“I’ll miss it . . . the job. I was finally feeling like I was contributing something.”

Rina said, “You’re leaving Greenbury?”

“He’s going back to law school.”

“Good decision,” Rina said.

“That’s what Jack McAdams says.”

“You know law is one of those fields that you can do anything with,” Rina said. “With what you’ve been doing, you can specialize in stolen art.”

“When do you start?” Oliver asked.

“August.” McAdams stared out the window.

Rina said, “It’s a ways off. Who knows what could happen?”

“That’s the good part about a future,” Decker said. “It’s always open.”

OVER THE PHONE, Cindy said, “I got the manager to open up the apartment. Aside from the furniture that comes with the place, it’s empty, Dad. Nothing in any of the closets or drawers. No personal effects anywhere. Even the trash was cleared and that’s unusual. There’s always scattered paper left behind. Wherever he went, it appears he didn’t want to be followed.”

Oliver ran over a pothole. The car jumped and shook. “Hope no one was holding coffee.”

Decker talked into the phone. “Was Gerrard’s rent paid up?”

“Through the end of the month.”

“So he left in a hurry. He’s running.”

“Who’s running?” Oliver asked.

“Hold on, Cindy. I’ll put you on speaker so McAdams and Oliver can hear.” Decker depressed a button and Cindy’s voice, made tinny by the phone speaker, rang through the space.

“Hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Cindy. How’s it shaking?”

“Pretty well. And you?”

“Not bad for an old guy. Did you find any moldering bodies?”

“Not a one. But I did talk to a few neighbors. No one remembers seeing him leave with suitcases, but one of his next-door neighbors remembered hearing a lot of noise in the middle of the night.”

“When was this?”

“About ten days to two weeks ago. She didn’t hear any confrontation or angry voices. Just a lot of heavy footsteps. It could have been that he was packing.”

“Or he was being packed.”

“You have a way with words, Daddy.”

“I think in images.”

“What’s going on in New York?”

“We’re making our way to Gerrard’s apartment. I suspect if we talk to his roommates, we’ll find out he just didn’t show up one day.”

“Let me know what you find out. I’m not opening up an MP file, by the way. It appears he left on his own accord. Just keep me posted. I’ll see you next week.”

“What’s next week?”

“Grandparents’ day.” A pause. “Didn’t we just talk about this three hours ago?”

Decker took the phone off speaker. “I’ve got it written down. No worries.”

“Sure you do. I’ll call Rina. She’s good at keeping her appointments—and her promises.”

“Another low blow.”

“I love you. I’ll see you next week.”

“I love you, too—” But she had already disconnected the line. His cell buzzed again. This time it was Radar.

“This is one for the good guys. We found the bin. It was under a pseudonym but not a very good one. Jeffrey Morrow spelled M-o-r-r-o-w. Her last name Anglicized and his middle name. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It’s crammed with stuff: stone statues, marble urns, silver urns, pottery, antique books that were stolen from libraries . . . the date stamps were still inside.”

“Brilliant.”

“What’s brilliant?” McAdams said.

“They found the bin.”

“The storage bin?” Excitement in the kid’s voice.

“Are you there, Decker?” Radar said.

“Hold on, Mike, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Hi, Captain,” McAdams said.

“How are you feeling, Tyler?”

“Coming along. You found the storage bin?”

“We did and it was filled with material that was probably taken from cemeteries or churches. We also found a half-dozen small paintings, and two file cabinets filled with art plates and maps. Plus . . . we found the two Tiffany panels along with boxes of stained glass. One case down and a bunch more to go.”

“Ken Sobel will be thrilled.”

“Good work on your first solve, McAdams. You give Sobel the good news.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“What are you up to, Pete?”

“We’re about to go look into an apartment that Victor Gerrard sublet. I don’t suspect I’ll find anything.” He took the phone off speaker and recapped his conversation with Cindy. “Looks like he’s rabbited.”

“Maybe he and Lance Terry are meeting up at Lance’s aunt’s house near Malibu. Didn’t Terry say that Victor looked familiar?”

“He did,” Decker said. “I have a friend in Ventura PD. I’ll have her drive by the place and keep an eye out for one or both of them.”

“Good.”

“We should probably get someone to start cataloging the stolen items.”

“I’ve already contacted Littleton. They’re sending over several professors.”

“I know you haven’t gone through all of it, Mike, but did you find anything in there that looks really valuable?”

“Nothing worth killing over. At least not to my eye.”

“What about the paintings? Did they swipe a Da Vinci or something?”

“Not unless Da Vinci painted New England landscapes.”

“Are they signed?”

“If you hold on, I can tell you.”

“Sure, I’ll wait.” He took the phone off speaker. “I’m on hold.”

“Your first solve,” Oliver said to McAdams. “Congratulations.”

Decker looked at Tyler. “It’s okay to smile, Harvard. You did do a good job. Go call up Ken Sobel and tell him the good news . . . although I suppose it would be better news if we found out who shot you.”

“You know, Old Man, you’d make a terrible therapist.” McAdams took out his phone. “And I should know. I’ve been to a thousand of them.”

“Anything in the bin worth shooting people over?” Oliver asked.

“There are some landscape paintings. He’s checking out the signatures now.”

Radar came back on the line. “Okay. I’ve written down the names the best I can figure out. One was unsigned. The first is by a guy named H. Herz or Herg or something like that. It’s faint. I’m looking for a magnifying glass.”

“Can you spell it for me?”

Radar complied. “There’s one by Jasper Pressley. There’s a K. Kennedy, a T. Cole, an A. Durant or maybe it’s Durand. There are two by a guy named Gifford and the last one is by H. Matusse.”

“Matisse?”

“No, not Matisse. I know who he is and this is definitely not Matisse. It’s H. Matusse.” He spelled all the names. “Like I said they’re all pretty landscapes of what looks like New England.”

“Hold on. I’ll give the list to Harvard and he’ll look the artists up.”

McAdams stowed his phone. “Ken Sobel’s not in. I told him to call you.”

“Could you look up these names,” Decker said. “See if these artists are worth anything? I’ll put the phone back on speaker.”

McAdams regarded the names. “Captain, are the paintings landscapes?”

“Yes, they are. You know the artists?”

“I certainly know Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. They’re well-known Hudson River Valley painters.”

“Yeah, it does look like the Valley,” Radar said. “What are the paintings worth?”

“How big are they?”

“Small. Eight by ten . . . a few a bit bigger.”

“Okay, so probably not major works. They’re still worth in the thousands. More like four figures rather than five although Thomas Cole can be pricey. But that’s usually the big canvases. I’ve also heard of Gifford. Hold on . . .” He clicked. “Okay, he’s Sanford Robinson Gifford. Also worth something. The H. Herz is probably Hermann Herzog.”

“Where are you finding all this information?” Oliver asked.

“Ask Art. It’s an art website that, among other things, has auction histories. And speaking of which, there are no auction histories for K. Kennedy or H. Matusse or Jasper Pressley.” He looked up. “Too bad it wasn’t Matisse. That could be worth killing over.”

“If you like that kind of stuff,” Radar said. “Thanks, Tyler. This helps. We’ll be sorry to lose you in August.”