Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Max, I make it a rule to never talk to anyone on an empty stomach—his, yours, or mine.”

CHAPTER 19

THE OFFICE WAS cramped with desktops filled with paperwork. Max had cleared a small spot for the food and coffee. No coasters were needed. The furniture was weathered and scarred. As he ate a muffin, Max’s eyes scanned down the list of names. His expression was strained. “If the Rhode Island detectives didn’t find anything to indict the dealers on, I don’t see the point in adding to the rumor mill.”

Decker kept his frustrations in check—almost. “You know we’re beyond locating the stolen Tiffany panels or solving the Petroshkovich icon thefts. We’re looking for dangerous people who slaughtered two human beings. We’re going to check out everyone on the list. I’m just asking you where to start.”

Max played with the knot in his tie. “Check out Jason Merritt on Sixty-Third. Not that I think he’s done anything wrong. The Merritt gallery has been in family hands for almost a hundred years.”

Decker waited.

Max said, “His grandfather dealt in Russian icons. Like Armand Hammer, he was one of the few people who had access to Russia when it was dominated by Soviet rule. I’ve never heard that he looted anything, but he probably paid bottom dollar for religious items because postwar Russia was in shambles. People needed money and no one was interested in anything religious. Since the gallery still deals in Russian icons, it’s a good place to start.” Max turned quiet. “The second murder happened in Boston?”

“Outside of Boston,” McAdams said. “In Summer Village near Tufts.”

“I’m curious why you think someone in New York is responsible when both murders took place north of here.”

“The Marylebone detectives also started in New York. But if you have something you want to tell me about other cities, I’m here to listen.” Decker regarded the man’s downward eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m just making a simple statement—that there are lots of galleries other than the ones in New York.”

Decker said, “Max, people who are not psychotic or psychopathic murder for mundane reasons: to keep a secret, unrequited love, pathological jealousy, to usurp power—and money. You want to find a killer, go down the money trail. The New York galleries deal in the big money. That’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t help you with a killer. That’s a fact.” Silence. “Detective, my family has spent a lifetime building up this gallery. I really don’t want to get involved in something pernicious.”

McAdams said, “It was your father-in-law’s pieces that started the whole thing.” He shrugged. “You’re already involved.”

“This is just a nightmare!” Max looked down. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything, okay. This is just a thought. Chase Goddard bought a Boston gallery two years ago. It is now the eponymous Goddard Gallery. Chase first opened a fine arts and antique store in New York in 2006 or 2007. Needless to say his timing was off because of the recession and he closed two years later. Then I heard he was up in the Boston area.”

“What kind of art does the Goddard Gallery deal in?”

“Not Russian icons.” Stewart shrugged. “If it’s similar to his New York gallery, it’s mostly small antique pieces, but some fine arts. I’ve never been there so I don’t know what he specializes in.”

“What did he sell in the New York gallery?”

“It featured eighteenth– and nineteenth-century genre paintings, English and continental antique furniture, and smaller objets d’art of the period. A few twentieth-century pieces . . . nothing to write home about. In the main, it was a little of this and a little of that.”

McAdams showed Decker his smartphone. He had pulled up the Goddard Gallery website. “A little of this and a little of that.”

“Can I see?” Max asked.

“Sure.”

Max perused the website for a minute. “Yeah, like his New York place.”

Decker said, “If Goddard folded shop in 2007, where did he get the money to buy the new gallery?”

Max bit his lower lip. “Some people were asking the same question. Chase not only bought out the lease, but a good portion of the old inventory, which, judging from the website, isn’t superpricey. But there’s a lot of it.”

“Okay.” Decker sipped coffee. “What else?”

“What makes you think there’s a ‘what else’?”

“I read people for a living. You’ve come this far. Don’t stop now.”

“Chase would buy from a lot of different sources,” Max said. “That’s not unusual. We all do. Our inventory depends on many different sources. But Chase had a reputation of skirting around provenance.”

“He bought hot items?” Decker asked.

