Karen broke in. Her voice was husky. “Jim, we can ask the questions another time.”

“I want to make sure he’s competent.” Jim looked at Decker. “We’re thinking about hiring private . . . if we don’t get results.”

“Sure, if you want. I’ll coordinate with him if you do.”

“And you’re sure it’s Angeline.”

Decker clenched his jaw. “Does she have tattoos?”

“Oh God!” Karen’s eyes watered. “Yes.”

“We have some pictures.” He slid them across the table. She gasped and then broke into open sobs. Jim held her shoulders and shoved the papers back to Decker.

“I’m sorry.” When neither responded, Decker said, “I need to ask you some questions. They might be unpleasant. I’m sorry if they are.”

“What did you find out about this John character?” Jim demanded. “Is he important?”

“John Latham. You’re sure that you’ve never heard the name before?”

“No. Never. Who is he?”

“I know the bare minimum about him.” Decker blew out air. “He was murdered by the time we got to his apartment. That’s why he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh my God!” Jim hugged Karen tighter as she continued to sob. “Just what the hell is going on?”

“Has . . . has Angeline ever been in trouble before?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I told you the questions might be unpleasant. I have to ask them. Has she ever shoplifted, for instance?”

“Shoplifted?”

“Yes,” Karen broke in.

“She did?” Jim asked.

“Years ago. When she was eleven or twelve—during the divorce. She was having a hard time. Nothing since that one incident . . . actually it was two . . . two incidents. But I begged the owner to let me pay and not press charges and she was very kind about it. Two charges would have meant juvenile hall.” Karen wiped her eyes. “What mess did she get herself into?”

“I’m not positive about anything.” Decker took out his notepad. “Let me tell you what I do know. Last Friday night, one of the cemetery mausoleums was broken into. There were some items taken.”

“What kind of items?”

“Valuable stained-glass window panels. Not all of them. Two original panels were still there. But the other two panels had been forged. The forensic team found shards of glass in your daughter’s apartment—”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that,” Karen said. “When you mentioned her apartment, I thought you meant her dorm room. But then her dean told us that it happened off-campus . . . that the university wasn’t even technically responsible.”

“Passing the buck,” Jim said. “They’re all fucking weasels!”

“Jim—”

“You know it’s true. All they care about is their own asses. They are petrified we’re going to sue. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to sue someone. Somebody is to blame for my daughter’s death!”

“Who gives a damn about money,” Karen snapped.