“Here we go,” McAdams said. “The club was started in 1878 for care and support of a local orphanage. Now it organizes local charity functions and events and holds a ladies’ luncheon once a month.” He stowed his phone. “You know, these clubs were gifted a lot of early twentieth-century paintings. The artists were contemporary and weren’t worth the big bucks that they are today. It was like me going to the local art fair and picking up a painting for five hundred dollars.”

“Security on these old places isn’t too tight,” Oliver said. “Didn’t something like that happen at the Scottish Rite Temple in L.A.?”

“I think it was the Wilshire Ebell,” Decker said. “They had some old paintings and the secretary stole one of them.”

“Hold on,” McAdams said. “E-b-e-l-l?”

“Yep.”

“Right you are, boss. It was a William Wendt and the secretary sold it to a gallery in Laguna Beach.”

“Same pattern,” Decker said. “Swiping valuables from unsuspecting places.”

McAdams was still playing with his phone. “William Wendt is a California impressionist. Some of his big canvases are worth a lot of money.” He looked up. “Lots of times these clubs don’t even really know what they have. Although you’d think they’d be careful with a Cole or a Durand.”

Decker said, “It would take Angeline too long to copy a painting. More than likely, she just replaced them with a cheap landscape. All that green . . . probably no one would notice at least for a while.”

“Good point,” McAdams said. “You know there are tens of thousands of period landscapes in period frames floating around. Most aren’t worth that much.”

“Breaking and entering into cemeteries is one thing,” Oliver said. “But there’s something really brazenly cocky about swiping a painting off the wall.”

“I agree,” Decker said. “They got cocky. And that’s what got them killed.”

Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

THEY HIT THE road for Greenbury at ten in the morning, leaving the crush of hump day Manhattan traffic behind. It had been good to see the family, but the commute was getting cumbersome, especially with a carload of people. Decker was at the wheel with Greg Schultz sitting shotgun, peering out the window with steely eyes. In the back, Rina was seated between Oliver and McAdams. She wasn’t grumpy, and that made her mood the best of the bunch.

“So Victor Gerrard is gone?” she asked.

“Appears that way,” Decker answered.

“Is he a victim or a bad guy?” Her question was met with shrugs and grunts. “That he took off so quickly could indicate either one.”

“Right,” Decker answered. He was trying to be polite since no one else was talking.

Rina kept at it. “What do you think?”

McAdams blew out air. “I’m too tired to think.”

Shultz continued to stare out the window. “Your grandmother is very nice. She wants to hire me as a bodyguard.”