Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Plotline, Inc. 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Cover photographs © Barrett & Mackay / Getty Images (campus); Susan Fox / Trevillion Images (woman)

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007517671

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007517688

Version: 2015-09-16

Dedication

To Jonathan

And to Lila, Oscar, Eva, and Judah

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

As he inspected the final work, holding it up to a bare bulb, he was blinded by the array of brilliant hues in every color of the rainbow. The opalescent glass was lovely, but it was the handblown clear glass in the emerald greens, the ruby reds, and the sapphire blues that gave the piece its pop, casting tinted rays of spectacular light onto his walls and furniture.

The stained glass was first-rate: the execution of the piece … not so much. The caning between the shards was sloppy and the little painting that was on the glass was one step above Art 101. Not that anyone would notice the difference between the genuine and its imposter in its current dark and dank location. Certainly the moronic caretakers weren’t a problem. And in this case, making the switch was a walk in the park because the work could be concealed in a briefcase. His toolbox was bigger and bulkier. But he’d done it before. He could do it again.

Sometimes he didn’t even know why he bothered with the small stuff. Maybe just to keep his brain alive because this little bit of intrigue was nothing compared to his future plans. But to pull off something that big took time and he was fine with that. He’d wait patiently.

The bells were tolling two in the morning: it was time. First, with a makeup sponge, he painted his face brown. Next, he called Angeline on a throwaway cell and told her to wait outside, that he’d be over in five. Carefully, he swathed the piece in bubble wrap and then slid it into his leather briefcase. His tools were already in the car.

He checked his watch again. Then he slipped on his black gloves and covered his head and face with a black ski cap. Next came the black scarf around his neck: good camouflage but also necessary in the cold. A last-minute check in the mirror and what he saw looked perfect. He was nothing more than an inky shadow floating through the night.

Just the way he wanted it.

Be careful what you wish for.

After three decades of police work as a detective lieutenant in Los Angeles, Peter Decker had always imagined a quieter existence in his sixties, something in between retirement and an eighty-hour workweek that had been his former life. He knew that with his active mind and his penchant for restlessness that he wasn’t ready to hang up his shield just yet. In his brain, the ideal job was something with a regular schedule with nights and weekends off.

The good news was he now had a manageable desk job, fielding calls that centered on senior citizens with chest pains, missing pets, and controlling drunken teenagers following Saturday night binges. In the last six months, the closest he had come to real crimes were the calls concerning several house break-ins where the burglars pilfered electronics—cell phones, laptops, and tablets. None of the thefts were surprising because Greenbury was a town that swelled with students in September and then cleared them out by June.

The Five Colleges of Upstate New York was a consortium of liberal arts schools, each with its own identity. One specialized in math and science, another in business and econ. A third was a girls’ school and the fourth focused on fine arts, theater, and languages. The fifth college—Duxbury—was ranked as an elite academy founded in 1859 a few years before the Civil War. The sprawling campuses made up of brick and stone buildings sat on hundreds of acres of dense, bucolic landscape: parks, natural springs, and open forest. It was a world unto itself with its own police force. That made Decker’s job as a cop and detective even more limited.

There were very few issues of town and gown because Greenbury’s population consisted of retirees and working-class families. They owned most of the independent stores and restaurants that fueled the town’s economy. The students, by and large, were from swanky homes and were pretty well behaved even if they often partied at all hours of the night.

The Old Town of Greenbury was a typical college burg with streets named Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. There were blocks of franchise stores: Outsider Sportswear, Yogurtville, Rentaday Car Service, Quikburger. It had a triplex movie theater, a half-dozen cheap dress boutiques, several nail salons, bike rentals, a health food store, and lots and lots and lots of bars, grills, and restaurants. Every popular cuisine was represented, including a kosher eat-in or take-out storefront café that Rina frequented almost daily.

Decker thought about his wife.

If anyone would have adjustment problems, he thought it would be Rina. Instead, she had adapted far quicker than he had. Immediately she threw herself into the local Hillel that serviced all five colleges. She offered to host Friday night dinners in her house for any student who was interested. When too many students became interested, the dinners were moved to a catering hall at the Hillel. The meals were prepared by the local students, but Rina was there almost every Thursday and Friday pitching in with the cooking and baking. When that still didn’t fill up her time, she volunteered her services as a Chumash teacher if Hillel would provide a room. She posted a sign-up sheet. She expected five kids if she was lucky.

She got seven.

Word got around and a month later, she had eighteen kids. They asked her if she was willing to teach a class in elementary Hebrew. She agreed. Most of the times, her evenings were busier than his. Decker hated to admit it but he was bored. It was bad enough that his days were stultifying but then the captain, Mike Radar, asked him to pair up with the kid and take him into the field, and the days became even longer and even more stultifying.

Tyler McAdams, aged twenty-six and Harvard educated, was five ten, one fifty, with hazel eyes and dark brown hair that was expertly cut. His aquiline features included a Roman nose. He wasn’t slight, but he wasn’t muscular, either. He looked like what he was—an Ivy League kid from a wealthy family. His clothes were expensive, his overcoat was cashmere, and he rotated gold watches on his wrist with the days of the week.

Within a very short period of time, McAdams had managed to alienate everyone in the department with his endless carping that he was smarter, better looking, and better educated than anyone around. There was truth in his complaints—he was smart and good-looking—but his constant whining diminished any of his discernible assets. McAdams claimed that he had originally taken up the job because he was curious about police work even though he had been accepted to Harvard Law. He decided to defer the acceptance for a few years, figuring the job would give him a leg up from any of the other wonks and dorks.

Or so was his story.

Decker didn’t press him; he wasn’t interested.

McAdams’s hiring had been nepotism. His father was a major contributor to Duxbury College. The dean had called in a favor from the mayor, Logan Brettly, who, in turn, called in a favor from Radar. McAdams had no experience in law enforcement, but he didn’t need it because nothing much happened that required extensive know-how.

So Decker agreed to let the kid ride with him, listening to him bitch and moan. This time he was complaining about their next visit on the roster: a senior with chest pains. The fire department was having its monthly drill so the call came into the police. Patrol could have handled it, but Decker volunteered his services. He didn’t mention the call to McAdams, but as he was leaving the kid jumped up and grabbed his fancy schmancy coat to come with. He always did that. Maybe it was because Decker let McAdams bend his ear.

Lucy Jamison was eighty-six, a pale and thin widow. When Decker offered to take her to the hospital, she demurred. She was feeling better. Decker fetched her a glass of water, making sure that she drank it all. Wintertime was deceptive and seniors easily became dehydrated because of the dryness indoors and outdoors.

The old woman talked about her life as a young girl in Michigan. She showed Decker and Tyler pictures of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. Decker turned the heat from 80 to 74. When she said she was fine, Decker left his card. She opened the front door and waved good-bye as the two of them walked back to the car, their boots crunching the snow.

Heading back to the station, Decker cranked up the heat as McAdams rubbed his hands under the warm air of the car’s heater. The kid was wearing a coat and gloves, but his head was bare. Not that he needed a hat. It was in the midthirties with a full sun and an iridescent blue sky, the scent of pines and burning wood wafting through the town. White-covered hills undulated in the distance. The Hudson wasn’t too far away but the area was miles from the nearest coastline, something that Decker had yet to get used to.

“How’d you do this for thirty years, Old Man?” Tyler asked him.

Decker hated when the kid called him Old Man. He wasn’t young but he wasn’t ready for the glue factory, either. He still had a head of thick, gray hair, a full mustache with traces of its former red color, and a mind that was quick and perceptive. So instead of answering the rhetorical question, he said, “That was the third chest pain case in a month. You really need to learn CPR.”

“I’m not putting my mouth on that old crone. Her breath was rank.”

“Acetone,” Decker said. “Diabetes that’s not very well controlled.”

“Whatever,” McAdams said. “Anyway, if it was between you and me performing CPR, you’d do it anyway.”

“That’s not the point. It’s a skill you should have. Everyone expects a cop to know CPR just like everyone expects a cop to know how to shoot a gun.”

“We don’t carry guns.”

“We don’t carry them, but we have them if we need them. You do know how to shoot a gun … or did they let you slide with that one as well?”

“If we’re playing one-upmanship, you’re going to lose.”

“You have youth and education on your side. I have real experience. That must be worth a few brownie points.”

“No one uses the term brownie points anymore and no need to be snide, especially because I’m out here in the trenches with you.”

“Trenches?”

“Stop pulling rank. I have seniority.” McAdams looked out the side window. “I’m not putting you down, Decker, but if I were actually insane enough to want to do this as a career, I’d probably be upper brass in NYPD within … say, four to six years?”

“You think so?”

“I know so. It’s not about experience or passing tests or paying your dues. It’s all about how to work the system, which is something I excel at. I learn exactly what I need to get the job done. Stuffing my brain with useless knowledge is inefficient. Like learning CPR. We get called out, I know you’re going to handle it. You or Roiters or Mann or Milkweed—”

“Nickweed.”

“Whatever. We get called out and CPR needs to be done, I’m not the go-to guy. Why should I waste my time learning something that I’ll never do?”

“Because it is possible that we won’t be around and then you’ll look like a jackass. If I were your superior, I’d insist on it.”

“But you’re not. And since I’m not asking for your opinion or advice, I suggest you stop wasting your breath. Need I remind you that a guy your age doesn’t have that much left.”

Decker stifled a smile. He was riling up the kid on purpose and enjoying it. “You have a short fuse. You should work on that as well.”

“Remind me why I volunteered to ride with you.”

“Let me guess,” Decker said. “I think you’re one of those dudes hoping to glean something from my vast repertoire of police work. I think you’re figuring that just maybe I’ll tell you something truly original and fascinating and then you can write a novel about it. Or better yet, a screenplay. I can see you living in Hollywood. You’d fit in nicely.”

“You’re being condescending. That’s fine. It must be hard to be the junior partner and intellectually inferior to someone as young as I am.”

“Nah, I’m used to that. You’ve never met my kids.”

“But you don’t work with your kids, do you?”

“Nope. I don’t. And I really don’t work with you, McAdams. We just kind of ride around together. Not much in the way of meaningful conversation going on.”

“You want to talk Proust, I’m in.”

“Sure, talk to me about Proust. I like madeleines. My wife bakes them sometimes.”

“He was boring and I hate philosophy. It’s very mathematical and that’s never been my strong suit. I mean I got a 720 on the SAT but that’s about average for Harvard.” When Decker said nothing, the kid squirmed and said, “So what was your favorite case as a detective?”

“No go, Harvard. You’re just going to have to use your own experience for movie material, although God help us both if we ever caught a real case. Not a plain homicide … a whodunit.”

“A whodunit? That’s what you call homicides?”

“Not all homicides, just whodunits. Do you have even the slightest idea how to begin an investigation?”

“Just from TV … is it that different?”

“You are joking, right?” When McAdams went quiet, Decker felt a little bad. Why was he even bothering? The kid remained blissfully silent for the rest of the ride back, sulking and moping around until he clocked out at five.

If he wasn’t such a twit, Decker might have felt sorry for him. The kid didn’t fit in at work: he really didn’t fit in anywhere. He wasn’t a student anymore and he was too young for the average resident living in Greenbury. So where did that leave his social life? Had he shown any genuine curiosity about police work, Decker would have invited him over for dinner. But Decker wasn’t in the charity business. You reap what you sow and that’s a fact.

Living in a small town had its perks, particularly when selling real estate in L.A. and buying in Greenbury. He and Rina had walked away with a nice nest egg in their pockets. Their new house on Minnow Lane was built at the turn of the twentieth century, bungalow style with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a wood-burning fireplace with erratic radiator heating. The selling point was the previous owner’s remodel. He had opened up the ceiling and exposed the beams. It was not only aesthetically pleasing, it allowed Decker and his six-four frame to move about the house without bumping into door headers. The yard was now brown and lifeless but they had bought the house in the fall when autumn leaves were ablaze with color and the weather had been brisk and beautiful. Spring was going to be a true spring, not an L.A. spring with fog and smog.

The house had only a one-car garage where Decker parked the Porsche, leaving Rina’s old Volvo in the driveway. Every morning, Decker cleared the windshield and moved the car to the street so he could get out. It was the least he could do for schlepping her to pursue his dream.

The advantage of the new location was driving distance to their four biological children—two were hers, one was his, and one was shared—as well as their foster son, Gabe Whitman, who was busy touring as a classical pianist. Two of the five were married so there were spouses and grandchildren in the mix. Decker’s daughter, Cindy, who had been a GTA detective in L.A., was working patrol in Philadelphia. But it was just a matter of time before she was promoted back up to being a gumshoe.

The house was warm with wafting cooking aromas, immediately putting Decker in a good mood. Inside the compact but modernized kitchen, Rina was working, her hair tucked into a knitted tam that she wore for religious reasons. She was garbed in a thin blue cotton sweater and a knee-length denim skirt, stirring a soup for tomorrow night’s Shabbat dinner. She was using a big cauldron, which meant guests.

“How many are we expecting?” Decker kissed her cheek.

Rina kissed him back on the lips. “Six to eight. But lunch will be just the two of us, so don’t fret.”

“I like company.”

“Liar. But you’re a good sport. Go change. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

Decker sat on a chair at the breakfast bar. “I’d rather talk to you and get some pleasant company for a change.”

