McAdams smiled. “We’ve got time.”

Rina said, “I’d love to hear it.”

Susan checked her watch. “Very briefly, Pretoria had some financial difficulties. And Littleton, being the newest college here, didn’t have the largest of endowments. The book was given to Rayfield from Huntington Library because it was an art book and as sort of a welcome present. But Rayfield was still wanting for funds. This was years ago before the icons were stolen.” She rolled her eyes. “It was agreed that one of the books would be sold and the proceeds would be split between Pretoria and here. They couldn’t get away with that today!”

“Who bought the book that was sold?”

“The buyer was anonymous. But it was rumored that the book went overseas.”

“To Russia?” McAdams asked.

“Who knows, but that would be logical.” Susan’s eyes were outraged. “Let me check on the one copy we have left.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” McAdams’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “It’s from the Loo.”

Rina grinned. “Since when did you start calling Peter the Loo?”

“It’s what Oliver calls him. I kinda like it. Anyway, they just finished up with Professor Gold and he and Oliver are on their way back. And Gold says hello.” McAdams stowed his phone. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know who I am.”

Rina looked him in the eye. “Where did all the arrogance go, Tyler? I miss it.”

He smiled. “Getting shot is a humbling experience. But fear not. I’m sure when I’m up and about I’ll be my old obnoxious self.”

“I’m sure Professor Gold does remember you.”

“I dunno, Rina, I was pretty forgettable . . . quiet, believe it or not. I was only in the PC because of my legacy of my grandfather. Not because of my charm.”

“PC? As in personal computer?”

McAdams laughed. “Porcellian Club . . . it’s a final club.”

“I . . . don’t know what that is, Tyler.”

“It’s like an exclusive fraternity. We don’t have a lot of Greek at Harvard, we have clubs instead. They’re also called eating clubs because meals are served. The Porcellian Club, better known to those who hate us, which is almost everyone, is sometimes called the Pig’s Club not because of its all-male members—although the appellation certainly fits—but because the club’s tradition is to roast a whole pig.”

“Not many Orthodox Jews in the mix?”

“Nary a one who’d admit it.” McAdams slowly stood up in front of his wheelchair, supporting himself on one leg and a cane.

Rina knew better than to try to help. “Getting a little numb?”

“My butt is frozen. It feels good to be upright even if I am a little off-balance.” McAdams took out his iPad and began to punch in topics using Safari. A minute later, he spoke in a whisper. “Ach, this isn’t getting anywhere.”

“What?”

“Trying to locate a book that was sold years ago.”

“We could try the archives of Pretoria.”

“It might be worth a trip.” McAdams checked his watch. “It’s taking a while, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is and this section of the library is small.”

“Something’s amiss.” McAdams continued to play with his iPad. Five minutes later, Susan came back with a wooden box and white gloves. “I don’t know how this happened, but it was misplaced.” She handed them each a pair of white gloves and a cloth to set the book on while turning the pages. “I can only loan this out to you for two hours. And you can only look at the book at the tables here. You cannot take it anywhere else in the library.”

“We understand.” Rina donned the gloves.

“I’m not done.” Susan stopped herself. “You have to sign up for it.”

“Already done,” McAdams said.

“That was the general sign-up sheet. On a book this rare, we have a specific sign-up sheet. Your name, your official ID number . . . I suppose you can use your driver’s license or badge number . . . and your time in, and the book you are looking at—title and author, please.”

McAdams smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Both McAdams and Rina inked the sheet. Then Susan pulled out a large lockbox of index files. “Let’s see . . . Petroshkovich . . . ah, here we are. You both also have to sign the index cards for the book. One for each of you. That way we can keep track of who’s checking out rare books with art plates . . . precisely why I told you that I’d be shocked if you two found something missing. We’re very careful.”

Rina and McAdams exchanged glances. The thought came to both of them at the same time. Rina said, “You’re the one who has the badge. Go for it.”

McAdams said, “So . . . that means you have the names of everyone who has ever looked at the Petroshkovich book?”

“Not everyone.” Susan shuffled through the cards. “These currently date back . . . three years ago. The rest have been archived.”

“Can I see them—the index cards?”

Susan paused. “I don’t know if I can show them to you.”

“Ma’am, it’s a murder investigation.” No one spoke. “Please don’t make me go get a warrant. It’s very time-consuming.”

Susan didn’t answer. Instead, she put the cards down and slid the pile across the desktop. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Thank you.” McAdams shuffled through them as fast as he could. One name gave him pause—he showed it to Rina—and then he continued on until he’d seen them all. He slid the cards back to the librarian and regarded the book box. It was custom made: around a foot by two feet. “Could you open the Petroshkovich box, please?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What’s going on?”

“Please. It’s important.”

“All right.” Slowly, she lifted the wooden lid. The actual book was in a cloth sleeve.

“Could you take it out for me?”

“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s about two people who were murdered and about someone who feels it’s okay to shoot the police. Please just do it.”

Susan flinched. “Yes, of course.” She took the book out of the sleeve. The cover was old and water stained. “What next?”

“Can you flip through the plates?”

“Detective, one doesn’t flip through plates. You turn the pages slowly.”

McAdams held his tongue. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’m sorry if I’m sounding brusque. If you’d just tell me . . .” When he didn’t answer, Susan began turning pages. When she got to the fourth plate, she paused for a moment. “This is a forgery.”

“You’re sure?” Rina asked.

“Of course, I’m sure! If you compare it side by side . . . the paper is original, but the quality is lacking.” She looked at the duo. “Of course, you suspected this.”

“We did,” Rina said.

“It must have happened at Pretoria.” She turned to the next plate, which was original. But the following two were not. “Oh my heavens! I must report this. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t have you checking this out right now.”

“We understand. And in light of what happened, we have other things we need to do right now.” McAdams tried out a smile. “Do we have to sign out?”

Susan was still in shock. “Uh . . . yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m floored. How did this happen? How did you know?”

Neither answered. They both signed out and slowly, Rina helped McAdams back into the chair while Susan watched. She said, “You must think I’m terrible . . . upset by a book when you’ve suffered so much. I am very sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” McAdams said. “There are two dead bodies out there. I’m the lucky one. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rina pushed him to Schultz. The guard said, “That didn’t take too long.”

“Something’s come up,” McAdams said. “We need to set our priorities elsewhere.”

“You handled Mrs. Devry very graciously, Detective,” Rina said.

“Wow. I never thought I’d hear gracious and me in the same sentence.”

Rina laughed. Schultz said, “So where to?”

“The hallowed dormitories. Specifically Elm Hall.”

DECKER HADN’T SPENT this much time in a car since his patrol days. On the road again, this time to New York City with the kid sitting shotgun while Oliver, Rina, and Schultz were squished into the backseat. It was five in the evening, traffic was terrible and everyone, except Rina, was tired and grumpy. She had the most reason to be in a bad mood. She was in the middle seat, but as usual she seemed oblivious, soldiering on with pleasant conversation that was answered with grunts.