“Don’t look at me. I grew up around the block. Park and Sixty-Eighth.”

“Why don’t I know you?”

“Probably because I was shipped off to Phillips when I was a kid.”

“Phillips Andover?”

“Phillips Exeter.”

“Oh. Do you know Joey Seldano?”

“He was two classes below me. First string point guard. Did you play basketball?”

“Yeah. Joey and I used to go one-on-one all the time.” Livingston looked at him. “You’re a cop?”

“A Harvard-educated cop,” Decker broke in. “What else did Angeline tell you about Latham?”

“Just what I said. He was some kind of university fellow.”

“That part is true,” McAdams said. “He did win a fellowship . . . the Windsor Prize.”

Livingston shrugged ignorance. “She also told me that he was connected.”

“Connected how?” Decker asked.

“She didn’t elaborate and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t that interested. I had other things on my mind.”

“She must have told you something, Livingston,” Decker said. “Did she say he was rich, that he was political, that he had friends in high places . . . think!”

“A novel concept,” Max muttered.

“Please,” Decker pleaded. “What did she tell you about him?”

“Just that he went to Oxford and was brilliant. That he knew a lot of really rich people. When I asked her to name names, she wouldn’t do it. I thought she was pulling the story out of her butt.”

Decker thought a moment. “Do you know if Angeline ever worked in any city art gallery?”

“I don’t know.”

McAdams said, “I can make phone calls to some of the galleries.”

“Yeah, we should do that.”

Livingston said, “How was she killed?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t gotten the coroner’s report back.”

“So how do you know she was murdered? Maybe she ODed or probably drank herself to death. She binged, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So how do you know it was murder?”

“Because where we found her was definitely a crime scene.”

“God, that’s nauseating,” Max said.

Livingston put his hand to his mouth and then looked at his watch. “Can I go now? I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan and as usual, it backfired.”

Decker nodded. The kid got up unceremoniously, grabbed his coat, and was off. When he was gone, Max said, “I didn’t comport myself very well. I apologize. He gets under my skin. He gets under everyone’s skin.”

“Do you think there’s a chance that he was in on the theft? It would make a difference in how we handled the investigation.”

“Well, he came here to tell me about it. If he was in on it, I don’t think he would have done that.” He sighed. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Can you spare me an hour?”

“I need coffee and a nosh first. There’s a sandwich place around the corner.”

“I don’t want to talk in a public place,” Decker said.

“I’ll have Jill order out then.” Max rubbed his neck. “God, what a mess! And here I was worrying about a few Tiffany panels. How old was she—the girl?”

“Twenty-two.”

“God, that’s terrible. Her parents know?”

“Yes.”

“My kids are little, under someone’s care all the time.” He regarded Decker. “How do you ever let them go?”

“You pray a lot and hope for the best.”

“And you think the girl’s murder is related to the theft?”

“Yes, especially now that I found out that she knew about the Tiffany panels’ existence.”

“So what’s the next step?”

Decker said, “That’s why we’re here to talk to you. But get your food first. I’d love some coffee and a bite to eat. I’m sure McAdams would as well.”

“Blueberry muffin if they have it and coffee would be fine,” McAdams said. “Cream no sugar.”

“And you, Detective?”

“Black coffee. Maybe fruit—apple, orange, or banana.” Decker fished out a twenty, then thought better of it. This was Manhattan. He fished out two twenties. “On the department.”

“Sure. Let’s go upstairs. We’ll talk in my office.” He shook his head sadly. “Look, we can talk now. I can wait to eat.”

“Max, I make it a rule to never talk to anyone on an empty stomach—his, yours, or mine.”

CHAPTER 19

THE OFFICE WAS cramped with desktops filled with paperwork. Max had cleared a small spot for the food and coffee. No coasters were needed. The furniture was weathered and scarred. As he ate a muffin, Max’s eyes scanned down the list of names. His expression was strained. “If the Rhode Island detectives didn’t find anything to indict the dealers on, I don’t see the point in adding to the rumor mill.”

Decker kept his frustrations in check—almost. “You know we’re beyond locating the stolen Tiffany panels or solving the Petroshkovich icon thefts. We’re looking for dangerous people who slaughtered two human beings. We’re going to check out everyone on the list. I’m just asking you where to start.”

Max played with the knot in his tie. “Check out Jason Merritt on Sixty-Third. Not that I think he’s done anything wrong. The Merritt gallery has been in family hands for almost a hundred years.”

Decker waited.

Max said, “His grandfather dealt in Russian icons. Like Armand Hammer, he was one of the few people who had access to Russia when it was dominated by Soviet rule. I’ve never heard that he looted anything, but he probably paid bottom dollar for religious items because postwar Russia was in shambles. People needed money and no one was interested in anything religious. Since the gallery still deals in Russian icons, it’s a good place to start.” Max turned quiet. “The second murder happened in Boston?”

“Outside of Boston,” McAdams said. “In Summer Village near Tufts.”

“I’m curious why you think someone in New York is responsible when both murders took place north of here.”

“The Marylebone detectives also started in New York. But if you have something you want to tell me about other cities, I’m here to listen.” Decker regarded the man’s downward eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m just making a simple statement—that there are lots of galleries other than the ones in New York.”

Decker said, “Max, people who are not psychotic or psychopathic murder for mundane reasons: to keep a secret, unrequited love, pathological jealousy, to usurp power—and money. You want to find a killer, go down the money trail. The New York galleries deal in the big money. That’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t help you with a killer. That’s a fact.” Silence. “Detective, my family has spent a lifetime building up this gallery. I really don’t want to get involved in something pernicious.”

McAdams said, “It was your father-in-law’s pieces that started the whole thing.” He shrugged. “You’re already involved.”

“This is just a nightmare!” Max looked down. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything, okay. This is just a thought. Chase Goddard bought a Boston gallery two years ago. It is now the eponymous Goddard Gallery. Chase first opened a fine arts and antique store in New York in 2006 or 2007. Needless to say his timing was off because of the recession and he closed two years later. Then I heard he was up in the Boston area.”

“What kind of art does the Goddard Gallery deal in?”

“Not Russian icons.” Stewart shrugged. “If it’s similar to his New York gallery, it’s mostly small antique pieces, but some fine arts. I’ve never been there so I don’t know what he specializes in.”

“What did he sell in the New York gallery?”

“It featured eighteenth- and nineteenth-century genre paintings, English and continental antique furniture, and smaller objets d’art of the period. A few twentieth-century pieces . . . nothing to write home about. In the main, it was a little of this and a little of that.”

McAdams showed Decker his smartphone. He had pulled up the Goddard Gallery website. “A little of this and a little of that.”

“Can I see?” Max asked.