“The kid is still getting on your nerves.”

“He gets on everyone’s nerves.”

“Why don’t you invite him over for tomor—”

“No.”

“Take the high road, Peter.”

“I’m taking no road. He’s nasty and condescending. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with him at work. Why should I let him ruin my weekend or, even worse, inflict him on you? He’d only wind up needling me for being observant, narrow-minded, and provincial.”

“Or maybe he’d see another side of you.”

“If I invited him over, it would only feed his delusions that he really is my superior.”

“The kid might be a snot, but I guarantee you he knows who the real cop is. He probably feels like an imposter.”

“He is an imposter.”

“Give him a chance.”

“He won’t accept the invitation from me.”

“So maybe he’ll accept it from me.” Rina picked up the phone. “What’s his cell?”

After Decker gave her the number, she punched it in and waited. “Hi. I’m looking for Tyler McAdams?”

Over the line, the kid said, “You called my cell so you found me. Who is this?”

Decker heard his response and mouthed, I told you so.

Rina blithely continued. “This is Rina Decker. My husband and I wanted to invite you over for dinner tomorrow night.” There was a long pause over the line. She went on. “I don’t know if Peter told you but we’re Jewish and we’re observant. I’m having six to eight students here from the colleges and I thought they might be interested in what people do postgraduation, even if it’s a temporary job.”

McAdams still didn’t speak. Finally, he said, “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If it’s an inconvenient time, we’ll take a rain check. We usually have people over Friday night, so it’s open-ended. But I’d love to meet you. I always check out my husband’s partners.”

“No, you don’t,” Decker whispered.

She gave him a playful slap. “Please come.”

“Sure … great. What time?”

Decker was making a face. Rina wagged her finger. “Six-thirty. It’s pretty informal. And I’m a great cook.”

“Sounds like a win-win situation because I like to eat. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We look forward to seeing you. Bye.” She hung up. “Done.”

“It’s not enough that he’s a leech at work. Once he’s tasted your food, I’ll never get him off my back.”

Rina took the casserole out of the oven. “Lots of people have ridden on your back and you’re none the worse for wear. You’ve got a strong set of shoulders. One more kid certainly won’t break your spine.”

CHAPTER TWO

The kid was on time, which would have been fine except that the students were on Jewish Standard Time. Rina answered the door and proceeded to charm while Decker elected to sulk. It seemed like a lifetime until the other guests arrived. The group—four guys and two girls—brought flowers and wine, leaving the empty-handed McAdams feeling a little sheepish. “I thought this was informal. I would have brought something.”

Decker said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, but I just don’t want to look like a clod.”

“If only you could remedy that with a bottle of wine.” Decker smiled and put his arm around the kid as he led him to the table. “C’mon, Harvard. Just relax.” Introductions were made all around. Decker whispered, “There are a couple of ritual blessings we need to make. The first one is over the wine—”

“I know what Kiddush is,” McAdams said. “There are one or two Jews in the Ivies. I had a Jewish girlfriend at one point.”

“What happened?”

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore, that’s what happened.”

“She dumped you.” When McAdams shot him a dirty look, Decker said, “It happens.” He seated himself at the head of the table.

Rina said, “Tyler, why don’t you sit here between Adam and Jennifer. Both of them are interested in law and I know you’ve gotten into Harvard Law.”

“Adam and McAdams,” Decker said. “Already sounds like a law firm.”

Rina smiled. “It does.” She placed the other four students at the table and then Decker made Kiddush. There once was a time where he stumbled over the Hebrew words. But after twenty-five years of embracing her culture and his genetics, he recited the blessing fluently. After drinking wine, the group washed their hands and said the ritual blessing, and then Decker made the HaMotzi, the prayer over the bread.

Finally, the meal could begin in earnest: soup, salad, rib roast, lentils with red peppers and onions, green beans with hazelnuts, and mixed berry cobbler for dessert. It was enough to break the zippers and pop buttons on any waistline. There was lively conversation between the students and Rina as they discussed the parashat hashavua: the weekly chapter of bible. The kids were intelligent and opinionated. McAdams, on the other hand, was quiet. Like a lot of secular, upper-crust kids of his generation, he was probably scripture impaired. But he was polite and spoke when he was spoken to.

By nine o’clock, things were starting to wrap up and that’s when Decker’s landline rang. Rina and he exchanged glances. Decker’s father had died a year ago, but his mother was still alive and in her nineties. Rina’s parents were both in their nineties. Whenever they got a phone call on Shabbat, it was a reason to worry. Decker held up his finger and went to the answering machine, which identified phone numbers. “It’s local.”

“Thank God,” Rina said. “Probably a robocall.”

The voice kicked in. It was Mike Radar and Decker picked up the phone. “It’s Decker. What’s up, Captain?” He listened intently over the phone. “When? … Okay … okay.” He checked his watch. “Does he know when the lock was broken? No idea? All right, I’ll look into it. Do you know how far it is from my house? … no, I’ll handle it. Just tell me how to get there on foot … no, I don’t mind walking if it’s not too far. A mile away is no problem, Mike … no, really, you stay put. I just ate the equivalent of half a cow and it would be good for me to get a little exercise. Unless it’s something more, I’ll call you on Sunday.”

Decker hung up the phone. “There was a break-in at the local cemetery and the watchman is all up in arms. The other detectives are ice fishing in Canada for the weekend so the captain wondered if I wouldn’t mind handling it.”

Rina feigned mock outrage. “You mean your colleagues didn’t invite you with them?”

Decker grinned. “Actually, I made the cut, but I declined. Maybe next time.”

McAdams said, “I would have gone. Nobody asked me.”

“They probably thought your blue blood couldn’t handle the cold.” Decker sighed inwardly. He had to make the offer to look like a good guy. “Come if you want.”

“Of course, I’ll come.”

“Take the car. I’ll meet you there in about a half hour.”

“I’ll walk with you, Old Man.”

“Harvard, it’s really cold outside. I’m doing it for religious reasons. No reason for you to suffer.”

“I’m not gonna let you outmacho me.”

“Suit yourself. Let me grab a few things and we’ll be on our way.”

“I’ll get your jacket, Tyler,” Rina said.

“Thanks.” McAdams jammed his hands into his pants pockets. His eyes were darting back and forth and he walked in itty-bitty circles. When Rina brought over his outerwear, he bundled up and then forced a smile. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you want some package warmers for your feet and hands?” Decker asked. “I’m taking some with me. No sense getting frostbite.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Decker gave a wave and he and the kid were off. The night was moonless with thousands of stars sprinkling the dark sky like salt on black velvet. Without the cloud cover, the temperature had dropped to the teens. No wind … just cold air and the mist of warm breath wafting through darkness.

McAdams said, “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome. It was my wife’s idea.”

“Yeah, I intuited that. She is a good cook. She’s also lovely … I mean personality.”

“She’s lovely all the way around. I’m very lucky.”

McAdams said, “You have a large family. I counted like seven different people my age in the various pictures.”

“Five kids, two spouses, twin grandsons, and a granddaughter.”

“Wow.” A pause. “I take it the black guy is a son-in-law? Or maybe you were married before.”

“I was married before, but not to Koby’s mother. He’s married to my elder daughter, Cindy, who’s a cop in Philadelphia. Koby is in medical school at the University of Pennsylvania. They have twin boys. The older two white boys are my stepsons. The girls are my biological daughters and the youngest kid is our foster son who’s been with us for the last four years. He is a classical pianist who just graduated from Juilliard.”

“Impressive. What do the other kids do?”

“Sam and his wife are both doctors. They have Lily. They live in Brooklyn. Jacob—the one who looks like Rina—just finished his Ph.D. in public policy. He’s still …” Decker laughed. “He’s still finding himself. My other daughter, Hannah, is in a Ph.D. program at the Ferkauf School of Psychology in New York.”

“Not bad … but no Crimson.”

“Yeah, you Harvard guys think that there’s only one school in the world.”

“No, we do accept Princeton or Yale. But that’s about it.”

Decker smiled. “What about yourself, McAdams?”

“What do you mean?”

“Parents, brothers, sisters, city of birth? For as much as you yap when we’re driving, I don’t know anything about you.”

“Nothing much to tell. I grew up in the city. By the city, that means Manhattan. My parents divorced when I was ten, and both of them were remarried by the time I was fourteen. A couple of half sibs, a couple of stepsibs, all of them younger and none of them as smart as I am. I don’t have much of a relationship with any of them.”

Talking about family was obviously painful for him so Decker didn’t ask any more questions. They walked the next ten minutes in silence until the local graveyard came into view. That was another thing about small towns. Cemeteries were right in your face, not like L.A. where they’re situated in no-man’s-land off the freeway. This one was several blocks of upright headstones with a secluded, gated portion for the mausoleums: domed structures with fluted columns. Since the captain had mentioned something being broken into, it had to be one of the crypts.

Decker said, “Do you want a hand or foot warmer package? My feet are ice at this point.”

“Yeah, sure.”

After handing him the packets, Decker took a couple for himself, broke them in half, and dropped them into his snow boots. “Ah … better. I’m not really cold—after eating that much meat you can’t be cold—but my hands and feet get numb.”

“Why did you insist on walking? Surely there’s some religious dispensation that allows you to drive the car when working.”

“Yeah, I could have taken the car. Probably would have been smarter. What can I say, McAdams? Without a Harvard B.A., I guess I’m just handicapped.”

The watchman was a dead ringer for Ichabod Crane with a long face and extended skeletal frame and sunken eyes unsuitable for daylight. Any minute, Decker expected to see the headless horseman. His given name was Isaiah Pellman and his family had been living in Greenbury for two hundred years. The history was given by way of introduction to his good character. There were a lot of loquacious people in Greenbury as well as a lot of odd ducks. Eccentrics were everywhere in the world, but they were more noticeable in smaller populations.

They were chatting while standing between rows of headstones. Pellman said, “I check the Bergman crypt all the time, so I was really surprised when this happened.”

Decker pulled out a notebook. “What specifically happened?”

“My key doesn’t work the lock: that’s what happened.”

“Okay … so the lock wasn’t broken off?”

“No, it was broken off and exchanged for a different lock.”

“And your key always worked the lock before?”

“Yes, sir, it did.”

“Are you sure the lock just didn’t freeze?”

“I’m sure. First thing I did was heat it and oil it. The key goes in, but the tumblers don’t move. Everything worked perfectly four days ago. I called up the family and explained the situation a few hours ago. They told me to cut the lock and make sure everything inside is okay. But I told them I was gonna call the police. So I called the police. And now you’re up to date.”

“Who does the crypt belong to again? Bergman?”

“Ye-ah. They’re all buried inside—Moses and Ruth and their three children, Leon, Helen, and Harold along with their spouses—Gladys, Earl, and Mary. Ken Sobel’s the one I deal with. He’s a grandson from Helen Bergman, who became a Sobel when she married Earl. Ken’s older cousin, Jack Sobel, was buried here around six months ago. He was seventy-three.”

The man knew his local history. “How old is the crypt?”

“Erected in 1895.”

“And the family visited the crypt for a funeral about six months ago?”

“Ye-ah. Then Ken Sobel came back in the fall. Ken’s in his late sixties. He comes down four times a year as regular as clockwork. And he always makes sure the lock’s on tight.”

“So he has a key.”

“He does. Others as well but they don’t come down.”

“Could Ken have changed the lock?”

“No, sir, I asked when my key wouldn’t work. And he said no, he didn’t change the lock. And he’s the one who’s in charge. He told me to break the lock and make sure everything’s okay inside. So that’s when I called you—the police.”

“Anything of value inside the crypt?”

“No. Unless the bodies were buried with jewelry.”

Decker said, “Jewish custom is not to bury bodies with anything material.”

“So there you have it!” Pellman exclaimed.

“Indeed,” Decker said although he really wasn’t sure what Pellman was talking about. “Has this ever happened before? That your key didn’t work the lock?”

“No, sir, not on my watch.”

During the interview, McAdams’s toe was constantly tapping. Finally, he said, “Why don’t we just go and see what’s going on? If everything looks fine, we can all go home.” He looked at Pellman. “Well, not you, but I’m not getting paid to freeze my ass off.”

Decker was annoyed, not just at the kid’s rudeness, but at the disruption of the interview. He always collected as much information as possible before he witnessed the crime scene … if there even was a crime scene. “Mr. Pellman, do you have anything else you want to tell me before we look around?”

“No.” The man was stunned. “Should I be telling you something?”

“It wasn’t a trick question,” McAdams said. “No is a perfectly acceptable answer.”

“Take your time, Mr. Pellman,” Decker said.

“No, nothing else.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Decker folded his notebook. “Do you have a pair of bolt cutters?”

“I do.” He shuffled his feet and didn’t move.

“Could you get them for me?”

“Uh, sure. I don’t know if they’re strong enough to cut the lock.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Pellman said, “I guess you’re right about that.” Slowly he headed toward a shed that sat about two hundred yards away.

“Queer old guy but then again they’re all odd over here.”

Decker turned to the kid. “Don’t interrupt when I’m interviewing. It distracts me.”

“Just trying to move things along.”

“Tyler, this is probably nothing, so it’s no big deal. But if you have a chance to investigate a real crime, you can’t rush it along. You’ll miss things. You’ve got to slow down.”

Before McAdams could respond, Pellman came back with the bolt cutters and handed them to Decker. “You want to see the crypt and the lock?”

