Decker thought a moment. “Give Allan Sugar a call. Ask him if he’d like to go to Pretoria and check out the sign-up sheets personally.”

McAdams poured a cup of coffee. “He’s kinda old to be running around.”

“It was his case. Let’s give him the courtesy.”

McAdams took out his phone and made the call. A minute later, he hung up. “He sounded eager. Go figure.”

“I know how old cops think because I am one,” Decker said.

“It’s the jones of police work,” Oliver said. “It never goes away.”

McAdams sipped coffee. “Anything new?” Decker brought him up to date. Then Tyler said, “Interesting but not shocking. Merritt’s an art dealer.”

“Are they particularly more dishonest than anyone else?” Oliver said.

“Probably not, but they deal with rich clients. More temptation to fudge because the stakes are higher.” McAdams buttered toast. “I’d like to think I’m honest, but I’ve never been tested. Money isn’t my thing. Of course, I have a lot of it.”

“So what’s your Achilles heel?” Oliver asked. “Power? Women? Drugs?”

“I dunno. Maybe power. How about you?”

“Women.”

“What about you, Old Man? Are you corruptible?”

“I’d have to think about it, Harvard.”

“What about your family? Would you protect them if they did something illegal?”

“I suppose it depends on what they did.”

“Would you turn them in if they murdered someone?”

“If it was premeditated, yes. Even if it wasn’t, I still think I’d do it. Going to the police is usually the best option, as long as you go in with a great defense lawyer.”

“Hedging your bets.”

“Just using the law to my advantage. What about you, Oliver? Would you turn your sons in for murder?”

“Probably, but I couldn’t swear to it. The one thing I’ve learned being a cop for all my life: justice isn’t black and white.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Decker said. “I remember once when Cindy was around sixteen. She wound up at a twenty-four-hour drugstore at three in the morning with her friends. She wasn’t supposed to be out that late. Neither my ex-wife nor I would have known about it except unfortunately for her, the store was robbed. The cops took statements of everyone there.”

“Poor kid,” McAdams said.

“Yeah, her cover was blown. We were both pretty damn pissed. Anyway, the case was handed over to a robbery detective who called up my ex-wife and asked her if Cindy could make a statement. My daughter lived with her mom. When Janet didn’t answer him right away, the detective—who didn’t know he was talking to a cop’s ex-wife—said if it was his daughter, he wouldn’t let her do it. So Janet said no and that was that. She called me later in the day, which was very unusual. She never called me for any reason other than money. She must have been sorely conflicted. She actually asked me if she did the right thing.”

“What’d you say?” McAdams asked.

“I said I agreed with her decision. First of all, it was a done deal so why make her feel bad even if she is an ex-wife. Second, I probably would have done the same thing. I know what these trials can be, the tolls that they can take on the psyche.”

“But then you’d never make a case if everyone refused to testify,” McAdams said.

“You’re absolutely right. If Cindy had been an adult, she could have decided for herself. But she was still a minor, and therefore it wasn’t her decision. All I can say in my defense is that with matters of personal safety, it’s family first.”

IT WAS HARD to tell the predominant emotion: outrage, anger, embarrassment, condescension, absurdity: Jason Merritt exhibited them all. Today he wore a black suit, blue shirt, and no tie with black ostrich boots on his feet. Russian art apparently did very well.

“Your accusations are monstrous,” Merritt snorted.

Decker tapped his toe and let the words hang in the air. Rina was wheeling McAdams through the gallery rooms, looking at the art. Oliver stood in the background. No sense ganging up on the guy. Decker said, “You’ve never dealt in books or plates at any point in your career?”

“I’ve already answered that question.”

“Even something as valuable as the Petroshkovich book?”

“Oh my God, how many times are you going to plow the same ground?”

Oliver broke in. “If someone offered you a good deal on the Petroshkovich, you wouldn’t buy it?”

“I don’t deal in rare books!”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Oliver said. “There’s a stack of books on the front table.”

“Those aren’t rare books,” Merritt sniffed. “Those are current art books on the subjects I represent. I give them out to my clients as reference material.”

Decker was scribbling in his notepad, more to look busy than anything else. “And no one has ever offered you the Petroshkovich book or any plates from it.”

“That is correct.”

“But you do know that Petroshkovich had left one of his copies to Rayfield Library and it was coowned with Pretoria College in Rhode Island.”

“More repetition, Detective?”

“It’s a habit, Mr. Merritt.” Decker pointed to McAdams. “We’re dealing with very serious stuff.”

Merritt lowered his voice. “I’m sorry for what happened to him. But to come in here and accuse me—”

“We’re not accusing anyone,” Oliver said. “Just gathering information.”

“Those charges you mentioned are decades old!”

“They are,” Decker said. “But because of what happened, we’re investigating everything. So please bear with us. So the last time you looked at the Petroshkovich book in the library was over two years ago.”

“At least two years ago.” Merritt had lowered his voice.

“At Littleton or at Pretoria?”

“I’ve been to both colleges, but I’ve not been to either recently. Look, I don’t know how many times I have to say this. Despite that charge, I don’t deal in stolen art. I pleaded a nolo contendere on the advice of my lawyer because I was in a no-win situation with a horribly aggressive man. I should have fought harder. But at the time, I just wanted this terrible chapter in my life to go away.”

“So why didn’t you just return the money?”

“I did return the money. He sued me anyway! And once he claimed fraud, it became a criminal charge and took on a life of its own!”

“And you won’t tell me who it was?”

“I’d love to give you his name. But I won’t as a matter of principle.”

“We can check court records.”

“You can’t. Everything was sealed at the settlement. He was a horrible man. He did it to spite me. And, may I add, it took him forever to return the piece back to me.”

“Did you give him the money right away?”

“There were some expenses that were incurred like shipping and insurance. I should have just absorbed everything but he made me mad.” Merritt shook his head. “Suffice it to say, it was an expensive lesson. Now, I don’t deal with anyone without references.”

“He was a walk-in?”

“A Russian national with a big wallet.” He waved Decker off. “I don’t want to talk about it other than to say that I’ve had the piece authenticated by three separate dealers. But it’s not for sale. It’s hanging in my living room as a reminder of carelessness.”

Rina wheeled McAdams over to Decker. “Lovely pieces,” she said. “I noticed you wrote a book on icons. Can I buy it?”

Merritt said, “I’ll give it to you.” He looked at Tyler. “I’m sorry about what happened. That’s terrible.”

McAdams shrugged. “I consider myself lucky.”

“Is there anything else?” Merritt asked.

“Actually, yes.” When Merritt groaned, Decker said, “I believe you when you say that no one offered you any plates.”

“Does that merit a thank you?”

“Merit from a Merritt,” Oliver said. When the dealer looked at him, he said, “If I’m joking, it means you’re probably off the hook.”

Merritt looked at Decker. “Go on.”

“Is it possible that one of your employees might be doing some shady business on the side?” When Merritt appeared stunned, Decker said, “Who in your employ would have access to your client list?”