McAdams said, “He still likes the Russian mob.”

“I’m just saying it feels foreign.”

“Maybe it’s a collection of looted art,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “The Gurlitt stuff is worth a small fortune. And he’s still alive and kicking. It doesn’t feel like a German crime.”

“Well, I still like drugs,” McAdams said.

“If you like drugs, then go back to the college and talk to Angeline Moreau’s friends again. Find out if she has any hint of dealing dope.”

“Uh, I’m not too mobile right now. Besides we’ve already blanked out on that one.”

“Which is why I’m still pursuing an art angle,” Decker said. “Once that’s exhausted, we’ll try drugs again.”

“Maybe it’s both . . . like drugs hidden in art shipments from Florida,” McAdams suggested.

“One thing at a time, Harvard. You and Rina go back to the reference libraries at the Five Colleges and make it a point to ensure that all the valuable books are intact. Start with Rayfield at Littleton. Since Moreau specialized in textiles, see if there are any antique print books on textiles that she might have pilfered from.”

“I agree with Deck and the art angle for what it’s worth,” Oliver said.

“I knew you were going to be trouble,” McAdams said.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, kid. I’m just saying that you have to approach it going from most reasonable to most unreasonable.”

Decker said, “Tomorrow Oliver, Chris Mulrooney, and I have an appointment to see Professor Gold. We’ll find out what he has to say if anything.”

“I thought you were going to Skype me in with that.”

“We’ll Skype you in when we know something. In the meantime, I’ll send him your regards.”

“He won’t remember me.”

“I’m not sure about that, McAdams.” Decker patted his good shoulder. “From what I’ve observed, you seem to make your mark wherever you go.”

CHAPTER 27

RINA SHOWED THE library guard her deputized license as well as her concealed weapon permit. The provost, who was accompanying them to the third floor—where Rayfield stored its reference material—gave a sniff of contempt. “Do you have to make it so obvious?”

“Would you rather I set off the metal detector with my gun?”

The man’s cheeks pinkened. He was in his forties with glasses perched on his ski slope nose. He whispered, “You have an armed officer. How much do you need?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Rina spoke softly but definitely not in a hush. “How much protection do you need after someone tried to kill you?”

McAdams bowed his head and stifled a smile.

Greg Schultz, the armed guard, cleared his throat. He was a retired mechanic in his sixties who often helped out Greenbury PD and FD when they needed extra brawn. He was built like a tractor. “We’re causing a backup line.” He unlocked the brake on Tyler’s wheelchair. “Can I take him through now?”

Quickly, the provost escorted them through the metal detector, the guard bypassing Rina’s purse. The four of them squeezed into an elevator. On the third floor, there was a long table in the corner with books of old textile photographs along with several pairs of white gloves. Natural light was provided by a window with a view to the outside quad, students milling in the snow like ants in spilled salt. The glass also let in a draft. Rina had dressed in layers. She took off her overcoat but kept on her sweater over a sweater.

The reference librarian was a young woman in her thirties with a short bob of straight blond hair and deep green eyes. Her name was Lisa Pomeranz and she recognized Tyler McAdams from his previous research foray. Her eyes tried to hide the shock at seeing him so disabled. “I read about the incident in the papers. I’m so sorry.”

McAdams tried to put her at ease. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow . . . especially snow.”

“I thought that was mailmen,” Schultz said.

“If the shoe fits . . .”

Rina said, “Any more adages, Tyler, or can we get to work?”

McAdams smiled. “I’ll be fine, Ms. Pomeranz. The bullets missed all the crucial areas so I count myself as very lucky.”

“I’m not supposed to do this, but I can get you some hot water. It’s chilly up here.”

“I wouldn’t want to spill anything,” Rina said. “Not even water. We’re fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” McAdams said.

“I’m speaking for both of us.” Rina donned the white gloves and sat down. “Thank you.”

“Anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Lisa said.

After she walked away, McAdams said, “Man, she did a one-eighty from the first time I was here.”

Schultz took up a seat that afforded him a view of the elevator as well as the staircase. “I’ll just sit here and try not to fall asleep.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Rina pulled two magnifying glasses from her briefcase and laid them on the table. Then she carefully pulled out the first reference book entitled Textiles of the Far East. It was published at the beginning of the twentieth century. Placed on the inside cover was a sign-in sheet of those who had used the book as a reference. She whispered, “Tyler, look at this.” She put the book in front of him and pointed to Angeline Moreau’s name. She had used the book six times.

“It was her thesis,” he said.

“To quote my daughter: I’m just saying.”

McAdams picked up Mid-Eastern Textiles from the Silk Route in the Fifteenth Century. He regarded the sign-up sheet. “Looks like Moreau was a busy bee.” He turned to Rina. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Simultaneously, they opened their respective books to the title page. The room fell silent except for the gentle swish of paper turning, each of them carefully studying the binding of the prints with the magnifying glass to make sure that a razor blade hadn’t done any mischief.

It was going to be a long and tedious day.

BY TEN IN the morning, Decker was on the way to the Summer Village Police Department to pick up Chris Mulrooney. While riding on the highway, he and Oliver kept a constant lookout for tails. With another set of experienced eyes, Decker could relax a tad. Being with Scott felt like home, the two in conversation that ran the gamut from the good old days to the puzzling case of present days. Drinking coffee and chomping on bagels, they exchanged ideas both logical and far-fetched. Neither had much to add from last night.

“Kid seems okay, manning up under his trial by fire,” Oliver said.

“I think he’d be a great detective. But he’s doing the smart thing and going to Harvard Law.”

“Too bad. He certainly won’t get this kind of adrenaline rush there.”

“Ordinarily this job is very banal.”

“Right now, I’d definitely take banal over retirement.”

“Send out applications. You could have your pick of any small town.”

“A good idea, better than feeling sorry for myself.” He was quiet. “I’m thinking about Florida. I don’t like the cold.”

“Want me to talk to my brother?”

“Where is Randy?”

“Miami PD. But I’m sure he could make inquiries in smaller towns. Unless you want to go big again.”

“No, not big . . . but bigger than Greenbury. Marge was real smart. Can’t get more perfect than Ventura PD. Man, it’s beautiful up there.”

“So why don’t you apply to Ventura?”

He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. We’re both in different places now. I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. I’m willing to uproot myself.”

“What about your kids?”

“They’re scattered and busy. If they want to see me, I’ll get a spare bedroom in my seaside condo that must have a pool. Certainly enough of those around in Florida.”

“You might have a problem, though,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A single man around all those widows.”

Oliver laughed. “Stand in line, ladies, there’s enough to go around.”

“Here we are.” Decker pulled into the Summer Village PD parking lot. He called up Chris Mulrooney who came bounding out five minutes later holding a briefcase. He wore a parka bomber jacket, thick denim jeans over bulky boots, shearling gloves, a knit hat, and a black scarf. Decker made the introductions after Mulrooney had slid into the backseat. He peeled off his winter wear in the hot car’s climate.