“What do you think?” Decker asked McAdams.

“Don’t like Goddard for the fence,” McAdams said. “The plates are too valuable to be sold as pretty works on paper. You need someone who specializes in Russian art.”

“Jason Merritt?” Decker asked.

“Kind of small stuff for him,” McAdams said. “I called him to ask about some items on his website as a prospective buyer for a fictitious museum. Like everything else in art, not all icons are alike. Some very old icons sell in the thousands. His icons are in the hundred-thousand-dollar range because they are very old and in very good shape.”

Oliver said, “Do you know if he deals in rare books?”

“No, I don’t know,” McAdams said. “Nothing like that is on his website.”

“But if something came his way?”

“The Petroshkovich book is worth about a hundred thousand intact. A single plate would be worth much less. I don’t see him selling anything like that. He’d have to know the plate was stolen.”

“Not even once?” Rina asked.

McAdams thought a moment. “He prides himself on being a reputable art dealer. Why would he buy a single plate or even two or three? He’d be risking everything to make a few bucks.”

“I still want to talk to him,” Decker said.

Rina said, “Even if Merritt doesn’t sell individual art plates, maybe someone in his gallery has a side business.”

McAdams raised his eyebrows. “That’s a thought.”

“I get them every once in a while,” Rina said.

“What about the guy who works there? Victor Geronimo or something like that?”

“Victor Gerrard.” Decker turned to Rina. “Want to come with us tomorrow, darling? You can assess Gerrard while we talk to Merritt.”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing to do.” Rina shook her head. “Other than luxuriate in this fabulous place.”

Decker said, “Let’s keep Schultz at the apartment, guarding Mrs. McAdams. Unless Oliver would like the job?”

“It’s tempting but since you asked me out here to help, I might as well deliver.”

Rina said, “What specifically would you like me to do?”

“Just be a good distraction.”

McAdams smiled, “No offense to Rina’s beauty, but in this case, I think I may be a better distraction.”

“Already thought of that and that’s why you’re coming, too.” Decker shrugged. “You can’t tell with these art dealers so I might as well cover all bases.”

CHAPTER 32

MULROONEY SAID, “WE found Latham’s storage bin.”

Decker switched his cell to the other ear. “That’s amazing!” It was eight in the morning and he only knew it was Tuesday because of his watch. The days seemed endless and he needed something external to keep him grounded. He was finishing his continental breakfast of orange juice, tea, and a croissant and jam when he got the call. The table was set with fine china. He was balancing a scalloped coffee cup with one hand and the phone with the other. He tried not to drop anything. “What’s inside?”

“That’s the bad part. The place had been cleaned out except for one lone key.”

“A key?”

“Yes, a key.”

Decker sighed. “I already know the answer but any idea what it’s for?”

“I wish. No identification other than the lock is a Schlage. But it wasn’t randomly left behind. It was jammed into a corner and taped to the wall. If Latham was dealing in stolen art, I’m thinking he took his hot merchandise elsewhere.”

“He probably knew that the police had found out about the forgeries. Maybe Angeline saw us poking around the crypt. Or maybe the tip came from another person. I’m betting the key is another storage bin and that puts us back to square one.”

Mulrooney said, “Except that we do have a key. But why hide it in an empty storage bin? Why not in a safe-deposit box?”

Decker said, “If he got caught, we’d look for a safe-deposit box. But if we found out about his storage bin, we’d look and find it empty and we’d have nothing. Your guys did good to find it.”

“Be even better if we found a bin with the art,” Mulrooney said.

Decker said, “If he rented another a storage bin, we’ll find it.”

“We’re doing the paper trail. Nothing yet but we’ll keep at it.”

“You know? Maybe this is where Angeline Moreau entered the picture. Maybe she took care of renting the bins.”

“Did you find any bills for storage rentals?”

“No. But maybe she paid cash and used an assumed name. We know that they used throwaway phones. No doubt they were careful.”

“Then she’d have a copy of the keys,” Mulrooney said. “Do you have her keys?”

“I have some of her keys. They’ve been filed as evidence. Can you send me a copy of the key you found in the empty bin? I’ll see if it matches up to anything we’ve got.”

“I’ll courier it over to Greenbury.”

“I’m not in Greenbury. I’m in New York.” Decker brought him up to date.

Mulrooney said, “Do you think Lance Terry was involved in the murders?”

“No, but something scared him away from Greenbury.”

“A shooter?”

“If it was a shooter, he’d have gone to the police. Maybe a harassing phone call or someone tailing him. All of us think he’s still hiding something. We all think that it could be that he was involved in the thefts.”

“Could be if he took a header. I’ll make a dozen copies of the keys and we can begin to search for the missing bin—if there even is one. When are you back in Greenbury so I can send you a copy to compare it with Angeline’s keys.”

“I’ll call up my captain and let him know. He’ll take care of it.”

“Good. What’s your next step?”

“Since it appears that Angeline was stealing art plates from the Petroshkovich book, I’m going to visit Jason Merritt—the dealer who specializes in Russian art. It seems a little lightweight for him, but I have to check it out. Any word from Professor Gold?”

“Nope. I’ll give him a call. Keep me informed.”

“I will. Bye.” Decker hung up, called up Mike Radar, and explained the situation.

Radar said, “So you want me to see if Angeline has an identical key on her ring. And if she does, to start looking for storage bins in our area.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll assign the hunt to Ben and Kevin. If there is a match, they’ll let you know.”

“So can you call Chris Mulrooney in Summer Village and set it up?”

“Yeah, sure. When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Tonight, hopefully.”

“Good. I’m going to Rayfield Library to pull Lance Terry’s card. While I’m there, I’ll nose around, talk to some of Terry’s pals, find out if the kid was actually threatened. We’ll trade notes later in the day. Just watch your back. No heroics.”

“I hear you.” Decker disconnected the line. Oliver came into the breakfast room: he was back to his old dapper self—pressed white shirt, red tie, black suit, and polished shoes. He sat down and picked up a slice of toast. “I could get used to this.”

“Don’t bother. It’ll only make it harder in the long run.”

“I say live in the moment. Oh, before I forget . . .” Oliver pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Courtesy of Detective Dunn. Mr. Merritt isn’t Mr. Squeaky Clean.”

Decker looked over the rap sheet. Merritt had been cited twice for drunk driving. The two incidents had been six years apart and the last one was eight years ago. Those priors weren’t nearly as interesting as the fraud charge ten years ago.

“Two years’ probation,” Oliver said. “I’m thinking that he represented something as genuine when it wasn’t.”

“But to get the charge to stick, he had to have known it wasn’t genuine.”

“He pled a nolo. But that begs the question. If the item was fake, why didn’t he just return the money?”

“Maybe he didn’t have the money to return.”

McAdams limped into the room, using a cane for balance. Oliver said, “Are you sure you should be walking?”

“I’m tired of people giving me pitiful looks when I’m perfectly healthy.” He sat down. “The reference library at Pretoria doesn’t open until nine. I left a message.”