“I didn’t say that. Just that he wasn’t as meticulous as maybe he should have been. We all slip up. We all get burned. Chase seemed to have more incidents of slipping up. I have nothing more to add. I’ve given you a starting point—several starting points. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Thanks for your time.”

But Max didn’t move. He bit his thumbnail. “The panels are still missing and now there are two murdered people. Do I have any reason to be concerned for my safety?”

Decker held up the list. “I’m just checking out art dealers who were in the Petroshkovich file. No reason it should come back to you.”

“The Goddard Gallery isn’t on the list,” Max pointed out.

“Latham’s murder took place up north. So it’s reasonable for me or Summer Village PD to check out galleries in the area.”

“I’m nervous.”

“I understand. You have security at the gallery. It might make sense to beef it up until we know more.”

“Could I ask a favor of you? Could you not come here anymore? I’ll talk on the phone but unless you have something urgent, could you stay clear of my family?”

“No problem. Thanks for your help.” Decker got up. “Maybe the next time we talk, I’ll give you good news.”

“That can be done on the telephone as well.”

They shook hands and left it at that.

Decker and McAdams walked out the door and into a blast of cold. It was five-thirty in the evening, dark, frigid, and depressing. The kid rubbed his gloved hands. “What now?”

“It’s too late to go over to the Merritt Gallery. We’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s walk back to my stepson’s apartment and go over the Petroshkovich files.”

“I see you don’t believe in cabs?”

“It’s a ten-minute walk.”

McAdams had to pick up his pace to keep up with Decker’s long stride. “Do you think he’s in danger?”

“Max?” Decker shook his head. “Not really. But if he wants extra security, why not? If anyone’s in danger, it would be us. We’re the ones stirring up the pot.”

“Peachy!”

Decker smiled. “No one forced you to join up, McAdams.”

“Greenbury is the new Mayberry. Nothing ever happens there.”

“Until it does.”

“Thank you for allaying my fears.”

Decker laughed. “I’m just messing with you, Harvard. Just about every detective I’ve ever known has retired safe and sound with a good pension. If anyone gets whacked, it’s usually the poor patrolman on a routine traffic stop.”

But McAdams remained troubled. “For the record, how often do detectives get whacked because of what they’re investigating?”

“Rare.”

“Can you quantify your answer more precisely?”

“No.”

“Have you ever gotten shot?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me it happened in ’Nam.”

“No, it happened when I was chasing down some stupid kid around twenty-five years ago. I was shot in the shoulder.” Decker lifted and rotated his arm. “All healed.”

“This is not reassuring.”

“If you’re nervous, you know I can go it alone. You’ve got nothing to prove with me, Harvard. Do I think anything will happen? No. Can I guarantee it? No. But if it’s going to prey on your mind, you won’t be able to concentrate. You have my blessing to remove yourself from the case, no judgment and I mean that sincerely.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I’m a drug addict, Tyler. I thrive on adrenaline. This is the happiest I’ve been in six months.”

The kid was quiet. Then he said, “I’m here as long as you want me here.”

“Okay. But if you change your mind, no harm, no foul.”

“The truth is, Decker, for the first time in my life, I’ve actually felt useful. I feel energized and the danger only adds to it. Yeah, I’m a little scared. But what really disturbs me is I like being a little scared.”

“A little scared is good. It keeps you on your toes. It’s when you’re cocky that bad things happen.”

“What if you’re cocky and scared?”

“Then you’ve just described the ideal homicide detective.”

WITH A GLIDE in her walk, Nina McAdams came in on the arm of her stepgrandson. She was thin, blond, and beautiful, wearing a black chiffon skirt and a silk top. What was truly humbling was that she was only ten years older than Decker. While he’d just gotten used to working with people young enough to be his son, he was now working with someone who was young enough to be his grandson.

The woman looked around the crowded table filled with Decker’s children, stepchildren, spouses, and significant others as well as Yasmine and two of her roommates, Jenny Lee and Katy Bera.

