Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1925

T he smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee filled the Beresford dining room. Lauren poured maple syrup onto her Belgian waffle and passed the small pitcher to Elsa.

"What time is your father coming?" Ivy asked her.

"He's not." Lauren's cheeks burned. "He called yesterday afternoon to cancel." Actually, he'd had a secretary from the Napoleon Society call on his behalf, but Lauren was too embarrassed to admit he hadn't even told her himself.

Elsa wiped the outside of the syrup pitcher before cutting her own waffle in squares according to its natural grid. "Uncle Lawrence doesn't want to spend Thanksgiving with you? Er, sorry, that came out wrong. I'm disappointed he wouldn't since he lives so close now." Elsa's parents, Lauren's aunt Beryl and uncle Julian, lived right across the street from the Met on Fifth Avenue, but they were spending the fall with Uncle Julian's sister in Monte Carlo.

"I thought things had improved between you and your dad," Ivy added.

A waiter dropped by to refill their coffee mugs. Once he'd gone, Lauren explained that her father was out of town, something to do with working for the Napoleon Society. "Don't ask me why it's so urgent it couldn't wait until after the holiday. But it's fine, really. I haven't celebrated Thanksgiving with him in more than twenty-five years."

Ivy's eyebrows arched, disappearing behind her thick black bangs. "But he said he would come, then changed his mind less than twenty-four hours before the holiday? That stings. But maybe he really does have some emergency."

Lauren forced a smile for her roommates. "When it comes to my father, I've grown used to disappointments," she said. She ought to have expected it. She ought not to have placed so much significance on the fact that they'd made plans together. In any case, she'd been quick to adapt and make new ones. Tomorrow, she and Elsa would hunt for those letters Lawrence had once tried to burn.

"And there's no one else besides us you'd rather spend time with today?" Elsa asked. "Perhaps a certain someone who insisted on bringing you home from the Hotel Astor even though you are thirty-two years old and perfectly capable of riding the subway alone?"

"Oh!" Ivy brightened. "You mean the certain someone who also commandeered two steak dinners from the kitchen and stayed until he was sure you were feeling better? Good gravy, Lauren, teach me your ways. Tell me where I can find a man like that."

"Didn't you know?" Elsa jumped in. "They met at the Met when she was twelve years old."

Lauren laughed at Ivy's stunned expression. "It's true," she confirmed. "I grew up in Chicago, but my mother and I stayed with Elsa's family every Christmas. That year I went to the Met by myself. My mother was sick, my aunt and uncle were busy, and Elsa, only five at the time, had no patience for museums if they didn't have taxidermy animals. That's where I first met Joe. He asked if I was lost, since he didn't see an adult with me, and immediately appointed himself my guardian. Only much later did I learn he'd been dropped off at the wrong Met, so if either of us was lost, it was him."

"You're kidding," Ivy said.

"Nope. At fourteen years old, he got in a cab and asked for the Met. He thought he was going to a matinee at the Metropolitan Opera. But he didn't tell me that for years."

"Then what did he tell you?"

Lauren chuckled. "He told me not to talk to strangers. To which I replied that he was a stranger. He took care of that in a hurry by simply introducing himself."

" I'm Joe Caravello. Like Joe Petrosino, you know?" He'd puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders. When she hadn't responded to his posturing, he added, "Don't tell me you don't know Joe. Best cop in the city. First Italian detective on the force."

Lauren had smiled and shook his hand. "And I'm Lauren Westlake. Like Lawrence Westlake. Only I'm smaller than him and a girl." She hadn't expected the skinny boy with black hair and green eyes to recognize her father's name, but she had enjoyed saying it together with hers like that. Lauren and Lawrence. Anyone could tell she'd been named for him. She'd been proud of that, and she'd hoped he'd been proud of her, too.

"Obviously, they didn't stay strangers for long." Elsa speared another perfectly cubed piece of her waffle, somehow managing to grin and chew at the same time.

