Mulrooney patted his leather valise. “Got a copy of the codebook right here. We can follow along with the professor.”

Decker pulled out several sheets of paper. “The kid has been looking at it for the past three days. He’s been counting phrases and is using them to plot a frequency chart. Not that he knows for certain if the phrases correspond with letters but he figured it was a good start.”

Mulrooney’s eyes scanned over the deciphered words. “How’s he feeling?”

“He’s laid up in a wheelchair but I’ve got him working in the library.”

“It’ll do him good to work.” Murooney stowed the papers in his briefcase. “We’ve been going through Latham’s papers, trying to locate things that might be opened from that janitor ring of keys we found. No local storage units yet. And the keys that open safe-deposit boxes aren’t local either. His local bank had two hundred and fifty-six dollars, forty-eight cents in a check deposit. Two credit cards with small balances. He had a bundled account for cable and Wi-Fi. No landline. Utilities and rent were paid up every month. Didn’t seem to splurge on himself except for the occasional restaurant and bar bills. We checked them out. The ones who do remember him said he was just a regular guy. We did pass around the picture of Angeline Moreau. Couple of bartenders thought that she looked familiar but they couldn’t be sure. They certainly couldn’t put her with him at a specific time.”

“That’s too bad.”

“They do remember Latham often chatting up the ladies, but not being obnoxious about it. He was okay just being a guy, watching the Celts and the Patriots on the screen with the locals. He owned his car. To me, he’s suspicious because he was so unsuspicious. For a guy who was murdered so brutally, he was trying to keep his outward appearance squeaky clean.”

“Did his colleagues have anything to add?”

“Nope. Just a typical visiting lecturer. He shared an office with four other lecturers but they rarely see one another because their schedules are different. One of the gals I spoke to said she doesn’t even work there because the space is so small. She works at home and only uses the shared space for posted office hours with her students. People don’t remember him hanging around the campus too much. But everyone I spoke to about Latham did say he was very knowledgeable about his field, which was . . .”

Mulrooney flipped through his notes.

“Here we go. The official title is History of Art and Propaganda in the Soviet Union. It was an upper-division class for majors in art, history, and art history; and he had forty students, which is a very big number. We’ve interviewed almost all the students and have come up empty. If the codebook doesn’t tell us something, we’re shooting in the dark. And that’s really making all of us nervous after what happened to you guys down there.”

Oliver said, “Deck thinks we’re dealing with foreign criminals.”

“Yeah, even stupid people usually don’t take out detectives. And when they do try, it’s usually to prevent testimony. Somebody clearly doesn’t know the rules.” Mulrooney hesitated. “Which foreign country? Are you thinking Russia because of Latham’s specialty?”

“Yes, exactly,” Decker said. “Latham’s takeout was very surgical. Maybe it’s not even the Russian mob. Maybe it’s Russian spooks.”

“That would be very bad,” Oliver said.

“It certainly would mean we’re over our heads. But I don’t have anything to go on other than a queasy feeling.”

“This is making me very, very nervous,” Mulrooney said.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Decker said. “But I’m not about to back off before I find out why someone wanted me dead. Maybe the answers will be in the codebook.”

No one spoke for a minute. Then Mulrooney said, “Maybe we should take the book to Quantico. I know we don’t have anything to tell them, but we can’t figure out the code on our own and I’m nervous about involving a Harvard math professor in something so potentially dangerous.”

“I hear you, Chris, and I was thinking the same thing last night. And that’s why I called Gold up and gave him a brief rundown over the phone. I told him about what happened to me and McAdams. I told him he may be setting himself up for trouble by getting involved. You know what he said? He insisted we come up and that he’s absolutely fine with it.”

“But are we absolutely fine with it?”

“I wasn’t at all until Gold told me where he learned all about codes.”

“He’s CIA?”

“Retired CIA. I don’t think he saw much fieldwork but he did spend ten years doing codes in Virginia. He developed some of the programs way back when, that the CIA still uses for electronic hacking. And he says he can shoot, goes to the range whenever he can. But it’s your book and your call, Chris.”

Mulrooney shrugged. “I guess he’s in no more danger than we are . . . if that’s any comfort.” A pause. “If he knows what he’s getting into, we might as well talk to him.”

“That was my thought,” Decker said. “You know, Gold, Oliver, and I have one thing in common besides being over sixty. We’re all looking for action. Problem is we seem to be looking in all the wrong places.”

CHAPTER 28

AFTER COMBING THROUGH piles of the antique textile and art books with zero results, Rina suggested a break. She had been working for two hours straight and her eyes needed to rest. She—along with McAdams and Schultz—left the library and found a school café called The Hop. The place made an attempt to resemble a 1950s malt shop: red fake Naugahyde stools at a fake linoleum countertop that was even cheesier than the original cheesy decor. Rina bought coffee for the three of them and they sat in an outside patio under a heat lamp. She took out a sack lunch that she had prepared for Tyler and herself, but there was certainly enough to go around in case Greg Schultz hadn’t brought his own food.

During the first five minutes, the gang ate in silence. Tyler took out his iPad and was lost in concentration. Rina made small talk with Greg, asking him about various cars: always a good topic with guys but especially good with someone who had worked with vehicles for the past thirty years.

McAdams finally spoke. “I was looking up vintage prints and not all print books are the same in value—as if that should be a startling revelation.”

“Go on,” Rina said.

“Not surprising, it appears that the older the book, the more valuable the prints are. Prints in Basil Besler’s book published in 1613 are selling from eighteen hundred to five thousand whereas prints in Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book, published between 1799 and 1805, sell in the thousands.” He continued searching on Safari. “But Dr. John Robert Thornton’s book The Temple of Flora, published just ten years later . . . those images sell for a lot less.”

“Probably depends on the rarity of the book.”

“Yeah, of course. All I’m saying is the prices really swing and without knowing what is valuable, we’re kind of shooting in the dark with choosing which books to look at. To make it worthwhile for a thief, he’d have to steal from the expensive books, which are rare and damn near impossible to find.” He looked up at Rina. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mrs. Decker,” Schultz said. “Way better than what I packed for myself.”

“You’re both welcome.”

Schultz stood up. “I’m going to make a quick pit stop. Keep your eyes open.”

“No problem.” Rina patted her purse. “We’re fine.” After Schultz left, she said, “The prints you saw in Chase Goddard’s gallery. How much is he asking for them?”

“I can tell you in a minute.” McAdams clicked away on his pad. “They’re priced between a hundred and three hundred each. I should really put his inventory as a favorite place.”

“What about his vintage books?”

“He doesn’t have that much inventory. He has a Swann’s Way and a Chandler, The Long Goodbye, but without the dust jacket. That’s the most valuable. The rest are in double digits.”