“That would be helpful.”

Slowly Pellman took them over to the Bergman crypt, an enormous rectangular stone vault with a dome ceiling. Each of the four outside walls hosted a leaded glass window that would have lit up the interior had it been daylight. Five stone steps led down to a padlocked concrete door. No foul odors seemed to emanate from the ground, but it was so cold that everything was frozen solid including dead matter. Decker looked at the bolt cutters and looked at the thin shank of the padlock, something that teens would use on their school lockers. With a little muscle, he should be able to make a clean cut through the U-shaped metal.

Decker said, “Can I try your key just to make sure?”

“Sure.”

Decker inserted the Schlage into the key slot. He could move it a millimeter to the left and right. The insides didn’t appear to be frozen, just that the key didn’t work the lock. He handed it back to Pellman. Then he handed the cutters to McAdams. “Go ahead, Harvard.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, take a whack at it.”

McAdams threw dagger eyes, but he secured the blades of the cutter around the U-shaped metal. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay.” He pressed down hard and the lock slipped under the blades. McAdams swore.

“If you don’t get it on three, I’ll do it,” Decker told him.

“Chill, Old Man. I’ll get it, I’ll get it.”

Number three was the charm. The kid used all his muscle, the blades cut through the shank, and the lock snapped off. When McAdams started to go in, Decker held him back.

“How about if we pick up the lock from the floor and stow it in the paper evidence bag. Just perhaps there is a crime scene involved and maybe the lock has a fingerprint. And as luck would have it, I just happen to have a few bags in my pocket.” Decker handed him a small paper bag. “Or would you prefer that I pick it up, boss?”

McAdams swore, but he bent down and picked it up with his gloved hand.

Decker said, “Place it in the bag. Then you write your name, the date, the time, and the location.”

McAdams did as he was told then gave the bag back to Decker. “Only because your wife fed me.”

“And fed you well.” Decker took out a flashlight and a magnifying glass. He peered through the lens and studied the door. “No pry marks.” He pushed the door open and swept the beam across the crypt. There were a number of horizontal marble headstones in the ground, but no bodies that weren’t six feet under. Decker counted the marble tombstones. At current, the crypt was hosting ten graves with room for more. Decker handed McAdams an extra flashlight. “In case you didn’t bring one. Keep it.” He turned to Pellman. “Could I borrow your light? It’s stronger than mine.”

“You betcha.” The watchman handed him his battery pack.

“Thanks.” Decker crossed over the threshold and stepped inside. The temperature wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be. Thick walls kept out the sunlight and heat but they also kept out the extreme cold. Decker swept the beam around to get the lay of the land.

The space was as big as his current living room, around two hundred square feet, and beautifully adorned. There was carved molding on the ceiling, and jeweled stripes of iridescent colored glass tiles were inset into the walls. Each gravestone was marked by the inhabitant inside—name, beloved husband/wife father/mother, grandfather/grandmother/date of birth/date of death. Nothing unusual except that the headstones of the matriarch and the patriarch were inset with tile work—two different pastoral scenes elegantly laid out in tiny pieces of glass mosaic. He squatted down to study the artwork. McAdams kneeled next to him. Decker whispered, “Doesn’t matter now, but for the record, don’t kneel. It might mess up something. You want as little contact with the ground as possible.”

McAdams squatted. “Not only am I a solid chunk of ice, I’m gonna be sore.”

Decker ignored him. “Nice tile work, no?”

“It’s okay … actually more than okay. It’s done well.”

“Somebody put money into these headstones.” Decker stood up and inched the light up and across the walls until he reached the windows. They stood about ten feet above the floor. Hanging just under the dome in the upper four windows were stained-glass panels. Decker didn’t notice them when he first came in because it was dark. He illuminated each panel with his flashlight, letting the beam rest on each for a minute or so before moving onto the next one. They probably sparkled beautifully in the daylight.

“It’s the four seasons.” Decker turned to McAdams. “See, that one’s winter, that’s spring, and summer and autumn.” He regarded the kid. “I think they were custom made.” He turned to Pellman. “Have those stained-glass windows always been inside the crypt?”

“For as long as I’ve been here and even before.”

Decker turned to the kid. “What do you think?”

McAdams shone his light on the four panels. “My mother has some Tiffany lamps. I’m not saying they are Tiffany, but it looks like good quality.”

“Agreed,” Decker said.

“You do know that the company made stained-glass windows for religious purposes.”

“Go on.”

“Just that the studio made a lot of devotional items for churches and synagogues. Do you know Manhattan at all?”

“Not too well.”

“There’s a famous synagogue on Fifth Avenue that has an original Tiffany. As does the Portuguese synagogue on the west side.”

“Courtesy of your ex-Jewish girlfriend?”

“You have a honed mind, Old Man. The studio also made windows for wealthy people’s mausoleums. So if they were real, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Could you tell if those are Tiffany or not?”

“Not at this distance. You could look for a signature, but that can be forged. It happened all the time. Mostly you tell by quality.”

Decker turned to Pellman. “Do you have a ladder?”

“Not on me, but I can get you a ladder.”

“Thank you. That would help.”

“Be right back.”

After he left, McAdams said, “Why in the world are you climbing up there? Are you that bored with the job?”

“Harvard, it always helps to get up close and personal. I’ll do the climbing, you just hold the ladder.” The two men didn’t speak. McAdams was fidgety. Decker said, “You okay?”

“Kinda creepy in here.”

“Yeah, cemeteries are a little spooky.” Decker paused. “Not this place, though. Someone took the time to make it pretty.”

Pellman came back with the ladder. “Here you go.”

Decker handed him his big, bulky battery pack flashlight and took his smaller light. He started climbing toward the windows. “Guys, shine the lights on the window, okay? I want to see them up close.”

The two men focused the light on the “autumn” stained-glass window. It was about fourteen by twenty inches in size and was hanging from two chains that were hooked into the ceiling.

“Is there a signature?” McAdams shouted.

“What kind of signature should I look for?”

“Tiffany Studios … something like that.”

Decker was face-to-face with the artwork. He shone his light through the colored glass. He wasn’t an expert, but it looked pretty good to his eye. It took him a few seconds to find the signature: Tiffany Studio. New York.

“Do you think it’s real?” McAdams asked from below.

“No idea.”

McAdams said, “There must be someone in one of the colleges who could authenticate it.”

“Good thinking.” Decker continued to study the work: each cut piece of glass, each thread of metal that held the glass into place. All the metal, including the frame, was dark bronze in color but with a hint of dark green peeking through. He knew from watching those antique shows that the patina—the way the metal aged over time—was important in authentication and to his eye, the metal work between the glass pieces and frame had plenty of patina. So did the chain from which the panels hung.

All the links had plenty of patina except for the two metal loops soldered to the frame and attached to the hanging chains. Those two loops were darker than the frame and looked flat when compared to the rest of the metal. Decker saw a raised chip of what he thought was a metal shard poking up, but when he touched it, dark paint flicked off and fell onto the back of his hand. Carefully, he climbed down the ladder and folded it up. “Uh, with the family’s permission, I’d like to get an art expert down here to look at all four windows.”

McAdams said, “Why? What did you find?”

“I’m not sure, but I’d like someone to take a closer look.”

Pellman shuffled his feet. “I suppose I can call up the family.” He hemmed. “Maybe it would sound better if it came from the police.”

“I’d be happy to call them up and tell them my thoughts.” Even in the dark shadows, Decker could tell that Pellman was relieved. The watchman gave Decker Ken Sobel’s telephone number. “Do you have something to secure the door with?”

“No, not on me.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a hardware store open at this time of night?”

Pellman said, “Just call up Glenn Dutch. I’m sure he has something around his house. If not, he’ll open the store for you.”

McAdams said, “Dutch’s Hardware is on Gable Street.”

“Do you have the number?” Decker asked Pellman.

“I don’t have it, but Roy might have it. Roy’s a friend of Glenn’s and I have Roy’s number.”

“Could you get Glenn’s number from Roy, then?”

“Surely, I can.” He checked his contact list on his phone. “I must have it at home … Roy’s number. I’ll call up my wife and she can get me Roy’s number who can get you Glenn’s number.” Pellman walked a few feet away to make his calls.

McAdams said, “You want to tell me what you found or are you going to make me play twenty questions?”

Decker said, “I found paint.”

“Paint?”

“Paint flicked off on one of the loops soldered onto the frame. It was painted to make the solder joints look old. And, come to think of it, whoever put those loops on the frames did a sloppy job of soldering. Now it could have been a recent repair. I’m just saying it wasn’t in keeping with the original work.”

McAdams said, “What did the glass look like? The individual pieces, I mean.”

“The glass was beautiful … really iridescent.”

“Did you find any cracks?”

Decker regarded him in the shadows. “Interesting you should ask. I remember thinking that the glass was in really good shape. Why?”

“This may not be true for window panels, but my mom always said that the lamps have been around for a while. It’s nearly impossible to find something in pristine shape—without any cracks—that hasn’t been forged.”

“Good to know,” Decker said. “On the other hand, the panels have been hanging in the same place for over a hundred years untouched.” A pause. “On the third hand, the works are hanging in a noncontrolled environment. With all the weather fluctuations, you might expect a few cracks. On the fourth hand, I only looked at one panel so maybe the others have cracks in the glass.”

“So that’s the way you do it. You just keep talking to yourself until you hit on something.”

“Sure, I talk to myself if no one else is around. When I was head of the detectives’ division, I used to talk to my other detectives. We’d bounce stuff off one another and we were right more than we were wrong.”

“You know, I am standing right here, freezing my ass off. You could bounce shit off me.”

“McAdams, I’ve been trying to bounce shit off you for the last six months and all I’ve had to show for it was a face full of crap. S’right. I know I’m a terrific detective. If you want to learn, I’ll be happy to share what I know. And if there’s something that I don’t know but you do know, well, that’s fine with me also. A great detective starts by being a great listener.”

CHAPTER THREE

With the Bergman crypt once again secured by a padlock courtesy of Glenn Dutch’s Hardware, they left the crypt at 11:30. It was late to be making calls, but if it had been Decker’s crypt, he would have wanted to know right away. He handed a slip of paper to McAdams. “This is Ken Sobel’s number—the one who was up here most recently and seems to be in charge. You can do the honors.”

“Me?”

“You’re my superior.”

“So I’m assigning you to the task of making the call.”

“It’s my Sabbath. Can you do me the favor?”

“It’s late.”

“I know. But I still think we should call him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the proper procedure. Pellman has already told him that there was something wrong with the lock. He’s probably waiting to hear from him.” A pause. “Look, if you don’t feel comfortable—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” McAdams took out his phone. “I’ll do it.”

But he didn’t do it. Decker said, “Start by introducing yourself.”

“I know how to handle this, okay.” Decker didn’t answer and McAdams regarded his phone. “How much should I tell him? I mean, what if he ripped the panels off himself? Aren’t we giving him a heads-up that we’re suspicious?”

“Let’s just stick to what we know, okay.”

“We don’t know anything for certain so why are we even calling him?”

“We’re calling him to let him know that everything looks fine, but we’d like for completeness sake to have him authenticate the panels. But you’ve got to lead into that conversation. First tell him that everything looks okay. Then compliment the panels, then ask if they’re real Tiffany—”

“I get it!” Abruptly, McAdams shoved the phone into Decker’s hand. “You’ve obviously got some script in your head. Just do it and get it over with, okay. I’m freezing … beyond freezing. I’m numb everywhere.”

“I’ll make the call but could you at least punch in the numbers for me?”

“I don’t think I can move my fingers.”

“Give it to me.”

“I’m kidding, Old Man.”

Decker said, “Put it on speaker so I won’t have to repeat the conversation.” McAdams was sulky—his pride was wounded—but he did as told. Decker waited for the line to connect. The two of them were walking back to the house in a cold that had turned positively polar. He usually paced while talking on the phone. At least this time, his movement had a purpose.

After he heard the hello, he said, “This is Peter Decker from the Greenbury Police Department, I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m looking for Ken Sobel.”

The voice on the other end was alert. “This is Ken Sobel. What took you so long? What’s going on up there?”

“We broke the lock on the crypt, sir. From what I could see, everything appears in order.”

“Phew! Good to know. It would be really ghoulish if someone had broken into the mausoleum and did some mischief. So why didn’t Isaiah Pellman’s key work?”

“We don’t know. Could someone else in the family have changed the lock?”

“Not to my knowledge. I’m usually the only one who bothers to go up there … except for the funeral six months ago. I was up there about four months ago and everything was in perfect order.”

“Who else besides you has a key?”

“My sister … some of my other cousins.”

“Mr. Pellman checked the lock about four days ago and it worked. So if anyone had changed the lock, it had to have been in the last few days.”

“I assure you that none of my relatives have been up in the last few days.”

“Okay. I do have a question or two if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m here.”

“There are four beautiful stained-glass panels inside the crypt. The scenes look like the four seasons. I even got on a ladder and looked at the autumn panel. I found a Tiffany signature. Are they real Tiffany?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m a suspicious guy, which is a good thing for a detective. When I first talked to Isaiah Pellman, it sounded to me that someone broke the original lock on purpose. And then I saw those panels. If they’re real Tiffany, they’re worth stealing.”

“But you said everything looks in order.”