"We saw each other at the Met quite a bit after that. He always knew where to find me—the Egyptian rooms."

"And so, I ask again why you're not seeing him today," Ivy pressed.

"Because unlike my father, I have no plans to work on Thanksgiving."

"Good for you," Elsa said. "Speaking of work, are you considering Uncle Lawrence's offer to go on that expedition with him?"

Digging her spoon into a section of grapefruit, Lauren excavated a chunk and let its citrus flavor burst upon her tongue. "I already told him I wouldn't go. At first, I doubted there was any such expedition scheduled. But if he was lying to me about that, he lied to the richest people in Manhattan, too. He and another board member gave a presentation about the upcoming dig during the gala."

"You don't think he's really lying about that, do you?" Elsa asked.

Lauren folded the napkin in her lap. "Not anymore." She'd read the pamphlets about the trip and even pulled two board members aside to question them. Their answers satisfied. "But that doesn't mean I'm signing up."

"It does sound like a wonderful opportunity," Ivy said. "There's time to change your mind if you want to."

In some ways, Ivy and Elsa were two peas in a pod. They worked in adjacent institutions on Central Park West, with only 77th Street between them, and walked to work together every day. They'd met, in fact, when taking their lunch breaks in the same spot in Central Park. Both being extroverts, it had been easy for them to strike up a conversation that led to Ivy's moving in.

But on the subject of Lawrence Westlake, they differed. Where Ivy maintained a determined optimism, Elsa wouldn't push. She knew too well how he'd hurt Lauren.

Elsa checked her watch. "Speaking of time, we better shake a leg."

A few minutes later, Lauren, Elsa, and Ivy exited the elevator on the main floor and crossed the lobby. A whoosh of cold air splashed Lauren's face as the Beresford doorman held open the door, ushering them onto the sidewalk.

"Lauren."

She turned at the sound of her name. "Joe!"

He wasn't in uniform today. A herringbone newsboy cap matched his brown leather coat, and the green in his plaid scarf, his eyes. His subtle smile swept through her.

———

It took Joe a moment to realize Lauren wasn't alone. He nodded to the two ladies flanking her. The blonde with glasses he recognized as her cousin when he noticed the limp. The other young woman wore a fuzzy grey hat over a sleek black bob. They gaped at him. "Your roommates?" He'd left Lauren's apartment before they'd come home Monday night.

"And dear friends. Ivy Malone and, you may remember, Elsa Reisner. This is Joe."

"Pleasure." He shook their mittened hands, adding, "Nice to see you again, Elsa."

"Mutual, I'm sure." She gave him a cheeky grin.

A breeze ruffled the fur on Lauren's collar. She wound a scarf around her neck and tied it below her chin. "We were about to get spots for the parade."

"Coincidentally, so was I. You happen to live along the route."

"Berries. Let's go." Elsa looped her arm firmly through Ivy's and took off marching down the sidewalk. "Try and keep up," she tossed over one shoulder with a smile.

Lauren chuckled, then looked up at Joe while adjusting her cloche. "Aren't you taking the day off?"

"Does it look like I'm working?"

"Every time I see you it's because you are."

It had taken a while on Monday night to finally get around to why he'd come to her apartment in the first place. He'd wanted to update her on his progress—or rather, lack of it—connecting with the leads he'd gained at the gala. He needed her help. Which she'd promised to provide as soon as Thanksgiving week was behind them.

"Well, this is me not working. If the topic happens to come up in conversation, so be it."

"I see." She smiled. "I must say, your timing is impeccable."

He shrugged but didn't tell her how long he'd been waiting. "It didn't take much deductive reasoning to guess you'd want to see the parade, like the rest of Manhattan. Are you meeting your father, too?"

She pursed her lips. "He's out of town on some kind of Napoleon Society emergency, and my aunt and uncle are in Europe."

"So you're spending Thanksgiving...?"

"With Ivy and Elsa. The Beresford is putting on a feast for residents this afternoon."

The food Joe's parents were cooking up today was certain to be far better.

