“It’s open.”

Gerrard opened the door.

The trio was welcomed into a small but tidy office. The art dealer was in his fifties with thinning dark hair and dark eyes. He was slight and had manicured nails. He was immaculately dressed in a pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and a red tie. Black, polished lizard skin shoes on his feet. He listened intently while Decker explained why they had come.

Afterward Merritt said, “I’m still a little confused, Detective. I don’t have anything to do with art nouveau or art deco. You should try Max Stewart.”

“I’ve already been there. Now I’m interested in learning about the Petroshkovich icons that were stolen from Marylebone, Rhode Island.”

“And what’s the connection between a thirty-year-old case of stolen Russian icons and stolen Tiffany?”

“Not much except that both of the thefts appeared opportunistic. Meaning that the thief would need someone to market the stolen items. And he’d need high-end clients. I’m wondering if you could point us in the direction of dealers who . . . may be less meticulous with the object’s ownership.”

Merritt looked at Gerrard. “You should be getting back to the gallery.”

“Of course.” Gerrard smiled and nodded. “Good luck.”

Merritt turned his attention back to the detectives. “Why exactly have you come to me?”

“Your name came up as a dealer who specializes in Russian icons.”

Merritt made a tent with his fingers and brought them to his chin. “I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in the Petroshkovich icons when you’re investigating stolen Tiffany.” The man’s expression grew cold. “Is this interview really subterfuge?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If this is about my grandfather, I have nothing to say to you.”

Decker was expressionless. “Your grandfather?”

Merritt considered the baffled look on his face. He blushed. “Never mind.”

“No, no, no. You can’t throw something out like that and say never mind.”

The art dealer sighed. “It’s not relevant.”

“Sir, I don’t have a lot to go on. Everything is important.”

Merritt said, “If you speak to enough people, you might hear things about my grandfather stealing Russian art. That kind of drivel is not only completely false, it’s pernicious.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Could you fill us in a little?”

“Why bother? It’s all a pack of lies.”

“I could either hear the truth from you or the lies from your enemies.”

Merritt considered his words. “Some reprehensible people have had the nerve to say that my grandfather looted from Russian churches.”

Decker took out a notepad. “Who’s your grandfather?”

“August Merritt. His father—my great-grandfather—was Wilson Merritt. He was one of the few businessmen who dealt with Russia postrevolution. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. It involved many layers of bureaucracy from both countries.”

McAdams said, “What business was he in?”

“He owned textile mills down south. He imported cloth to third world countries. That included the Soviet Union when it was heavily ostracized. After the revolution and WWI, the Russian people ended up in a bad state—as was most of eastern Europe. Food was scarce, fuel was scarce, supplies were scarce. Bolts of woolen cloth may not seem like a lot, but it saved many people from freezing to death. My great-grandfather and my grandfather were rewarded for their humanitarian acts with visiting privileges at a time when the Soviet Union was off limits to most Western countries.”

“So how did these rumors get started?” Decker asked.

“Jealousy.” The art dealer made a point of sighing. “Wilson Merritt had always been interested in Byzantine art. As a matter of fact, he started the Merritt Gallery just to display his massive collection and later on, my grandfather went into the retail aspect. Wilson’s detractors claim that he had acquired the pieces by using his favored status in the Soviet Union. And that part is true. It’s the theft part that’s a lie. The art world can be very vicious.”

“Finance is pretty vicious as well,” McAdams said. “When you mix the two, there is a high probability of corruption.”

“Well said.”

“How do you think the rumors got started?” Decker asked.

“As I told you, Russia was in terrible straits. The country needed fuel. Thousands of religious items were burned for heat. What wasn’t incinerated was thrown away as obsolete relics of an undesirable past. Wilson and my grandfather August made it their mission to save as many of those works as they could from total destruction. Of course that included items from churches left to rot. August wasn’t a thief, he was a hero.”

Decker looked up from his notepad. “Anyone specific who’s spreading the gossip? Some names would go a long way.”

“I have no proof. So I take the high road. Having been a victim of the rumor mill, I loathe hurting anyone even if that person or persons deserve it.”

“How about if I name a name.”

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Chase Goddard. What do you know about him?”

“No comment.”

“Do you know if he’s ever purchased stolen items?”

“I know of one case where he bought a very expensive pair of French silver candlesticks from the seventeenth century. They had been stolen from a Catholic church in the Chicago area. But as soon as it came to light, he refunded the money to his seller and gave the items back to the church.”

“Was it an honest mistake?”

“It could have been. It could have also been prevented had he done proper homework.”

“How was he caught?”

“The whole thing came to light when someone saw the items on an old website.” Merritt looked at him. “And you didn’t hear that from me.”

McAdams said, “Was this when he was in New York?”

“Yes,” Merritt said. “It happened about six or seven years ago before he went under.”

“His New York gallery went under, but the website of his current gallery in Boston has a lot of inventory.”

“So you’ve noticed.”

“Care to speculate?” Decker asked.

“I’ll leave the hearsay to others.”

“Have you ever done business with him?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Has he ever approached you for business?”

“Several times . . . minor icons. I wasn’t interested for a variety of reasons.”

“What constitutes a minor icon?” Decker asked.

“Too recent of an age, poorly done images, and the piece as a whole is in bad shape.”

He stopped talking. Decker waited for him to continue. Merritt finally said, “There was a onetime exception to the trash he usually showed me. It was when he was still in New York and his reputation hadn’t yet been so sullied. But he was still someone we all watched.”

“What happened?” McAdams asked.

“Goddard claimed that he had just gotten back from a European buying spree. He presented me with a truly magnificent icon. I won’t go into the specifics but it was spectacular. The detail, the color, and the artist.” A deep sigh. “I still bristle when I think of the lost opportunity.”

“Why didn’t you buy it?”

“I came that close to purchasing it.” He pinched off a distance between his forefinger and his thumb. “But then he told me it came from Germany. He claimed to have checked out the provenance and that it went back a hundred years. I went on the Art Loss Register. I went through as many books on religious items as I could find. I couldn’t place the object anywhere. Perhaps the provenance was legitimate. But it was an expensive item and I couldn’t take the chance.”

“Okay.” Decker thought a moment. “Why did you have a problem with an object that came from Germany? Did you think that the icon was looted by the Nazis?”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

Decker digested the information. “I’m not a history buff but I seem to recall that Hitler’s invasion into Russia was a big disaster, that it was the turning point of the war. They bombed the cities, but the Germans never got into Moscow with boots on the ground. My dad used to tell me that the Russian winters did more to decimate Hitler’s armies than all the bombs of Europe.”