“I haven’t given it a single fret. Why are you here?”

“I’ll fill you in. But first I’d like to hear Livingston’s story.”

Max glared at Livingston. “Tell them what you told me.” When the kid started muttering, Max said, “There is no way they can understand you, Liv. You think you can talk a little clearer?”

The kid let out a sharp exhale. “There’s this girl I know.” He stroked his beard. “I met her like . . . four years ago . . . when she came to Brown as a prospective student. When I was still in Brown. We kind of clicked right away as friends. We’re both artsy people.”

McAdams threw Decker a glance. “Name?”

“Angelina Moreau,” Max said. “By strange coincidence, she goes to school in Littleton. And she’s an art history major.”

“Angeline,” Livingston said. When Max looked up, the kid said, “Not Angelina. Angeline.”

Decker said, “Go on, Livingston. You met Angeline and . . .”

“We’ve been like friends for about four years.”

“Define friends for them, Liv.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“FWB,” McAdams said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Livingston looked at him with grateful eyes. “Exactly. We’re not destiny but she’s okay . . . kind of a free spirit.”

“More like a dishonest spirit,” Max said.

“For the millionth time, Max, we don’t know that she did anything.”

“Can you finish the story for me, Livingston?” Decker said.

“She had a boyfriend and that was always fine with me. As a matter of fact, I know him from the parties around here. Lance Terry. I don’t care who she screws, but I really don’t know what she sees in him—other than his money. That might be enough. Anyway when she comes down to the city, we get together for a few hours and talk—”

“Can you say booty call?” Max said.

Decker held up his hand. “Let him finish, please?”

Livingston stuttered out, “What is wrong with that? You sound jealous.”

“Just green with envy.”

“I don’t love her but I like her. She helped me through some rough times. We could talk to each other.”

“And you did,” Max said.

Livingston glanced at him. “Yes, we talked and, yes, we talked about art and, yes, I mentioned the Tiffany windows to her. I told her about them like three years ago so if she wanted to do something illegal, she could have done it a long time ago.”

“And she probably did,” Max snarled. “The kicker of this whole thing is that since we’ve discovered the theft, the girl is suddenly not answering her phone. You need to find her and ask her about it. My father-in-law is going to freak when he finds out. Maybe if you call, Detective, she’ll know you mean business and have the decency to answer the phone.”

Decker said, “When did you tell Max about knowing Angeline, Livingston? Just now?”

The kid nodded. “It’s probably nothing. If I would have known that Max would be so pissed, I would have kept it to myself.”

“Brilliant.”

“Ken talks way more than I ever did. You know that’s true.”

“He doesn’t talk to random girls in a drunken stupor.”

“Oh fuck this!” He started to get up, but Decker stood up as well.

“We’re not done just yet. Please.”

Livingston sat back down. “Honestly, I can’t exactly see her breaking into a cemetery and stealing the Tiffany glass windows. I could actually see Lance doing it as a joke.”

Max said, “So now we have two people you should talk to. Give them Angeline’s number, Liv.”

“We don’t need it,” Decker said. “We have it.”

Stewart was taken aback. “You’re already investigating her?”

“We’re investigating her murder.”

Livingston turned pale. “Angeline was murdered?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “We think she was killed last Sunday afternoon or early evening. That would be right after you left to go back to New York. I suspect our presence at the mausoleum may be behind the murder.” Both Livingston and Max had registered shock: wide eyes and mouths agape. Decker continued. “We’re actually looking into two murders: hers and a man named John Jeffrey Latham who might have been Angeline’s boyfriend or a friend or partner. Does that name ring a bell, Livingston?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Wha . . . what happened?”

Decker said, “That’s what we’re investigating. Where were you over the weekend, son?”

“Me?” Liv pointed to himself. “I was here . . . in the city.” He was breathing hard. “You don’t think . . .”

“Where in the city? I need a timeline: Saturday and Sunday.”

“I . . . have to think.”

Max finally spoke. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“If I knew what was going on, I wouldn’t be asking all these questions,” Decker said. “We have two murders that happened after your visit to the mausoleum. Do I think the murders are related to the thefts? Yes. Do I think Angeline and this Latham character were up to something? Yes. Do I think Angeline had anything to do with the forgeries? Yes. Is any of this worth killing two people over? No. So I’m missing a lot of pieces. And that’s why I’m asking questions.” To Livingston, “Where were you? And take your time because you’re only getting one shot to get it right.”

The kid looked up, down, and then up. “Saturday?” A pause. “I was home the whole day. I went to a party in the evening . . . like around nine.”

“You were home the entire day?”

He nodded.

“Who saw you?”

“My mom, my dad, the housekeeper.”

“Did you have your cell on you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Can I have it?”

Wordlessly, he handed it over to Decker.

Scrolling through to Saturday’s calls, Decker spoke out loud. “Over twenty texts and ten phone calls . . . none of them Angeline’s number . . . or Latham’s number . . . what is his area code again? Seven oh six or Oh seven six?”

“Oh seven six.”

Decker handed the cell to McAdams. “Write down the numbers and we’ll check out them out later. Since it’s a cell, if we need to check towers, we can.” McAdams began typing on his iPad. To Livingston, Decker said, “Do you recognize the name John Latham?”

“Who is he?” Max asked.

“I don’t know details on him, just the basics. He was murdered in the Boston area so it’s not my homicide and not my jurisdiction. But we’re trading information. Livingston, who is John Latham?”

The young man ran his hand down his face. He rubbed his eyes. “I . . . she . . .”

“What!” Max said.

Decker turned to him and said, “You’re not helping.” Back to Livingston. “Look, son, unless you murdered her or stole the artwork, you’re not in trouble—at least as far as the police are concerned. So just tell me what you know about Angeline and Latham and then you’re a free bird.”

“Let me think.” The barrage of information had thrown the kid into a tizzy. “Okay. I knew that Angeline broke up with Lance about a year and a half ago.”

“Go on.”

“I knew she was dating this older guy. I don’t know his last name but his first name was John.” Livingston rubbed his nose. “She told me that he was brilliant and from Oxford, that he came to the U.S. because he got a prestigious fellowship at one of the universities. Sounded like bullshit to me.”

“Why did it sound like bullshit?”

“This is going to sound terrible, but I’m going to say it anyway. Angeline didn’t grow up in the most sophisticated of families. She was easy to snow. She’d do any guy who she thought had connections. Why else would she put up with someone like me? I was terrible to her.” His eyes watered. “It’s probably what she liked about this asshole. She thought he was connected. If he was, he probably treated her terribly, too. That’s probably why she stuck with Lance for so long. He was rich and connected but a little dull in the cranium. I mean anyone with money who has gone to the right prep schools can do better than Littleton, for God’s sake.” He looked at McAdams. “I know I sound like an asshole, but it’s just the way it works.”