“Not as sorry as I am to go. This detective stuff isn’t half bad—aside from the bullet wounds.”

Oliver saw a car pull out and abruptly swerved to get the parking space. The car bumped and jostled. He backed in amid an angry chorus of blaring horns.

McAdams said, “Done like a true New Yorker.”

Decker said, “We’re almost at Victor Gerrard’s apartment. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.” Radar paused. “Good work, everyone. And keep safe.”

Oliver killed the motor. “Shall we?”

But McAdams was playing on his phone. “The Thomas Cole and the Asher Durand were stolen from the Auxiliary Ladies’ Club in Joslyn, Rhode Island.”

“Art Loss Register?”

“Yep. Let me look up the club. It’s gonna take a minute.”

“You got any more coffee in the box, Deck?” Oliver asked.

“I do. Black?”

“That’s fine.”

“Here we go,” McAdams said. “The club was started in 1878 for care and support of a local orphanage. Now it organizes local charity functions and events and holds a ladies’ luncheon once a month.” He stowed his phone. “You know, these clubs were gifted a lot of early twentieth-century paintings. The artists were contemporary and weren’t worth the big bucks that they are today. It was like me going to the local art fair and picking up a painting for five hundred dollars.”

“Security on these old places isn’t too tight,” Oliver said. “Didn’t something like that happen at the Scottish Rite Temple in L.A.?”

“I think it was the Wilshire Ebell,” Decker said. “They had some old paintings and the secretary stole one of them.”

“Hold on,” McAdams said. “E-b-e-l-l?”

“Yep.”

“Right you are, boss. It was a William Wendt and the secretary sold it to a gallery in Laguna Beach.”

“Same pattern,” Decker said. “Swiping valuables from unsuspecting places.”

McAdams was still playing with his phone. “William Wendt is a California impressionist. Some of his big canvases are worth a lot of money.” He looked up. “Lots of times these clubs don’t even really know what they have. Although you’d think they’d be careful with a Cole or a Durand.”

Decker said, “It would take Angeline too long to copy a painting. More than likely, she just replaced them with a cheap landscape. All that green . . . probably no one would notice at least for a while.”

“Good point,” McAdams said. “You know there are tens of thousands of period landscapes in period frames floating around. Most aren’t worth that much.”

“Breaking and entering into cemeteries is one thing,” Oliver said. “But there’s something really brazenly cocky about swiping a painting off the wall.”

“I agree,” Decker said. “They got cocky. And that’s what got them killed.”

CHAPTER 36

THEY HIT THE road for Greenbury at ten in the morning, leaving the crush of hump day Manhattan traffic behind. It had been good to see the family, but the commute was getting cumbersome, especially with a carload of people. Decker was at the wheel with Greg Schultz sitting shotgun, peering out the window with steely eyes. In the back, Rina was seated between Oliver and McAdams. She wasn’t grumpy, and that made her mood the best of the bunch.

“So Victor Gerrard is gone?” she asked.

“Appears that way,” Decker answered.

“Is he a victim or a bad guy?” Her question was met with shrugs and grunts. “That he took off so quickly could indicate either one.”

“Right,” Decker answered. He was trying to be polite since no one else was talking.

Rina kept at it. “What do you think?”

McAdams blew out air. “I’m too tired to think.”

Shultz continued to stare out the window. “Your grandmother is very nice. She wants to hire me as a bodyguard.”

“You’re kidding me.” Tyler rolled his eyes. “Her place is a fortress.”

“Exactly what I told her. She replied that her apartment couldn’t accompany her down Madison Avenue.” His eyes swept over the highway—front, back, and sides. “I declined, but I thanked her for her vote of confidence. I’m only telling you in case she says anything to you.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” McAdams answered.

“Can we get back to Victor Gerrard?” Caffeine had kicked into Oliver’s system. “The names were deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list about two weeks before the murders.”

“Yes,” Decker said. “And it appears that Gerrard left the gallery right after our first visit.”

Oliver said, “So could be that Gerrard deleted the names, executed the killings, and then stuck around to shoot you two before he packed up and ran.”

Decker said, “I suppose he’s as good a candidate as any since he’s not around to offer an alibi.”

“Curator by day, hit man by night,” McAdams said. “Not as loony as it sounds. Art people are a foul bunch.”

“I’m questioning Merritt’s innocence in all this,” Oliver said. “The guy’s a sophisticated dealer and then he leaves his computer unprotected for anyone to hack into.”

“Doesn’t even sound like Gerrard had to hack into anything,” McAdams said. “Just went inside Merritt’s office and fiddled with the files.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Oliver remarked. “I think Merritt’s involved.”

“He’s been cooperative with us,” Decker said.

“So you don’t think he’s involved?”

“Reserving judgment. He could just be one of those academic types with his head in the clouds. I’m betting Gerrard ran the nuts and bolts of the gallery.”

“Victor Gerrard,” Rina said out loud. “The name has a foreign feel to it. Maybe German?”

McAdams took out his phone and called up his search engine. “Gerrard is English originally derived from the Old German name Gerhard meaning ‘spear/brave.’ And I can tell you without looking it up that Victor is Latin and it means victorious.”

Rina was quiet. “How is Victor spelled? With a ‘c’ or with a ‘k’?”

“Good question,” Decker said. “I never bothered to ask.”

“If he spells it with a ‘k,’ it could be Russian.”

“Or German,” McAdams said.

“Or German as in from East Germany,” Rina said. “In which case, Viktor with a ‘k’ might speak Russian. And maybe that’s why Merritt hired him. He was Russian speaking.”

“You know, Rina, maybe Deck should have hired you instead of me,” Oliver said.

“Why thank you, Scott.”

“She’s always been the brains in the family,” Decker said. “Want to give Merritt a call, Tyler?”

“On it.” McAdams waited. When his phone kicked in, he said, “Mr. Merritt, this is Detective McAdams from Greenbury . . . I know. I am sorry to bother you, but your gallery man, Victor Gerrard, is still missing and we’re still working two murder cases . . . I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Victor Gerrard. Does he speak Russian by any chance? . . . he does. Is he Russian? . . . okay, okay . . . so he was born in East Berlin? So he speaks German as well? Okay. His first name Victor—is spelled with a ‘k’? It is spelled with a ‘k’ . . . no, that’s all for now, thank—” The kid looked at the phone. “He hung up on me.”

“Rude little man,” Rina said. “Although he did give me a free book.”

“Speaking of books,” Decker said, “what’s going on with the codebook? Do you have Mordechai Gold’s cell number?”

“Affirmative on that one as well.”

“Ring him up.”

“Right-o.” A few moments later, McAdams left a message. “I could call his office number.”

“I don’t want to leave a message on a public machine.” Decker tapped the wheel.

Tyler said, “Penny for your thoughts, Loo.”

“Just trying to summarize things in my mind.”

“Go on,” Oliver said.

“First of all, what we know. Lance Terry stole a statue from a cemetery. Angeline Moreau sold it and decided that this was a business with a decent return since no investment capital was required. They did it together for a while but eventually Terry got nervous and stopped stealing—or so he says. But we’ll take it on face value for the moment. Angeline wasn’t ready to give up her life of crime. So she found another partner—John Latham.