AFTER NUMEROUS CALLS, neither Decker nor McAdams could find a connection between Angeline Moreau and any of the New York galleries. The same was true with John Jeffrey Latham. No disappointment because Decker didn’t expect anything, but it was a procedural step that had to be done. He and Rina spent Shabbat with the kids in Brooklyn, sleeping on a pull-out sofa, while McAdams luxuriated at his grandmother’s apartment on Park. The trio left the Big Apple on Sunday evening at nine, arriving in Greenbury a little before midnight. He and Harvard had switched off driving while Rina slept in the backseat.

The colleges were beacons of light in a little dark town. As Decker drove past the campuses, he heard the punctuation of drunken shouts as party-hard students wended their ways back to the dorms. A light flurry of snow was falling, enough to use the windshield wipers. As soon as Decker pulled up in front of Tyler’s house, Rina woke up and took a quick intake of air. “How long was I out?”

“About two hours,” Decker said.

McAdams opened the passenger door and in came a gush of cold air. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Old Man. Have a good night, Mrs. Decker.”

“You too, Tyler.” Rina got out of the car and moved to the front seat. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep. Now my schedule will be all messed up.”

“Maybe you needed sleep after caring nonstop for your grandchildren.”

“Isn’t that the truth? There’s a reason for having children when you’re young.”

“You are young, especially compared to me.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “Your mother is ninety-three. You have many more years on this planet . . . if you don’t wear out your engine with homicide cases.”

“I hear you.” Decker parked in front of his house and killed the engine. Outside was deadly silent. “We’re going up to Summer Village tomorrow. I’m hoping the detectives had better luck with Latham because I’m not getting anywhere.”

“You can’t just call them?”

“I’ve already called them. They don’t tell me anything over the phone. I need a face-to-face. I’ve got an appointment with Chris Mulrooney. After him, I want to start looking into some of the Boston galleries since New York was a bust.”

“Are they open on Monday?”

“Some of them are. The one I’m interested in, isn’t open usually, but I have an appointment.”

“So you really think the murders have to do with the art theft?”

“Right now, it’s the only thing I have to go on.”