I looked it over, noted the INTERPOL name and logo at the top of the page—a globe encircled by an olive branch, the scales of justice below. “What does INTERPOL mean, exactly?”

“It is a contraction of ‘international’ and ‘police.’”

“I thought you guys weren’t police.”

“We’re not. Like I said, INTERPOL does the research, then turns it over to the individual police in a particular country to make the arrest.”

I looked at the page. “So these are the museums that have Mona Lisa copies?”

“Right.”

“How about the list of names and addresses below?”

“Collectors INTERPOL has linked to possibly stolen artworks and forgeries. Beside their names are artworks we know they own legitimately, but they’re suspected of having other major works in their possession that are not so legit. This is a short list I narrowed down from the annual database that INTERPOL compiles.”

I scanned the names, the artworks listed beside them, along with addresses, phone numbers, capsule histories—Wall Street CEO, corporate lawyer, retired junk-bond trader. I asked why these people had not been arrested, and Smith said because INTERPOL didn’t have any actual proof, just suspicion, something that tied each of them to a stolen artwork, an important one. “They’re all rich,” he said, “not the kind of men to dirty their own hands.” He paused, exhaling smoke. “If you’re working with me, you should know these things.”

“Working with you? So we’re like rogues together?”

“This is serious.” He laid his hand on my shoulder, and I felt an unexpected camaraderie, the kind of thrill I used to get with my Kill Van Kull brothers: a rush of danger. “We’re in this together now, Perrone.”

“And after? Then what? I just go back to my normal life.” Which was what? My normal life felt so far away, like someone else’s life, and a dull one.

“Yeah. And I go back to my desk job,” he said, though I knew he hoped for a better desk. “I’m going after these collectors,” he said. “One of them might have a Chaudron copy or even the actual painting. Don’t you want to find out?”

I told him I did, and he gave me a genuine smile, the first.

“I just emailed you the list too.”

I nodded, went back to the journal, the pages after the missing one. Then I remembered, got my jacket, tugged the wad of pages out of the inside pocket, explained to Smith that they had been behind the Vermeer. The pages were written in sections, with a heavy line drawn under the last sentence of each, some dated, some not, but I could see from the first page that they had been written after Peruggia’s release from prison. I took a few minutes to make sure they were in order, that sentences followed consecutively from one page to another.

Smith hovered over me, lighting a new cigarette.

I waved the smoke away. “You know smoking is going to kill you, right?”

“One day,” he said, taking a puff, pacing, jumpy, “but not yet.”