AFTER MAKING A dozen phone calls, Decker found out that Douglas Arrenz had retired to Florida. But Allan Sugar lived in East Hampton and agreed to see them any time after ten in the morning. That meant he was the first stop on their way to the city. The business districts of the beach areas were made up of quaint villages: cute little shops and cafés, one after another. The skies were gray and the sidewalks looked deserted with only a few hardy souls braving the snowdrifts.

Mansions abounded.

Since it was after the holidays, the residences that Decker could make out through the iron gates looked shut down for the winter. He wondered how a retired detective could afford this piece of paradise. That was made clear by the address. Sugar lived in what looked like the carriage house to the original dowager estate next door. It was a compact brick one-story with black trim around two multipane windows. Decker parked in a blanketed driveway, snow crunching underneath the tires. The chimney was emitting pine-scented smoke and there was a hint of ocean beyond the house.

McAdams said, “Looks like the Rhode Island PD pays well.”

“How much do you think the house is worth?”

“Well . . .” He thought a moment. “It’s small—about two thousand square feet. And it’s in the wrong part of the Hamptons. But it is on the shore. Maybe around three, four million.”

“Whoa.” Decker was taken aback. “That’s a lot of zeros.”

“My grandfather’s house isn’t a whole lot bigger, but it has more property and it’s in Southampton, which jacks up the price. It’s also got a good beach front.”

“Do you own that as well?”

“I have no idea. I do know it’s in a thirty-year trust for the good and use of all the grandchildren. So I have access to it for the next twenty-four years. After that.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Somebody knows.”

“That is true, but I’m not privy to that information. I rarely use it in the summer. The Hamptons are a scene. I actually like it at this time of year. There’s something serene in the desolation.”

“It’s calming. I can understand that.” Decker put on his jacket, gloves, and his hat and got out of the car. The kid followed, both of them stepping in fairly deep drifts. January was turning out to be a particularly cold month everywhere on the eastern seaboard.

“If you ever want to use my grandfather’s house, let me know,” McAdams said. “I’ll slot it in for you.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, Harvard.”

“Share the wealth.”

They made their way up the walkway to a paneled front door painted in black and without a knocker. There also didn’t appear to be a doorbell.

Someone wanted privacy.

Decker rapped as hard as he could on the wood with a gloved hand. Behind the wall, an elderly voice said, “I hear you, I hear you.” A moment later the door opened and a gush of hot air blasted their faces. “Detective Sugar?”

“Yes, yes. Come in.” He left the door open, turned his back, and shuffled across the mudroom floor and into the living room. The men followed. Sugar said, “Hope you found the place okay. The addresses can be confusing.”

“No problem.” Decker wiped his boots assiduously on the floor mat and dried them off with a provided towel. McAdams did the same. “Great house.”

“Courtesy of a spinster aunt who willed it to me fifty years ago when the area wasn’t hoity-toity and the roof leaked like a sieve. I almost sold it after my wife died. Thank God I didn’t. The bluebloods next door are after me to sell it to them for some ridiculous price. You want some tea?”

“That would be great. Thank you for seeing us.”

“Yes, yes.” Sugar was around five five, with stooped shoulders, white hair, milky blue eyes, and a bony frame. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater and wool pants. Argyle socks covered feet that were tucked into slippers. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Decker chose a green-and-red plaid sofa that matched two green-and-red plaid chairs. McAdams took a chair. There were coffee table and end tables made from particleboard and originally stained in a deep espresso brown. Over the years—more like decades—they had suffered chips, scratches, and gouges where the lighter board was showing through. The floor was pine, covered in part by an area rug worn thin with use. Heat was pouring out of the radiator, and the flat-screen television—Sugar’s nod to modernity—was on some kind of a game show.

When Sugar returned from the kitchen, he set the tray down on the living room table. He turned off the TV and turned down the heat. He poured himself a cup of tea. “Make it how you like it. I’m not a waiter.”

Decker poured hot water into two mugs—for McAdams and for himself. After he made the introductions, he said, “How long were you with the Marylebone PD, Detective Sugar?”

“It’s Allan and I was with them for thirty years. Wish I’d come up when you did, with AFIS and CODIS and all that razzamatazz. You don’t even have to work anymore. Just plug in fingerprints or DNA and the machines pop out the answers.”

“It’s been a boon,” Decker said.

“NCIC was just about all we had. That was back in ’67 when J. Edgar created it. Probably to spy on the Reds but he dropped a few criminals in the files just to make it look legit. None of it was linked up to any computer. Everything was done by hand. It took forever to make a request and forever for it to get processed.”

Sugar sat down.

“So you’re interested in the missing Nikolai Petroshkovich icons. You and all Rhode Island. And the Russian Orthodox church—St. Stephen’s. The thefts became an international cause célèbre. Did I pronounce that right?”

“I think you did.”

“After I failed to get anywhere, they brought in all the experts.” He made a quotation with his fingers. “Paid all this money and not a damn clue closer to what the hell happened.”

“What do you think happened?” Decker asked.

“Douglas and I entertained a number of possibilities. You know Douglas?”

“Detective Arrenz. He was your partner on the case.”

“Yep. Retired in Florida. Not for me. I don’t like to sweat.” He sipped his tea. “The theft wasn’t the cleanest job I’d ever seen. At first we considered vandalism. Back then, adolescent crime was confined to car stealing, petty theft, and graffiti done by the drunk, pot-smoking, or coked-up lads and lassies. It’s worse now. All those designer drugs . . .”

“When are we talking about?” Decker asked. “The eighties?”

“Yeah, the late eighties. Douglas and I kicked around the possibility that it was a bunch of thugs and punks. We checked the regular troublemakers and didn’t get anywhere. Even the worst of the town miscreants denied thieving from a church. After we found out how valuable the icons were, we fanned out in other directions. We talked to the professionals and found out, much to our chagrin, that churches are easy targets for theft. They’re not occupied most of the time and they contain valuables. We also found out that there are thieves who specialize in hitting churches and synagogues. The common burglars concentrate on fencing things like silver candlesticks and silver chalices. The more sophisticated thieves concentrate on the artwork contained within the hallowed walls of God. That kind of material, as you might imagine, is much harder to fence. You need a specialized dealer.”

“Black market dealers.”

“Of course. The thing is that most of the black market art dealers are or were respectable dealers who dabbled in the underworld.”

“Did you get names?”

“We got a lot of names. None of them got us anywhere.”

“Do you still have those names? Maybe they can point us in the right direction.”

“They didn’t do much good for us, but you’re welcome to try. They’re all in the case files. I’ve got a copy for you so there’s no need to ask. The dealers are ancient by now: senile, in jail, or dead. But knock yourself out.”