“Now you’re thinking, Harvard. If she was attempting to forge Tiffany, do you think she would be good enough to attempt it with just a single course?”

“No, that’s a very good point. Did we find anything in her apartment to suggest she was doing stained glass?”

“Nothing obvious, but the guys are still looking.”

“Do you think she had anything to do with the forgeries?”

“Actually, I’m thinking that if she attempted forgeries, she was probably doing stained glass for a while. And it is possible that Angeline knew that the police had discovered the forgeries with all the action that’s been going on at the cemetery. She might have dumped all her equipment thinking that even if the police came around, she could deny everything.”

“Okay, right. If she’s been doing stained glass for a while, I bet her parents would know about her hobby. We should ask them.”

“And we will do just that when the time is right. If I come in with accusations, they’ll close up and that won’t do anyone any good.” They walked a few steps in silence. “Angeline was a scholarship student, right?”

“Right.”

“And what do you do to get a scholarship besides get good grades and good test scores—the basic requirements to be accepted in these elite schools. What do you do to impress?”

“Besides the essay?” McAdams asked.

“Yeah,” Decker answered. “You’ve gotten your grades, you’ve gotten good test scores, and you’ve written an amusing essay. You’re applying to a liberal arts college with an emphasis on the arts. What would you do to impress the admission’s committee that you’re unique?”

“I dunno. Maybe make your own artisan cheese from a rare species of yak.”

Decker laughed. “How about this? When my foster son applied to Harvard, he sent them several CDs of his playing. Angeline applied to a school specializing in the arts. I’m sure she sent in some kind of portfolio. We should look up her application. See if she mentioned stained glass.”

“Right.” McAdams nodded. “I’ll check with the administration when it opens tomorrow morning. Unless you want to do it.”

“You can do it, Tyler.” A pause. “Just . . . use a little finesse, okay? Cops have different styles. But I’ve always caught most of my flies with honey rather than vinegar. And even when I use vinegar, it’s sparingly.”

McAdams rolled his eyes. “I know you can’t be an asshole if you’re pumping someone for information.”

“See, that’s it, Tyler. You’re not pumping, you’re asking . . . can you help me, please. Try to be disarming. The conversation shouldn’t be adversarial even when you’re trying to get a psycho to confess. When you point out how your suspect has just screwed himself, you may talk emphatically and with confidence, but seasoned detectives talk in a conversational tone.”

“I get it, okay?”

“Fine.” Decker threw up his hands. “You get it. End of discussion.”

Tyler rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a long night. And it looks like it’s only going to get longer.”

“If you want to turn in, I can handle it from here.”

“It wasn’t a hint. For the last time, I’m here for the long run, okay?”

“You’re right. I’ll stop needling you at least for the rest of the night.”

The kid stopped walking and turned to him. “All I’m saying is try . . . just try to give me a little credit. I’ve been with upper-crust Manhattanites all my life. I know how to suck it up and how to suck up. I just choose not to do it anymore.”

When the pair arrived at Elm Hall dormitory, Decker stopped in front of the secured door. “Go talk to the administration in the morning. If you have any questions, just give me a call. With Lance Terry, I’ll do most of the talking but feel free to chime in. Like I said, your insights are pretty much on the money.”

“Thank you.” The kid started to talk but stopped himself. “Let’s go.”

Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “The image is going to bother you for a while—”

“It’s not the image, it’s the smell . . . God, I can’t get it out of my nose. It comes in waves. Truthfully, I’m still a little . . . queasy.”

“In the beginning—when I started working homicides—I carried Vicks VapoRub because it helps dilute the smell. Later on I stopped because it blocked out a very important sense, and smelling something putrid is better than not being able to smell at all. But I know what you’re saying. It takes time for the stink to exit the olfactory nerves. To this day, every time I go to the morgue, I can’t eat meat for a few days.”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal.” He bit his lip. “I know you think I’m a pussy—”

“No, that’s not what I think. You’re just trying to figure it out.” Decker smiled. “Like all of your pussy generation.”

McAdams laughed. “You got that right, Old Man.” A pause. “Did your foster son get into Harvard by the way?”

“Yes, he did, but he wound up at Juilliard. He could have gotten in anywhere. He’s exceptional but that’s not what makes him a great kid.” Decker pointed to his chest. “He’s got heart.”

“Yeah, I’m not known for my warm and fuzzy cardiac muscle, but that’s to be expected. Genes are genes. And if you ever meet my father, you’ll know what I mean.”

THERE WAS A wall of sound in all directions, so when Decker knocked on the door, he didn’t hear anything until a voice was shouting at him.

“Fuck off!”

“That’s code for I’m fucking right now so fuck off,” McAdams said.

“Even an old guy like me can figure that out.” He knocked harder. “Police! Open up, Terry.”

“Je-zuz!” Stomping. Then the door flew open. The guy who answered wore boxers but nothing else. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man was tall and built: football player but more a quarterback or a running back than defense. His hair was one step longer than a buzz cut. He had dark eyes, a big brow, and a jutting chin. Decker showed him his badge and brushed against him as he walked inside. McAdams followed. The girl in the bed had pulled the sheet covers to her chin.

The guy said, “You can’t come in without a warrant!”

“You know that because you’ve seen it on TV?” No answer. Decker saw a pile of feminine clothes on the floor. He picked them up and laid them on the bed. “Get dressed under the covers.” Decker turned to the young man. “I need to ask you some questions, Lance, like in right now. Something has happened.”

“What’s going on?” the guy asked. Quieter this time.

“I’m Detective Decker and this is Detective McAdams. We’re from Greenbury Police—”

“Greenbury Police?”

“Yes, Greenbury PD. We’re not from the school so you don’t have to start flushing your joints down the crapper. But we’d like to ask you a few questions about your girlfriend, Angeline Mo—”

“That would be my ex-girlfriend.”

“Right. Ex-girlfriend.” Decker took out a notebook. “Julia Kramer told me that you’ve moved on. Would that be the young lady you’re with?”

A voice peeped out of the sheets. “Yes.” She emerged from the covers like a butterfly shedding a cocoon. She was diminutive in size, dark in hair and eye color. She bounded out of the bed and offered a firm handshake. “Lucy Ramon. What did Angeline do?”

“Do you know her?” Decker asked.

“It’s a small school with an even smaller senior class.”

“What’s going on?” Terry asked. “Did something happen to her?”

Decker nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. She was murdered.”

Lucy gasped. Terry turned ashen. He took a few steps and stumbled. He managed to find the chair and hold on to the splat for support, but he didn’t sit down. “That’s . . .” He shook his head. “It’s that guy she’d been seeing, right? Are you looking into that freak?”

“What do you know about the freak?”

“Not much . . . not much at all.”

“Do you have a name for the freak?”

“John something.”

“C’mon. You know his last name.”

“I can’t think right now.”