“Could you get them for me?”

“Uh, sure. I don’t know if they’re strong enough to cut the lock.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Pellman said, “I guess you’re right about that.” Slowly he headed toward a shed that sat about two hundred yards away.

“Queer old guy but then again they’re all odd over here.”

Decker turned to the kid. “Don’t interrupt when I’m interviewing. It distracts me.”

“Just trying to move things along.”

“Tyler, this is probably nothing, so it’s no big deal. But if you have a chance to investigate a real crime, you can’t rush it along. You’ll miss things. You’ve got to slow down.”

Before McAdams could respond, Pellman came back with the bolt cutters and handed them to Decker. “You want to see the crypt and the lock?”

“That would be helpful.”

Slowly Pellman took them over to the Bergman crypt, an enormous rectangular stone vault with a dome ceiling. Each of the four outside walls hosted a leaded glass window that would have lit up the interior had it been daylight. Five stone steps led down to a padlocked concrete door. No foul odors seemed to emanate from the ground, but it was so cold that everything was frozen solid including dead matter. Decker looked at the bolt cutters and looked at the thin shank of the padlock, something that teens would use on their school lockers. With a little muscle, he should be able to make a clean cut through the U-shaped metal.

Decker said, “Can I try your key just to make sure?”

“Sure.”

Decker inserted the Schlage into the key slot. He could move it a millimeter to the left and right. The insides didn’t appear to be frozen, just that the key didn’t work the lock. He handed it back to Pellman. Then he handed the cutters to McAdams. “Go ahead, Harvard.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, take a whack at it.”

McAdams threw dagger eyes, but he secured the blades of the cutter around the U-shaped metal. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay.” He pressed down hard and the lock slipped under the blades. McAdams swore.

“If you don’t get it on three, I’ll do it,” Decker told him.

“Chill, Old Man. I’ll get it, I’ll get it.”

Number three was the charm. The kid used all his muscle, the blades cut through the shank, and the lock snapped off. When McAdams started to go in, Decker held him back.

“How about if we pick up the lock from the floor and stow it in the paper evidence bag. Just perhaps there is a crime scene involved and maybe the lock has a fingerprint. And as luck would have it, I just happen to have a few bags in my pocket.” Decker handed him a small paper bag. “Or would you prefer that I pick it up, boss?”

McAdams swore, but he bent down and picked it up with his gloved hand.

Decker said, “Place it in the bag. Then you write your name, the date, the time, and the location.”

McAdams did as he was told then gave the bag back to Decker. “Only because your wife fed me.”

“And fed you well.” Decker took out a flashlight and a magnifying glass. He peered through the lens and studied the door. “No pry marks.” He pushed the door open and swept the beam across the crypt. There were a number of horizontal marble headstones in the ground, but no bodies that weren’t six feet under. Decker counted the marble tombstones. At current, the crypt was hosting ten graves with room for more. Decker handed McAdams an extra flashlight. “In case you didn’t bring one. Keep it.” He turned to Pellman. “Could I borrow your light? It’s stronger than mine.”

“You betcha.” The watchman handed him his battery pack.

“Thanks.” Decker crossed over the threshold and stepped inside. The temperature wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be. Thick walls kept out the sunlight and heat but they also kept out the extreme cold. Decker swept the beam around to get the lay of the land.

The space was as big as his current living room, around two hundred square feet, and beautifully adorned. There was carved molding on the ceiling, and jeweled stripes of iridescent colored glass tiles were inset into the walls. Each gravestone was marked by the inhabitant inside—name, beloved husband/wife father/mother, grandfather/grandmother/date of birth/date of death. Nothing unusual except that the headstones of the matriarch and the patriarch were inset with tile work—two different pastoral scenes elegantly laid out in tiny pieces of glass mosaic. He squatted down to study the artwork. McAdams kneeled next to him. Decker whispered, “Doesn’t matter now, but for the record, don’t kneel. It might mess up something. You want as little contact with the ground as possible.”

McAdams squatted. “Not only am I a solid chunk of ice, I’m gonna be sore.”

Decker ignored him. “Nice tile work, no?”

“It’s okay . . . actually more than okay. It’s done well.”

“Somebody put money into these headstones.” Decker stood up and inched the light up and across the walls until he reached the windows. They stood about ten feet above the floor. Hanging just under the dome in the upper four windows were stained-glass panels. Decker didn’t notice them when he first came in because it was dark. He illuminated each panel with his flashlight, letting the beam rest on each for a minute or so before moving onto the next one. They probably sparkled beautifully in the daylight.

“It’s the four seasons.” Decker turned to McAdams. “See, that one’s winter, that’s spring, and summer and autumn.” He regarded the kid. “I think they were custom made.” He turned to Pellman. “Have those stained-glass windows always been inside the crypt?”

“For as long as I’ve been here and even before.”

Decker turned to the kid. “What do you think?”

McAdams shone his light on the four panels. “My mother has some Tiffany lamps. I’m not saying they are Tiffany, but it looks like good quality.”

“Agreed,” Decker said.

“You do know that the company made stained-glass windows for religious purposes.”

“Go on.”

“Just that the studio made a lot of devotional items for churches and synagogues. Do you know Manhattan at all?”

“Not too well.”

“There’s a famous synagogue on Fifth Avenue that has an original Tiffany. As does the Portuguese synagogue on the west side.”

“Courtesy of your ex-Jewish girlfriend?”

“You have a honed mind, Old Man. The studio also made windows for wealthy people’s mausoleums. So if they were real, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Could you tell if those are Tiffany or not?”

“Not at this distance. You could look for a signature, but that can be forged. It happened all the time. Mostly you tell by quality.”

Decker turned to Pellman. “Do you have a ladder?”

“Not on me, but I can get you a ladder.”

“Thank you. That would help.”

“Be right back.”

After he left, McAdams said, “Why in the world are you climbing up there? Are you that bored with the job?”

“Harvard, it always helps to get up close and personal. I’ll do the climbing, you just hold the ladder.” The two men didn’t speak. McAdams was fidgety. Decker said, “You okay?”

“Kinda creepy in here.”

“Yeah, cemeteries are a little spooky.” Decker paused. “Not this place, though. Someone took the time to make it pretty.”

Pellman came back with the ladder. “Here you go.”

Decker handed him his big, bulky battery pack flashlight and took his smaller light. He started climbing toward the windows. “Guys, shine the lights on the window, okay? I want to see them up close.”

The two men focused the light on the “autumn” stained-glass window. It was about fourteen by twenty inches in size and was hanging from two chains that were hooked into the ceiling.

“Is there a signature,” McAdams shouted.

“What kind of signature should I look for?”

“Tiffany Studios . . . something like that.”

Decker was face-to-face with the artwork. He shone his light through the colored glass. He wasn’t an expert, but it looked pretty good to his eye. It took him a few seconds to find the signature: Tiffany Studio. New York.