“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.