“My Gawd, this isn’t a dinner, it’s a party.” Nina regarded Decker. “Are all these yours?”

Tyler said, “Behave yourself.”

“Why should she,” Jacob said. “No one else does.”

“We are happy to claim ownership to all of them,” Rina told her.

Nina sat between Tyler and Decker. After all the introductions were made, Nina patted Decker’s hand and said, “You have a veritable UN here.”

Tyler turned red. Decker smiled. The woman spoke the truth. Koby was from Ethiopia, Yasmine’s family was from Iran while her two roommates, Jenny and Katy, were from Taiwan and India, respectively. Hannah’s fiancé, Raphy, was a Colombian Jew.

Rina said, “If the state ever mandates diversity within families, we will have complied.”

“Have a drink, Nina,” McAdams told her. “Or . . . maybe not.”

“How about we all have a drink?” She picked up the wine list and perused the selections. She sniffed. “I don’t believe I know any of these labels.”

“Probably because they’re kosher wines,” Rina said. “A lot of them are very good.”

“How about this one?” She pointed to the most expensive bottle. “Herzog To Kalon? Did I pronounce that correctly?”

“You did.” Rina winced. It was over two hundred dollars a bottle. “Sure, let’s get a bottle.”

“One bottle? Let’s get four. And don’t worry, young lady. I’m paying.”

“Told you,” Tyler said to Decker.

“We invited you, Mrs. McAdams,” Decker said.

“It’s Nina and pish on that. I know what poor Tyler makes. It’s appalling! And even with your pension from somewhere, this is a large crowd. It would be my pleasure and I won’t hear of anything else. So let’s spend a lovely Wednesday night eating, drinking, and being merry.” To punctuate her sentence, she picked up a menu and everyone else did likewise. Within moments, the table buzzed with conversation.

Decker spoke across the table to Cindy and Koby, “Thanks for making the trip.”

“If the mountain won’t come to Mohammad . . .”

“I’ll come. I promise. I’m dying to see my boys again.”

“They miss Grandpa,” Koby said. “I miss him as well.”

Decker smiled. “Who’s watching the boys?”

“My partner, Mary, and Koby’s classmate, Alicia,” Cindy said. “They met at a party at our house and are now an item.”

Nina said. “So you have the gay thing covered as well.”

Tyler put his hands to his forehead. Sammy said, “This is nothing.” He cocked a finger at Decker. “You should meet his mother.”

“Leave Ida alone,” Rina said. “She’s lovely.”

Rachel said, “I think I’m getting the short ribs.” She looked at Jacob’s girlfriend, Ilana. “You want to split it?”

“Sure, I’ll split it with you.”

Jacob banged a spoon against some stemware and stood up. Everyone looked at him. Hannah said, “Make it quick, Yonkie.”

“Just a few words.”

“It better be, Yonkie, I’m hungry,” Sammy turned to Tyler. “He likes to make announcements.”

Hannah said, “He’s sentimental.”

Cindy said, “In all fairness, how often are we all together?” She looked at Yasmine. “You’re here along with Gabe’s spirit.”

“I’ll fill him in when he gets home.”

“Where is he?” Hannah asked.

“Uh, Japan . . . Osaka.”

“A lovely place,” Nina said. “Especially compared to Tokyo.” She turned to Rina. “Have you been?”

“It’s on my list.”

“The cherry blossom time is simply exquisite.”

“Nina, he’s trying to talk,” Tyler said.

“Oh, pish!” She turned quiet.

Jacob said, “It’s impossible to keep this family’s attention for more than thirty seconds.”

Ilana patted his hand. “Make it quick, sweetie.”

Jacob cleared his throat. “First of all, I’d like to say congratulations to our baby sister on her recent engagement to Raphy.” Everyone let go with a mazel tov or a hear, hear. “This is a day that I am sincerely looking forward to because I have been making notes about her since she was two and I have a lot of dirt on her.”

