“What about the Five Colleges of Upstate?” Decker asked.

“Let me check.” His fingers went flying across his phone. “Good call. There’s one at Morse McKinley that offers a B.A. as well as an M.A.”

Mulrooney said, “Then why didn’t he list the college on his résumé ?”

“Yeah, that is a little weird,” Tyler said. “Maybe he didn’t finish the degree.”

“And yet he got the Windsor award and a lectureship,” Decker said. “Any kind of college job is pretty hard to snag these days, let alone one at a major university in a major city.”

“Something isn’t making sense,” Mulrooney said. “And I don’t see any Oxford here.”

“Could be he was padding his C.V. and no one bothered to check.” McAdams thought a moment. “Betcha he had connections. That’s really the way it’s done.”

Decker said, “What about his family? Any connections there?”

“Nope. They’re fairly local—grape farmers in the Finger Lakes District.”

“You mean wine?” Tyler asked.

“No, I mean grapes . . . Concord table grapes. They were devastated when we told them the news, but they didn’t have a hell of a lot to add. He hadn’t kept in touch with any kind of regularity. Packed out when he was eighteen and except for the occasional Christmas phone call, he had pretty much vanished from their lives. They had no idea who’d want to murder him. They didn’t even know that he went to college.”

“They were that out of touch?” Decker was skeptical.

“I think they were telling the truth, but I didn’t press them too hard. They’d just lost their son.” Mulrooney held up his hands in a hopeless gesture.

“If he was from the Finger Lakes District, he probably knew about the Five Colleges of Upstate. It would make sense that he’d choose Morse McKinley. But at his age, he wouldn’t have overlapped with Angeline Moreau . . . well, maybe with a master’s.”

Tyler had gone back to looking at the codebook. He was mouthing some of the words out loud.

“You read Russian?” Mulrooney asked.

“I can read it although I don’t know what I’m saying. The same with Greek.” He looked up. “We were required to learn the classic languages in prep.”

Decker pointed to two words.

Mulrooney asked, “Does it say anything?”

“I don’t know Hebrew so I couldn’t tell you. I can read it, but they don’t seem like real words. You’d never have two alefs in a row. Maybe it’s Yiddish, which uses Hebrew letters.”

Tyler said, “Is it possible to get a copy of the notebook?”

Mulrooney frowned. “How many pages is it?”

“About twenty.”

“Give it to Frosty. She’s down the hallway, first door to the left. Tell her I’m saying please.” He looked back at Decker. “Sometimes you get a case where there’s nowhere to go. This case, we’ve got too many places. Is it an art theft, something personal, something with the university, something with the estranged family that they’re not telling me? We still have to look into all those keys he had, we’ve got codes and someone who was involved with something international. And we’ve got a real, real vicious crime. The bad people are real bad. It’ll take a while to sort this one out.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Decker said.

“Yeah, your girl looks simpler than our guy. If you find something, pass it on. What’s your next step?”

“We’re going to visit some art galleries in Boston.” Decker gave a brief recap of his discussion with Maxwell Stewart and Jason Merritt. He purposely left out his appointment with Chase Goddard.

If something came up, he’d share it after the fact. No purpose in telling him about another blind alley that would no doubt turn into another dead end.

MCADAMS WAS PORING over the file as Decker, stuck in traffic, tried to make his way to Newbury Street. “Now I know why I moved to a small town.”

The kid didn’t answer, engrossed in his business. A moment later, Tyler sat up. “It’s Latin.”

“Pardon?”

“The words . . . at least the words in Greek . . . Greek script but Latin meaning. Words that don’t mean anything specific . . . like ipso facto or e pluribus unum. It’s a code within a code. I bet if we got someone who knew Chinese or Arabic, those words wouldn’t mean anything in the native language but would transliterate into Latin words also.”

“Wow, kiddo, that’s impressive.” Decker nodded. “Good for you, Tyler. Well done.”

The kid tried to stifle a smile. “If I show you the Hebrew, could you read it out loud?”

“Yeah, I could do that. Wait until I’m stopped at a light.”

Tyler waited and then showed the page.

Decker stared at the letters. He repeated them several times to himself. “Wait a sec . . .” A beat. “Kav-i-at em-f-tur . . . or maybe the fey is a pey . . .” He turned to the kid. “It’s caveat emptor.”

This time, Tyler grinned. “Really?”

“Really. Good work.”

McAdams couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Now all we have to do is find the code within the code. Once we translate the words into Latin, we can work translating it into English. Not me, personally. Someone who can do codes.”

“You don’t do codes?”

“Not these kinds of codes. I haven’t a clue. But I know someone who can. What would a trip to Boston be without a stop at the big H. Shall we?”

“We need to tell Mulrooney about it first.”

McAdams’s face soured. “Do we really have to do that?”

“Yeah, we do. This codebook is his baby and he was nice enough to let us in. Besides, Latham’s murder was gruesome. I’m sure the killer would do it again in a heartbeat. The more people who know about what we’re doing, the better off we are. The bogeyman can kill off Latham and Moreau, he can even try to whack us, but he can’t kill off an entire police department.”

TWO HOURS, SIX galleries, and no significant information later, they stood in front of the Chase Goddard Antique and Curio Gallery. The sun was out in full force, the temperatures in the high thirties, which meant melting snow and ice off the eaves and rooftops. Dripping water created puddles on the sidewalks. The gallery was on a side street off the main drag of Newbury, in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house that featured plaster molding, a big picture window, and a green-and-white-striped awning over the doorway. On the left side was a bakery with a few inside tables for coffee and a snack, and on the right was a linens store specializing in lace and embroidery.

Since it was only two-thirty, they had time before the interview. They elected to sit in the bakery rather than the car, which was beginning to smell a little dank and rank. The bakery was cute and warm and the aroma was heavenly. After ordering, they sat down and waited for their cappuccinos and snacks, neither of them speaking until the coffee came.

Decker sipped. “Man, that’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.” McAdams was still paging through the book, trying to figure out as many words as he could. “This is going to take a while.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do this right now.”

The kid looked up. “No one’s here. Besides, you told me to bring it with me.”

“Well, maybe it’s best that you put it away just in case someone has been tailing us.”

McAdams closed the notebook. “Very funny.”

“Maybe not.”

“What?” The kid dropped his voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Hyundai Accent silver van, maybe two years old. I noticed it when we left the police station in Summer Village. No front plates. About five minutes ago, I saw something very similar across Newbury Street right before we made the turn toward Goddard Gallery. I think the person spotted me looking at the car because he or she took off and unfortunately I was too far away to read the back plates.”

McAdams was quiet. “Is it the same vehicle? I mean there must be hundreds of silver Hyundai Accents.”

“I wouldn’t say hundreds.”