“So he’s not a student anywhere here?”

“I haven’t checked every student on the roster, but I don’t believe so. He’s older. He lives an hour and a half away. I think he might be associated with Tufts University but I’m not even sure about that. Is there anything I can do for you two right now?”

Jim said, “When can we take her home?”

“I’ll check with Boston. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

“When can we start packing up her . . .” Karen hung her head and stopped talking.

“I’ll check with Forensics and let you know about that as well,” Decker said. “Do you have a place to stay tonight? I can help you arrange something if you need it.”

“No, we’re . . . we’re staying at the Greenbury College Inn for the next two nights.”

“And you have my number?” Decker said.

“We do,” Jim said.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“We need a lot of things right now,” Jim snarled out. “And it’s nothing that you or anyone else can give us.”

CHAPTER 17

KENNEDY’S PUB WAS one of the busier college hangouts because it had a reputation for cheap drinks and decent bar food. As the kid predicted, the place was arid hot, noisy, and stinky, especially at ten in the evening. They found a corner table away from the oversized and overcrowded bar. The dance floor was packed with students doing all kinds of moves and it took a while before a server was even visible. Finally, McAdams grew impatient, got up, and a moment later, a surly student took their orders: crudités and a Grolsch for Decker, a Manhattan and the lamb sliders for the kid.

“I like bourbon,” he said. “One of the few things that my father and I have in common.” He drummed his fingers. “That and we both live off my grandfather’s money. Now that guy was a true visionary. Not the most grandfatherly type. I think I waved to him in passing when I was five. Real warm people the McAdamses are.”

Decker nodded. “At least if he wasn’t warm, he was generous.”

“You take what you can get. The old man was married three times with a lot of lady friends in between. Lots of divorces and lots of alimony, but he had enough to go around.” The server brought over their drinks and plopped them on the table. McAdams sipped the richly colored bourbon. “I like his third wife, Nina. Matter of fact, I’m staying with her in the city.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy-two. My grandfather would have been . . . eighty-six or -seven. He died six years ago. That’s when I came into a small part of our inheritance. I know my other sibs got something but his third wife told me that, as the eldest and most precocious, I am due to get the lion’s share, probably as much as my father.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yes, oh boy. It took our already explosive relationship and brought it that much closer to total obliteration.”

Decker saw that McAdams had polished off his bourbon and ordered another one for him. “You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe in a hundred years.” McAdams pulled out his iPad. “I got the names of the detectives on the Petroshkovich theft. Douglas Arrenz and Allan Sugar. Both are still alive.”

“Hold on.” Decker took out his notepad. “Can you spell the names for me?”

Tyler complied. “Marylebone has a small police department, about the size of Greenbury’s. The case was huge. It took up headlines for months. The department even brought in several experts on art thefts, but the case didn’t go anywhere.”

“Any theories about where the icons went?”

“I found a retrospective article on the theft that came out ten years ago. When the icons were taken, the iron curtain was still up. Now that there is easier access to Russia, the hypothesis is that they were sold to some oligarch to adorn the walls of his dacha. Petroshkovich is better known in Russia than here. No doubt they could command high prices from the newly minted bourgeoisie. I really don’t see them as having any connection to the theft of two small Tiffany panels, but it’s your call.”

“I’m sure you’re right, McAdams. However, if the detectives are on our way to the city and they’re willing to talk to us about it, we should meet with them. Maybe they’ve come across some black market dealers.”

“Sure.” The server brought a refresh on the alcohol and the food. McAdams picked up the drink. “This is truly going to put me under. As if I’ll need help. I have a very loud alarm clock. You still want to leave at seven.”

“Yep. Find out anything tonight?”

“I found out that the student libraries are open late, late, but not the reference desks. The biggest one—at Duxbury—closed at eight. There are hundreds of books of antique plates and maps in that one library alone. I’ve paged through seven of them and they all looked clean. Then I went to Rayfield at Littleton—which closes at nine. I went through another five—all clean. The assignment is going to take hours.”

“God is in the details.” Decker munched on a celery stick. “You should go to law school, Tyler. You’ll be overworked but at least you’ll be compensated.”

“And this coming from a man who walked away from the title esquire.”

“I’m blue collar. You’re not. You know the salaries of an average working detective. You’re a rich kid. Why would you want to deal with all that jealousy from the department?”

“Are you jealous?”

“I might have been in my younger years.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need anything from anyone. You seem like a decent kid, Harvard. As a cop, you’ll always be an outsider. Why set yourself up?” When he didn’t answer, Decker said, “Let me tell you what I found out this evening.” He gave McAdams a recap while the kid typed away on his iPad.

Afterward, McAdams said, “Colored glass shards. So Angeline did the copies.”

“Seems like it.”

“Not surprising considering she shoplifted. Once a thief . . .”

“There were two incidents that her mom knew about. I’m betting there were more that she didn’t know about. So yes, she seems like a good candidate for the forgeries. The questions are: Was she forging things other than stained glass and who was the mastermind behind it?”

“Latham?”

“Living like he was, I see him as a middleman, maybe a broker with connections to the rarefied world of art collecting.”

“Why do you think he has those kinds of connections?”

“The Windsor Prize . . . art culture and politics. He’s a better candidate for connections than Moreau. Find out about the Windsor Prize, okay?”

“Will do.” McAdams typed it into his iPad. “We’re still headed for New York?”

“Yes. I’m still interested in the Sobel family and Max Stewart. He’s an art dealer, ergo he has connections. I’m not saying he’s dirty, but he needs to be interviewed again. When I talked to him the first time, he played it close to the vest. When you were around at the cemetery, he seemed more relaxed, like the two of you were sharing an inside joke.”

McAdams shrugged.

“I noticed that as well when we interviewed Angeline’s friends. That they kept looking at you as an ally.”

“Then they’re delusional.”

“I can read people, Harvard. You’re young and you’re relaxed around money in a way that I’m not. You’re a good person to have around when I’m knocking on the co-op doors of Park Avenue.”

“Glad to help even if I’m just a prop.”

Decker smiled. “As of last night, you’re pulling your weight. No complaints.”

“Stick around and I’ll give you plenty.” When Decker was quiet, McAdams said, “I want you to know something. That rarefied world isn’t me . . . even if I don’t know what exactly me is.”

“Frankly, I don’t care about your existential issues. Two people were murdered. I’ve got a job to do. You can help in that regard.”

“I’m down with that.” He finished his drink. “And by the way, I don’t mind being an outsider in Park Avenue or in Greenbury Police. In my opinion, popularity is highly overrated.”