“It does.”

“So I’m confused.”

“Are the panels Tiffany?”

“Yes, and they do represent the four seasons. My grandmother commissioned them at the turn of the century.”

“Okay. It might be a good idea to send someone up here and have them authenticated. Or my partner suggested that maybe someone from one of the colleges could authenticate them with your permission, of course.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course, they’re real!”

“I’m sure they were at one point.”

“What?” A long pause. “You think someone broke in and replaced the panels with forgeries?”

“Mr. Sobel, I’m certainly no art expert. But I did climb up on a ladder to get an up-close look. That’s how I found the Tiffany signature. And I only looked at the autumn panel, sir, so I don’t know about the others. But on that panel, someone had painted the two soldered loops on the lead frame that secures the two chains that hang from the ceiling. The loops were painted dark brown to match the patina. The paint flaked off on my hand. Did you do a repair on that work?”

“No, I did not! And it would be absurd to think that Tiffany Studios would paint something to make it look like old patina. Because when they did it, it wasn’t old. Furthermore, the glass is held in place by copper channels, not lead. It was a very expensive way of doing stained glass. Tiffany invented it as far as I know. So when it was new, it would have been shiny.”

“Tell him about the perfect glass,” McAdams whispered.

Decker nodded. “Also the stained glass in the panel was in perfect shape. My partner says that with authentic Tiffany, it’s more usual than not to find a crack or two somewhere.”

“I don’t fucking believe this!” Sobel said. Decker heard a female voice in the background. Sobel was talking to it in an angry muffled voice. “Someone may have ripped off our Tiffany panels … yes, in the crypt!” Back to Decker. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not at all. It’s up to you on how you want to proceed.”

Sobel was still muttering curse words under his breath. “I’ll bring someone down … I can’t do it tomorrow. Is the crypt secured?”

“Yes, we put a new padlock on it.”

“I’ll see if my appraiser—better known as my son-in-law—can come down with me on Sunday. His place is closed so he’ll do me the favor for gratis. Well, not quite gratis. I’ve spent a fortune at his gallery … figure it benefits my grandchildren. Does Sunday work for you?”

“Sunday would be fine. I’ll give you my phone number and my partner’s phone number.” After he gave Sobel the digits, Decker said, “Feel free to call either one of us. In the meantime, I’ll make sure that the watchmen check the crypt lock during their work hours.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Peter Decker.”

“Are you new? I don’t know you.”

“I came on the force about six months ago. Before that, I worked for LAPD.”

“LAPD.” A pause. “Have you ever worked an art case before or should I send in an expert in the field?”

“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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

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.”

“Call me Max.” He appeared around forty. “Don’t pay attention to Ken. I never do.”

“Peter Decker. Thanks for coming down.”

Sobel said, “Are you a police officer or a police detective or …”

“I’m whatever the department needs. This is my partner, Detective Tyler McAdams.”

More handshakes. Then Sobel turned to Isaiah Pellman who was trying to disappear in nonexistent shadows. “What the hell happened, Isaiah?”

“Just like I told you, sir. The key didn’t work.”

“When was the last time you tried it?” Sobel asked.

“Last Tuesday. It worked fine.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Decker said, “Let me give you a recap of where McAdams and I came in and why I asked you to come down.”

Sobel said, “I know why you asked me down. You told me that over the phone.”

Stewart said, “Let the man finish.”

“Be brief,” Sobel said. “I’ve got a dinner engagement and it’s a three-hour drive.”

“It’s ten in the morning, Ken.”

“You know how brutal traffic can be.”

Decker gave a quick summary of the events of Friday night while McAdams rocked on his feet, no doubt feeling superfluous. At the end, Decker turned to McAdams and said, “Anything you’d like to add?”

“Not a whit.”

Decker turned to Pellman. “We’re going to need that ladder again. Mr. Stewart will need to look at the panels up close.”

Stewart said, “You want me to climb up a ladder?”

Sobel said, “It’s not that hard, Max. One foot over the other.”

“I’m wearing leather-soled shoes.” He turned to his father-in-law. “If I break my leg, you explain it to Natalie.”

“I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“I’d take them down for you,” Decker said, “but I don’t want to screw anything up.”

“It’s fine.” Max was clearly peeved. “If I had known I had to climb up, I would have worn sneakers. I really do think the old man likes to see me sweat.”

“Been there, done that,” McAdams muttered.

“That’s enough out of you, Harvard,” Decker said.

Stewart said, “You went to Harvard?”

“Graduated two years ago.”

“What house?”

“Cabot. And you?”

“Lowell.”

The two men started playing name game despite a decade of life between them. If McAdams was good for anything, it was building rapport with the Ivy League elite with second homes in the smaller towns along the Hudson. But that did nothing to endear him to the regular working stiffs of the town.

Pellman came back with a ladder and his flashlight. He descended the five steps into the crypt and unlocked the door. Everyone crowded inside. Decker turned on Pellman’s flashlight although there was plenty of sunshine coming through the windows along with bursts of iridescence coming from the stained glass.

Stewart looked upward. “Could you shine the light on that one?” Decker illuminated the autumn panel. Max said, “I can already tell that it’s a reproduction. Good glass, lousy work.”

Sobel swore under his breath. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How can you tell?”

“Ken, how can you tell when it’s time to dump stocks? It’s my business.”

He waved off his son-in-law and then started pacing. “Goddamnit, how did this happen?”

“What about the others?” McAdams asked Stewart. “What do you think?”

Sobel suddenly remembered there were three more panels to evaluate. “Yeah, what about the others, Max?”

“Could I have the light?” Stewart asked.

“Sure.” Decker handed him the battery pack.

The dealer studied each panel, and then he said, “Okay. To my eye, summer is also a fake. The other two … I’m going to have to climb up and take a closer look.”

Sobel continued to swear and mutter to himself as Decker and McAdams balanced the ladder against the wall, going as close as they could to the window containing winter. Stewart shook his head then scaled the risers. When he was eye level with the panel, Decker stepped up two risers and passed him the battery pack. Stewart studied the work for a long time. “This is real.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Sobel mumbled.

Carefully, Max climbed down and went over to the spring panel. “Legit.” Stewart climbed down again and dusted off his pants. “Two and two, Ken.”

“Goddamnit! What the hell is someone going to do with two panels in a set of four?”

Decker said, “I take it that the panels are valuable on their own.”

“Of course,” Max said. “But as a set, the value goes up exponentially.”

Decker said, “You should take the real panels out of the crypt and put them in a more secure place.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Stewart said.

“How involved is it to remove them?”

“Not too hard normally. The chains just hook into the loops in the frame but it looks like the links were tightened around the loop, which isn’t the original design. It would help to have two people up there. One to detach the panel from the frame and another one to hold the tools.”

Sobel was still swearing. McAdams turned to Pellman. “Do you have another ladder?”

“Let me check.” He came back with a shorter ladder. “This is all I had.”

“That’ll work.” Decker turned to Stewart. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

It took less than an hour to remove all four panels, another hour to remove the chains and the ceiling pieces. At straight-up twelve, the two original panels and chains were bubble wrapped and then blanket wrapped and sat in the backseat of the Mercedes. The two forgeries would be entered as evidence of a crime. Sobel jangled his keys as he turned to Decker. “Now what?”

“I’m going to need the names of everyone who has a key to the crypt or even knows that the panels exist.”

“That’s a long list,” Sobel said. “A long, long list.”

Stewart leaned over to McAdams’s ear and whispered something. When McAdams smiled, Sobel said, “Can you tell me what could be even remotely funny?”

“Just two Harvard guys shooting the shit, Ken.”

“Well, shoot the shit some other time, okay.” Sobel was irritated. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Start with your relatives,” Decker said. “Any of them have money problems?”

“That would be my sister-in-law,” Stewart said.

“Cut it out, Max,” Sobel told him. “She doesn’t have money problems.”

“My brother-in-law is a good guy. Why he married Melanie is the family mystery. Well, I know why he married her. She’s beautiful. But she’s also unpleasant and a shopaholic. And don’t look at me that way, Ken. They’re going to ask their questions anyway, right?”

“Right,” McAdams said.

Sobel was angry. “I guarantee you that none of our relatives stole the panels.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Sobel,” Decker said. “But I have to start somewhere. Anyone innocent won’t mind talking to me.”

“Sure, talk to Melanie, talk to whoever you want, I don’t care.” Sobel turned to his son-in-law. “You don’t really think that Melanie stole the panels.”

Stewart put his arm around his father-in-law. “Honestly, no. That would be a new low even for her.”

“Make us a list and we’ll take it from there,” Decker said. “Also, what about locally? Anyone in town know about the panels?”

“Just Pellman here and the other watchmen.”

“We put all the mausoleum keys in a lockbox, Mr. Sobel.”

“That doesn’t mean one of you didn’t use it.” When the caretaker blanched, Sobel said, “I’m not accusing you, Isaiah. Just saying out loud what the police are thinking.”

McAdams snapped his fingers. “What about anyone at the colleges? Maybe an art professor knew about them from your parents’ time? Littleton has been around for a while and back in my dad’s time, it was noted for bringing in local experts on regional painters and craftsmen from the area. Tiffany’s studio wasn’t all that far from here.”

The boy had a brain. Decker said, “That’s a good thought.”

“I never had any dealing with the colleges,” Sobel said.

“We can find out,” Decker said. “Would you know if the panels had ever been loaned out to a museum exhibition or recorded in a book on Tiffany?”

“Or any other art glass book?” McAdams asked.

“I don’t know,” Sobel grumped. “You don’t know how depressing this is for me.”

Stewart put his arm around his father-in-law’s shoulders. “The good news is we know the panels weren’t destroyed, Ken. They were taken by someone who wanted them because he knew what they were. And the panels can’t be sold in a reputable auction house, because there’s no provenance of ownership. So if the thief is going to sell them, he’d have to use the black market. We’ll find them. If not, you’ve got insurance.”

“I don’t want insurance. I want the works.” The man teared up. “They were my grandparents’ legacy. My grandmother commissioned them from Tiffany Studios.”

“I know.” Max kissed his cheek. “At least, we salvaged two of them. And if we need to do a facsimile of the others, I’ve got artisans who are just as talented as those at Tiffany Studios although almost anyone could do much better than those pieces of dreck.”

Sobel nodded. “Thanks for coming down, Max.”

“Oh please, Ken. You know I’d be insulted if you asked anyone else.” Stewart looked at Decker and McAdams. “We’ll get that list for you. I’m sure we won’t think of everyone, but as names pop up, we’ll send them off to you.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. “And I don’t care how long it is. A long list isn’t as big a problem as no list at all.”

Sobel nodded and slid into the driver’s seat. Stewart sat in the backseat, with an arm placed skillfully over his glass charges. They drove off in a wisp of exhaust, tooled up for the long ride back to civilization.

Pellman said, “I’m gonna put the ladders away.”

“That’s fine,” Decker said. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Do you think that Mr. Sobel suspects me?”

“No, he’s just upset.” Decker patted his shoulder. “We’ll talk to you later.”

The men walked back to the car. McAdams put the key into the ignition, turned on the motor, and headed back to the station house less than five minutes away. “What now? I’m sure you have many ideas bouncing around in that predementia brain of yours.”

“A few. I’d love to hear what you’re thinking.”

“Age before beauty.”

Decker said, “This is the drill. We bounce ideas off each other. I say something, you say something. There is no right or wrong. So it’s okay to say stupid things.”

“That’s never been my problem, Old Man.”

Decker smiled. “No thief would go through all that rigmarole to keep the panels for himself. He had a fence or he was hired for a buyer. If it was a buyer, he probably wants all four panels before he shells out money. I’m sure our thief is going to return and try to steal the other panels. So that means surveillance.”

“You mean like monitor cameras on the crypt’s door?”

“No, I mean like a guy sitting in a hidden place waiting from the thief to return and arresting him.”

“It’s an open area. Where could we park a car so it wouldn’t be noticed?”

“He’s going to come at night so that gives us some cover,” Decker said.

“We’re going to sit here all night, every night until we catch a thief that may or may not show up, take one look at the lone car, and hightail it out of here?”

The kid had a point. “Maybe we could do it with cameras linked up to a surveillance van parked elsewhere. Or I’m only a mile away. I could actually just do this from home.”

“And where do you propose we’d find the technology in rural little Greenbury?”

“You’re the techno guy. You tell me.”

McAdams frowned. “I suppose we can stick a camera in a strategic place and link it up to a tablet or smartphone, Eagle Eye or some system like that.”

“That would work for me. We could rotate the watches of the laptop at night between the five of us detectives.”

McAdams said, “Do you really think the thief would return to the crypt knowing that the cops are onto him?”

“Why would he think we’re onto him?”

“What if the thief saw all the commotion that went on this afternoon?”

“Did you spot anyone nosing around?”

“Not really, but I wasn’t looking. What about you?”

“I checked around several times. I didn’t notice anyone watching.”

“Maybe no one was watching us on the streets. But I’m betting that a few of the neighbors pulled back their curtains to see what was going on.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. And that leads me to another thought. If we start asking questions locally, eventually the local paper will find out. So will everyone else, including the thief—if he’s local. This is a very small town.”

“So I repeat. What’s next?”

“Not doing surveillance would be negligent. Let’s do something before the case blows wide open. Could you help me hook up a camera?”

