“Nikolai Petroshkovich . . . a signed copy of his History of Iconography with original prints of his designs and works. One of twenty original editions. Two hundred pages, forty plates published in 1926 . . . 4 million rubles three years ago, which was, hold on . . . 115,000 dollars.”

“Petroshkovich?”

He winced. “Yes.”

“So maybe Peter’s not so far off.”

He exhaled. “Maybe not.”

“How far is Marylebone from here?”

“About an hour.”

“Where’s the nearest big reference library in Marylebone?”

“In Rhode Island, I’d say Brown, but we’re almost as close to Marylebone as Providence. And there are a slew of other colleges in between.”

“Okay,” Rina said. “When did Petroshkovich live?”

“I will tell you in a moment . . . 1889 to 1949.”

“He was sixty when he died?”

“Fifty-nine . . . hold on . . . he did the Marylebone iconography in 1938, but he also did a lot of other work in and around New England. His icons at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone was considered his pinnacle.”

“So he was somewhat famous when he died?”

“He was pretty well known. If his book is going for 115 grand four years ago, you could only imagine what the icons would be worth today.”

“Worth dying over?”

“More than a Tiffany.”

“You said he worked in and around New England. Where did he live?”

“Hold on . . . Wowzers!” McAdams exhaled. “Good call, Rina. His workshop was in Bellingham, which is ten miles away from the Five Colleges.”

“So if you’re well known, older, and sick—and you want to leave copies of legacies in the form of your book somewhere . . .”

“Certainly worth asking about.” McAdams put down his cup. He turned to Schultz. “Would you mind wheeling me into the bathroom? Once inside, I can take it from there.”

“I’ll meet you guys in the library,” Rina said.

Schultz said, “How about if we all go together?”

“I can’t come in with you.” Rina laughed. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I hate urinals.”

“Deck says you’re good with a pistol.” Schultz smiled. “How about if you can stand guard for us?”

Again, Rina patted her purse. “Have gun will travel.”

BOSTON WAS COLLEGE in search of a city. What wasn’t past history was current academia. Large in scope as well as top dog in its field, the Harvard campus sprawled over an endless white landscape. Brick buildings from yore battled with modern architecture interspersed with long expanses of white fields. Mordechai Gold’s office was located in the Science Center—a modern-day ziggurat of glass and steel off Cambridge Street across from Harvard Yard.

Classes were in session, but there were some empty rooms with open doors, enough to see that functionality ruled over form. Institutional furniture crammed into the space, whiteboards filled with abstract formulas that meant nothing to anyone outside of the field. Gold’s office was a corner on the fifth floor. The door was ajar, but Decker knocked anyway. They were invited inside.