“I didn’t say that. Just that he wasn’t as meticulous as maybe he should have been. We all slip up. We all get burned. Chase seemed to have more incidents of slipping up. I have nothing more to add. I’ve given you a starting point—several starting points. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Thanks for your time.”

But Max didn’t move. He bit his thumbnail. “The panels are still missing and now there are two murdered people. Do I have any reason to be concerned for my safety?”

Decker held up the list. “I’m just checking out art dealers who were in the Petroshkovich file. No reason it should come back to you.”

“The Goddard Gallery isn’t on the list,” Max pointed out.

“Latham’s murder took place up north. So it’s reasonable for me or Summer Village PD to check out galleries in the area.”

“I’m nervous.”

“I understand. You have security at the gallery. It might make sense to beef it up until we know more.”

“Could I ask a favor of you? Could you not come here anymore? I’ll talk on the phone but unless you have something urgent, could you stay clear of my family?”

“No problem. Thanks for your help.” Decker got up. “Maybe the next time we talk, I’ll give you good news.”

“That can be done on the telephone as well.”

They shook hands and left it at that.

Decker and McAdams walked out the door and into a blast of cold. It was five-thirty in the evening, dark, frigid, and depressing. The kid rubbed his gloved hands. “What now?”

“It’s too late to go over to the Merritt Gallery. We’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s walk back to my stepson’s apartment and go over the Petroshkovich files.”

“I see you don’t believe in cabs?”

“It’s a ten-minute walk.”

McAdams had to pick up his pace to keep up with Decker’s long stride. “Do you think he’s in danger?”

“Max?” Decker shook his head. “Not really. But if he wants extra security, why not? If anyone’s in danger, it would be us. We’re the ones stirring up the pot.”

“Peachy!”

Decker smiled. “No one forced you to join up, McAdams.”

“Greenbury is the new Mayberry. Nothing ever happens there.”

“Until it does.”

“Thank you for allaying my fears.”

Decker laughed. “I’m just messing with you, Harvard. Just about every detective I’ve ever known has retired safe and sound with a good pension. If anyone gets whacked, it’s usually the poor patrolman on a routine traffic stop.”

But McAdams remained troubled. “For the record, how often do detectives get whacked because of what they’re investigating?”

“Rare.”

“Can you quantify your answer more precisely?”

“No.”

“Have you ever gotten shot?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me it happened in ’Nam.”