They came to the corner of 81st Street, and he tucked her hand through his elbow as they crossed it. Sidewalks teemed with parade seekers. When they reached the other side, he didn't let go of her in the crowd. He was tall enough to keep an eye on her roommates, too.

Ivy looked over her shoulder, likely to be sure Joe and Lauren were still behind her. Lauren waved.

She'd probably rather be with her friends.

Joe's impulse to see her today had felt like the right thing to do. Now he felt selfish for inserting himself. "I don't mean to keep you from your original plans for this morning," he said.

"Keep her?" Elsa turned around. "No, you can't keep our Lauren, but we don't mind sharing her, seeing as you've come all this way."

Joe looked to Lauren. "Sure?"

"If you're going to watch the parade near us, you might as well watch it with us," she said. "Besides, we might get hungry. Or thirsty." She batted her eyes at him, then sniffed the air and grinned.

Joe laughed at her not-so-veiled request. "Roasted chestnuts? Hot chocolate?"

Three feminine hands shot up in the air.

"We just ate breakfast," Ivy said, "but by the time you get back from standing in line, it may be near lunch."

"I surrender. Where should I meet you?"

Elsa pointed at the American Museum of Natural History. "The steps," she said. "We'll have a good view from there."

Joe tipped his hat to the three of them and turned to get in line.

Lauren didn't leave his side. "You'll need help bringing back food and drinks for four."

"So I will."

The street had been closed to traffic, so they darted across to a vendor at the edge of Central Park. Questions Joe had been meaning to ask Lauren rose to the surface. "I know I said I wasn't working today. But as long as we're both here, do you mind if we talk about it?"

"I really don't have anything to report, Joe. I've been totally wrapped up in my own work."

He blinked. "Is that a mummy joke?"

She laughed, and it was a musical sound.

"You might not have any updates, but I do." He shared about his visit to Feinstein's antique shop and the man's refusal to file a report for the break-in, but left out his fear of a new Mafia filling in for the Black Hand. No need to scare her with an instinct he wasn't even sure he could trust. "I've been looking at Feinstein's cagey behavior from every angle, even wondering if he could be a forger."

"Really?"

"I quickly dismissed the idea. A forger needs a steady hand and discerning eye, right? Feinstein has neither. He mentioned weeks ago that he's color-blind. But he's definitely hiding something."

"So the search continues."

"Slowly. Two people I met at that gala have agreed to let us come look at their collections. We have appointments next week, in the evenings. Are you available?" he asked.

She pushed her cloche back again and looked up at him. "I'd be happy to help you next week."

"Good. I also wanted to talk to you about the Napoleon Society starting a new museum." It had slipped his mind when he'd seen her Monday evening. "I'm still not convinced of the need for such a giant undertaking, but I'm looking at this from outside the art world. Do you think there's enough support to be had from the public to warrant this new venture?"

"I've wondered the same thing. But considering the huge success the gala was, yes, there is enough interest to support it."

"How huge is huge?"

She told him how much money was raised through the silent auction and donations. It boggled the mind.

Joe whistled. "All of that raised in one night, too. To think, my father lost his restaurant for want of a small fraction of that sum."

Ridges lined her brow. "I'm so sorry," she told him, and it was a relief that he didn't need to explain anything, since he'd already told her when they were teens.

"Nah, you weren't the one who scammed him." And that was enough said about that.

———

Lauren waited for Joe to say more, but he looked away, a muscle bunching in his jaw. When he turned back to her, it was with an expression so studiously neutral, she knew the conversation was over.

Just as well. They'd come to the front of the line. Joe placed an order for two bags of roasted chestnuts, one bag of mini-doughnuts, and four hot chocolates.

Moments later, Lauren took the bags of food, and Joe balanced the steaming beverages on the cardboard tray that came with them.

As they reached Lauren's roommates on the steps of the American Museum of Natural History, the rumble of a police escort on motorcycles cut through the din of the crowd. Joe handed the hot chocolates to the ladies, and Lauren distributed the bags of treats. A marching band came next, bearing a wide banner proclaiming the start of the Macy's department store's parade.

