Decker took another sip of tea. Since Sugar had turned down the heat, the room was more comfortable. “Since the Petroshkovich thefts became a cause célèbre and the Russian Orthodox Church became involved, I take it you ruled out random vandalism.”

“In the end, we all decided it was a professional job made to look like amateurs. Wasn’t the first time iconography has been stolen and it won’t be the last.”

Decker seemed perplexed. “What other cases of stolen iconography have you come across? I wouldn’t think it would be a very common occurrence.”

“Not here in the US of A. But there once was a Soviet Union that devalued religious art—opium of the masses and all that razzamatazz—so it happened more often than you’d think. Even great artworks, if they had religious contents, were denigrated. Lucky the Reds never got hold of Italy, otherwise we might not have the Sistine Chapel.”

Decker smiled. “They might have made an exception to Michelangelo.”

“You’d be surprised. Look what they did to St. Isaac’s.”

“Which St. Isaac’s?” McAdams asked. “I’m assuming there is more than one in a country as big as Russia.”

“St. Isaac’s in St. Petersburg.”

McAdams immediately started typing on his iPad. “Do you have a password so I can connect to the Internet?”

Sugar rolled his eyes. “I think it’s the word Admin. Never use the damn thing but when the grandchildren visit, I can’t get them here unless they can use their gadgets.”

“Uh, that worked.” McAdams smiled. “Thank you.”

“What happened at St. Isaac’s?” Decker asked.

“Ancient history,” Sugar said. “After years of trying to recover the Petroshkovich icons and all the research I did for the case, I became interested in Russian Orthodox religious art. The first thing I did after I retired was take the wife to Russia. It didn’t help me make headway with the Petroshkoviches but it did make me feel better that even a big city like St. Petersburg hadn’t fully recovered all its stolen art.”

McAdams read out loud from what he had pulled up. “St. Isaac’s was built in the mid-eighteen hundreds after a design by Montferrand . . . Frenchman who studied with Napoleon’s architect and designer, Charles Percier. The cathedral is in honor of St. Isaac’s of Dalmatia. Interior artwork originally done by Karl Bryullov. When the original oil paintings started to deteriorate because of cold and moisture, Montferrand had the artwork re-created as mosaics.”

“And truly spectacular mosaics they are,” Sugar said. “In quality as well as quantity. It’s meant to dazzle and it does.”

“You know, I think I might have been there . . . in this church.” McAdams looked up. “I’m sure I was.”

Decker said, “You were in St. Petersburg?”

“Yeah, when I was eleven or twelve. I was in boarding school so every summer my mother made it her mission to drag me to Europe from one church to another for a cultural experience. I must have seen one hundred churches over the years. They all begin to look alike especially if you see one right after the other. At that age, all I wanted to do was go to a Yankees game. I was resentful . . . stupid me.” McAdams chuckled. “Anyway, correct me if I’m wrong but St. Isaac’s is the tallest building in St. Petersburg.”

“It is. Which was why it was of use during the Second World War,” Sugar announced. “St. Petersburg was bombed badly. All the famous palaces that the tourists see were rebuilt, including the Hermitage.”

“The Hermitage?” Decker asked. “You mean the art museum?”

“Yes, indeed. It was built as a palace.”

“It was bombed?”

“Left to rot in ruins. They have pictures there of what it looked like. It was a mere shell of its former glory until the Russian artisans rebuilt it.”

“What happened to all the artwork inside? Don’t tell me that was destroyed as well?”

“No, the Ruskies knew they were in trouble. They stored it all in the basement of St. Isaac’s, which the Nazis did not bomb wholesale. Because St. Isaac’s was the tallest building in the city, the Luftwaffe used it as a navigational guide for its Messerschmitts. It’s one of the few buildings that, except for some random shelling, remained intact.”

McAdams was still reading. “I can’t find anything about St. Isaac’s being used for art storage . . . or for the Nazis using it as a navigational guide,” McAdams said. “Matter of fact, it says that the dome was painted over to avoid enemy aircraft detection.”

“Young lad, you are missing critical parts of the tale because you’re probably using some condensed encyclopedia site. If you really want to know history, you have to read something with more depth. Or take the lazy man’s way out and just go to St. Petersburg again as an adult and listen to one of their many well-informed guides.”

Decker said, “What does St. Isaac’s have to do with the Petroshkovich icons?”

“Nothing as far as I know,” Sugar said. “I just found it interesting because the cathedral had works missing from its iconography that have never been recovered.”

“Are they also Petroshkoviches?”

“No, nothing to do with Petroshkovich. These works were done in an earlier period.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “And you don’t think there’s a connection.”

“Can’t see how. The thefts were years apart.”

“Any ideas on who was responsible for the St. Isaac’s thefts?” Decker asked.

“Not a clue. When the Reds took over, the church was converted into a museum for scientific atheism. It was looted and then it fell into disrepair. During the war, it was used to store sacks of potatoes. If you’d see the church today, you’d realize how appalling that was. The refurbishing started in the fifties under Khrushchev. The mosaics were black, but otherwise in good condition. Good thing the original paintings were turned into tile art. Otherwise they’d probably be sold out or stolen as well.”

Decker turned to McAdams. “Anything on St. Isaac’s stolen icons?”

“Images of what was there.” McAdams read to himself. “And there was lots of looting of churches by the Germans during the war.”

“Between the Reds and the war, it’s a miracle that any religious institution survived,” Sugar remarked.

Decker said, “No connection between those lootings and the Petroshkovich thefts.”

“Nothing,” Sugar said. “Not that I was trying to find a link: different cities, different countries, different times. I just relate it to you as a cautionary tale. If a major city like St. Petersburg can’t find its own treasured artwork, you can see what you’re up against.”

“This is more than an art theft case. It’s a double murder.”

“All the more reason why I think you’re up against something bigger than yourself. But I realize you still have to try. Good luck.”

Sugar placed his teacup on the scarred coffee table, then he shuffled over to a hutch and opened the bottom cabinet. He pulled out a box and lifted it to his chest, his legs sagging under its weight. Quickly Decker relieved him of the box. “Lot of forests died for this file. Are you going to read every page?”

“Maybe even twice,” Decker said.

“Tell me if you find anything I might have overlooked. I’ll help you in any way I can. My brain isn’t what it used to be, but this case is burned into the gray matter. It’s the one that got away.”

Decker said, “We all have those.”

“Yes, we do. For me and the Petroshkovich artwork, time is running out. I’m happy to pass the mantle onto someone younger and more clever.”

“Younger is a fact,” Decker said. “The clever part remains to be seen.”

CHAPTER 18

WHEN HE OPENED the door to the West Side condo, Decker heard a tiny female voice.

“Hello?”

He and McAdams stepped inside. Decker was holding a bag and a thermos of coffee. Tyler dropped the Petroshkovich file box on the floor. Yasmine Nourmand was at a small, round table, papers spread out so that the surface looked more white than wood. She looked up with her big brown eyes and flipped her black hair off her shoulder. “Oh, Lieutenant.” She stood up. “I’m sorry. Gabe said you went back upstate.”