“Blackmail worthy?” Hannah said.

“I’m keeping it PG.”

“I’m hun-gry,” Sammy said.

“Second of all.” Jacob grinned. “Everyone here knows I move a little slow and I couldn’t take another wedding with a ‘soon by you’ so . . .” He took a deep breath, and then he took Ilana’s hand. He got down on one knee. The women gasped. Instantly, Ilana teared up. Rina squeezed Decker’s hand. Jacob took out a small box and said, “I know this was a long time coming, but will you do me the honor of being my wife? And if it’s no, please say yes anyway so you don’t embarrass me in front of my family.”

Ilana couldn’t answer, but she nodded and the table broke out into applause. Ilana opened the box and gasped. She still couldn’t talk as Jacob put the ring on her finger.

“Fin-a-lly!” Sammy put the menu down. “I’m having a steak.”

Rachel hit him. “It’s your brother. Can you show a little emotion?”

“It’s been seven years.”

Rachel hit him again.

Nina said, “How grand is this? Now it’s truly a party. Let’s get champagne.” She summoned the waiter and asked for four bottles of champagne along with four bottles of To Kalon, which put the bar bill well over two thousand dollars.

There were kisses and hugs all around. Everyone admired the ring. The girls were in their element while the boys talked food. Rina said, “You have to call up your parents, Lani.”

“They already know,” Jacob said. “They helped me pick out the ring. They’re coming for dinner. I’m assuming you wouldn’t mind.”

“When did you do all this?” Ilana finally said.

“I’m a sneaky guy.”

“Gawd, with all these people, you should have rented a hall!” Nina turned to Ilana. “Would you like a bridal shower, dear?”

“Nina, I’m sure her friends will do that for her,” Tyler said.

“I’m sure they will. But with my friends, she’ll have a completely different present pool: deeper pockets. Don’t deny me this, dear. We’re always looking for an occasion to dress up and show off.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. He leaned over to Decker and handed him a piece of paper. “New York art galleries. A lot of them closed at five, but some were open until eight. I called up a few to find out if any of them employed Angeline Moreau.”

“Any luck?”

“No. And I didn’t say I was a cop. I told them I was from the bursar’s office at Littleton College and was trying to reconcile some numbers for her W2 form.”

“Good work.” Decker’s eyes scanned the list of galleries. “I got a call back from Jason Merritt. I set up an appointment at ten. Let’s meet at Gabe’s apartment at nine and figure out a strategy.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“For once can you not talk about work?” Rina scolded. “Especially in light of what just happened?”

“I brought it up,” McAdams said. “I apologize.”

“Don’t you dare let him off the hook,” Rina said.

Decker said, “I won’t talk about work. But then you can’t talk about wedding stuff. I have nothing to add on the seemingly endless topic. And even if I did, no one would listen to me.”

Hannah said, “You haven’t said anything to me.”

“Whatever I said never got past your mother’s veto.”

“That’s not fair,” Rina said. “Well, maybe it is a little fair.”

Decker laughed, leaned over, and kissed her forehead.

“I’d like to have your input, Peter,” Ilana said.

“Ilana, that would be a first. But honestly, weddings are outside my bailiwick.”

“How can I not talk about weddings?” Rina protested. “Especially now.”

“Two weddings in . . .” Sammy looked at his brother. “Are you planning in months or years for the actual date?”

Ilana’s eyes were on the ring. “There’s no hurry.”

“Oh, don’t say that to him,” Rina said.

“I’d at least like to finish my internship.”

“How long is that going to take?” Rina said.

“Like maybe two years.”

“Two years sounds about right.” Jacob stood up and motioned over a couple who was walking toward the table, both of them with grins on their faces. “Dad, could you just be nice?” he asked. “And if you can’t be nice, can you at least not be grumpy?”

“Don’t ask for the moon, son, and you’ll never be disappointed,” Decker said.

“He’s just grumpy because he’s hungry,” Sammy said.

Rachel said, “Like father, like son . . .”

