leaning against the wall opposite her desk. He sat down in the only free chair, facing her. “Mr. Petrov contacted me about two weeks ago,” she began, nervously tapping a pencil as she spoke. “He was in the process of buying this quite expensive condominium and he needed to raise some cash for the down payment. He showed me this icon and I appraised it for him.”

“Did he say where he got it?”

“He’d come from Russia and brought it with him. He implied he had several more, but I never saw them.”

“Could they have been stolen?”

Rachel Dean shrugged. “The art scene in the former Soviet Union is very clouded at present. We are learning about paintings that we barely knew existed. Certainly there has been a great deal of theft, as there was during the Allied occupation of Germany.”

Leopold loosened the wrapping. “This is the painting you examined?”

She leaned across the desk to take it from him. “It is. I believe it to be a representation of Saint John Chrysostom, though it’s difficult to know for certain.”

“Do you have a copy of your appraisal?”

She pulled open a file drawer next to the desk and took out a folder. “I have an extra copy you may have.”

Leopold skimmed through it. Appraisal of one Russian ikon measuring 6½'' by 8½'', being an encaustic painting on a wooden panel, possibly of St. John Chrysostom... His eyes went to the bottom of the page... Estimated value — $400,000.

He folded the copy and tucked it into his pocket. “What does encaustic mean?”

“Painted with wax colors that are then fixed with heat. It was a technique used on many of the early icons. The technique helps to date it to the sixth or seventh century, and that’s what makes it so valuable. Very few icons exist that are this old.”

“Were all early icons done that way?”

“No, some were mosaics — you know, with little inlaid stones, glass, or tiles—”

“Tiles?”

“Certainly. Tiles are nothing but baked clay, usually glazed or painted. The technique was known long ago.”

“Have you ever come across fake icons, with the painting or mosaic work made to appear much older than it is?”

“I never have, but I’ve read about such things. There are some people, especially in Eastern Europe, who are quite skilled at faking antique furniture and art objects.”

“Do you think this icon could be faked?”

Rachel Dean shook her head. “I’d stake my reputation on its being authentic.”

“You said he had more of them?”

“So he implied. He mentioned at least four which could be offered for sale, though I suggested it might be best to wait a bit before producing the other three.”

“But he took this icon with him?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why. Perhaps he wanted another opinion. Can you leave it with me now?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s possible evidence in a murder case. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Dean.”

“I’d appreciate your keeping me advised of the icon’s fate.”

“I’ll try to do that,” he promised.

Leopold returned the icon to Fletcher’s office along with Rachel Dean’s appraisal. Fletcher studied it and gave a soft whistle. “Four hundred thousand — that’s motive enough for murder. We’d better lock this away in the evidence vault.”

“I hope it helps with your investigation.” He told Fletcher what he’d learned about the possible faking of mosaic icons.

“You’re thinking of those tilers working at the condo, aren’t you?”

Leopold nodded. “I may be on the wrong track, but if Vladimir Petrov was trying to fake an ancient mosaic he might seek the help of a skilled tile worker.”

“There’s one thing wrong with your theory,” Fletcher said with a smile. “The only icon we’ve recovered so far isn’t a mosaic. It’s a wax—” He glanced again at the appraisal, “—encaustic painting.”

Leopold stood up. “I’ll leave that to you. Good luck with it.”

“One more thing, if you’re interested. Mrs. Petrov is in the interview room. Do you want to speak with her?”

“Sure, if you want me to. I’ve gone this far. I guess I can talk with one more person.”

Sally Petrov was not what he’d expected. For one thing, she was American, with a decidedly Brooklyn accent. Her tailored tan suit looked expensive, as did the wrist watch and rings she wore. “Have you found the killer?” she asked as soon as she entered the room.

“Not yet, Mrs. Petrov. We’re working on it.” He introduced himself and sat down opposite her. “I gather you met your husband in this country?”

She nodded. “About four years ago, after he’d emigrated here from Russia. He had an apartment in the Russian colony down near Coney Island. We were married within six months.”

“He was a great deal older than you,” Leopold observed.

“Well, yeah. I’m twenty-seven now and he was forty-seven, but twenty years isn’t so bad. We were both interested in art. He’d collected some while he was in Russia and I’d posed a few times for a life class. That’s where we met.”

