Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1925

D ead people were easy to talk to. It was the living ones that often gave Lauren trouble. Even her father.

No. Especially him.

Rolling her shoulders back, she headed toward the Central Park bench where he waited. At seventy years old, he'd diminished from the giant he'd been to her in childhood. And like the giants in her storybooks, her father had been just as fabled. Outsized in her heart and mind and not quite real.

Bridles jangled on a pair of horses pulling a carriage full of tourists. Lauren watched it pass, then crossed to the lawn spreading from the Egyptian obelisk erected by her employer, the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Lawrence Westlake stood to greet her. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

She wouldn't stay long. "You said there was something specific you wanted to ask me?" She sat on the opposite end of the bench from him, near a barrel sprouting orange chrysanthemums. Behind the obelisk, trees flamed with autumn's glory beneath an azure sky.

He lowered himself to the bench. "There is. But first, how are you? How is your work?"

"Busy as ever. We're expecting another shipment of crates from the team in the field any day now." As assistant curator of Egyptian art, with the curator on an expedition, Lauren was doing the work of at least two people until the team's return next spring.

"Anything exciting?" Lawrence's eyes glinted. From a nearby pushcart, the smell of roasted pumpkin seeds and apple cider carried on the breeze.

After a quick glance at her watch, Lauren told him about the most recent mummy and coffin to arrive and felt herself relax. Lawrence Westlake might not have been the best father, but he'd been the one to instill in her a love for Egyptology. Aside from the curator, Albert Lythgoe, and the expedition director, Herbert Winlock, she couldn't think of anyone else who might share her enthusiasm for the nuances of ancient Egyptian artifacts.

"I'm proud of you." His smile brought a gentle tapping on the wall she'd built around her heart. Then he pulled a photograph from inside his jacket pocket. "Look what I found."

Lauren took it and stared at the little girl in the photo, standing as close to the man beside her as he would allow. It had been taken twenty-seven years ago. She'd been five years old.

"How small you were," Lawrence murmured. "Do you remember that day?"

"Of course." She recalled every detail. Someone from a geographical society had come to their home to photograph Lawrence before one of his many trips. Lauren had pestered to be in one of the photos, and they'd finally appeased her. She'd wanted to sit on her father's lap but hadn't been brave enough to do more than hold his hand.

She fingered the torn corner of the image. "Do you remember this day?"

He frowned. "When you tore off the corner? It was an accident. Out of character for you since you were always so careful with your things. You treated everything as though it were in a museum even then."

His expression held no hint that he remembered the circumstances. Lauren had been upset that he was leaving her behind again. Lawrence had tucked the photograph into the front pocket of her dress, saying that she was to keep the picture close, and in that way, they'd always be together.

Lauren had ripped the photo when she yanked it out of her pocket and thrust it back at him. She didn't want a piece of paper. She wanted him.

"I'm going on another trip," Lawrence announced above chittering sparrows. "To the field. Come with me."

Snapping the photo into her handbag, she thought of the times he'd said this to her before. There was always a reason she couldn't or shouldn't come after all. But all she said was, "I thought you'd given up traveling."

"I tried. Staying in one place won't stick." A sigh gusted from him as he leaned back against the bench. "How long do I need to do penance for missing your mother's death?"

But it was the life he missed that bothered her most, both before and after her mother died. He didn't understand that or didn't want to.

"You had your aunt and uncle and your cousin," he said. "You and your mother left Chicago to spend every Christmas vacation with them. Staying there after your mother died was best for everyone."

She hadn't said a thing about Mother, and still he argued, bringing up feelings and memories she'd rather leave buried. Was it any wonder she hadn't sought his company during the last four months he'd been living in Manhattan?

Wind teased a strand of hair from Lauren's chignon, and she tucked it behind her ear. "I don't want to do this today."

"It's time to make good on a promise I made to bring you with me."

A promise made and broken more than once. She was unwilling to argue with him anymore, and yet unable to agree.