“I fully admit it.”

“This event should have been catered,” Nina said.

“Stop it,” Tyler said.

Ilana’s parents sat down and again kisses and hugs and oohs and aahs were exchanged. The server finally came over with several bottles of champagne and a bucket of ice.

Nina said, “Keep it flowing, darling. It looks like everyone could use a little mellowing.”

When all the glasses were poured, Jacob held the glass up and said, “L’chayim.”

“L’chayim,” the chorus responded.

“That means to life,” McAdams told Nina.

“I know what it means, Tyler, I wasn’t born in an eggshell.” Nina pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Besides, who in America hasn’t seen Fiddler on the Roof?”

CHAPTER 20

THE MERRITT GALLERY’S address was in the Fifties between Park and Lexington, one of the many smaller studios that occupied a glass and chrome skyscraper. Inside, it was small and spare with religious articles in cases as well as Byzantine art painted on canvas, board, or wood planks. There were several Madonna and child, the Christ babies looking very elongated and with adult features, as if the artist was astigmatic. The babies were very different from the plump Renaissance Jesus that Decker was used to seeing in museums.

A man dressed head to toe in black looked up from the desk. He was in his thirties, balding and lean, but with big arms that strained his long-sleeved T-shirt. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Jason Merritt.” Decker gave the man his card. “He’s expecting us.”

“Police?” The assistant frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“Just gathering information about icons,” Decker said. “It has to do with a thirty-year-old case that we’re reopening.”

The assistant pushed the intercom on his phone. “The Greenbury Police are here . . . Certainly, Mr. Merritt.” He looked at Decker and then at McAdams. “His office is in the back.” The assistant got up and started walking. “Are you working on the Petroshkovich icons? We’re all wondering if the case would ever be reopened.”

“It was never closed.”

“Well, I for one am glad to hear that someone’s breathing new life into it.”

“And you are?”

“Victor Gerrard.” He knocked on the door.

“It’s open.”

Gerrard opened the door.

The trio was welcomed into a small but tidy office. The art dealer was in his fifties with thinning dark hair and dark eyes. He was slight and had manicured nails. He was immaculately dressed in a pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and a red tie. Black, polished lizard skin shoes on his feet. He listened intently while Decker explained why they had come.

Afterward Merritt said, “I’m still a little confused, Detective. I don’t have anything to do with art nouveau or art deco. You should try Max Stewart.”

“I’ve already been there. Now I’m interested in learning about the Petroshkovich icons that were stolen from Marylebone, Rhode Island.”

“And what’s the connection between a thirty-year-old case of stolen Russian icons and stolen Tiffany?”

“Not much except that both of the thefts appeared opportunistic. Meaning that the thief would need someone to market the stolen items. And he’d need high-end clients. I’m wondering if you could point us in the direction of dealers who . . . may be less meticulous with the object’s ownership.”

Merritt looked at Gerrard. “You should be getting back to the gallery.”

“Of course.” Gerrard smiled and nodded. “Good luck.”

Merritt turned his attention back to the detectives. “Why exactly have you come to me?”

“Your name came up as a dealer who specializes in Russian icons.”

Merritt made a tent with his fingers and brought them to his chin. “I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in the Petroshkovich icons when you’re investigating stolen Tiffany.” The man’s expression grew cold. “Is this interview really subterfuge?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If this is about my grandfather, I have nothing to say to you.”

Decker was expressionless. “Your grandfather?”

Merritt considered the baffled look on his face. He blushed. “Never mind.”

“No, no, no. You can’t throw something out like that and say never mind.”

The art dealer sighed. “It’s not relevant.”

“Sir, I don’t have a lot to go on. Everything is important.”

Merritt said, “If you speak to enough people, you might hear things about my grandfather stealing Russian art. That kind of drivel is not only completely false, it’s pernicious.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Could you fill us in a little?”

“Why bother? It’s all a pack of lies.”

“I could either hear the truth from you or the lies from your enemies.”

