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something.”
    “Sure, I talk to myself if no one else is around. When I was head of the detectives’ division, I used to talk to my other detectives. We’d bounce stuff off one another and we were right more than we were wrong.”
    “You know, I am standing right here, freezing my ass off. You could bounce shit off me.”
    “McAdams, I’ve been trying to bounce shit off you for the last six months and all I’ve had to show for it was a face full of crap. S’right. I know I’m a terrific detective. If you want to learn, I’ll be happy to share what I know. And if there’s something that I don’t know but you do know, well, that’s fine with me also. A great detective starts by being a great listener.”

 
    CHAPTER 3
    W ITH THE BERGMAN crypt once again secured by a padlock courtesy of Glenn Dutch’s Hardware, they left the crypt at 11:30. It was late to be making calls, but if it had been Decker’s crypt, he would have wanted to know right away. He handed a slip of paper to McAdams. “This is Ken Sobel’s number—the one who was up here most recently and seems to be in charge. You can do the honors.”
    “Me?”
    “You’re my superior.”
    “So I’m assigning you to the task of making the call.”
    “It’s my Sabbath. Can you do me the favor?”
    “It’s late.”
    “I know. But I still think we should call him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s the proper procedure. Pellman has already told him that there was something wrong with the lock. He’s probably waiting to hear from him.” A pause. “Look, if you don’t feel comfortable—”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” McAdams took out his phone. “I’ll do it.”
    But he didn’t do it. Decker said, “Start by introducing yourself.”
    “I know how to handle this, okay.” Decker didn’t answer and McAdams regarded his phone. “How much should I tell him? I mean, what if he ripped the panels off himself? Aren’t we giving him a heads-up that we’re suspicious?”
    “Let’s just stick to what we know, okay.”
    “We don’t know anything for certain so why are we even calling him?”
    “We’re calling him to let him know that everything looks fine, but we’d like for completeness sake to have him authenticate the panels. But you’ve got to lead into that conversation. First tell him that everything looks okay. Then compliment the panels, then ask if they’re real Tiffany—”
    “I get it!” Abruptly, McAdams shoved the phone into Decker’s hand. “You’ve obviously got some script in your head. Just do it and get it over with, okay. I’m freezing . . . beyond freezing. I’m numb everywhere.”
    “I’ll make the call but could you at least punch in the numbers for me?”
    “I don’t think I can move my fingers.”
    “Give it to me.”
    “I’m kidding, Old Man.”
    Decker said, “Put it on speaker so I won’t have to repeat the conversation.” McAdams was sulky—his pride was wounded—but he did as told. Decker waited for the line to connect. The two of them were walking back to the house in a cold that had turned positively polar. He usually paced while talking on the phone. At least this time, his movement had a purpose.
    After he heard the hello, he said, “This is Peter Decker from the Greenbury Police Department, I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m looking for Ken Sobel.”
    The voice on the other end was alert. “This is Ken Sobel. What took you so long? What’s going on up there?”
    “We broke the lock on the crypt, sir. From what I could see, everything appears in order.”
    “Phew! Good to know. It would be really ghoulish if someone had broken into the mausoleum and did some mischief. So why didn’t Isaiah Pellman’s key work?”
    “We don’t know. Could someone else in the family have changed the lock?”
    “Not to my knowledge. I’m usually the only one who bothers to go up there . . . except for the funeral six months ago. I was up there about four months ago and everything was in