“I’ll call you back right away.”

Ten minutes later, Decker sat back down at the table with a smile on his face after speaking to Allan Sugar. The appetizers were gone and there were no entrées as of yet. He was starved, but in too good a mood to be his usual famished, grumpy self.

“Entrées should be here soon,” Rina said. “Service is a might slow.”

“I can tolerate the slow service. But I’m a little miffed that you didn’t save me an egg roll.”

“I thought you were off fried foods.”

“I’m never consistent. You should know that by now. Good news.” Decker brought everyone up to date. “So now we have two definitive links between Latham and Moreau—the same key on both their key rings and they both checked out the Petroshkovich book—or at least Terry did it for Angeline.”

“Or maybe he didn’t do it just for her,” Oliver said.

“What do you mean?” McAdams asked.

“Ask the boss,” Oliver said.

Decker hit his forehead. “He means there is a possibility that Lance Terry was in on the thefts and now he’s scared.”

McAdams raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Didn’t you mention that he was a theater arts major?” Rina said. “As in acting?”

“Yes, I did,” Decker said. “Let’s pay him a visit right after lunch.”

“What about Gerrard?”

“It’s been about two weeks, he can wait another couple of hours.”

“Should I call Lance up?” McAdams asked.

“No. We’ll pop in. I don’t want him rabbitting. Eventually, we should check out Terry’s key ring. Maybe he has a copy of Latham’s key.”

“Like he’s going to incriminate himself in the theft?”

“If he doesn’t show us his keys, it says something,” Oliver said. “There’s a reason he’s running scared and it probably has to do with more than a few hang-up calls.”

“His alibis checked out for both murders,” McAdams said.

“He could have always hired out. He was rich enough.”

“What are you thinking, Scott?” Rina asked.

“Maybe originally Terry and Angeline had this little art theft thing going on. And then Latham comes in and not only takes over the operation, he steals the girl. So Terry cuts off his dick. ‘You cut me, I cut you.’ The Latham murder was personal.”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “This feels like something bigger than a love triangle and a few pieces of stolen art. I keep thinking about that codebook.”

Rina said, “Maybe it started as something simple and Latham made it more complicated. And that’s when the real bad guy decided to show up.”

McAdams said, “It’s crazy: a codebook, a missing storage bin, three names erased from Jason Merritt’s client book, and we’re still missing Victor Gerrard.” The kid looked around. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, this is ridiculous.” Decker got up.

“Be kind,” Rina said.

But Peter had already stalked off. Five minutes later the entrées arrived. Different types of tofu meant to simulate meat, all of it drowned in tomato sauce and covered with cheese.

McAdams picked up his fork. “It looks awful. But at this point, they could serve me dog food in a chow bowl and I wouldn’t say anything.” He speared something oozy and gave it a taste. “Not bad.” He finished chewing and turned to Decker. “While you were out talking to Radar, I looked up Alex Beckwith, Ph.D. For the last ten years, he had been trying to persuade European museums to curate a traveling Da Vinci exhibit that would eventually come somewhere in the U.S., probably the Met.”

“That sounds ambitious,” Rina said. “And unrealistic.”

“Especially now,” McAdams said. “Between Nazi-looted art and the Chabad thing that Merritt was talking about, no one is loaning anything to the United States. Everyone is afraid that the pieces will get confiscated. Beckwith’s plans have clearly hit a roadblock.” McAdams smiled. “Looks like the Mona Lisa isn’t going anywhere.”

“He was trying to bring over the Mona Lisa?”

“I was being facetious. But any painting by Da Vinci is priceless because there are so few of them.”

“So that would be worth killing over,” Oliver said.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. But even if you were bold enough and smart enough and connected enough to steal a Da Vinci, you couldn’t sell it anywhere.” McAdams was checking his notes. “I would think that Beckwith was working on something smaller in scope for an exhibition—like works on paper: also rare but not as priceless. Anyway, it’s all moot.”

“What about the other two Russians?” Decker asked. “Find anything on them?”

“Lars Dotter Hemellvich is actually Finnish. He lives in Norway and Croatia and is an art dealer who specializes in Byzantine Italian and Russian arts and mosaics. Martin Kosovsky is a Russian industrialist from Odessa.”

“What kind of industrialist?” Oliver asked.

“Oil and natural gas. I didn’t pull up much beyond that. For an oligarch, he keeps a low profile.”

“He’s an oligarch?”

“He’s very rich and he’s Russian and he isn’t Putin. Isn’t that the definition of an oligarch?” McAdams ate some mock chicken: it tasted like chicken. “I’ll delve a little deeper when I have more time. So next is Lance Terry?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “I’m hoping against odds he can lead us to Victor Gerrard.”

Rina put down her napkin. “Not my best choice of restaurants, I’m afraid.”

“It was fine,” Oliver said.

“If you like bad food and slow service, it was great.” Decker waited for Rina to punch him. Instead she just laughed. Decker kissed her cheek. “You’re a good sport. I’m always needling you.”

“That is true, but I love you anyway. Mainly because I get my way and needling is your attempt to balance the powers.” She kissed him back and regarded McAdams. “Poor Tyler. You hardly ate.”

“Not the most satisfying of meals, but maybe you did me a favor.” The kid shrugged. “Victor Gerrard may be dead and moldering. So given my track record with corpses, it’s best I don’t go hunting on a full stomach.”

CHAPTER 34

ARMS FOLDED ACROSS his barrel chest, Lance Terry was flushed and sweating. “You have no right to come down here and harass me. If my father was here—”

“If your father were here, I’d tell him that you were in danger and your best option is to talk to the police.” Decker looked around the hallway. “You already think people are following you. Who knows? Maybe someone is spying on us right now.”

The boy’s face drained of color, red to white. “Is someone following you?”

“If he is, he can see us talking. So how about if we come in? It’s a good first step.”

“Yeah . . . right.” Terry swung the door open and let the crew inside, his eyes on Rina, wondering about the new person in the mix. The place was quiet except for the distant clatter of laundry being spun in a dryer. There was a half-packed suitcase on the couch, another closed one on the floor.

Decker’s eyes went to the valise and then to Terry. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your housekeeper?” McAdams asked.

“I gave her the afternoon off.”

Oliver said, “You didn’t want her to see you packing and asking questions.”

Terry said nothing. He wore a body-hugging long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. There were hiking boots on his feet. His sandy hair swept across his damp brow.

“Where did your friend go? Livingston Sobel?”

“How should I know?” A pause. “He left last night. I suppose he went home.” His eyes refused to focus on any one spot. “Do you really think I’m in danger or is that just a pretense?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Decker said. “Obviously you think you’re in trouble. You’re packing way too much to be going back to school.”

“I’m not going back to school,” Terry said. “At least not this semester. Too much has happened.”

“What are you worried about, Lance?” When Terry didn’t answer, Decker said, “Why don’t we all sit down and you can tell us the truth.”