Merritt considered his words. “Some reprehensible people have had the nerve to say that my grandfather looted from Russian churches.”

Decker took out a notepad. “Who’s your grandfather?”

“August Merritt. His father—my great-grandfather—was Wilson Merritt. He was one of the few businessmen who dealt with Russia postrevolution. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. It involved many layers of bureaucracy from both countries.”

McAdams said, “What business was he in?”

“He owned textile mills down south. He imported cloth to third world countries. That included the Soviet Union when it was heavily ostracized. After the revolution and WWI, the Russian people ended up in a bad state—as was most of eastern Europe. Food was scarce, fuel was scarce, supplies were scarce. Bolts of woolen cloth may not seem like a lot, but it saved many people from freezing to death. My great-grandfather and my grandfather were rewarded for their humanitarian acts with visiting privileges at a time when the Soviet Union was off limits to most Western countries.”

“So how did these rumors get started?” Decker asked.

“Jealousy.” The art dealer made a point of sighing. “Wilson Merritt had always been interested in Byzantine art. As a matter of fact, he started the Merritt Gallery just to display his massive collection and later on, my grandfather went into the retail aspect. Wilson’s detractors claim that he had acquired the pieces by using his favored status in the Soviet Union. And that part is true. It’s the theft part that’s a lie. The art world can be very vicious.”

“Finance is pretty vicious as well,” McAdams said. “When you mix the two, there is a high probability of corruption.”

“Well said.”

“How do you think the rumors got started?” Decker asked.

“As I told you, Russia was in terrible straits. The country needed fuel. Thousands of religious items were burned for heat. What wasn’t incinerated was thrown away as obsolete relics of an undesirable past. Wilson and my grandfather August made it their mission to save as many of those works as they could from total destruction. Of course that included items from churches left to rot. August wasn’t a thief, he was a hero.”

Decker looked up from his notepad. “Anyone specific who’s spreading the gossip? Some names would go a long way.”

“I have no proof. So I take the high road. Having been a victim of the rumor mill, I loathe hurting anyone even if that person or persons deserve it.”

“How about if I name a name.”

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Chase Goddard. What do you know about him?”

“No comment.”

“Do you know if he’s ever purchased stolen items?”

“I know of one case where he bought a very expensive pair of French silver candlesticks from the seventeenth century. They had been stolen from a Catholic church in the Chicago area. But as soon as it came to light, he refunded the money to his seller and gave the items back to the church.”

“Was it an honest mistake?”

“It could have been. It could have also been prevented had he done proper homework.”

“How was he caught?”

“The whole thing came to light when someone saw the items on an old website.” Merritt looked at him. “And you didn’t hear that from me.”

McAdams said, “Was this when he was in New York?”

“Yes,” Merritt said. “It happened about six or seven years ago before he went under.”

“His New York gallery went under, but the website of his current gallery in Boston has a lot of inventory.”

“So you’ve noticed.”

“Care to speculate?” Decker asked.

“I’ll leave the hearsay to others.”

“Have you ever done business with him?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Has he ever approached you for business?”

“Several times . . . minor icons. I wasn’t interested for a variety of reasons.”

“What constitutes a minor icon?” Decker asked.

“Too recent of an age, poorly done images, and the piece as a whole is in bad shape.”

He stopped talking. Decker waited for him to continue. Merritt finally said, “There was a onetime exception to the trash he usually showed me. It was when he was still in New York and his reputation hadn’t yet been so sullied. But he was still someone we all watched.”

“What happened?” McAdams asked.

“Goddard claimed that he had just gotten back from a European buying spree. He presented me with a truly magnificent icon. I won’t go into the specifics but it was spectacular. The detail, the color, and the artist.” A deep sigh. “I still bristle when I think of the lost opportunity.”

“Why didn’t you buy it?”