"The only problem is, the board isn't convinced you ought to have a spot on the expedition team."

"Since I never asked for a spot, we're in perfect agreement." She plucked a petal from the chrysanthemums beside her.

"You're qualified to come. I know that, and you know that. But you need to prove it to the board. You know, with publications, that sort of thing."

Lauren stifled a dark laugh. She had proven herself to many people and institutions along the way to earning her doctorate in Egyptology and attaining this position at the Met. She most certainly did not need to prove anything for a role she hadn't looked for.

"I have no time to impress some nameless board," she began.

"Not nameless." He cut her off, handing her a business card: Lawrence A. Westlake, executive board, Napoleon Society. A phone number and Manhattan PO Box followed.

She'd heard of the society but hadn't known that her father was involved with it, let alone on the board. Still in a fledgling state, the organization was devoted to celebrating Egyptian history and culture, and was named for the man whose explorations in Egypt inspired so many others.

"Imagine what this could do for your career," Lawrence said.

Lauren had gotten further in a career in Egyptology than most women could ever dream of. Still, she couldn't deny the pull of the field.

"We've secured the perfect spot for our new office building and museum in Newport," he went on.

"Newport? That's a little out of the way, isn't it?"

"It's perfect!" he repeated. "New York already has the Met, and Boston has the Museum of Fine Arts. But Newport is where all those patrons spend the summers, and the Providence Athenaeum, a short drive from there, holds all twenty-three volumes of Napoleon's Description de l'Egypte . It's only fitting for the Napoleon Society to host a world-class collection nearby. I've been curating it for a few years now, and I expect it will be ready to open to the public in another two. Eighteen months if we're lucky."

"So this expedition is for that purpose?" she asked. "To discover and bring back artifacts for your new museum?"

"Precisely. We'll have to do some maneuvering around the new regulations over there, but that won't stop us. I'm inviting you to be part of that."

She broke from his dancing gaze and watched the wind move through the trees. Beyond those, Manhattan's skyscrapers needled the sky. Far beyond that lay an ancient land she'd been to as a tourist and then later as a student, but never as a professional.

As much as she'd like to believe this opportunity would work out, that she could uncover history herself, she knew better than to hope.

"No, thank you." Rising, she looked down at the white-haired man who had so often broken her heart. "But best wishes as you go about your business."

She tried to ignore the hurt etched on his face. She refused to feel guilty for rejecting the offer before he had a chance to take it away.

As he walked her back to the Met, she tried to talk to him of something else—anything else. But the conversation fell flat.

Little wonder. Egyptology was all they had in common.

"One more thing." Lawrence extended an engraved invitation. "The Napoleon Society's fundraising gala will be November 21. Please come and hear more of what we're all about."

She took it, and he tipped his hat to her. "Thank you for meeting with me today. I am sorry, you know. And I am proud of you. I would recruit you to this expedition even if you weren't my daughter. You're good enough to be on the team, Dr. Westlake."

Lauren hated that she didn't believe him. She hated that she wished she could.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1925

Humming a melody from Verdi's La Traviata , Joe Caravello emerged from the subway station into the mottled dark of predawn Lower Manhattan. The sky was a bruise, the sidewalk a series of cracks and broken pieces. He trod the final few blocks to work, eager to reach the place where his thoughts had been for more than an hour. Longer, if he counted thinking in his sleep.

At 240 Centre Street, the five-story granite and limestone police headquarters filled a wedge of land bordered by Grand, Centre, and Broome Streets. Streetlamps illuminated the columns and porticoes over the three arched doorways but failed to penetrate the shadows gathered in his mind.

The clock on the dome began chiming the five o'clock hour as he climbed the steps and entered. After passing through the marble reception room and into the detective bureau, he poured himself a cup of tar-black coffee and took it to his desk.