“Who’s gonna pay for this?”

“I’ll ask Mike. It’s something that’s handy to have.”

“And if Mike says no?”

“I’ll pay. These things aren’t that expensive even for an old retiree like myself. Of course, if some rich kid with gold watches wants to pitch in, I won’t object.”

Despite himself, McAdams smiled. “Maybe that can be arranged.” He pulled into the station’s parking lot. “Okay. Happy hunting. And what do I do while you’re out there making suspect lists and checking them twice? Practice shooting jelly beans out my nose?”

“Can you really do that?” McAdams rolled his eyes and Decker said, “Think about it, McAdams. You tell me. What useful things could you do?”

“Quit this job and do something that will exploit my many talents?”

“Does that include law school?”

A pause. “Eventually.”

“How about if you look up past crimes of cemetery theft? If nothing shows up nearby, branch out using Greenbury as the center of the circle. Lots of fancy mausoleums in the area. I’m sure this has happened before.”

McAdams sighed. “Fine.”

“Too exhausting for you, Harvard?”

“I just think it’s stupid.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we both think it’s a professional theft, especially because the original panels were replaced with forgeries. The probability of finding those stolen panels is very low. It’s a lot of effort for very little or no outcome.”

Decker shook his head. “Man, you really are in the wrong field. What the hell were you thinking when you signed up?”

McAdams gave the question some serious thought. “My main motivation for taking this job was pissing on my father’s expectations. He is really into my going to Harvard Law. Stalling a couple of years is making him nervous and that makes me happy.”

“So here’s the deal.” Decker put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I can handle this all by my lonesome. So if you want to just fart around, I’m okay with that. No one will have to know. You tell me, Tyler. What do you want to do—if anything?”

“I know I’m acting like a dick.” McAdams rubbed his forehead. “I am a dick. I don’t like being a dick, but I don’t know how not to be a dick. I guess being a dick is better than being a tool. Although I guess I’m kind of a tool, too.” He looked up at Decker. “Some people just don’t have winning ways.”

“Do you know how many different and difficult personalities I’ve had to work with over the years?” When McAdams didn’t answer, Decker said, “Yes, you’re a little obnoxious, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, I don’t care about personalities. I just care about getting the job done and I need to organize my time. In or out?”

“If it would be useful to you, I will look up art thefts on the Internet.”

“It would save me time so, yes, it would be useful. And while you’re on the computer, find out what you can about Tiffany and, specifically, those panels. See if they were ever mentioned in any book or loaned to a museum for a traveling exhibition.”

“I’m not sure I can do all that with just a laptop.”

“It’s called research. You never wrote a term paper in college?”

“I had all of Widener at my disposal.”

“There are five colleges about a mile away that are highly regarded. I know they have libraries.”

“You know if I start doing that, word might get around that I’m researching Tiffany and grave robberies.”

“I’m not too concerned about that, Harvard. You’re town, they’re gown. Never the twain shall meet.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Wan and out of breath, he forced himself to walk calmly down the hallway, knocking on her door instead of banging. As soon as Angeline answered, she took one look at him and asked what was wrong. He came in and gently shut the door. Then he began to pace: hard to do in her tiny one-bedroom apartment.

“What?” she asked. “Tell me!”

Panic in her voice. He managed to get it out. “They’re onto us. They know about your forgeries.”

Angeline felt her heart race. “My forgeries? Our forgeries, okay.”

“Whatever.”

“Not whatever. This is a partnership.” She rubbed her forehead. “Oh my God, are you sure?”

“Yes.” More pacing. “That fucking lock. I knew it was too cold to go out. I knew that there was a chance that the metal would freeze and the key would break off.”

“So why did you go out?”

“I figured it was so cold that no one else would be out and I could work without being bothered.” He knocked his fist against his head. “Shit! I’m so damn stupid! Wasting all this energy and time and risk for something so in-significant. Serves me right for being greedy!”

Yes, he was greedy, but her main concern was calming him down. His voice was getting louder and louder. She put her finger to his lips and spoke in low tones. “It’s like one in the afternoon. Let’s sit down and maybe we can work out a plan.”

“That’s it! No more. I can’t take the chance any longer. Not when such big things are at stake.”

Angeline tried to take his hand but he pulled it away. She said, “Sit down and let’s talk.”

Eventually he plopped down on her futon. She sat down next to him, putting her hand on his knee, hoping to make him feel a little bit more relaxed. “Are you sure they know about us?”

“Positive.”

“Your client told you this?”

“No, he doesn’t know anything about this, thank God for that. I just saw them today at the graveyard at the Bergman mausoleum around an hour ago. I saw the dumbfuck watchman talking to Ken Sobel and his son or son-in-law. It’s not good, Angeline. We have to stop.”

Not as dumbfuck as you thought. “I guess if you change out the locks and the watchman does his job, discovery was a possible outcome.”

“I was going to replace it back with the original. It took me a while to get the fragment out. I couldn’t exactly take it to a locksmith.”

“That’s true.” Angeline took a deep breath and let it out. “When you say they’re onto us … do you mean us … or the forgeries?”

He looked up. “The family knows about the forgeries … I’m not positive about us.” A pause. “I’m sure they don’t know about us. If they did know, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So there you go.” Angeline felt calmer.

“They can link me to the forgeries if they know my client. But I don’t see how that would be possible. You don’t even know my client. Unless …”

“What?” He always did that. Calm her down to make her nervous again. “Unless what?”

“You have the stained glass that was used in the forgeries. So … we need to get rid of the glass.”

“Right.” She smiled. “You’re thinking more clearly than I am.”

“And we should do that immediately.”

“Okay. So why don’t you grab a beer from the fridge and catch your breath and let me pack up my leftover crap. You think about where we should hide the stuff until things cool down.”

“I’m not going to hide it. I’ll dump it when I go back up north.”

“No way. It’s top-quality glass and I still have over a thousand dollars’ worth of material. I’m not throwing it away.”

“It’s not wise to hang on to it, Angeline.”

“Just … chill.” She got up and looked at him. Slim, dark, sultry, brilliant, a little bad boy, a little evil and a great fuck. “Think about a plausible story so if the cops pay me a visit, I don’t sound like a moron.”

“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 ever 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 beginning to turn the wheels. She had spent almost all the money he had given her on her latest handbag. “Can’t we just sell the two panels we have?”

“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. Hannah, Peter and Rina’s daughter, lived a few blocks away from Sam, sharing a place with three roommates. Decker’s oldest daughter, Cindy and her husband, Koby, lived in Philadelphia. There was absolutely no room to stay unless they wanted to share the nursery with the twins and sleep on an air mattress on the floor.

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.

She saw sweat coming off Peter’s brow. “Do you want me to help you off with your jacket?’

“No, I’ve always wanted a portable sauna.”

“A simple ‘Thank you, darling. That would be lovely’ is sufficient.” She helped him pull his arms out and removed his parka and threw it on the backseat. “Coffee?”

“Will it burn my lip if I drink it while I drive?”

“I’ll test the waters.” She poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Something between lukewarm and hot.”

“Bring it on.”

She gave him the coffee and put on one of Gabe’s CDs. “If you get tired, I’ll be happy to drive. You’ve got work to do. I don’t.”

“I’m fine. I like to drive.”

“Great.” Five minutes passed without a word exchanged. Rina finally pushed her seat back and closed her eyes. Just as she was drifting off, she heard Peter talking to her. “Come again?”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“I’d love to talk instead of sleep, but I know you use your time in the car to think.”

“Not much to think about. Just got a bunch of people to interview.”

“You want to talk about it with me?”

“Why not? You’re a captive audience.” Decker told her what he learned. When he was done, Rina said, “Interesting. Do you suspect someone in the family?”

“Can’t say until I interview them. But the extended family is very large and then there’s the daughter-in-law with a spending problem. The crime was calculated. We’ll just have to see how it shakes out.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No, just enjoy the kids and grandchildren.”

He grew quiet and so did she.

Decker said, “The expert that Ken Sobel brought in—who also happens to be his son-in-law—has an art glass gallery in Manhattan. I looked up the website. That place has more Tiffany lamps than most museums.”

“Are you thinking that he stole the windows and is using the gallery to fence them?”

“Maybe, but the gallery has pieces way more valuable than the panels. And it’s been in the same two families for fifty years—Harrison and Stewart, two brothers-in-law.”

“There’s always room for more profit.”

“True and that’s why I’d like to interview Max Stewart away from his father-in-law, especially since he’s the one who mentioned the spendthrift sister-in-law. It’s always interesting when someone points the finger at someone else. Plus he knows the Tiffany market.”

“Makes total sense.”

Decker paused. “If I brought my wife with me, it would make the visit seem less like an interrogation and more like a fact-finding mission.”

Rina was surprised but tried not to show it. “Sure, I’ll come if you want.”

“The truth is that I don’t have the same kind of manpower that I did in L.A. It’s just me and McAdams and you know way more than he does about detective work.”

“I do?”

“I’ve been bouncing things off you for years. You’ve helped me way more than you probably realize.”

Rina smiled warmly. “I’ve very touched.” She nudged his shoulder. “So where do we begin?”

Decker grinned. “Did I just unleash something?”

“You did.”

“Look, I don’t want you to do anything. Just look around while I talk to him. And … if he has employees who feel like showing you around, maybe you can feel them out.”

“Not a problem.”

“I mean, don’t go around asking questions—”

“Peter, I know the difference between being a curious person and a detective. You’re the latter, I’m the former. I’m just keeping you company. No harm in that.”

“Actually, it might be fun for you. The gallery also sells jewelry, without a doubt beyond my price range.”

She was still glowing from the compliment Peter had given her. “I don’t need diamonds. I don’t need anything. I’m totally happy with what I have.”

“I like to buy you things.”

“Flowers are always in fashion.”

“How about orchids?”

“Orchids are lovely.”

Decker sighed. “Maybe one day the orchids will come with a trip to Hawaii.”

“Maybe,” Rina said. “In the meantime, we can always do a little hula all by our lonesome.”

CHAPTER SIX

Williamsburg still teemed with black hats, but now the area was divided between the Chasids with their Borsalinos and the fur-trimmed shtreimels versus the hipsters wearing fedoras, derbies, newsboys, and porkpies. Both groups wore full beards, and even the dress wasn’t that dissimilar. There were synagogues, kosher marts, and religious bookstores and dress shops. But the neighborhood also boasted hip bars and restaurants. Even the kosher crowd was getting into the act with establishments serving more exotic things like oxtail soup and grilled chicken hearts.

Sammy Lazarus, and his wife, Rachel, lived a few blocks away from the action in a tiny apartment with their sixteen-month-old daughter, Lily. She was Rina’s first blood grandchild and the Deckers’ first granddaughter. The little girl had a mop of curly blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a perpetual sunny disposition. As soon as they walked into the living room, Lily began running around in circles, flapping her hands in sheer joy. “Yay, yay, Nana, Boppa, Nana, Boppa, yay, yay, Nana Boppa, yay.”

Decker hadn’t had a greeting like that since: well, his memory didn’t go back that far. But it was nice to be wanted. Rachel invited them in with her wide, white smile. Over her clothes, she wore a butterfly print apron that was dusted with flour and her blond curls were pulled back into a “messy” bun. She gave both of them a big hug. “Someone is very excited.” The toddler was running amok. “Can I get you guys something?”

“I’m fine.” Rina gave Rachel a kiss on her cheek then tried to corral Lily. “Well, hello, gorgeous. Does Nana get a kiss?”

The toddler stopped in her tracks, backed up, and planted a wet one on Rina’s lips. Rina picked her up and smothered her cheek with kisses. “Who does Nana love?”

“Lily.” It came out “Weewee.” She reached out her hands to Decker. “Boppa.”

Decker took her from Rina and tossed her in the air until the child was spasmodic with laughter. When his arms felt as if they were falling off, Decker lowered her to the floor. “How about a break, Miss El?” But she was already running in circles again.

“It’s been too cold to go to the park. I think she’s a little cooped up. The sun’s out. Maybe I’ll try to take her today.”

“I’ll take her if you’re busy,” Rina offered.

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be helpful.” Rachel had taken the time to set up a little spread on their dinette table. She spotted Decker looking at it. “Just a little nibble in case you were hungry.”

“Thanks, honey. I’ll take some coffee.” Rina looked at her watch. It was a little after nine and too early to go out in the cold. Lily had brought out her box of blocks, meaning that they had other vistas to conquer before the park. Rina sat down on the floor, opened the lid, and dumped out the box. “How about if I make a tower and you can knock it down.”

The little girl responded with something approximating “knock it down.” Decker made a cup of coffee for Rina and one for himself. Then he took a minichocolate Danish and popped it in his mouth. He turned to Rachel. “How’s the residency coming along?”

“One more year.” She paused. “I love my profession but sometimes it’s hard seeing sick children, especially now that I have Lily.” Her eyes watered and she quickly blinked. “How’s your new job?”

“It’s slower paced, but it’s better than retirement.”

“Do you miss the LAPD?”

“Not when I’m only three hours away from all the people I love. Moving was a great decision.” He hoped he had sounded convincing. The truth? It was hard to regroup. “Today I’m actually here for work. Nothing crucial so we decided to mix it with a little pleasure.”

“That’s great. We’re always so happy to see you. What kind of work are you doing here?”