“I see.” Leopold watched her nervously fidgeting with a gold bracelet on her wrist. “What can you tell me about the Russian icon we found in the trunk of your husband’s car?”

“He brought it over with him, from Russia. There were four in all.”

“What happened to the others?”

“I don’t know. He told me he had six originally, part of an iconostasis — a large screen. He got them into the country past customs somehow, and he sold two soon after his arrival here. Certainly he had plenty of money when I first met him.”

“I understand he was an art dealer in Manhattan.”

“He didn’t work much at it,” Sally Petrov said, twisting her long brown hair back behind her shoulder.

“Do you know a local dealer named Rachel Dean?”

“Not personally, but he mentioned her. She did an appraisal on one of the icons for insurance purposes.”

Leopold stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Petrov. I know this must be hard for you.”

“Will I get the icon back?”

“You’ll have to speak with Captain Fletcher about that.”

Back in Fletcher’s office the younger man asked, “What did you think of her?”

“She’s a cool one,” Leopold replied. “I think we could safely say she married him for his money.”

“Maybe she killed him for it.”

“Is that your current theory?”

“I’ve got one other,” Fletcher admitted. “Connie’s free of her other case and we’re going to check it out tonight. One of the workers on the tile crew, a fellow named Max Rosen, has a conviction for armed robbery. Served a few years for it back in the eighties. He’s been clean since then but we figure he’s worth a look.”

Leopold glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was after five. “I’ll be heading home. Give me a call if you need me for anything.”

Molly was home before him, just slipping two frozen dinners into the microwave. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be late,” she said. “I’m starving.”

“Hard day in court?” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Not easy. I think I’m losing this one. How about you? What did Fletcher want?”

“He’s short-handed. I’m helping him out on a case.”

“Just like the old days.”

“We’ll see.”

He could tell Molly was done in by her long day in court, with another session looming in the morning. They went to bed earlier than usual, just after eleven o’clock.

When the door chimes awakened him some time later, Leopold immediately looked at the glowing digits on the clock radio. It was 2:05. He slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Molly from her sleep, and took his old .38 from the bedside drawer. As he went down the stairs he could see the red light flashing from the top of a waiting car.

He opened the door and faced Lieutenant Connie Trent, her face drained of color except for the pulsating red flasher that bathed them both.

“Connie?”

“I didn’t know what to do. I had to come for you. Fletcher’s been shot.”

Molly came with them, because Fletcher was like one of the family. She threw on a bulky sweater and jeans and was in the car with Connie and Leopold within minutes. “What happened?” she asked Connie as they headed toward the hospital.

“Fletcher wanted to check out a man named Rosen who had a criminal record. He was working on the condo where Petrov was killed. We drove to Rosen’s apartment over on Snyder Street, above a bodega. There was a back entrance, and as we approached it in the dark Fletcher saw someone moving. He drew his weapon and identified us as police. There were two quick shots and he went down—” Her voice broke as she said it. “I fired once but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. Whoever it was got away. I ran to Fletcher and he was bleeding heavily from chest wounds.”

“Wasn’t he wearing his bulletproof vest?” Leopold asked.

“We weren’t expecting trouble. You know Fletcher. Like most older cops, he hates those things.”

“You never set him a very good example,” Molly told her husband.

Connie swung her car into the hospital emergency room’s parking lot and pulled the flashing red light from the roof of the unmarked vehicle. They hurried inside. “Captain Fletcher?” Connie asked the nurse behind the desk.

“The doctor will see you in a moment.”

“I want to see someone now,” Connie insisted.

“In a moment.”

A greying man in a white coat appeared within five minutes. “I’m Dr. Slocum,” he told them. “We’re preparing Captain Fletcher for surgery now. His wife is with him.”

“Can we see him?” Leopold asked.

“We’ve already put him under. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till later.”

“What are his chances?”

Slocum glanced at the two women. “Good. Very good if I can dig those bullets out of him.”

“We’ll want them saved as evidence,” Connie said, remembering her duty.

“Of course.”

“How long do you expect the surgery to last?” Leopold asked.

“There’s no telling. It should take a couple of hours, minimum.”

