“We know that Latham and Angeline hooked up but we don’t know how they met. Maybe at a party, maybe they met through a common fence, or maybe she began to see his name on the date stamp in every book that she razored and made a logical connection that he was also doing funny stuff. However they met, they began thieving together, storing their take in a bin that was mutually rented: both of them had keys.”

He paused.

“So that’s Latham and Angeline. Now we have Gerrard to consider. We don’t know if he’s connected, but we do know that Viktor with a ‘k’ is missing and we know that three names were deleted from Merritt’s client list—one American who sets up traveling exhibitions between top museums, one rich Russian, and one Finnish art dealer. It’s possible that Gerrard deleted the names, but we don’t know why.”

“So actually you do know a lot,” Rina said.

“Always a cheerleader,” Decker said. “The sad truth is we don’t know who killed Angeline and Latham. We don’t know who tried to take down Harvard and me. We don’t know if Gerrard is victim or perpetrator. And we don’t know anything about Latham’s codebook or if it’s even relevant to the murders.”

McAdams said, “If Gerrard was dead, we probably would have found his corpse by now. Whoever killed Latham and Angeline left the bodies in the open.”

Decker said, “You’re right, Harvard. The killer wanted to make a show of his handiwork. He was trying to impress someone.”

“Which makes Gerrard more perpetrator than victim,” Oliver said.

“Listening to all of you, I do have a question,” Rina said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Why go to all that trouble with a very complex codebook in a bunch of languages to hide things when it seems that Latham and Angeline weren’t stealing items of major value?”

Decker said, “I think in the process of stealing minor items, Latham hit on something very big that he felt was worth hiding in code.”

“Or,” Rina said, “maybe Latham and Angeline didn’t have anything worth hiding in code. Maybe the book belonged to someone else. Maybe Latham or Angeline stole it and then Lathem figured out the code and realized that he had hit on something big. Maybe Latham tried his hand at blackmail. And finally, since both of their apartments were tossed, perhaps whoever murdered them was looking to get the codebook back. And maybe that someone was Viktor Gerrard. We know he spoke a few languages. Maybe he knew other languages as well.”

The car fell silent. Then McAdams said, “You go, girl.”

Rina beamed. “You live with a guy for nearly three decades, something rubs off.”

Oliver said, “Gerrard also had access to Merritt’s contacts. I’m liking him as the bad guy.”

Decker gathered his thoughts. “The codebook was found behind a piece of paneling around the bathtub skirt where the Jacuzzi motor should have been. Mulrooney said the pipes were capped off and it was placed behind the pipes and well hidden. Latham’s place had been trashed. All the logical spots to hide the codebook had already been checked out: the freezer was open, the toilet tank top was off, a few loose floorboards were ripped off, the walls had been pierced for hiding places—”

McAdams said, “So that’s why the living room walls had those round holes punched into them?”

“Yep. They were checking for hollow spots or a safe that had been walled up.”

“Aha!” Oliver said. “You’re wondering why the killers didn’t check the Jacuzzi motor area, which is a prime stashing spot for drug dealers and thieves.”

Decker said, “They missed the Jacuzzi spot because they were foreign. They know about wall safes and floorboards and toilet tanks, but unlike we spoiled Americans, how many Russian goons have familiarity with Jacuzzis?”

McAdams said, “But Viktor Gerrard had lived in America for years.”

“He lived in New York. How many regular Joes in Manhattan have a Jacuzzi?”

“I thought he lived in Philadelphia.”

“Even if he was renting a weekend apartment in the heart of Philly, it probably wasn’t high on luxury features. I’m just saying that everywhere I turn, I see the Brown Bear staring us down.”

The car went silent.

Decker continued on. “Gerrard spoke Russian, Latham’s field was Soviet art, and one of Angeline’s last known thefts was plates from the Petroshkovich art book.” He shook his head. “This case is dealing with a different set of rules. I think it’s time we clue in Quantico. I usually don’t like multiple agencies because communication is so poor, but . . .” He threw up his hands, and then he clutched the wheel. “Maybe you’re right, Harvard. Maybe I am an Old Man or at the very least too old for this job.”

“You don’t mean that and neither do I,” McAdams said. “If you think we need help, then we need help.”

“Once it’s dropped into Quantico’s lap, we’ll have to bow out. And viewing that someone had no qualms about shooting us, that may be a good thing.”

“I agree,” Oliver said. “Retirement is boring, but you’re dead for a very long time. You took it as far as you could, Deck. I’m sure Radar will be happy to punt.”

Rina said, “Nobody could have done any better with what you were given.”

A band of cheerleaders. But it did little to calm Decker’s sense of failure. “I’d still like to know what’s in the codebook.”

“If that’s worth killing over, Peter, maybe it’s better not to know.”

“And what do I say to Angeline Moreau’s parents? Whatever happened, she didn’t deserve to die. And whatever happened, her parents deserve to know the truth.”

Decker’s phone buzzed. The call was from Radar and it immediately went into Bluetooth. “Hi, Captain, we’re two hours away.”

“So that will put you into Greenbury around one?”

“That sounds right. When we see you, we’ll update you with what’s going on.”

“Like what?”

“Some names had been deleted from Jason Merritt’s client list. Viktor Gerrard spoke fluent Russian and German. We’re thinking that maybe he was dealing art behind Jason Merritt’s back. The whole case is feeling like a foreign entity is involved.” Decker paused. “I hate to say this but I think we might have taken this as far as we can on our own.”

“Interesting to hear you say that because I just got off the phone with our friends in Virginia.”

Decker was stunned. “You called them?”

“Of course not. I’d let you know before I made a move like that.”

“My bad. So who called them?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect it was your contact at Harvard, McAdams.”

“Mordechai Gold?”

“Didn’t you say he was a former agent?”

“I did?”

“That’s what he told me when I first spoke to him, Tyler,” Decker said. “So what’s our next move, Mike?”

“It’s the CIA. What do you think happens next?”

“A meeting.”

“Three o’clock at the police station.”

“Will Gold be there?”

“Since he knows all about the codebook and called them in, I suspect he will be there. No need to feel defeated, Decker. The case would have been yanked from you anyway.”

“I suppose that is some solace. Maybe we can get some answers.”

“From the CIA?”

“Then again, maybe not.”

“Wear a suit and tie and sunglasses and try to look very officious,” Radar said. “That way, we’ll blend in very nicely.”

CHAPTER 37

CHANGE OF PLANS,” Radar told Decker over the phone. “They want to meet at your house.”

“My house?”

“Yes. They claim there are too many people to meet at the station and they’ll draw too much attention. All that is true.”

“How many?”

“Last count we’re up to eight: Dr. Gold, some Russian, an American big shot, two agents, the mayor and the lieutenant governor of the state of New York, and Chris Mulrooney, who’s already here. I don’t know what you all hit on, but it’s big.”

“Meeting at my house . . . taking over my personal space. That’s pure intimidation.”