“I came that close to purchasing it.” He pinched off a distance between his forefinger and his thumb. “But then he told me it came from Germany. He claimed to have checked out the provenance and that it went back a hundred years. I went on the Art Loss Register. I went through as many books on religious items as I could find. I couldn’t place the object anywhere. Perhaps the provenance was legitimate. But it was an expensive item and I couldn’t take the chance.”

“Okay.” Decker thought a moment. “Why did you have a problem with an object that came from Germany? Did you think that the icon was looted by the Nazis?”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

Decker digested the information. “I’m not a history buff but I seem to recall that Hitler’s invasion into Russia was a big disaster, that it was the turning point of the war. They bombed the cities, but the Germans never got into Moscow with boots on the ground. My dad used to tell me that the Russian winters did more to decimate Hitler’s armies than all the bombs of Europe.”

McAdams was already on his iPhone looking up a condensed piece of history. “Operation Barbarossa was the code name of the Soviet invasion by Hitler. Huge invasion . . . successful at first. And . . . eventually it was an utter failure.”

“As far as a war tactic, yes, it was a failure,” Merritt said. “And it was the turning point of the war. But the big picture doesn’t tell the whole story. St. Petersburg—Leningrad back then—was under siege for two and a half years. The Germans didn’t occupy the city because they didn’t want to feed the residents in times of shortage. So with the Finns, the Germans closed all the access roads in and out of the city, hoping to starve the population before they’d take over the land. But the city wasn’t impenetrable. German soldiers went in and looted. And some lucky individuals got out mostly through Lake Ladoga, which was how the Red Cross got its meager supplies into a starving population.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “So you’re telling me that Nazis crossed enemy lines to loot Russian art while the city was under siege?”

“To that statement I say to you that someone dismantled the original Amber Room before Catherine’s Palace was bombed to smithereens.”

Decker turned to McAdams. “Want to look up the Amber Room for me?”

“Already on it.”

Merritt said, “You don’t know about the Amber Room?”

“It rings a very faint bell,” Decker said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was a room with a lot of amber in it.”

“The original room was covered in amber with twenty-four-carat gold mirrors and precious and semiprecious stone inserts,” McAdams said. “The repro is still in the Catherine Palace. I saw it. I remember it in detail because I’ve never seen anything like it before. There was an intimacy about it even though it was over the top. The history of how it came to exist eludes me at the moment. . . . Hold on, let’s see what I have. Okay, originally constructed in Prussia, but Friedrich Wilhelm I of Prussia gave it to Peter the Great in order to secure the Prussian-Russian alliance against Sweden.”

Merritt sniffed. “Even the repro is magnificent in its craftsmanship. One can only imagine what the original was like. It must have been unworldly remarkable.”

McAdams said, “What’s unworldly remarkable is that two major countries had to form a pact against Sweden.”

The art dealer managed to crack a smile. He said, “Everyone knows the room was dismantled by the Nazis. Twenty-seven crates were moved to East Berlin and then the crates went underground in Konigsberg, supposedly destroyed in a fire.”

“You have doubts?” Decker asked.

“I do. If for no other reason, it’s a romantic notion.”

McAdams was still pulling up information. “This article says that the original cartons may now be located in the bunker in Auerswalde near Chemnitz, Germany.”

“Perhaps the boxes will magically surface. You should go to St. Petersburg, Detective. See it for yourself.”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that within twenty-four hours.”

“It’s a fascinating city, specifically in its scope of grandeur.”

McAdams said, “The whole city is like Park Avenue on steroids.”

Decker said, “I was told that most of the great artworks of the Hermitage were stored in the basement of St. Isaac’s and remained there until the end of the war.”

“That’s true,” Merritt said. “Most of the great pieces survived, specifically the two Da Vinci masterpieces, but there was looting. The Hermitage did get its ounce of revenge, however.” He smiled. “Inside the museum, there are several out-of-the-way rooms entitled the Hidden Treasures. You have to look for the rooms to find them. They display marvelous works of impressionism and postimpressionism. So why aren’t the works with the Hermitage’s spectacular permanent collection?”