"Detective Caravello?" A lanky figure approached. His sleeves were a half inch too short. Must be fresh out of the Police Academy on the fourth floor. "Oscar McCormick." He shook Joe's hand with a firm grip. "We're neighbors now, so I thought I'd introduce myself." He jerked a thumb toward the desk across from Joe's. Up until two weeks ago, it had been Connor's.

"I heard about what happened with Connor Boyle," McCormick added.

"Yeah." Joe took another gulp of coffee, not minding the scald on the way down. "Not surprised."

"Right. Well, I'm real sorry things went down that way, and I wanted to tell you that straight off, but we don't have to talk about it again."

"Smart." Joe wasn't cutting the kid any slack, and he felt a twinge of guilt. If the new hire had come a month ago, Joe would have taken him for an espresso at Ferrara's. Ever curious, Joe would have asked for his story, what made him want to join the NYPD, and what his goals were on the force. He would have shared his own insights about the job and been the unofficial one-man welcoming committee. At thirty-five years old, Joe was a veteran, and if he could set an example for young officers, it might help them withstand corrupting influences.

What a joke. Joe couldn't even keep his own friend on the straight and narrow.

The young man shifted. "And I have no reason to believe what they're saying about you, either. I never judge a man based on rumor."

Joe studied McCormick's face, which had turned a ruddy shade to match his hair. "And those rumors are?" He figured he knew them all, but it wouldn't hurt to be sure.

"Oh, uh, just that you could have sprung Boyle from jail with your testimony but decided not to."

"I told the truth in my statement. That's it." Connor's story was that he thought the man Joe had been handcuffing during a speakeasy raid had a gun. Connor claimed he needed to neutralize the threat. The truth was that Wade Martin had been unarmed and already neutralized.

"Well, they say bullets were flying that night, and the one that killed Martin could have easily come from some other miscreant. If you'd kept quiet, maybe Boyle would still be free. They say you ought to have been more loyal to your friend."

"I'm loyal to the oath I took when I swore to serve and protect this city. My friend shot an unarmed man I had already subdued. Is anyone saying that Boyle simply shouldn't have taken the shot?"

McCormick kicked at the foot of Joe's desk, sending his coffee sloshing. "Well, me, for one. I say that."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Joe wiped up the coffee spill with a napkin, then tossed the sodden wad into a nearby waste bin. If the kid had scruples, Joe could only pray he held on to them longer than Connor had. The man he'd shot left behind a young widow about to give birth to a fatherless child.

That senseless killing never should have happened.

Aware McCormick still stood there, Joe felt his mouth twitch at one corner in his best attempt to stop scowling. "Welcome to the force."

McCormick excused himself, and just in time. Joe had an appointment to keep.

At the doorway to his boss's office, he cleared his throat. "Inspector Murphy? I'm ready if you are."

After shoving a stack of files aside, the inspector in charge of investigations motioned Joe inside and gestured to the chair across from his desk.

Joe sat. "This isn't working," he began. He'd called this meeting and saw no sense in not getting straight to the point.

Murphy's blond eyebrows knit together. "After you tell me exactly what you're referring to, you'd better have a solution to propose."

Of course he did. Joe hadn't come here to whine. "Sir, every time we raid a speakeasy and padlock the door, violence breaks out, people get hurt, and five more speakeasies pop up within the week anyhow. I'm sure you read the commissioner's annual reports." In one year alone, the NYPD made ten thousand arrests on Prohibition-related charges. Only two hundred thirty-nine of those accused were convicted. Three thousand cases were dismissed, and the seven thousand remaining cases languished in the enormous backlog overwhelming state courts.

"Is this about Boyle?" Murphy's grey eyes narrowed.

Joe had expected that question. "It's not about what happened that night. But that does serve as one more example of the risks we take and the little reward we gain—if any—with these raids. We aren't succeeding in shutting down the illegal sale of alcohol. We're only moving it around."

In truth, he'd been disillusioned about Prohibition enforcement almost since the Volstead Act went into effect more than five years ago. "This entire bootlegging underworld is a Hydra. Cut down one outfit and another one takes its place almost immediately. We're chasing our tails. Spinning our wheels. Pick your own metaphor, but you know what I mean."

