“No, not Matisse. I know who he is and this is definitely not Matisse. It’s H. Matusse.” He spelled all the names. “Like I said they’re all pretty landscapes of what looks like New England.”

“Hold on. I’ll give the list to Harvard and he’ll look the artists up.”

McAdams stowed his phone. “Ken Sobel’s not in. I told him to call you.”

“Could you look up these names,” Decker said. “See if these artists are worth anything? I’ll put the phone back on speaker.”

McAdams regarded the names. “Captain, are the paintings landscapes?”

“Yes, they are. You know the artists?”

“I certainly know Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. They’re well-known Hudson River Valley painters.”

“Yeah, it does look like the Valley,” Radar said. “What are the paintings worth?”

“How big are they?”

“Small. Eight by ten . . . a few a bit bigger.”

“Okay, so probably not major works. They’re still worth in the thousands. More like four figures rather than five although Thomas Cole can be pricey. But that’s usually the big canvases. I’ve also heard of Gifford. Hold on . . .” He clicked. “Okay, he’s Sanford Robinson Gifford. Also worth something. The H. Herz is probably Hermann Herzog.”

“Where are you finding all this information?” Oliver asked.

“Ask Art. It’s an art website that, among other things, has auction histories. And speaking of which, there are no auction histories for K. Kennedy or H. Matusse or Jasper Pressley.” He looked up. “Too bad it wasn’t Matisse. That could be worth killing over.”

“If you like that kind of stuff,” Radar said. “Thanks, Tyler. This helps. We’ll be sorry to lose you in August.”

“Not as sorry as I am to go. This detective stuff isn’t half bad—aside from the bullet wounds.”

Oliver saw a car pull out and abruptly swerved to get the parking space. The car bumped and jostled. He backed in amid an angry chorus of blaring horns.

McAdams said, “Done like a true New Yorker.”

Decker said, “We’re almost at Victor Gerrard’s apartment. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.” Radar paused. “Good work, everyone. And keep safe.”

Oliver killed the motor. “Shall we?”

But McAdams was playing on his phone. “The Thomas Cole and the Asher Durand were stolen from the Auxiliary Ladies’ Club in Joslyn, Rhode Island.”

“Art Loss Register?”

“Yep. Let me look up the club. It’s gonna take a minute.”

“You got any more coffee in the box, Deck?” Oliver asked.

“I do. Black?”

“That’s fine.”