Oliver tapped his pencil against his pad. “You didn’t see anything?”

“As soon as I heard the noise, I locked myself in the closet.”

“Why?”

“Because Decker had spooked me with the silver van that was tailing us, and it was a good thing he did.” He looked down. “He tried to shoot the lock, but the closet is double reinforced wood and has a Medico.”

“What was in there that’s so valuable?” Oliver asked McAdams.

“I have a safe with a lot of cash.” No one spoke. “Fifty grand.”

“Whoa!” Oliver said. “That’s a lot of greenery to keep around. Maybe someone was out to rob you, son.”

“My first thought . . . until Decker showed up. Besides no one knew about the money.”

“What’s wrong with the bank?” Decker said.

“People talk around here . . . even bank tellers. I was hoping to fly under the radar.”

“It’s true,” Rina said. “People do talk.”

Oliver turned back to McAdams. “What else do you remember?”

“Not much after I got shot. Sorry.”

Rina distributed slices of the cake, licking her fingers when she was done. “So any theories as to what’s going on?”

“The whole thing sounds nutty,” Oliver said. “If you’re a professional, the last thing you want is attention from the heat. And the quickest way to bring heat on is to take swipes at police officers.”

“In America, that’s true,” Decker said. “Only stupid people try to bring down cops. Not so in foreign countries. Look at Mexico or Latin America. Gangs and cartels are always taking down cops.”

“You think this is the work of a Mexican gang?”

“He thinks we’re dealing with Russian mafia,” McAdams said. “Bratva is the local name for it.”

“Because of some stolen Russian icons?”

“The Petroshkovich icons . . . which is a thirty-year-old case, FYI,” McAdams said.

Decker said, “I think it has to do with Russian mafia because John Latham was the primary target and Latham’s specialty was Soviet art. I’ve worked what . . . three hundred homicides? This one feels foreign. These guys don’t care about cops because they’re not beholden to American law. And then when you throw in this codebook.”

“Yeah, it is kinda spy versus spy,” Oliver said.

McAdams said, “It could be a red herring—the codebook.”

“Someone went to all that trouble to produce a very complex and educated red herring?” Decker said. “I don’t think so.” He opened the manila envelope and pulled out the fax. “Marge’s report on Chase Goddard.” His eyes scanned the page. “Nothing much. A couple of DUIs in Miami.”

“He had a gallery in Florida?” McAdams asked.

“Uh . . . ten years ago . . . about two years before he moved to New York. He’s certainly hopped around.”

“So maybe we are dealing with a drug cartel,” McAdams said.

“Why do you say that?” Decker handed Oliver the fax.