He left them, disappearing through the swinging white doors, and Leopold asked, “Where do you stand on this Max Rosen?”

“I have a pickup order out on him, and the apartment is staked out, in case he comes back. We’ve no evidence he shot Fletcher, though, unless we find him with the weapon. As soon as the doctor recovers the slugs, we’ll compare them to the bullets that killed Petrov.”

Leopold knew Molly had to be in court, and he finally persuaded her to head home for a couple of hours’ sleep, promising to phone her with any news. He and Connie had been waiting about an hour, comforting Fletcher’s wife Carol as best they could, when the police commissioner arrived.

Commissioner Johnson was a tall black man with a voice as deep and commanding as that of James Earl Jones. He’d been appointed to the position just after Leopold’s retirement and his honeymoon with the media had lasted a full year now. Those waiting for him to make a misstep were still waiting.

“How is he, Lieutenant?” he asked Connie.

“They have him in surgery now, Commissioner. The doctor says his chances are good.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He turned to Leopold. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. You’re retired Captain Leopold?”

“That’s right, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I’d like to get your views on something, Captain. Would you pardon us please, Lieutenant?”

“Of course.”

Johnson led him to an unoccupied corner of the waiting room, out of Connie’s earshot. “This is an awkward place for a conversation, Captain, but I guess it’s the best we can do. I’m aware that the violent crimes squad had staffing problems even before tonight. I approved Fletcher’s reaching out to you for routine assistance on the Petrov case. Now I fear we have a more serious problem. At best, and with the full recovery we’re all praying for, Captain Fletcher is likely to be out of action for two or three months. I can’t let the department drift for that long. I need an acting head of violent crimes and I need him now. Would you consider coming out of retirement on a strictly limited basis?”

“Connie Trent could do the job,” Leopold argued.

“A year from now, maybe. I’d like her to have a little more experience as a lieutenant first. There’s no one else, and I know she works well with you.”

Leopold took a deep breath. “For this case only?”

“I hope so. We’ll know better once Fletcher is out of the woods.”

“I can help you out for that long,” Leopold agreed, wondering what Molly would say about it.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m eternally grateful. As of this minute, you are acting head of the violent crimes division, with your old rank and pay scale.” They shook hands and the commissioner said, “I should tell Lieutenant Trent.”

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Leopold followed the commissioner back to where Connie was sitting. He was relieved to see her smile at the news. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night. I’ll call the squad room on my car radio and tell them the good news.”

She went out to the car while Leopold and the commissioner spoke of technical matters involving the appointment. In a moment she was back, speaking quickly to Leopold. “Max Rosen walked into headquarters twenty minutes ago. He heard about the shooting at his apartment, and knew we’d want to see him. Spencer is talking with him now.”

Leopold was on his feet. “You stay here till Fletcher is out of surgery, Connie. I’ll talk to Mr. Rosen.”

He didn’t remember having seen Max Rosen among the few workers he’d spoken to at Vladimir Petrov’s condominium. He was a middle-aged man of average height, with a short neatly trimmed beard. “My neighbor said you were looking for me,” he told Leopold in the interrogation room. “I came in as soon as I heard. I bartend a few hours at night.”

Leopold told Spencer to take a break and settled down opposite the bearded man. “Your record shows a conviction for armed robbery, Max. What about that?”

“I served my time. That’s in the past. I’ve been living a new life for five years now.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“I can’t as a convicted felon.”

“But do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you know Vladimir Petrov?”

“Not really. Al Haskins was showing him our work one day and he told me it was a nice job. That’s all the conversation I ever had with the man.”

“He was killed with two shots from a nine-millimeter weapon, probably a pistol like police carry now.” He placed an unloaded Glock on the table between them. “Ever seen a gun like that?”

“Yeah, I see them on these TV cop shows all the time.” He brushed back his sandy hair nervously. “Look, do you think I’d have come forward if I had anything to hide?”

“Maybe. Did Petrov ever mention any Russian icons to you?”

“I told you we barely spoke. I hardly knew the man.”

Detective Spencer opened the door and said, “Captain, could I see you for a moment?”

Leopold went outside. “What’s up?”