“Mostly talking to some people. Actually, I’ve got to be in Manhattan at ten. How long do you think it would take me to get to Columbus Circle?”

“Around a half hour more or less,” Rachel said. “What are you looking into if I can ask?”

“An art theft.”

“Sounds very intriguing.”

“Most intriguing thing I’ve done in six months.” 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 going to ask some pretty obvious questions, so bear with me. Did you know that the crypt had original Tiffany pieces?”

“Of course. Everyone in the family knows. And probably a lot of people not in the family. Ken is not the model of discretion. And if you’re looking for someone to grill, I would suggest you talk to Max again. It’s like the one thing he wants that he can’t get hold of. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Decker tried to keep his face flat. “Really?” She didn’t answer. He said, “I went online and looked at the Stewart and Harrison gallery inventory. The place has things far more valuable than the windows.” She still didn’t answer. “Does Max have any vices I should know about?”

“If you call greed a vice, then yes. With Max, it’s always about having more, more, more. And he accuses me of being a spendthrift.”

“He’s a spendthrift?” No response. “Is he in hock?”

Melanie blushed. “I wouldn’t know about that. I mean he has all this jewelry but do you think his wife ever gets to wear anything … well, maybe she wears it, but she certainly doesn’t own it. I suppose she can borrow it if she wants.” She looked at Decker. “The point is that everything that Max and his family own is in that store. I mean he and my sister-in-law own this tiny, tiny duplex where they couldn’t even entertain a gnat. C’mon already. Just sell a couple of lamps and get something decent. Not something where the kitchen has a view of an air shaft. See what I’m getting at?”

“Not exactly.” Decker looked up. “Maybe you should explain it to me.”

“The gallery belongs to Max’s father and his uncle, Joe. Max is nothing more than a glorified salesman. I think it eats at his kishkas.”

“So he doesn’t own anything in the gallery? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know what he owns or what he doesn’t own. All I’m saying is he always wants more.”

“So you’re thinking that maybe he stole the windows so he could resell them and get some of his own money?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m not trying to do that, Melanie. Do you think Max was involved with the theft?”

She turned bright red. “Not really.” She sat up. “But if he’s telling you that I was involved, he’s crazy.”

“Why would he think you’re involved?”

“C’mon, I know what he told you.”

“What did he tell me?” Decker prompted.

“Lemme see how I can phrase this so it comes out right.” She stood up and began to pace. “Ken is a great guy, but tight with a buck, a quality that he passed on to my husband. I never ever buy things we can’t afford, but if I can afford it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t buy it. I mean, why do you work a million hours a week and earn all this money if you’re just going to have it molder in stocks and bonds. I realize that it’s Rick’s business, but he does have a family and why should our children do without when we can plainly do with.”

She stopped pacing.

“Anyway, this is all very beside the point. I don’t know anything about the theft. It’s not like it’s been preying on my mind. To tell you the truth, Tiffany isn’t my style. I am all about sleek and modern. This one room is my compromise to Rick. I mean where would I even put the windows? Although I suppose if I did steal them, I wouldn’t hang them out in the open. That would be pretty stupid.”

Decker nodded.

“Anything else? I’ve got a nail appointment.”

“Can you think of anyone in the family with money problems?”

“No … none of my business. I just wish they’d keep their noses out of my business.”

“Anyone in the family who has an addiction—drugs, gambling, sex, bad business? Or bad business deals?”

“Ken’s extended family is large: lots of cousins and second cousins. I’m sure there must be a couple with problems. Who doesn’t have a family without problems?”

“But nothing jumps into your head?”

She thought about it earnestly. “No … not really. But Rick and I try to mind our own business. We’re both way too busy to worry about other people. If other people don’t have a life, that’s not my problem. Are we almost done?”

“Just a few routine questions that I’m asking everyone on the list. When was the last time you were in Greenbury?”

“The funeral in the summer when Ken’s cousin died. We came in and left the same day. We were with everyone else.”

“So you haven’t been to Greenbury or the crypt since then?”

“No. I’ve got better things to do than to schlep up to a musty old crypt in the middle of nowhere.”

“Besides Max, who do you think might have wanted to steal the panels?”

She looked aghast. “I didn’t say Max stole them.”

“So who do you think did it?”

“How would I know?”

“I’m not saying you would know. I’m just asking your opinion.”

She stood up, examining her nails that looked perfectly groomed in contour and color. Then she shrugged. “No idea. All I know is it wasn’t me.”

Two phone messages, three texts, and five missed calls: all from McAdams. The kid either missed his company or had info. Decker dialed his cell. Harvard was peeved.

“What’s the purpose of giving me assignments and telling me to call back when you don’t answer your phone?”

“I was in the middle of an interview. What do you have for me?”

“Since I outrank you, what do you have for me?”

Decker smiled. He recapped the interviews.

McAdams said, “She sounds like a nutcase.”

“She’s intense.”

“We should look into her financials.”

“Great idea except we have no legit reason to pull paper on her. Now it’s your turn.”

“Well, it seems that grave robbing and stealing from cemeteries are time-old traditions. I found quite a few cases of people stealing from cemeteries. The items usually taken are for personal use, things like urns, planters, gravestone decorations, and statues. The thieves usually live close to the graves and were caught with the items displayed in their houses or yards. Then there are the practical thieves who lift things like lawn mowers or weed whackers or shovels for their own gardening purposes.”

“Okay. What about valuable items?”

“I don’t know how relevant it is to our case because it’s old, but I’ll tell it to you anyway. A very well-known art dealer named Alastair Duncan was caught selling a stolen Tiffany window to a guy in Japan. It was looted from a local cemetery by a guy named Anthony Casamassima who used to work as a caretaker there.”

“Where’s there?”

“Salem Fields, New York. It’s a massive cemetery on the Brooklyn/Queens border. And it has a lot of Jewish mausoleums because a lot of the families used to belong to Congregation Emanu-El in Manhattan, which used the cemetery to buy plots for its membership. That’s the synagogue I told you about with a Tiffany window.”

“Where is it?”

“On Fifth Avenue in the Sixties. It’s open to the public and from what I saw online, pretty damn ornate. You might want to take a look at it. The Met has some gigantic Tiffany works if you want to get a feel for the art. It’s right off the Temple of Dendur.”

“The what?”

“A re-creation of an Egyptian temple built by some Roman official. It’s a little touristy but a nice space.”

“As long as I’m here, I’ll try to take it in. What happened to this Duncan guy?”

“Twenty-seven months in prison and $220,000 in restitution. I don’t know how much time he actually did and how much of the fine he paid, but he’s still considered an active authority on art deco. My guess is it’s highly unlikely that Duncan had anything to do with our itty-bitty theft.”

“Don’t say that to Ken Sobel. When did that theft take place?”

“In the 1990s. Duncan was sentenced in 2012, I believe.”

“What about this Casamassima guy?”

“He appears to be a thief of convenience. Like I said, the cemetery was in the neighborhood. I don’t think it’s likely that he’d travel upstate to steal. And even less likely that he’d bother replacing the stolen windows with fakes. Plus since the original case was solved and they were exposed, all eyes are on both of them.”

“Sometimes old habits are hard to break. How was the case solved?”

“I don’t know the ins and outs of the investigation but I do know that an FBI informant posed as a hired thief. Graveyard thefts are relatively common. Now if you want to go into actual art thefts, there are lots to choose from: mostly items taken from museums and homes. They also dwarf in size and scope our cemetery break-in.”

“Give me an example.”

“Let me pull up my notes.” Shuffling over the line. “Okay. Here goes. The most famous art theft in this area was paintings stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.”

“Is that the one where they still have the empty picture frames hanging on the walls?”

“I’m impressed, Old Man. How’d you know that?”

“It’s called reading the paper. I also remember getting the notice over the lines when I was in LAPD. When did the Gardner theft take place?”

“That was also in the nineties. Thieves posed as police and tied up the guards and walked away with hundreds of millions of dollars of artwork: a Manet, a Vermeer, several works by Degas, and Rembrandt’s only known seascape. I don’t see this having any connection with our case.”

“I agree with you. Anything else that’s vaguely similar … a theft from an odd place?”

“I did find one theft that was more our scale. And it’s still unsolved. But it’s also very old.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Hold on … okay … here we go. It took place twenty-five years ago in Marylebone, Rhode Island, about an hour away from Greenbury. Four mosaics were taken from the iconography of St. Stephen’s, a Russian Orthodox church. The mosaics were fashioned after the ones at the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna, Italy. Would you like to know about Ravenna, Italy?”

“First I’d like to know what an iconography is.”

“Oh, sure … you know that most churches are laid out like crosses.”

“Yeah, the transept, nave, and apse … I do crossword puzzles.”

“Okay. On the transept wall—that’s the wall that forms the shorter end of the cross—leading up to the nave where the priest leads the service, there are often images of the saints or the Madonna or Jesus. It can be statues, gold work, bas-relief, oil paintings, and in this case, they were mosaics. Would you like to hear about Ravenna now?”

“Sure.”

“Let me get my notes … here we go. Around 400 Common Era, there were essentially two parts to the Roman Empire—a western Rome that was under siege by the Ostrogoths and an eastern Rome that still had its territories in eastern Europe and the Levant. Justinian along with his general Belisarius recaptured and reunited a large part of the Roman Empire. But Justinian was also a religious autocrat and that resulted in a schism with the pope in Rome. So Justinian’s solution was to move the capital of the western Roman Empire to Ravenna, Italy. The city was influenced more by Venice—then a city-state—than by Rome. Venice, in turn, was way more influenced by Byzantine Christianity than Roman Christianity because Venice did its primary trade down the Adriatic to Greece and Turkey.

“At Ravenna, inside the Church of St. Vitale, there are these incredible mosaics done in Byzantine style, influenced by the masterpieces in the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, which he rebuilt as well. The tile work in Ravenna was commissioned by Justinian and his coruling wife, Theodora. Their faces are on the models in the mosaics and she is featured almost as much as Justinian was. And—point of information—neither one of the Roman rulers ever lived in Ravenna as its capital.

“There’s a point to all this rambling. A lot of art nouveau was influenced by the incredible tile work of this period. So it’s not uncommon that tile workers in the Greek Orthodox or Russian Orthodox churches at the turn of the twentieth century would model their works with Ravenna or Hagia Sophia in mind, only they’d throw in an art nouveau riff. These particular mosaic icons were the work of a Russian artisan named Nikolai Petroshkovich who had worked on all the Romanovs’ palaces—Peterhof, the Catherine Palace, the Hermitage—doing restorations. He immigrated to New York in 1910 when he saw which way the winds of discontent were blowing. The icono-graphy in the church was considered a prime example of art nouveau mosaic work done in the Byzantine style. And it was a major heartbreak to the church when it was stolen.”

A long pause.

McAdams said, “I’m done unless you want to know more history about Justinian and Theodora.”

“No, I’m fine for now. I’m just thinking …” A long pause. “We are interested in this case because … it took place around the same geographical area and a break-in involved a theft from an unusual place—a church and a graveyard—not a museum or the home of an art collector.”

“And they both involve art nouveau items.”

“Right … that’s good, McAdams. And the church case was never solved?”

“I haven’t found it on the Internet. I’ll delve a little further. What are you thinking?”

“It could be someone local who’s paying for stolen art. But if the cases are related, it’s someone who has been collecting for personal use over many years. We’re not talking museum thefts, we’re talking thefts that would go under the radar. Someone who started stealing in his twenties through forties and would now be between his fifties and seventies.”

“And still active.”

“Someone with champagne taste on a beer budget. Like an art historian, a curator, or maybe a professor.” Decker paused. “Maybe an art history prof at Littleton because it’s an art college. But first I have to rule out the family. And that will take a while.”

“Take all the time you want. Nothing is happening here.”

“McAdams, could you find out who the detectives were on the case? If they had a few local suspects in mind, they can tell us what roads to travel.”

“Well, whatever roads they traveled were bad ones because the case wasn’t solved. Besides, I didn’t find anything about the detectives on the Internet.”

“That’s why you need to call up Marylebone and get the names. Then I’ll call up the old-timers and pump them for info. I can relate better than you.”

“That’s for sure. You know if these guys are still alive, they must be like eighty.”

“Haven’t you heard, McAdams? Eighty is the new sixty.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

After walking through a sally port, Decker and Rina walked into a mirrored-wall gallery fronted by display cases filled with gems, jewelry, and objets d’art. A twig-thin blonde of forty was perusing the wares, her face and eyes registering indifference at the pieces being shown to her. Decker supposed it would take something massive to compete with the rock on her finger. As he regarded her face, he thought about the difference between the coasts. It wasn’t that L.A. didn’t have its fair share of “look at me” gals, but the women seemed to relish their bling. This Park Avenue princess seemed to delight in her disinterest.

On the black velvet tray was a mine’s worth of ice that had been set into earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. Maxwell Stewart looked up and gave Decker a nod. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and plaid bow tie. As the woman talked, he listened and brought out another piece of serious sparkle. He seemed professional but not fawning. A minute later, he pressed a button. Another forty-year-old woman, wearing an emerald dress and pearls, came through the back. She had curly red hair and a big, white smile.

Max said, “Could you excuse me for a moment, Dawn? I have an appointment that I can change but I have a feeling that Detective Decker can’t.”