Lauren extended the bag of chestnuts toward Joe, and he pulled out a handful. Macy's staff dressed as clowns, cowboys, and knights threw candy to children lining the street. Bears from Central Park Zoo lumbered by, followed by monkeys, elephants, and camels.

Lauren watched the camels with a broad smile and couldn't help but think of Egypt. Of riding a camel herself one day, as she had always dreamed she would. Nostalgia swept over her as she recalled riding her father's shoulders as a child, pretending he was the hump-backed beast.

She'd called out what she spied in their imaginary desert: "Sandstorm!" Her father had lifted her off his shoulders and huddled with her on the floor under his desk. "You're safe," he'd whispered and kissed the top of her head. Lauren had never felt more loved.

"Lauren?" Joe said. "I asked if you've ever ridden one of those." He pointed to the long-lashed, shaggy camel.

"Not yet," she told him. "Someday."

Joe's parents had outdone themselves. Most of the boarders had gone home for the holidays, but that hadn't stopped the Caravellos from cooking a feast with all the trimmings for themselves, Joe, and Doreen, who had brightened the dining room with vases of burgundy and orange chrysanthemums. Finishing his last bite of pumpkin pie, Joe noticed his mother looking at the empty chairs around the large dining table.

"Those should have been filled," she said softly, and Joe knew it wasn't the college girls she was missing.

Pop cast his gaze downward, clearly understanding what Mama meant, too. Joe's brother was married with children, and they hadn't come for the holiday. Pop blamed himself for the breaking up of his family.

"I did call him to tell him how much we'd like to have them come," he said.

Mama's eyebrows rose. "And what did he say to that?"

The beat of silence that followed was full of meaning. Pop took a drink before responding. "He's a busy man. The operator said he was too busy to take the call. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay," Joe countered. After all these years, Michael still refused to talk to his dad? Didn't he understand that hurting Pop also hurt Mama? Hurt Joe? "You made mistakes. We got past them. It's too bad he hasn't." That was putting it mildly. When Michael decided to cut ties with Pop, Joe might as well have lost his brother, too. Then there was Mama, who felt most keenly the absence of a daughter-in-law and two grandchildren she would have loved to spoil. Family was everything to Mama.

"He has his reasons." Pop rubbed at a wrinkle in the tablecloth. "If I hadn't—"

"That's enough of that, please." With a brave smile, Mama grasped Pop's hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "I don't remember inviting Guilt or Shame to the table today."

"In fact," Joe added, "I distinctly recall kicking both of them to the curb. You were swindled, Pop. A victim of a crime." It struck Joe then, as it often had, that the man who stole the Caravellos' money had probably spent it all within a few months. Yet here they were, years later, still suffering the consequences. Sure, Pop owned his decisions that made him vulnerable to a scam. He'd kept their desperate financial circumstances hidden from his family. Lied about it, even. But the real criminal had gotten away, free to prey on the next target, and the next, and the next.

It wasn't right.

Inspector Murphy's suggestion that Joe's interest in hunting forgers stemmed from his father's situation came back to Joe again. But people who could afford to spend thousands on antiquities clearly didn't need that money to live on. It was a completely different circumstance than losing the restaurant that served as their family's livelihood. Joe was after the criminals, no matter who the victims were. He just prayed he'd get a break in the case soon.

"Honestly, I can't recall a time I ate so well for Thanksgiving," Doreen jumped in, and Mama looked grateful for the change in subject. "Everything was wonderful! I couldn't eat another bite."

Patting his usually trim stomach, Joe agreed. Judging by the amount of food left in the bowls and platters, there was still enough to feed a family of eight.

"Come on, Joey, please. Here, there is pie." Mama lifted another slice of pumpkin pie and deposited it on his plate.

"I wish I had more room to spare," Joe protested, but Mama cut him off with one of her looks.