“Rosen gave us permission to search his apartment. Frawly just got back from looking it over. Want to see what he found?” Spencer and Frawly were both new since Leopold’s days with the department, but he’d known them both as patrolmen. Frawly was the younger and more excitable of the two. Right now he had reason to be excited. “Look at this, Captain! I found it hidden away at the back of a closet!”

Leopold watched while the detective unwrapped the soft cloth from around the wooden panel, knowing what it would be. “Another icon,” he said, studying the painted angel with all the scrutiny of an art professor. “The technique seems similar to the first one.”

“I guess that clinches it, Captain.”

“I wish it did, Frawly. The man who shot Fletcher may have planted it to incriminate Rosen for Petrov’s murder and been caught in the act when Connie and Fletcher arrived.”

Max Rosen, of course, denied all knowledge of the icon, insisting it had been planted in his apartment. “Why would I agree to a search if I knew you’d find that?” he argued.

“Because you had no choice,” Leopold countered. “You knew we’d get a court order anyway.”

The questioning went on past dawn, and Leopold took a break to phone Molly before she left for court. He told her what he knew about Fletcher, and then what the commissioner had asked him to do.

“Is it what you want?” Molly asked softly.

“What I want is to have Fletcher back here. What I want is to find out who shot him.”

“Let’s talk about it later,” she said.

Connie phoned from the hospital just before nine. “It was a long operation but he’s going to make it, Captain. Both bullets are out and ballistics is already running tests. They’re nine-millimeter, the same type that killed Petrov. I’m on my way in.”

“Go home and sleep for a while, Connie.”

“I’m on my way in.”

After Connie arrived, Leopold wrapped the icon in its soft cloth covering, identical to the cloth around the one in Petrov’s trunk, and drove over to Rachel Dean’s shop. He wanted confirmation that this one was the real thing too, and not some forgery. He couldn’t imagine a killer sacrificing a valuable art work simply to frame someone else for the crime, but stranger things had happened.

The first thing he noticed when he pulled up in front of the shop was that the front door was standing slightly ajar. He stepped inside, calling out, “Mrs. Dean? Rachel Dean? It’s Leopold.”

There was no answer. He walked to the back office, tried the door, and found it locked. He could see light coming from under the door, but no one answered. Then he remembered the barred back window and went outside. He walked around to the rear of the row of shops and counted down until he found the window in question. Looking through the dirty glass, he saw Rachel Dean slumped over her desk. Breaking the window would have done no good with the bars still in place. He hurried around to the front of the shop and put in a call for help. When a patrol car arrived, two burly police officers helped him break down the locked door.

Rachel Dean was dead. She’d been shot in the chest, like the others. He looked around the office, at a blood-soaked handkerchief with which she’d tried to stanch the flow from the wound, at the pencil with which she’d tried to print a dying message: ICON.

Just that one word. She hadn’t gotten any further.

Just before noon, Leopold faced Connie and Spencer and Frawly in the squadroom. He was working at one of the vacant desks, somehow reluctant to reclaim his old glass-enclosed office that now belonged to Fletcher. “We now have two murders and one close call. Happily, the news from the hospital is good. Fletcher is conscious after his surgery and the doctor says it looks good. What else do we have, Connie?”

“The bullets they removed from Fletcher came from the same gun that killed Vladimir Petrov, which is no great surprise. The one that killed Rachel Dean was a nine-millimeter too. We’re after one killer, and those icons are the motives for the crimes.”

“Any theories?”

She thought for a moment before responding. “From what we know, including what his wife Sally told you earlier, Petrov smuggled a half-dozen valuable Russian icons into this country five years ago. He sold two soon after his arrival, and when he decided to purchase the condominium at Bellview Sound Estates, he needed to sell some of the remaining four. Rachel Dean valued one at four hundred thousand dollars, but apparently didn’t see the other three. I have two theories about what happened next. Petrov might have decided to keep a good thing going by faking some mosaic icons, approaching one of the condo’s tilers for help.” She smiled. “I got that idea from you, Captain. The other possibility is that someone simply killed him to steal the icons, and then shot Fletcher when he was caught leaving one of them at the Rosen apartment.”

“Or else Rosen did it himself and is trying to appear innocent by coming in,” Spencer suggested.

Leopold frowned. “How’s the timing on that? Could he have killed Rachel Dean before he showed up here?”