“Detective?” Dawn’s face finally registered an emotion: a speck of curiosity. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing important.” He smiled at Decker. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Dawn looked Decker up and down, her eyes completely ignoring Rina.

Max said, “Jill knows the inventory better than I do. She can help you find whatever you want.” He lifted up the countertop and came over to Decker and Rina. “Welcome to the gallery.” His eyes on Rina. “Maxwell Stewart.”

“Rina Decker.” She held out her hand. “We can wait until you’re done with your client.” Her lips formed a big smile. “We don’t mind browsing.”

“Speak for yourself, Lone Ranger,” Decker grumped.

“You could get into a lot of trouble here,” Max said.

“Thankfully I’m limited by my wallet.”

“Nonsense. We have something for everybody.”

“Let’s hear it for jewelry ecumenicalism,” Rina said. “Why don’t I have a look around while you two gentlemen talk? There’s a lot here to keep me occupied.”

“Enjoy yourself. But I feel compelled to tell you that our best pieces are downstairs.”

Decker said. “Is that where you’re hiding all those Tiffany lamps that I saw online?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Max said. “This is not a museum. Everything is for sale. That’s how I pay my mortgage. Would you like a tour?”

Decker looked at Rina who said, “Sure, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not that we can buy anything,” Decker said.

“Not right now but there’s always the lottery,” Rina said.

“Exactly.” Max was already headed down the stairs. “And when you do strike it rich, remember me with fondness.” He flicked on the lights and the modern world of technology suddenly gave way to an elegant life of yesteryear.

Dozens upon dozens of Tiffany lamps in all shapes, patterns, and sizes, some of them geometric in design but more of them highlighting nature. The shades included, but were not limited to, dragonflies, lilies, daffodils, poppies, peonies, dogwood, cherry blossoms, woodbine, lemon leaf, and the graceful blues and purples of the draping wisteria vine—one of the most desirable shades, Max explained. The swirling glass was infused with rich colors, fashioned with such precision that the final work had depth as well as sparkle. Each one was spectacular: as a gestalt, it was eye popping.

The lamps were set on tabletops designed by masters of art nouveau furniture: the free-flowing signature pieces of Louis Majorelle along with the precise inlay work of Émile Gallé. Cabinets and display cases contained Tiffany desk items in all kinds of patterns. Original Alphonse Mucha posters, featuring images of girls with swirling hair and free-flowing gowns, hung on the walls. Along with the artwork was a poster of a painting by Gustav Klimt—odd because it was mass produced.

Max said. “It’s one of my favorite works. If I can’t own the original …”

While Decker was taking in Max’s lecture on Tiffany, Rina stole away and took a closer look at the poster of The Kiss by the Austrian master. Amid the swirls, squares, and starbursts of color and gilt was a very erotic painting, the man smothering a beautiful woman’s face with a passionate kiss on the cheek. She studied it until she heard her husband’s voice.

“Are you with us, darlin’?”

Rina scooted over to his side. “Sorry.”

Max said. “The original Kiss is in Vienna. But if you want a close-up look at one of Klimt’s masterpieces, the Neue Museum on Fifth has the original portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I. If you haven’t seen it, you should.”

“I have seen it,” Rina said. “I just forget how arresting he is. You have to wonder how a mind works to have created something so beautiful … dreamlike.”

Max said, “He was influenced by a lot of ancient art, specifically the Byzantine mosaics at Ravenna.”

Talk about perfect timing. Decker raised his eyebrows. “St. Vitale Church. The mosaics of Justinian and Theodora.” When Rina and Max stared at him. “Imagine commissioning all that artwork in a capital where they never even lived.”

Max said, “You’ve been to Ravenna?”

“No, but it’s on my bucket list.”

“Since when?” Rina asked. “Where is Ravenna? Greece?”

“Italy,” Decker said. “It was once the capital of the western Roman Empire.”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Rina said.

Decker smiled. “Impressed?”

“You had me at St. Vitale Church.” Rina turned to Max. “Thanks for showing me your unbelievable pieces. I think I’ll go upstairs and stare at the bling. I promise I won’t interfere with your client.”

“Dawn?” Max gave a dismissive wave. “She’s one of those women who’s status rich but cash short. We’ve been working together for years. She buys a piece from me retail and then sells it back to me wholesale in order to buy another piece … which she pays retail. It’s a happy arrangement. I make money and she appears to have an extensive jewelry collection. As far as her friends are concerned, she is dripping in diamonds because she never wears the same piece twice.”

After Rina had left, Max gave a sly smile. “So where’d you pull that rabbit out of your hat? Or is art history a secret love of yours?”

“We detectives are tricky folk.” Decker walked over to a green Majorelle love seat. “Can I sit down or …”

“The furniture is not only beautiful, it’s usable. Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” He gingerly put his rear on the cushion. Max sat opposite. Decker said, “I interviewed your sister-in-law.”

“No love lost, correct?”

Decker’s shrug was noncommittal. “After doing hundreds of these kinds of things, you get feelings when someone is lying. She’s not lying. She didn’t have anything to do with the theft.”

“I believe you. Did she implicate me?”

“Not seriously.” Decker took out a notebook. “So if it’s not you and it’s not her, give me some direction with the list.” He handed it to Maxwell who studied it for a few minutes.

The dealer finally said, “I’m really sorry, Detective. Nothing is jumping out at me.”

“No ne’er-do-well with an addiction problem?”

“Oh, I see where you’re coming from.” He pointed to a name. “Rubin and Anne Sobel. Rubin is a first or second cousin to Ken. Both of their kids have had some substance abuse problems as teens. Campbell is doing all right from what I last heard.”

“Is that a boy or girl?”

“She’s twenty. I think she’s at Hampshire. Her older brother, Livingston, has been in and out of rehab. I don’t know if he even lives in the New York area anymore. But just because he’s had problems doesn’t make him a thief.”

“Of course not. Did he go to college?”

“Dropped out after a year.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Uh … Brown, I believe.”

“So inherently, he’s a smart guy.”

“Yeah, he is smart. I see him more of an Occupy Wall Street guy than a thief. Honestly, Detective, it would surprise me if it were someone in the family.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m working with amateurs,” Decker said. “If it were amateurs, they’d steal all four panels at once. And they certainly wouldn’t bother making replicas. But if it were a truly professional job, it wouldn’t have been done piecemeal like it was. So I’m looking for something in between, which makes it hard for me to get a handle on what is truly going on.”

“Any ideas?” Max asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Put yourself in my shoes. Where should I be concentrating my efforts?”

Max was silent. Then he finally said, “Well … the thief was definitely trying to hide the crime with those poor replicas. He or she didn’t want anyone to notice.”

“Okay. That’s a lot of work to go into hiding a theft. Why would someone do that? What outcome would be worth that much effort?”

“For one thing, it would buy time for the thief to sell the panels to the highest bidder,” Max said. “Also if the theft wasn’t reported, an auction house could conceivably buy them, which would give the thief more options.”

Decker started to scribble in his notepad. “That makes sense. So who would you be looking for if you were me?”

“Usually dealers who dabble in stolen art don’t sully their hands directly. I’d say the dealer definitely hired out.”

“So you think it’s a dealer?”

“Possibly.”

“Is there anyone in the family who’s an art dealer?”

“Besides me?” When Decker smiled, Max said, “Do I like where this is going?”

“I’m talking to you about it. I’m being very up-front.”

“We’re the only gallery in the family. And since I didn’t steal them, I have no idea who is calling the shots.”

“Okay. Let’s put that aside for a moment. If the guy hired out, who would he hire?”

“Obviously someone who could do stained glass. Or maybe he’d hire someone who would hire someone who could do stained glass.”

“Put a little distance between him and the theft.”

“Exactly. From the looks of the pieces, I’d say maybe it’s a hobbyist or an art student.”

Decker nodded but didn’t say anything. It very well could be a student who was hard up for money. “Do you know which institutions teach stained glass?”

“All the art schools I would imagine. What about Littleton in the Five Colleges? That’s in your own backyard.”

“It’s on my list. But as you so aptly pointed out, I may also be looking for a dealer. If you could give me a list of dealers with … how can I put it … questionable morals … maybe you’ve heard some rumors for instance?”

“You always hear rumors. We’re in a venal business.”

Decker laughed. “Anything that you could do to help me would be appreciated. In the meantime, I still have to run down the list of family members.”

“Even though you don’t think any of them had anything to do with it.”

“I have to keep an open mind. Maybe someone in the family teamed up with a dealer for quick cash.”

“I don’t see it. I can’t even see Melanie doing that. She isn’t capable of that much executive planning. Besides, her husband makes a fortune.”

“What does he do?”

“Hedge fund. They did very well last year. I should know. I have money with him. And I know that Rick got a huge bonus.”

“Okay … so let’s leave the family aside for a moment. I want to go back to art thefts. Is that a problem for you—people breaking into your gallery?”

“Not yet, thank God. My security is excellent!”

“What about thefts from other galleries in the area?”

“You mean like Mark Lugo?”

“Who’s he?”

“He lifted a Fernand Léger from a local gallery in the Carlyle. Wasn’t the first time he stole. He lifted a Picasso in San Francisco.”

“He was a dealer who sold the pieces for profit?”

“No, he was a sommelier who kept the paintings in his apartment in New Jersey.”

“A sommelier?”

“Yes, and I bet he had an extensive wine collection as well. That one popped into my mind because it’s recent, but there are probably dozens of them. You can probably look up gallery thefts on the Internet.”

“Getting back to our case. What about other thefts from graveyards or mausoleums?”

“Sure, there are people who steal from graveyards all the time. The most famous theft that I know of was Alastair Duncan who was convicted of stealing a five-hundred-pound Tiffany window and selling it to a Japanese collector for over two hundred thousand dollars. He was teamed up with someone who lived in Queens.”

“Anthony Casamassima. Salem Fields Cemetery. He claimed he was liberating broken-down treasures in very poor condition. That one was solved using an undercover FBI agent.”

Max stared at him. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

“It’s all at the click of a button, Max. My partner also found a very old art theft from a Russian Orthodox church in Marylebone, Rhode Island. That one interests me a little more because it’s still unsolved and the thief took items in the art nouveau period. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“The Petroshkovich icons. That was before my time, but I do remember my dad talking about it. It was a big deal.” A pause. “Now that was a professional job.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the thieves only took the Petroshkoviches, nothing else in the church. There were things that were a lot flashier. They knew what they wanted.”

“Just like the thieves knew that your father-in-law’s pieces were real Tiffany.”

“I do not deny the value of Tiffany … Lord knows that’s how I put bread on the table. But the Petroshkovich icons are way more valuable because they’re rarer. When did the theft take place? It must have been around thirty years ago.”

“Yep. It’s an old case and a cold case, but it’s still wide open. And that makes it interesting.” Decker folded his notebook and stood up. “I don’t even need wide open, Max. I have confidence in my skills. All I need is just a toe in the door.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Once outside the gallery, Decker and Rina walked glove in glove down Fifth Avenue, dodging the crowds of shoppers, executive and middle management suits, and tourists who didn’t mind braving the cold to get the winter discounts at the hotels. There were a couple of kosher restaurants nearby and it was around twelve-thirty, so lunch was in order. They nabbed one of the last tables at a meat restaurant in Midtown. Erelong, there wasn’t a chair to be had. Service was slow, but that gave Decker a chance to make a few phone calls, confirming interviews with other Sobel family members.

Forty-minutes later, the waiter served two hamburgers that were slider sized at prime rib prices. Still, it felt good to get out of the small town. He could actually feel his pulse rise. “How’s your food?”

“It’s tasty … perfect if it were a first course.”

“And therein lies the rub.”

Rina smiled. “Once when I was visiting Sammy, I went out to lunch with an old friend while he was busy. I ordered a niçoise salad appetizer. I needed a magnifying glass to see it.”

“Yeah and a pair of tweezers to pick it up.” Decker was trying to figure out how to eat the burger in more than two bites. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome. Not that I learned anything juicy about Max or anyone else for that matter.”

“So what did you learn?”

“Gallery has been around for years. I asked if Max owns it and Jill said he works there side by side his father, Keith, whom I met.”

“Nice guy?”

“He was running out the door when I was introduced. He seemed fine. Also, there’s a cousin who mostly does the jewelry buying. Her name is Katy Mendel. Jill says she’s lovely.”

“Any strife between any of the relatives? Or you probably didn’t ask.”

“No, I didn’t ask.” Rina picked up a pickle that was bigger than the burger. “Jill didn’t give off any vibes of conflict. She’s been working there fifteen years. Are you still considering Max a suspect?”

“I can’t see him stealing four small Tiffany panels, ruining his name, and committing a crime, when he has such a vast inventory to steal from. And he could probably alter the books without anyone noticing for a while. So for the moment, he’s near the bottom.”

Rina said, “So what’s your plan now?”

“I’ll go down the list of family members and people who knew about the panels and see what I can dig up. What’s the jewelry woman’s name again? Katy what?”

“Mendel.”

“Thanks.” Decker wrote the name on his notepad. “I did find out from Tyler that stealing from graveyards isn’t unusual. The most likely culprits are the caretakers and people who live around the cemeteries.”

“What do they take when they’re not stealing Tiffany?”

“Planters, urns, statues, architectural decorative elements, lawn mowers, shovels, even gravestones.”

“So maybe your thief is closer to home.”

