Decker was taken aback. “Have I been a slacker in the romance department?”

“You’re always romantic, Peter. But you’ve seemed to be at loose ends since we got here.”

He took a breath and let it out. “It’s been an adjustment. At times, I’m a little bored. That’s pretty natural after working with LAPD for all those years. But I don’t want to go back. I think I just miss the rush of a real case. That first blush of excitement. And even though this art thing is probably nothing, it gave me a little jolt. I’m fine. Honestly. It’s all just part of the process of adaptation, I think. Of aging . . . of getting old.”

“You are not old.”

“Not according to the kid. He calls me Old Man.”

“You’re not old.” Rina kissed him again. “Besides, there’s old . . .” Another kiss. “And then there’s vintage.”

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

THE CEMETERY SEEMED quaint, much less foreboding in the daylight with old headstones carved with names like Whitestone, Potter, MacDoogal, and Hawthorne. The Bergman mausoleum seemed like a dowager, too grand for the neighborhood, but since it had been there for years, Decker supposed that it was now just part of the scenery. It was chilly but not cold, brisk but not blustery. The sun was immersed in a sea of deep blue.

The man who emerged from the Mercedes was in his late sixties, white haired but with a lively step. He was around six feet and had a ski-tanned face, milky blue eyes, and a prominent chin. He was dressed in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, loafers but no socks. In tow was a younger, shorter man with brown eyes and curly brown hair. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie. On his feet were black Oxfords over black socks.

“Ken Sobel.” He pointed to the younger man. “This is Maxwell Stewart, owner of the famed Stewart and Harrison gallery. If you deal with him, you’d better have your game face on. The man is a shark.”

“Call me Max.” He appeared around forty. “Don’t pay attention to Ken. I never do.”

“Peter Decker. Thanks for coming down.”

Sobel said, “Are you a police officer or a police detective or . . .”

“I’m whatever the department needs. This is my partner, Detective Tyler McAdams.”

More handshakes. Then Sobel turned to Isaiah Pellman who was trying to disappear in nonexistent shadows. “What the hell happened, Isaiah?”

“Just like I told you, sir. The key didn’t work.”

“When was the last time you tried it?” Sobel asked.

“Last Tuesday. It worked fine.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Decker said, “Let me give you a recap of where McAdams and I came in and why I asked you to come down.”

Sobel said, “I know why you asked me down. You told me that over the phone.”