Murphy folded his arms over his barrel chest. "Are you getting to the part where you tell me how to solve the problem of Prohibition in Manhattan?"

"You and I both know that's a problem that can't be solved completely. All I'm asking is that we try a different angle." Joe drew in a breath. "Egyptian art and forgeries."

"You're kidding." Murphy's expression suspended between amusement and the very opposite.

"Ever since King Tut's tomb was opened a few years ago, there's been a demand for all things Egypt. And since the Egyptian government closed off the exportation of antiquities, the demand for forgeries has gone up. Forgery is another form of money laundering, just like bootlegging."

"And you have proof this is happening?" The inspector lit a Chesterfield and sent a plume of smoke into the air.

"I have no proof that someone is going to get robbed tonight, but you and I both know it'll happen. Crime happens all the time, including forgeries, whether we're savvy to it or not."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Okay, how's this: two days ago, the antique dealer Reuben Feinstein made a call about his property getting egged. I went over there to check things out, and when I chatted with him, he mentioned that the restoration side of his dealership is slowing down because the specific supplies he needs are out of stock all over the tri-state area. I spent most of yesterday visiting his suppliers. Feinstein was right. Gold, turquoise, a certain kind of black paint—all consistent with Egyptian art—are in high demand." He paused to let Murphy absorb that.

"I couldn't get a list of his customers without a warrant," Joe continued, "but it doesn't take much math to put two and two together here. My gut tells me that if we find those involved in making or dealing forgeries, we'll find criminals who are guilty of other crimes. Racketeering, trafficking, and Prohibition violations. One crime leads to another."

The inspector tapped ash into a tray. "Even if what you say is true, you're forgetting one problem. Where are the victims, Caravello? When is the last time someone came to us to report that their artifact was forged?"

"I'm well aware of that dilemma. If it's a good enough forgery, they won't even know it's not genuine. If it's obviously fake, they wouldn't have acquired it in the first place. Or if they figure out it's fake after the purchase, they may be too embarrassed to report that they've been duped. That's why we go looking. You've told me yourself that purely reactive policing is bad policing. Here's a chance to be proactive."

Murphy took a deep breath, but Joe wasn't done speaking yet.

"Remember the oyster shell?" he asked. When Murphy didn't respond, Joe went on. "You read my report. When I was handcuffing Martin, I noticed he held a gilded oyster shell dripping with gin. There was an Egyptian carving on the inside of it. When I asked him about it, he claimed that Boyle had dropped it into his drink before the raid. Why? What does that shell have to do with anything?"

"It's not your job to find out. That's up to the investigators assigned to that case."

"But there's a connection there. And that's not all. I've been looking around at some art dealerships and antique stores. There's an undercurrent of Egyptian art flowing through Manhattan, and it's cloaked in secrecy. I'm telling you, it's worth looking into. Something is going on."

Murphy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't possibly sell this to the public, you know. Nor can I get funding from the Board of Aldermen or the Board of Estimates for this. More resources for murder investigations? Sure. Armed robberies? You bet. But to look into crimes that haven't even been reported..." He took a long drag and exhaled. "We've known each other a long time."

Joe nodded.

"So I know you have an appreciation for art that most cops on the force do not. I also know you have a thing about fakes. It's personal for you. Can you deny it?"

"Sir?"

"Scams. No one likes them, but you have more reason than most to crusade against them. I get that."

"This has nothing to do with my father, Inspector. It's a proactive avenue of investigation we haven't tried yet. What we've tried so far isn't working."

"You said that already."

"It bears repeating."

Murphy's mouth slanted in what Joe hoped was resignation.

"I wouldn't come to you with this proposal if I wasn't willing to do the work myself," Joe pressed.

A beat passed, and then another. The inspector blinked. "You're qualified to tell a fake from the real thing?"

"I know who is."