“Not worth stealing,” Rina said.

“No one thinks that Goddard was actually stealing. We were just wondering if Goddard was buying hot merchandise. And if he was purchasing stolen items, it probably makes sense for him to buy things that don’t attract that much attention . . . like cheap prints.”

“I agree.” Rina stared out at the barren landscape. Nothing seemed suspicious. But would she even recognize “suspicious”? “Even if Goddard is buying small items of hot property, it’s certainly not worth murdering over.”

“Unless he’s trying to keep his reputation unsullied, except that heretofore it had already been sullied.”

“Even if he did pay Moreau and Latham a few bucks for stolen art prints, you certainly can’t amass designer bags with a couple hundred extra bucks.”

“Right.” McAdams sat back and sipped coffee. This morning he had removed the sling from his arm and felt better with the freedom of motion. It still hurt, but he could move it and his balance was much better. Within a few days, he’d probably be on crutches. “No offense, but I think your husband is on the wrong track. I think this is a total waste of time.”

“Not that I’m defending Peter, but he’s more right than wrong. If he thinks the library needs to be checked out, I’m not going to argue.”

“I know he’s trying to tie Moreau to something more than Tiffany windows, but I still can’t see her being a mover and a shaker in the nefarious world of looted art. Maybe her murder had nothing at all to do with the stolen panels. Her ex-boyfriend was pretty shaken when she dumped him. He followed her to Boston and even went by John Latham’s apartment. I know he had an alibi for both murders, but friends lie for one another all the time.”

“Was it just one person who alibied him?”

“No, it was several people who saw him. And he was in class like he said. But no one can perfectly account for every minute of his day. And people get the time wrong.”

Rina said, “Peter feels that some foreign entity is involved.”

“The Russian mafia.” McAdams rolled his eyes. “Even if I agreed with him on that end, what would that have to do with Chase Goddard and a few stolen prints?”

Rina went silent. Then she said, “Tyler, can you look up on your iPad to see if there are any rare Russian books that have an auction history?”

“That’s a thought.” He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

Schultz had returned and that made Rina feel a lot better. She said, “All’s quiet.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

McAdams said, “There is a book by D. A. Rovinski—five books actually published in St. Petersburg, 1881. Russkie Narodnye Kartinki better known as Russian Folk Pictures. They sold for auction in 2013 for 11 million rubles. And that would convert to . . . wow, that’s surprising . . . 315,500 dollars.” He continued typing. “God, the prints are gorgeous. Want to take a look?”

“Love to.” She looked as he swished through the images. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yes, they are,” McAdams said. “I’m assuming that is a very, very rare book and not the kind of thing that would be sitting around Rayfield Library collecting dust.”

“Unless the library doesn’t know what they have.”

“That’s why you have a reference librarian. She should know her inventory.”

“It’s worth a shot to ask her,” Rina said. “What else goes for big money?”

“Books by Pushkin . . . Eugene Onegin . . . okay, this sounds interesting. A book commemorating three hundred years of Romanov rule, published during the diamond jubilee in 1913. This one went for . . . roughly 115,000 dollars. At least these books are in the vicinity of worth killing over.” A pause. “I don’t really see Chase Goddard dealing in them. Maybe Jason Merritt.”

“Does it say anything about who owned the books and who bought them?”

“Nope.” His eyes were still on his pad. “I don’t believe this! Son of a bitch!” He looked up. “Sorry.”

“What?”

“Nikolai Petroshkovich . . . a signed copy of his History of Iconography with original prints of his designs and works. One of twenty original editions. Two hundred pages, forty plates published in 1926 . . . 4 million rubles three years ago, which was, hold on . . . 115,000 dollars.”

“Petroshkovich?”

He winced. “Yes.”

“So maybe Peter’s not so far off.”

He exhaled. “Maybe not.”

“How far is Marylebone from here?”

“About an hour.”

“Where’s the nearest big reference library in Marylebone?”

“In Rhode Island, I’d say Brown, but we’re almost as close to Marylebone as Providence. And there are a slew of other colleges in between.”

“Okay,” Rina said. “When did Petroshkovich live?”

“I will tell you in a moment . . . 1889 to 1949.”

“He was sixty when he died?”

“Fifty-nine . . . hold on . . . he did the Marylebone iconography in 1938, but he also did a lot of other work in and around New England. His icons at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone was considered his pinnacle.”

“So he was somewhat famous when he died?”

“He was pretty well known. If his book is going for 115 grand four years ago, you could only imagine what the icons would be worth today.”

“Worth dying over?”

“More than a Tiffany.”

“You said he worked in and around New England. Where did he live?”

“Hold on . . . Wowzers!” McAdams exhaled. “Good call, Rina. His workshop was in Bellingham, which is ten miles away from the Five Colleges.”

“So if you’re well known, older, and sick—and you want to leave copies of legacies in the form of your book somewhere . . .”

“Certainly worth asking about.” McAdams put down his cup. He turned to Schultz. “Would you mind wheeling me into the bathroom? Once inside, I can take it from there.”

“I’ll meet you guys in the library,” Rina said.

Schultz said, “How about if we all go together?”

“I can’t come in with you.” Rina laughed. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate urinals.”

“Deck says you’re good with a pistol.” Schultz smiled. “How about if you can stand guard for us?”

Again, Rina patted her purse. “Have gun will travel.”

BOSTON WAS COLLEGE in search of a city. What wasn’t past history was current academia. Large in scope as well as top dog in its field, the Harvard campus sprawled over an endless white landscape. Brick buildings from yore battled with modern architecture interspersed with long expanses of white fields. Mordechai Gold’s office was located in the Science Center—a modern-day ziggurat of glass and steel off Cambridge Street across from Harvard Yard.

Classes were in session, but there were some empty rooms with open doors, enough to see that functionality ruled over form. Institutional furniture crammed into the space, whiteboards filled with abstract formulas that meant nothing to anyone outside of the field. Gold’s office was a corner on the fifth floor. The door was ajar, but Decker knocked anyway. They were invited inside.

The space was a step back to a previous time: walnut paneling, parquet floors, Persian floor rugs, wooden bookshelves, and a view of the plaza. It was warmed by an electric fireplace as well as modern heating. An enormous ebony L-shaped desk hosted the math professor who was sitting in a tufted leather chair. He stood up: a large man in height and girth, bald except for a ring of unruly gray curls around the base of his head. Bushy gray eyebrows arched over large brown eyes. He had a full face, a full nose, full lips, and a big chin. Decker could see that Gold in his younger years would have fit the mold physically for the spooks in Virginia.

Introductions were made and hands were shaken. Then everyone settled into cushy chairs. Gold smiled. “I know you gave me a brief recitation over the phone, Detective Decker, but I’d appreciate a recap of what happened now that we’re face-to-face with everyone here.”

“How long do you have?” Mulrooney said.