“Yeah, her cover was blown. We were both pretty damn pissed. Anyway, the case was handed over to a robbery detective who called up my ex-wife and asked her if Cindy could make a statement. My daughter lived with her mom. When Janet didn’t answer him right away, the detective—who didn’t know he was talking to a cop’s ex-wife—said if it was his daughter, he wouldn’t let her do it. So Janet said no and that was that. She called me later in the day, which was very unusual. She never called me for any reason other than money. She must have been sorely conflicted. She actually asked me if she did the right thing.”

“What’d you say?” McAdams asked.

“I said I agreed with her decision. First of all, it was a done deal so why make her feel bad even if she is an ex-wife. Second, I probably would have done the same thing. I know what these trials can be, the tolls that they can take on the psyche.”

“But then you’d never make a case if everyone refused to testify,” McAdams said.

“You’re absolutely right. If Cindy had been an adult, she could have decided for herself. But she was still a minor, and therefore it wasn’t her decision. All I can say in my defense is that with matters of personal safety, it’s family first.”

IT WAS HARD to tell the predominant emotion: outrage, anger, embarrassment, condescension, absurdity: Jason Merritt exhibited them all. Today he wore a black suit, blue shirt, and no tie with black ostrich boots on his feet. Russian art apparently did very well.

“Your accusations are monstrous,” Merritt snorted.

Decker tapped his toe and let the words hang in the air. Rina was wheeling McAdams through the gallery rooms, looking at the art. Oliver stood in the background. No sense ganging up on the guy. Decker said, “You’ve never dealt in books or plates at any point in your career?”

“I’ve already answered that question.”

“Even something as valuable as the Petroshkovich book?”

“Oh my God, how many times are you going to plow the same ground?”

Oliver broke in. “If someone offered you a good deal on the Petroshkovich, you wouldn’t buy it?”

“I don’t deal in rare books!”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Oliver said. “There’s a stack of books on the front table.”

“Those aren’t rare books,” Merritt sniffed. “Those are current art books on the subjects I represent. I give them out to my clients as reference material.”

Decker was scribbling in his notepad, more to look busy than anything else. “And no one has ever offered you the Petroshkovich book or any plates from it.”

“That is correct.”

“But you do know that Petroshkovich had left one of his copies to Rayfield Library and it was coowned with Pretoria College in Rhode Island.”

“More repetition, Detective?”