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it?”
    “I just told the kid not to talk about his cases with anyone.”
    “I’m your wife. I have Fifth Amendment privileges.”
    Decker smiled. “It’s nothing much. Could be an art theft of Tiffany panels. There are glass panels still up there but we don’t know if they’re the originals. They may be forgeries. The owner is coming up with an expert on Sunday to authenticate them.”
    “I suppose the next question is, who would steal them? Who’d even know about them?”
    “Excellent. Can you be my partner instead of the kid?”
    “How’s the kid?”
    “Obnoxious as usual.” Decker took another sip of tea. “Tonight, I did see a glimmer of curiosity.”
    “Ah . . . maybe all he needed was a little real police work. He did go to Harvard.”
    “His brain is not the problem. He needs a personality transplant.”
    “He seemed polite enough when he was here. Anyway, it’s good to see you grumpy. That means you’re happy. Do you know anything about Tiffany?”
    “Not much. What about you?”
    “I think he used to have a studio upstate. I think it was dismantled, though.” Decker was quiet. Rina said, “What?”
    “I think there’s a museum in Orlando . . . what’s it called? See that’s why we shouldn’t be talking about business on Shabbat. Now I can’t look it up and it’s killing me.”
    “It’s a Tiffany museum?”
    “It has a bunch of Tiffany windows. I was there when I visited my uncle years ago . . . it’s an American art museum . . . it’ll come to me.” Decker finished his tea. “Is stained-glass Tiffany the same Tiffany that owns the stores?”
    “I think it was a father and son. The son did the stained glass.”
    “Louis Comfort Tiffany.”
    “Yeah, right. Good for you.”
    “So the jewelry guy was the father?”
    “Yes, and I think Tiffany jewelry went corporate a long time ago.”
    “I’ll look it all up after Shabbos.” Decker moved closer to his wife. “Right now, let’s just enjoy being together.”
    “Ooh, I like it when you’re doing real police work. It makes you romantic.”
    Decker was taken aback. “Have I been a slacker in the romance department?”
    “You’re always romantic, Peter. But you’ve seemed to be at loose ends since we got here.”
    He took a breath and let it out. “It’s been an adjustment. At times, I’m a little bored. That’s pretty natural after working with LAPD for all those years. But I don’t want to go back. I think I just miss the rush of a real case. That first blush of excitement. And even though this art thing is probably nothing, it gave me a little jolt. I’m fine. Honestly. It’s all just part of the process of adaptation, I think. Of aging . . . of getting old.”
    “You are not old.”
    “Not according to the kid. He calls me Old Man.”
    “You’re not old.” Rina kissed him again. “Besides, there’s old . . .” Another kiss. “And then there’s vintage.”

 
    CHAPTER 4
    T HE CEMETERY SEEMED quaint, much less foreboding in the daylight with old headstones carved with names like Whitestone, Potter, MacDoogal, and Hawthorne. The Bergman mausoleum seemed like a dowager, too grand for the neighborhood, but since it had been there for years, Decker supposed that it was now just part of the scenery. It was chilly but not cold, brisk but not blustery. The sun was immersed in a sea of deep blue.
    The man who emerged from the Mercedes was in his late sixties, white haired but with a lively step. He was around six feet and had a ski-tanned face, milky blue eyes, and a prominent chin. He was dressed in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, loafers but no socks. In tow was a younger, shorter man with brown eyes and curly brown hair. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie. On his feet were black Oxfords over black socks.
    “Ken Sobel.” He pointed to the younger man. “This is Maxwell Stewart, owner of the famed Stewart and Harrison gallery. If you deal with him, you’d better have