“Just what I said. He was some kind of university fellow.”

“That part is true,” McAdams said. “He did win a fellowship . . . the Windsor Prize.”

Livingston shrugged ignorance. “She also told me that he was connected.”

“Connected how?” Decker asked.

“She didn’t elaborate and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t that interested. I had other things on my mind.”

“She must have told you something, Livingston,” Decker said. “Did she say he was rich, that he was political, that he had friends in high places . . . think!”

“A novel concept,” Max muttered.

“Please,” Decker pleaded. “What did she tell you about him?”

“Just that he went to Oxford and was brilliant. That he knew a lot of really rich people. When I asked her to name names, she wouldn’t do it. I thought she was pulling the story out of her butt.”

Decker thought a moment. “Do you know if Angeline ever worked in any city art gallery?”

“I don’t know.”

McAdams said, “I can make phone calls to some of the galleries.”

“Yeah, we should do that.”

Livingston said, “How was she killed?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t gotten the coroner’s report back.”

“So how do you know she was murdered? Maybe she ODed or probably drank herself to death. She binged, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So how do you know it was murder?”

“Because where we found her was definitely a crime scene.”

“God, that’s nauseating,” Max said.

Livingston put his hand to his mouth and then looked at his watch. “Can I go now? I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan and as usual, it backfired.”

Decker nodded. The kid got up unceremoniously, grabbed his coat, and was off. When he was gone, Max said, “I didn’t comport myself very well. I apologize. He gets under my skin. He gets under everyone’s skin.”

“Do you think there’s a chance that he was in on the theft? It would make a difference in how we handled the investigation.”

“Well, he came here to tell me about it. If he was in on it, I don’t think he would have done that.” He sighed. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Can you spare me an hour?”

“I need coffee and a nosh first. There’s a sandwich place around the corner.”

“I don’t want to talk in a public place,” Decker said.

“I’ll have Jill order out then.” Max rubbed his neck. “God, what a mess! And here I was worrying about a few Tiffany panels. How old was she—the girl?”

“Twenty-two.”

“God, that’s terrible. Her parents know?”

“Yes.”

“My kids are little, under someone’s care all the time.” He regarded Decker. “How do you ever let them go?”

“You pray a lot and hope for the best.”

“And you think the girl’s murder is related to the theft?”