“Whoever did this put time and money into replacing the panels so no one would notice. He probably had a buyer lined up before he stole the first panel.” Decker regarded his empty plate. His hand made a beeline for the breadbasket.

Rina stopped him. “You want to split another hamburger.”

“Not at these prices. And plus we’re taking the family out tonight. I’d like to go home with some money in the bank.”

“We can afford another hamburger.” Without asking, Rina summoned a waiter and ordered another burger. She gave him a wide smile. “Tell them to be a little more generous on the beef. You’re not feeding supermodels, okay?”

Decker laughed as the waiter huffed away. “Before we leave Manhattan, I’d like to check out the Met. They have Tiffany glass panels that I’d like to see. Also there’s a place … Emanu-El? Do you know it?”

“Sure. It’s been around since the mid-1800s. It’s reform.” She began playing with her phone. “Started by German Jews. Prime example of Moorish Revival … ah, there’s a Tiffany window there. That’s why you want to see it.”

“Not that I need to see it, but as long as I’m here I figure I should educate myself.” He looked up. “Want to come with me?”

“I’d love to.” She stowed her phone back in her purse. “So are you going to tell me how you suddenly became an expert on Byzantine mosaics?”

Decker smiled. “McAdams gave me a history lesson about fifteen minutes before we met to go to the gallery.”

“Why?”

“It had to do with an art theft that happened thirty years ago. Four mosaic icons from a Russian Orthodox church in Rhode Island made by an artist named Nikolai Petroshkovich. What was stolen was done in the style of the mosaics at Ravenna. The timing couldn’t have been more advantageous.”

“You sounded casual but very impressive. What does an old art theft have to do with your case?”

“Probably nothing. I asked McAdams to look up all major art thefts around our town and I’m not about to punish him for being thorough.”

“For once.”

“Yeah, for once. Mostly he just clocks in the hours. Why he signed up for Greenbury Police is still a mystery. He seems to hate everything about his life there.”

“I’m sure there’s a backstory.”

“My opinion? I think he’s secretly writing a screenplay and that’s why he joined any police force that would take him. The guy is pure Hollywood to me.”

“I’m sure it’ll all come out one day.”

A pause. Decker said, “I’d like to talk to the detectives who worked that Rhode Island case if they’re alive. Find out the steps they took to attempt to trace stolen art. I’m hoping that they still live in the area.”

“Maybe we should extend our visit to another day to give you a little more time.”

“You mean more time with Lily.”

“And more time for the twins, too. There’s nothing wrong with that.” The second burger came. Rina pushed it toward her husband. “You take the whole thing. I’m full.”

“You’re just being nice.”

“Honestly, I’m okay.” She took her husband’s hand. “Peter, we moved back east to be closer to the kids. Also, you retired from the big city so we wouldn’t be so rushed about everything. We could stroll instead of jog. It’s so lovely that we’re going to see the Met and Emanu-El together. Please try not to slip into LAPD work mode just because you finally have a real case. Besides, you have Tyler to handle the slack.”

Decker picked up his miniburger and managed not to eat the entire thing in one bite. “You’re right. There is work I can do here and an extra day wouldn’t hurt. I’ll call Mike. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Decker said. “But let me tell you something, woman. If there’s a cat in a tree that doesn’t make it because Tyler’s too lazy, I’m going to put the blame squarely on your shoulders.”

After seeing Rina off, Decker made several phone calls while sitting on a park bench. Temperatures had climbed to the high thirties with no wind: practically spring climate compared to the icy conditions and gray skies in Greenbury. The fresh air felt bracing on his face and woke him from his usual afternoon torpor.

His aim was to narrow the playing field by crossing off as many members of the Sobel family as he could. First to go were the distant relatives who had professed ignorance about the family mausoleum in Greenbury. Next, he spoke to those who did know of the mausoleum’s existence but had never stepped foot in the town. All their claims were verified by quick calls to Ken Sobel. Then he called up Katy Mendel—the jewelry buyer for Max Stewart. She also seemed to be a straight arrow. His leads were disappearing as he checked off each name on his list.

He’d been sitting for over an hour and the chill was starting to get to him. He walked back to his car, cranked up the heat, and spoke from his office on wheels, ignoring the honks and the pleading eyes of motorists aching for his parking spot.

The most interesting group was close family members: those who had been at the funeral last summer and probably knew about the expensive glass panels inside the vault. On the surface, they seemed like poor candidates for hands-on criminal enterprise. Most of them appeared to have the trappings of wealth: good jobs, stable marriages, and tony addresses. When questioned, they seemed appalled by the thefts and even more outraged that he was looking at them with a detective’s eye.

Between phone calls and interviews with the family, the Met and Emanu-El were perfect places to visit with Rina. The museum was open until six. The temple was open tomorrow between ten and four and visitors were welcome without an appointment. Then it was off to Philadelphia to see Cindy, Koby, and the kids.

It was close to six in the evening when Decker headed back to Brooklyn for the family dinner. He was also starved so he hoped that wherever Rachel and Sammy had chosen, the place believed in large portions. The minihamburgers had long been digested, leaving a raw ache inside his stomach. At this point it was all about quantity rather than quality. As he drove, he started thinking about the theft, wondering if McAdams had dug up anything since the last time they spoke.

Arriving in Brooklyn at the kids’ apartment, he was tired and grumpy, but the baby’s smile cheered him up. Soon the space began to shrink as the crowd grew. It was wonderful to see everyone. There were hugs, kisses, and lots of laughter and that was before dinner. Finally, everybody was assembled and Rachel had finished giving the babysitter last-minute instructions. The brood stepped out into the cold night air, Decker’s children walking ahead, catching up with one another’s lives. They talked about movies, songs, and television series that left Decker in the dark.

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” he asked Rina.

“Kinda. You know, we do have Netflix. You can stream a lot of series. That means you watch them all at once.”

“I know what streaming is, Ms. Flipphone.”

“It serves me perfectly well. All I do is make calls and text. Why should I get a new one, especially in a small town where we don’t need an app to know every single gas station or movie theater within a thirty-mile radius.”

Decker felt his own smartphone vibrate. Without checking the caller, he let the call go to voice mail. He watched his kids joke around with each other. “We did something right. They all seem to get along.” His phone vibrated again. He took it out of his coat pocket and checked the prefix. “It’s the police station. Probably McAdams. I should probably take this.”

“Why are they calling so late in the evening?”

“Yeah, that ain’t good.” He slowed his walk. “Go on with the kids. I’ll meet up with you.”

“Do you know where the restaurant is?”

“Actually, I have no idea.” He dithered so long that the call went to voice mail again. He debated whether or not to call back. “Whatever it is, I suppose it can wait until I get fed.”

“That certainly is a change in your previous attitude.”

“Yeah, the difference between being the person in charge and being a peon. Besides, how can I help? I’m three hours away.” They were almost at the entrance of the restaurant when the phone buzzed a third time.

Rina said, “It must be important.”

“Yeah, I guess. Go in with the family. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He pressed the button. “Hey, Harvard, what do you have for me?”

“It’s not McAdams, Pete, it’s Mike Radar.”

Decker had asked the captain for another day in Manhattan so he had expected to hear back. But not at eight in the evening. And not with the tone of voice he was using: all business.

Mike said, “How soon can you get back here?”

“How soon do you need?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“What is it?”

“Homicide. First real one we’ve had in twenty years and it’s nasty. It should make you feel right at home.”

Decker went back to Sammy’s place and grabbed the car, insisting that Rina stay in Brooklyn and visit Cindy, Koby, and the boys tomorrow. They’d be disappointed if no one made the trip, and he’d most likely be very busy for the next twenty-four hours.

He made it back to Greenbury in two hours and fifteen minutes.

He was famished, although he barely noticed his pangs because as soon as he pulled up in front of the apartment building, his heart began to beat in full throttle. The “crime scene” was a mess and teeming with people who didn’t belong. Nothing was taped off so everyone was tromping around the complex, destroying things like possible shoe prints and tire tracks and trace evidence.

The neighbors were out in droves. Greenbury PD was small. Often, the guys and gals took turns doing uniform duties and detective work. So in a very short time, Decker knew the entire force by name. Stacy Steven, bundled in outerwear to protect her from the frigid temperatures, was guarding the doorway to the building. She was very young and seemed relieved when she spotted Decker. “The captain’s inside. Unit 14.”

“Anyone else here besides you?”

“Yeah, everyone from the department is here. Mike put me in front and told me not to let anyone in or out.”

“When was it reported? The homicide.”

“I don’t know. Mike called all of us down about two hours ago.” She jumped up and down and rubbed her hands together.

“You’ve been out here for two hours?” When she nodded, Decker said, “Let’s see if we can get a change of guard. Actually we should have a few people out here, shooing away the neighbors and putting up some crime scene tape.” No response. “You do have crime scene tape.”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” She paused. “We have traffic cones somewhere.”

“That’ll work. Hang in, Stacy. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with some help.” He quickly made his way up to the apartment unit, the living room stuffed with police personnel. The windows were wide open letting in the cold night air.

Kevin Butterfield, a ten-year veteran of Greenbury, came up to him. “The body’s in the bedroom. Young and female. Probably a student at the colleges.”

“Is this considered campus housing?”

“It’s a little distant from the main campus, but the colleges have spread out so much over the past ten years, I really don’t know.”

“Anyone from campus police here?”

“Maybe Mike called someone down.”

“I didn’t see any wagon outside. Has anyone from the coroner’s office been here?”

“Mike would know.” He pointed in the direction of an open door. “There’s where all the action is.” Kevin shook his head. “This must be one hell of a welcome for you.”

“Maybe it’s me, Kevin. I just bring sunshine and good cheer wherever I go.”

“Angeline Moreau, twenty-two, a student at Littleton.” Mike ran his hands through his hair and looked up. “That’s according to the school ID that we found in her desk. It’s kind of hard to make a definite ID because the face is distorted. We may need dental or DNA.”

Decker was looking at the surroundings as the captain spoke. It was a brutal scene. “Did you find a purse and a cell phone?”

“Nope … we looked. That immediately brings to mind a robbery, except that she had cash and jewelry in her desk. Maybe he was looking around when she surprised him by walking inside her apartment and all hell broke loose. He took her phone and her purse and made a beeline for the door.”

Decker nodded. “Do you know if the body has been moved?”

“I was here when the manager opened the door and I haven’t left except for a piss. Believe me, no one has touched her. Since it’s a homicide, I’m waiting for a city coroner with homicide experience, not the local doctor who certifies death.”

“Good idea.” Decker’s eyes were on the walls: blood spatter was everywhere. There was ripped bedding and upended furniture—a battle had taken place. “Has anyone started interviewing the neighbors to find out what they heard or saw?”

“I put Jack and Carol on it.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Mike, look at this place. It’s a war zone. There had to be plenty of bumps and thumps. We got nosy neighbors in this town. Someone must have parted their blinds.”

“The problem is that the apartment is mostly student rented even though it’s off-campus. It’s a noisy environment—lots of parties with music blasting all the time.”

Decker was still dubious, but he kept it to himself. He didn’t know how the captain would react to being challenged. “This is a huge mess. Do we have tech people who know forensics?”

“We’re working on that as well.” Mike was troubled. “I want to do justice to this girl, Pete. No one wants this screwed up.”

“We all want the same thing.” Decker stared down at the heap that once was a human being. She was already deep in a state of decomposition. “How were you notified? Did someone complain about the smell?”

“Yep.”

“Who opened the windows?”

“I did. It must have been a hundred degrees inside when I got here.”

“Okay.” Decker paused. “Someone cranked up the heat to help the body rot. Did you happen to notice the exact temperature before you opened the windows? If you take into consideration the stage of decomposition and the temperature, it might give us an idea of when she was murdered.”

Mike looked pained. “No, I didn’t. This is what I mean by screwing things up. Can I be frank with you?”

“Always.”

“I can work a homicide. Ben can work a homicide. Kevin can work a homicide. But none of us has done it in years. I’m thinking about calling in reinforcements.”

“Up to you.”

“But then I start thinking, this is my town. I don’t want hotshots walking all over us and telling me how to handle my people. You, on the other hand, are fresh from the trenches. So if you’re up to leading, I think we should give it a go. What do you think?”

“If this were LAPD, I’d say no problem. I could do the whole thing solo. But I am new here … neighbors don’t know me well … and we’re not exactly high tech.” Decker shrugged. “Give me twenty-four to forty-eight hours to feel everything out and I’ll let you know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Right now, we need a police photographer.”

“Jenny photographed every inch of the body that we can see. Like I said, we haven’t moved her.”

“Just make sure that we have doubles and triples of everything and from every angle. It might help us down the line. How long do you think it’ll be before someone from the coroner’s office gets here, Mike?”

“No idea. We’re in New York so it should be them. But we’re closer to Boston. I called both cities. Let’s see who shows up. And I also called CSI and Forensics. If you can think of anything else, I’m listening. Want me to close the windows?”

“No. Keep them open. It’ll slow down the decay.” Decker thought a moment. “She was a student at Littleton—that’s the fine arts college, right?”

“Yes, it is: arts, theater, and acting. You’re thinking about a connection to the cemetery theft?”

“Someone was making phony stained glass. Even if it has nothing to do with the theft, we need to get a team out there to start questioning friends, teachers … her classmates. Find out more about who Angeline Moreau was.”

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