Connie had the answer. “He walked in shortly before four A.M. The medical examiner estimates that Rachel Dean died around three, but keep in mind she was shot sometime earlier. She lived long enough to write that single word of her message. The killer shot Fletcher around twelve thirty-five. We got him to the hospital, and then I came over to get you, Captain. While I was doing that, the killer had plenty of time to go to Rachel’s gallery and shoot her. Then, if it was Rosen, he showed up here before four.”

“How do you explain the locked room?” Spencer asked. “She had to be alone when she was shot.”

But Connie shook her head. “It sure wasn’t suicide — no weapon and no powder bums. She let the killer in, probably arranged to meet him in the first place. What else would she be doing there in the middle of the night? She let him in, he shot her from across the room, and then he got out.”

“Leaving the door locked behind him?”

That didn’t stop Connie. “He may have been hiding someplace when the captain found the body — in a closet or under the desk.”

But Leopold shook his head. “There’s no closet in the room. The desk is out because, you’ll remember, I had two officers help me break in the door. A hidden killer might have sneaked out past me, but not past three of us.”

“So what do we do with Max Rosen?” Frawly asked.

“Turn him loose. We’ve been holding him for eight hours and we have no evidence to charge him.”

But Connie objected. “The doctor thinks we might be able to speak with Fletcher for a few minutes this afternoon. We can hold Rosen till then, at least, in case Fletcher saw who shot him.”

“All right,” Leopold agreed. “Meanwhile, I want to speak with Al Haskins again. If Petrov approached any of the crew about doing some private tile work, he might know about it.”

Leopold drove back out to the Bellview Sound Estates and waited at the gate while the guard recorded his name. “You know there’s vacant land just east of here,” he told the man. “Anyone could take a boat or even wade over and avoid the gatehouse.”

The guard eyed him suspiciously. “Once the tenants move in, we’ll have a beach patrol. No one will get by us.”

“I hope not.”

He found Al Haskins issuing instructions to a couple of his men after the lunch break. Haskins was not too pleased to see him. “What’s this about you holding one of my men? Is he under arrest?”

“Max Rosen? We’re just questioning him. He’ll probably be released later this afternoon.”

“I hope so. I need a full crew to finish up this job.” He sent the others on their way and started back into the nearest doorway.

“Wait a minute,” Leopold said. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“I told you everything I know about Petrov’s killing.”

Leopold walked up to him so they wouldn’t be overheard by the other workers. “Did he ever ask you or your crew about doing some personal jobs for him? Mosaic work?”

“Not me. I don’t know about the others.”

“Might he have asked Max Rosen?”

“Why do you keep harping on Max? I know he was in prison, but he served his time. He’s trying to make a fresh start.”

“We’re just trying to find Petrov’s killer. There was a second murder during the night, in case you haven’t heard.”

There was a sudden sharpness in his eyes, visible even behind the glasses. “Did that detective die? I heard about it on the radio.”

“No, this was an art dealer named Rachel Dean.”

He nodded slowly. “I think she was up here with Petrov once. They were discussing the right paintings for his condo.”

“Was that the only time you saw her?”

“I guess so. He usually came alone, or with his wife.”

“Did Sally Petrov ever come here without him?”

“No. She seemed content to let him handle things. The only thing I remember her picking out were those Cleopatra tiles for the shower.”

They were standing near one of the interior doors, and Leopold realized the locking mechanism was the same as the door to Rachel Dean’s office — a round knob with a locking button in the middle. “Tell me something, Al. Do you know a way someone could gimmick this lock, walk out the door, and leave it locked from the inside?”

He shook his head. “You have to turn the knob to get out of the room, and turning the knob unlocks it. See?” He demonstrated for Leopold. “If you push the button while the door’s open, it pops out when you shut it.”

Leopold was convinced. “Thanks for your help.”

He went back to his car and radioed in to Connie. “What time are you going to the hospital?”

“Right now, Captain. The doctor says we can see Fletcher for five minutes after three o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ve got something for you. I know how that locked room trick was worked.” She sounded pleased with herself.

“You do?”

“I’ll tell you at the hospital.”