"I just said, there is pie." She jabbed the pie server at the piece as if that concluded the matter. "In this house, once served, food is always eaten."

Joe swallowed a chuckle. His little mama had come by her standards honestly. Wasting food was wasting money, and wasting either was near to a crime. Since it had been her penny-pinching that had seen them through the leanest years, he'd never disparage her everlasting frugality.

"And where is Dr. Lauren Westlake this afternoon?" Pop asked. "Dining with her father?"

With the side of his fork, Joe cut a sliver from the pie. "Uh, no, he had to cancel on her."

Three pairs of eyes riveted on him.

" Had to cancel?" Mama repeated. "Why does one have to cancel on family at such a time? Are they on good terms?"

Joe told them what he knew, which wasn't enough to satisfy. He'd often thought he'd gotten his passion for detective work from his parents, whose curiosity knew no bounds.

Doreen tsked her disapproval and shook her head. This was her first Thanksgiving without family, Joe realized. She may appreciate the food and even the company, but it wasn't the same as celebrating with her own flesh and blood. Joe wondered if the day would be different for Connor than any other.

"You should have asked her and her roommates to come here," Mama said. "We had enough food to feed three more. Or just one more, if that's better. Maybe that would be better." She gave him a pointed look.

Joe wasn't ready for this. "We work together, nothing more." He reached for the bowl of whipped cream to add a dollop to his pie.

She grabbed it first and pulled it out of his reach. "At this rate, working together is all you'll ever do. Is that what you want? If so, your strategy is a good one."

"All right, my dear, you've made your point." Barely disguising a smirk, Pop scooped a spoonful of whipped cream and plopped it on Joe's pie.

———

Joe insisted on cleaning up after the meal.

"Let me help you, Joe," Doreen said. "You might as well let me earn my keep around here, at least a little." She gave him a look that suggested she knew the rate they were charging her was steeply discounted.

After they cleared the table, Joe rolled up his sleeves and filled the sink with soapy water. Doreen found a dish towel and set to drying what he scrubbed. Her hands and wrists bore marks from years of handling flowers with thorns and thistles.

Joe bore his own faded scars from his childhood job of delivering flowers for Doreen. Connor had them, too. His might have healed better if he hadn't picked his scab one day when Joe had started bleeding. Connor had rubbed his wound against Joe's and proclaimed they were blood brothers. After Michael took off, years later, Connor had pointed to their scars and said, "You still have me."

"Is the jail open on Thanksgiving, do you suppose?" Doreen asked. "For visitors, I mean."

"It's open." Joe had already decided that if she wanted to see Connor, he'd take her.

The woman took a shuddering breath. "I don't know what to say to him, Joe."

He leaned harder into scrubbing mashed potatoes off the inside of a pot. "He may not know what to say to you, either. But at least he'll know you care enough to see him."

She reached for a ladle and wiped out its bowl. "I hope so."

"I'll bet he misses spending Thanksgiving with family even more than you do." He rinsed the pot, set it on the drain board, and plunged his hands into the warm water for the next. "If you need to do this for your own sake, that's reason enough to go, too."

Doreen kept quiet as she dried the last of the dishes. Joe didn't interrupt her reverie as he drained the water from the sink and put everything she dried in its proper place.

At last, she hung the wet dish towel over the oven door handle and turned to him. "Then it's time, don't you think? For both of us."

Joe exhaled. "You and Connor?" he confirmed.

She took his hand and squeezed it. "You and me."

———

The county jail was always a depressing place to be, and even more so on a holiday. Joe led Doreen toward the row of chairs where visitors could speak to inmates through telephones connected through plates of glass.

Doreen clamped tighter on his arm when the attendant left to fetch Connor. "What if he doesn't want to see me?" she asked.

"If that's the case, he won't come forward. He does have a choice in that." He guided her to the chair and backed away, giving her privacy with her nephew.

