“You’ve got a wife and six kids,” Decker said quickly. “I’m sure they know about Monique here. I don’t think they’re aware of any of your other peculiarities. I’d be happy to tell them about it if you’d like. After all, I was there when you were arrested, Charlie.”

The rage subsided as Arlington weighed his options. Perfectly composed, he unlocked the door to the inner office and stood aside for Decker to enter.

His suite was rich, dark, and austere, and smelled of leather and good tobacco. The desk was nine feet wide, traditional, and intricately carved, with a leather top upon which sat a marble desk set and crystal inkwell. The walls were oxblood embossed leather alternating with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with gold mesh doors. The oils were Flemish and mostly unfamiliar to Decker, but he knew they weren’t dimestore copies. The artists he did recognize were a Hals over the marble mantlepiece and a Vermeer on the opposite side of the room. Decker sat in a leather armchair and propped his feet on an ottoman. Next to him was a mounted globe, which he spun idly, watching the countries pass under the tips of his fingers.

Arlington sat behind his desk.

“Who is your superior?”

Decker flipped him a card.

“Call this extension. Ask for Captain Morrison. He’ll deny sending me here and I’ll catch hell, if that’s what you want.”

Arlington picked up the phone, but put it down. Wordlessly, he opened his drawer and took out a wad of cash.

“How much?”

“I’m not interested in money. I need information.”

“As I told the police before, the screenings were arranged by Cecil Pode. He’s dead. That’s all I can say.”

“Pode distributed, but he isn’t the type of scum you’d work with directly. You’d deal with someone more respectable than a two-bit bagman—someone with at least a veneer of respectability.”

Arlington pursed his lips.

“I have nothing else to say.”

“Then maybe I’ll ring up your little woman. I also have this friend over at the Times—”

“I’ll sue your ass off. I’ll ruin you.”

“I’m sure you will.” He stood up and trudged over to the Hals with his hands in his pocket. “I was at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam in 1970. Unbelievable—a place like that buried in the midst of all that decadence. Back then Dam Square was triple-stacked with dropouts. I’ve heard they’ve cleaned it up since then.” He glared at Arlington. “It’s good to do housecleaning and take out the garbage, don’t you think?”

“I’m not interested in a travelogue, Decker. If you have nothing further to say, leave and we’ll both get on with our business.”