Fletcher was awake, swathed in plastic tubes that ran to his arms and disappeared beneath the bedclothes. Another tube delivered oxygen to help him breathe. Leopold wondered if one of the bullets had nicked a lung. “How are you feeling, Fletcher?”

“Real dopey. Not much pain, though. Carol was in just before you two.”

Leopold nodded. They’d spoken to his wife on the way in. She was his strength, and always had been. “Did you see who shot you?” Leopold asked.

“No. Just a dark figure at the door. I thought it was Rosen.” He turned his head slightly. “Connie, what’s happening with the squad?”

“Don’t you worry. The commissioner got Captain Leopold to lend us a hand till you’re back on your feet.”

Fletcher nodded just a speck. “You’ll do it, Captain. You’ll get the one who shot me.”

“We’ll get him, Connie and the rest of the squad. Rest easy now.” He could see the nurse looming in the doorway.

Outside, down the hallway in the waiting room, Leopold said a few comforting words to Carol Fletcher. “He’ll be out in no time, and back on the job.”

She gave a weak smile. “Our son is flying in from California. He’ll be here tonight.”

“I’ll be back then.”

“Will you have the one who shot him?”

“Yes,” Leopold promised.

Back in the car with Connie, he said, “Tell me about the locked room.”

“It was so obvious we didn’t see it. The killer shot her but she didn’t die immediately. He left, and she held the handkerchief over her wound, struggling to the door to lock it in case he returned. Then she got back to her desk, tried to write a message, and died.”

He took her hand and held it, smiling like a father to his daughter. “Connie, you’ll make a great detective someday, but not yet. If it happened that way, why didn’t she pick up the phone on her desk and call for help?”

“But — but there’s no other explanation!”

“There is one. Rachel Dean told us herself, with her dying message — ICON. Think about it.”

“I’ve been thinking about it! I don’t see—”

“Give me your weapon, Connie.”

“What?”

“The Glock you carry in your holster. Give it to me.”

“What for?”

“It has to be tested by ballistics. You killed Rachel Dean, Connie, with your wild shot last night. It was Rachel who murdered Vladimir Petrov for those icons, Rachel who shot Fletcher when he caught her planting one in Rosen’s apartment, Rachel who drove back to her office, dying, and started to write a confession. ICON — I confess that I killed Vladimir Petrov.”

By the time ballistics had confirmed Leopold’s explanation that evening, he’d gone over it all with Connie. “I’ll tell Fletcher tomorrow, but I want you to hear it from me first. You see, in a case full of icons we all leaped to the wrong conclusion. But it suddenly occurred to me that Rachel Dean couldn’t have been writing icon, because she didn’t spell it that way. On the copy of the appraisal she gave me, she used the alternate spelling, ikon. She was trying to write a longer word or sentence. I immediately thought of I confess and started looking for confirmation. Was there any? Yes, in the soft cloth used to wrap the icons. Rachel claimed she’d only seen the one recovered from Petrov’s trunk, and that she’d wrapped it in that cloth herself to protect it. But when we found the second icon, hidden in Rosen’s closet, it was wrapped in the identical soft cloth. It had obviously been in Rachel’s possession and she’d lied about not seeing it.”

“She was willing to sacrifice that valuable icon?”

“She still had two others, worth a fortune overseas, and I’m sure she left the least valuable one. Petrov must have mentioned once that an ex-con was working on the tiling crew and she decided he’d be the perfect fall guy for the murder. She crossed over from the adjoining property yesterday without being seen, met Petrov, and shot him. If anyone had seen her, she would simply have postponed the crime. She had the other three icons in her possession for appraisal, and must have known Petrov hadn’t told his wife where they were.”

“When I shot her—”

“She’d just planted the angel icon in Rosen’s closet. Leaving the apartment after midnight, she suddenly saw you and Fletcher. She shot him, but your return shot in the dark hit her in the chest. She escaped back to her car, holding a handkerchief to the wound. It must not have seemed too bad at first. She drove to the gallery to patch herself up, then sat in her locked office for two hours feeling her life drain away from the internal bleeding. She couldn’t call for help without revealing herself as Fletcher’s assailant. Finally, in her last moment of life, she picked up her pencil and started to write a confession.”

It had been a long day. Connie looked at him and said, “It’s good to have you back, Captain, even for a little while.”