“Me, too,” Decker said. “What’s your take on it?”

“I don’t know. But why would a kid like that want to work with a small-town police department?”

“Probably this is the only place that would take him without a lick of experience.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. I gave him a six-week crash course. He was a quick learner, very smart, but obnoxious. I don’t get him. Why not go to law school, sit back on your ass, and spend Daddy’s bucks. Something’s on his mind.”

“Maybe he wants to write a Pulitzer Prize exposé.”

“Here? We’re boring. Not a scandal in fifty years.”

“Maybe he’s after a screenplay with verisimilitude.”

“Yeah, that would fit.” Radar handed Decker the printouts of the tattoos. “All right. Go back to New York and see if you can’t make something happen. If you happen to meet Tyler’s old man, tread lightly.”

“Tyler detests him, you know.”

“Nobody likes him. Jack’s a real schmuck. One day that man’s going to wind up with a bullet in his back and no one will be surprised.”

IN ANOTHER CONTEXT, Karen Bronson might not be beautiful, but she might have appeared fit: a good figure, nice tan, brown, straight hair cut in a neat bob. She had a lithe body and long arms and legs. Her face was long with thin lips and light, red-rimmed eyes with deep circles under the orbs. Like Decker, she hadn’t slept for many hours. Her husband also had an athlete’s build—long and lean with broad shoulders. They appeared to be in their early fifties. They had dressed strictly for comfort: sweatpants and sweatshirts. Decker came into the small interview room holding the printouts and a cup of coffee.

“Can I refill your cups for you?” Both of them shook their heads. “Peter Decker.” He shook their hands and sat down. The square footage of the place was very small. Intimacy was forced. “I’m so sorry for your terrible loss. This is my case and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to find out what happened and who did this.”

Jim spoke up. “No offense, Detective, but this is a very small town. I mean . . .” He threw up his hands. “Have you done this before?”

“I was a Los Angeles Police Department lieutenant before I came out here. And I’ve worked hundreds of homicides. I promise I’ll do everything I can. And I’ll be sure to keep in touch. Like I said, call me anytime.”

“So this was like a retirement job or . . .”

“Exactly.”

“When did you leave Los Angeles?”

Karen broke in. Her voice was husky. “Jim, we can ask the questions another time.”

“I want to make sure he’s competent.” Jim looked at Decker. “We’re thinking about hiring private . . . if we don’t get results.”

“Sure, if you want. I’ll coordinate with him if you do.”

“And you’re sure it’s Angeline.”

Decker clenched his jaw. “Does she have tattoos?”

“Oh God!” Karen’s eyes watered. “Yes.”

“We have some pictures.” He slid them across the table. She gasped and then broke into open sobs. Jim held her shoulders and shoved the papers back to Decker.

“I’m sorry.” When neither responded, Decker said, “I need to ask you some questions. They might be unpleasant. I’m sorry if they are.”

“What did you find out about this John character?” Jim demanded. “Is he important?”

“John Latham. You’re sure that you’ve never heard the name before?”

“No. Never. Who is he?”

“I know the bare minimum about him.” Decker blew out air. “He was murdered by the time we got to his apartment. That’s why he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh my God!” Jim hugged Karen tighter as she continued to sob. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“Has . . . has Angeline ever been in trouble before?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I told you the questions might be unpleasant. I have to ask them. Has she ever shoplifted, for instance?”

“Shoplifted? ”

“Yes,” Karen broke in.

“She did?” Jim asked.

“Years ago. When she was eleven or twelve—during the divorce. She was having a hard time. Nothing since that one incident . . . actually it was two . . . two incidents. But I begged the owner to let me pay and not press charges and she was very kind about it. Two charges would have meant juvenile hall.” Karen wiped her eyes. “What mess did she get herself into?”

“I’m not positive about anything.” Decker took out his notepad. “Let me tell you what I do know. Last Friday night, one of the cemetery mausoleums was broken into. There were some items taken.”

“What kind of items?”

“Valuable stained-glass window panels. Not all of them. Two original panels were still there. But the other two panels had been forged. The forensic team found shards of glass in your daughter’s apartment—”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” Karen said. “When you mentioned her apartment, I thought you meant her dorm room. But then her dean told us that it happened off-campus . . . that the university wasn’t even technically responsible.”

“Passing the buck,” Jim said. “They’re all fucking weasels!”

“Jim—”

“You know it’s true. All they care about is their own asses. They are petrified we’re going to sue. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to sue someone. Somebody is to blame for my daughter’s death!”

“Who gives a damn about money,” Karen snapped.

“I’m just saying that somebody has to take responsibility!”

“That would be me,” Decker said. “I’m responsible for this investigation right now. So if you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”

“Why would I yell at you? You’re trying to help.”

“I am,” Decker said. “So you knew nothing about an apartment off-campus?”

“Not a thing,” Jim said. “We weren’t paying for it, that’s for certain.”

“Okay. Going back to the apartment, we found glass shards in it. We also have the forged panels. Our next step is to see if the glass that we found in the apartment matches the glass in the forgeries.”

“Even if it does match, it doesn’t mean that Angeline did the forgeries,” Jim said. “There could be dozens of people owning that glass—”

“Jim, just listen to what the man has to say, okay.” Karen wiped her eyes. “You think she forged the panels.”

“I have to consider it, yes.”

“And she was murdered because of the forgeries?” Karen’s eyes shed new tears.

“Maybe.”

“How valuable are these panels?” Jim said. “Are they priceless or something?”

“Pricey but certainly not priceless.”

“How much? Like thousands?”

“Probably.”

“If she was carrying around expensive bags, you’re thinking that she has done some other types of forgeries before and that’s how she got the spending money,” Karen said.

“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.” He paused. “Could there be other illegal activities that she’s done in the past?”

“Like what?”

“Drugs maybe?”

“No, not Angeline,” Karen insisted. “Yes, I can see her . . . possibly . . . copying some art pieces, but not drugs.”

“Why can you see her copying other art pieces, Mrs. Bronson?”

“Karen.”

“Okay, sure. Karen. Tell me why you said that.”

The woman sighed. “Angeline was every bit the typical college student, idealistic and a bit . . . radical. She often spoke about art, saying it should be available to the masses. In museums and public places, not holed up in big mansions. Her goal was always nonprofit . . . getting major pieces back to public places from private places. So . . . maybe she got carried away, imagined herself to be a modern-day Robin Hood.”

Stealing from the rich and buying designer handbags. Decker said, “Anything else you’d like to tell me about her?”

“No.” Karen wiped her eyes. “And I’m not saying she did anything illegal. I’m just trying to give you background on my baby.”

“I appreciate it.”

“What’s with this Latham guy? How does he fit in?”

“I’m working on that. It’s not my case—it happened in Summer Village, which is a suburb of the Boston area—so I can’t just charge in and demand answers. But when I find out, I’ll certainly let you know.”