“Are you doing that on purpose or do you like to see me sweat?”

“I’m sure it was a coincidence. But two people are dead so I thought I’d mention it, in case we see the van again.”

“Right.” McAdams sipped coffee. “Your eyes. They’re never in one place for long unless you’re trying to spook someone. Do they teach you that at detective school?”

“My suspicious nature is all my own doing. It has served me well.”

“I know I’ve asked you this before but should I be worried?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Tyler. You said you’re in it for the long run, but if you wanted to walk, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“No, I don’t want to walk. It’s just getting interesting.” McAdams bit his lower lip. “What should I be looking for, Decker? What makes you suspicious?”

“Things that repeat themselves . . . like seeing the same car or the same guy. Also, things that don’t belong. In a small town, that’s a little easier, but harder in the big city. And then there are the basics. I lock my doors and pull down my shades and always give a twice-over before I leave my house or my car. Like I said, detectives are seldom whacked. But seldom isn’t never.”

“We live in Bumblefuck, USA. How can this happen?”

Decker smiled. “You know what they say about good things coming in small packages. Sometimes big-city bad things come to very small towns.”

CHASE GODDARD COULDN’T figure out what to do with his hands. First he clasped them together. Then they dropped by his side. Finally he elected to shove them into his tweed jacket patch pockets. He was in his fifties with a long face, short blond hair, blue eyes, thin lips, and a Roman nose. Under his jacket he wore a pastel blue V-neck sweater over an open-collar white shirt, and he had on dark trousers and black boots. His nails were clipped short and his left hand sported a gold wedding band. Goddard continued to fidget. Maybe it was the lack of space. The three of them were standing, crammed into his office, a small room with a chair, a desk, and piles of paperwork.

“John Latham?” Goddard thought about the name for a decent amount of time. “No, I don’t know him.” A beat. “I certainly don’t know the name.”

“What about Angeline Moreau?” Decker asked.

Again, he didn’t speak right away. “No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”

“She is our murder victim,” Decker said. “Latham’s case belongs to Summer Village. We think the two of them were working together on something illegal and were murdered because of it.”

Goddard winced. “And you’re from . . . where again?”

“Greenbury, New York.”

“Ah, near the Five Colleges.”

“Yes. Do you have any association with the colleges, Mr. Goddard?”

“No, no, but of course I’ve heard of them. They’re quite respectable.”

“But they’re not Harvard,” McAdams said.

Goddard said, “There are other universities, Detective.”

“Not to me.”

The art dealer paused. “You’re a Crimson man, I take it.”

“Graduated almost four years ago.”

“And you’re working as a policeman?”

McAdams simply shrugged. “There’s a real world out there that Harvard chooses to ignore.”

Goddard raised his eyebrows. “I was in Harvard ages ago, when there was still a Radcliffe. As a matter of fact, I was there when it went co-ed.”

“Seventy-seven,” McAdams said. “My father had just started law school. James McAdams.”

“James McAdams . . . James Mc— Do you mean Jack McAdams?”

“That’s my dad.”

“Well, that does take me back. I’m sure he wouldn’t know me. Your father was a big man not only in the law school but in general.” A pause. “What’s he doing now?”

“He was in law. Now he fills his time by managing his inherited fortune from my grandfather. It seems to be a full-time job.”

“Oh . . . right.” Goddard colored slightly. “I know this sounds terribly crass, but if he’s interested in buying or selling . . .”

“I’ll pass the word on.”

He gave Decker a forced smile. “Anything else?”

“I do have a few more questions.”

Goddard sighed. “Can I interject something?”

“Of course.”

“You know Summer Village has a high homicide rate. It’s not unusual for murder to take place in that area.”

“The homicide of a visiting lecturer is not routine for them. And the murder of a college student in Greenbury is not routine for us. Neither are art thefts.”

“Tell me again what happened?”

Decker bit his lip. The guy didn’t need a recap, but he gave it to him anyway.

Goddard tented his hands. “So from a small break-in at a local mausoleum, you’ve constructed this . . . art theft ring that you think is responsible for two murders?”

“We haven’t constructed anything, Mr. Goddard. We’re just trying to make sense of what happened.”

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you. I don’t deal in stolen art.”

“You deal in antiques. You must get people trying to sell you things.”

“I do and most of what is brought to me is worthless.”

“But not all.”

“I get the occasional gem. And I do my best to make sure the piece is genuine and the ownership is flawless. And that is why most of what I buy is from private clients and estates. Over the years, I’ve worked very hard to establish a list of people who stay with me because I’m as fair and competitive with anyone out there.”

“Fortes fortuna adiuvat,” McAdams said.

Goddard smiled. “Well, fortune certainly doesn’t appear ex nihilo.” An awkward moment of silence. He took his hands in and out of his pockets several times. “My business is strictly on the up-and-up. I wouldn’t deal with scum because it is not only dishonest, but it’s also bad business practice. In this field, all you have going for you is your knowledge and your reputation.”

“You’ve never accidentally bought something with a less than a perfect provenance?”

Goddard made a sour face. “If you’d look around the gallery, you would see that there are a variety of objects from inexpensive to very expensive. I work hard to check out provenance but if some youngster comes in with a piece of Meissen and tells me it’s from his grandmother’s attic, I might not go through the provenance as rigorously as if he had brought me a . . . Thomas Moran or Frederic Church for instance. Now if that same youngster came in a day later and brought in a piece of Daum and a day later, brought in a piece of Hester Bateman silver, I would be suspicious. The pieces have no relevance to one another and the piecemeal sale would make me think, he’s stealing. I’ve been in this business a long time. You know what’s legitimate and what isn’t.”

“You had a gallery in New York, didn’t you?”

The dealer huffed. “I’m sure you know I did. And I’m sure you know that I didn’t have a lot of success. And that was because I was attacked by a hateful campaign started by some unscrupulous dealers. Their venal little clique isn’t open to anyone else unless you pay homage to them. I refused to play the game and they spread vicious rumors. I’ve never ever done a deal mala fide. Anything else?”

“What can you tell me about the Petroshkovich icons?”

“Good Lord, that happened years ago.”

“It did. Have you ever dealt in icons?”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything. Just asking a question.”

“Then I’ll ask you one. What do you have to do with the Petroshkovich case?”

Decker said. “It’s an unsolved art theft case. And like our theft, it happened in a small town. The items were stolen from a church, not from a museum: easy pickings and the thieves knew exactly what they were looking for.”

Goddard was quiet. Then he said, “Icons are a specialized item. You should talk to Jason Merritt in New York.”

“We have. He says he doesn’t know anything about the theft.”

“I’m sure he would say that.” A pause. “Did . . . Jason sic you on me?”