“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.”