The door opened from the other side, and Connor appeared, a shadow of the man he'd been. A beard obscured his face, but not enough to hide his pale complexion. Neither did his jail uniform disguise that he'd lost weight. A jagged lump convulsed in his throat when he saw Doreen.

With a small cry, she placed her palm on the glass that separated them.

Joe turned away, his middle twisting. How was he supposed to feel here? He could feel sympathy for Doreen without question, but was there any to be had for Connor himself? He had shot an unarmed man. He'd gotten into some kind of trouble Joe didn't understand. He swallowed, pushing down emotions that wouldn't help him do his job.

He didn't know how much time had passed while he stood with his back to Doreen. It was enough time to remember that the last time he and Connor had been here, they'd been on the same side of the glass. The same side of everything, or so Joe had thought.

"Joe," Doreen called, and he turned.

A charge went through him when he met Connor's gaze. Just as quickly, Connor looked away, but he still held the phone, waiting.

Joe closed the distance between them and sat on the stool where Doreen had been. Her complexion mottled, she clutched a handkerchief and walked away.

The phone felt heavy. Joe pressed the weight to his ear.

"Thank you for taking care of her." Connor's voice was husky through the wire.

"We'd never leave your aunt to fend for herself," Joe said quietly.

"It's good to see you," Connor said. His collarbones formed small shelves behind his uniform. His fingernails had been bitten to the quick. "You're okay, right?"

"Could be worse." Joe allowed his tone to convey much more. He didn't understand why Connor had taken the shot in a place crowded with civilians, many of them inebriated. He especially didn't understand why Connor discharged his weapon at a target inches from Joe. If the gun had been rotated slightly, it would have been Joe in the ground instead of Wade Martin.

But because he wasn't allowed to talk about the reason for Connor's arrest, he couldn't say any of that.

This was going to be a short conversation.

Connor scratched behind his ear. "Any interesting cases lately? I'm about to die of boredom in here."

"I'm doing a lot of the same old policework I always did," Joe told him. "Writing up reports for prosecutors, interviewing witnesses and suspects on several ongoing cases. Trying to stay away from speakeasy raids for as long as Murphy will let me. You understand."

Connor looked away, and silence buzzed through the earpiece. He did not say that he never meant to kill an unarmed civilian. He didn't say that he should never have discharged his weapon.

Maybe he was merely following the rules by not talking about that night at all.

An itch crept between Joe's neck and collar. "The only thing new since you were around is that I've started looking into forgeries. Found one right away, but it's really small. Dr. Westlake—you remember me talking about Lauren from years ago, right?—she's an Egyptologist at the Met now, and she says it wouldn't have been worth much anyway, even if it had been genuine. So even if someone discovered they'd purchased a fake, the amount lost would not be worth killing over, at any rate."

The hollow gaze swung back to Joe. "That oyster shell," Connor whispered. "Tell me you got rid of it."

"Does it have anything to do with your upcoming trial?" Joe asked. "If it does, then we can't talk about it."

"I'm serious, Joe. Let it go. Don't think about it again. There is other work to do. Safer work."

Joe's ire spiked. "We didn't join the police to be safe. I'm in the job to find the truth and stand up for justice. And if there's one thing I know about that shell, it's that it's loaded with secrets."

"Some secrets are better left alone."

"See, that smells like a rat to me." The stool whined again as Joe twisted to check on Doreen.

"I'm trying to protect—"

Joe's hand curled into a fist over the phone. "That's not your job," he hissed.

"I've given up on protecting you , Joe. But my aunt. Your parents. Every last one of those little coeds boarding at your place. That's who I'm trying to protect now."

The hair raised on the back of Joe's neck. Connor had never been given to theatrics.

"You want to put them all in danger? Keep digging around about that stupid shell." Connor made to hang up the phone.

Joe knocked on the glass, motioned that he had more to say. "How can I keep them safe if I don't know who the perpetrator is? If he's as dangerous as you say, he's a menace to society and needs to be taken off the streets."

"Drop it."

"Connor!"

But he'd already slammed the handset into the receiver and stalked away.