THE MERRITT GALLERY’S address was in the Fifties between Park and Lexington, one of the many smaller studios that occupied a glass and chrome skyscraper. Inside, it was small and spare with religious articles in cases as well as Byzantine art painted on canvas, board, or wood planks. There were several Madonna and child, the Christ babies looking very elongated and with adult features, as if the artist was astigmatic. The babies were very different from the plump Renaissance Jesus that Decker was used to seeing in museums.

A man dressed head to toe in black looked up from the desk. He was in his thirties, balding and lean, but with big arms that strained his long-sleeved T-shirt. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Jason Merritt.” Decker gave the man his card. “He’s expecting us.”

“Police?” The assistant frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“Just gathering information about icons,” Decker said. “It has to do with a thirty-year-old case that we’re reopening.”

The assistant pushed the intercom on his phone. “The Greenbury Police are here . . . Certainly, Mr. Merritt.” He looked at Decker and then at McAdams. “His office is in the back.” The assistant got up and started walking. “Are you working on the Petroshkovich icons? We’re all wondering if the case would ever be reopened.”

“It was never closed.”

“Well, I for one am glad to hear that someone’s breathing new life into it.”

“And you are?”

“Victor Gerrard.” He knocked on the door.

“It’s open.”

Gerrard opened the door.

The trio was welcomed into a small but tidy office. The art dealer was in his fifties with thinning dark hair and dark eyes. He was slight and had manicured nails. He was immaculately dressed in a pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and a red tie. Black, polished lizard skin shoes on his feet. He listened intently while Decker explained why they had come.

Afterward Merritt said, “I’m still a little confused, Detective. I don’t have anything to do with art nouveau or art deco. You should try Max Stewart.”

“I’ve already been there. Now I’m interested in learning about the Petroshkovich icons that were stolen from Marylebone, Rhode Island.”

“And what’s the connection between a thirty-year-old case of stolen Russian icons and stolen Tiffany?”

“Not much except that both of the thefts appeared opportunistic. Meaning that the thief would need someone to market the stolen items. And he’d need high-end clients. I’m wondering if you could point us in the direction of dealers who . . . may be less meticulous with the object’s ownership.”

Merritt looked at Gerrard. “You should be getting back to the gallery.”

“Of course.” Gerrard smiled and nodded. “Good luck.”

Merritt turned his attention back to the detectives. “Why exactly have you come to me?”

“Your name came up as a dealer who specializes in Russian icons.”