Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1925

T wo hours before the Met opened to the public for the day, Lauren took a quick walk through the Egyptian galleries, spot-checking the display cards to reassure herself they matched the exhibits.

At her side, Anita carried a clipboard with today's agenda, ready to make any notes as necessary. "Good weekend?" she asked.

"Eventful." Lauren described the Vandermeer and Moretti parties she'd attended.

"You had a date, I assume?" Anita tucked her raven hair behind an ear. "Let me guess. Your father. Or—wait, no!—a certain dashing detective."

"Good guess." Lauren allowed her smile to reveal as much as she wanted to on that score. She hardly knew what she felt, let alone how to put it into words. "My father is back in Newport overseeing repairs to the Napoleon House. What have you got for me?"

While Anita briefed her on the schedule, Lauren finished skimming the exhibit cards in the Jewelry room before passing into the adjacent Daily Life room.

"Miss Westlake," Mr. Robinson called, hustling after her from the direction of Middle Kingdom Tomb Furnishings. "A word, please."

Anita excused herself to start brewing a pot of coffee. "See you downstairs, Dr. Westlake."

Lauren smiled at her loyal assistant, then gave her full attention to her boss. "I do hope things are better with the Morettis," she began, and told him about attending their Christmas party last Friday.

"Did you? Smart. I knew you were good at this type of thing. Thank you."

Lauren nodded, then added, "I'd love to share with you some new ideas on the spring exhibition sometime."

"Sometime, yes. But right now we have a more pressing matter to deal with. An honorary fellow of the Metropolitan is in town, and we need to give him a private tour of the Egyptian rooms."

Lauren mentally juggled her other commitments to fit this in. "Who is it?"

"Theodore Clarke. I'm sure you know the name."

A jolt went through her. "Of course."

He straightened his tie, one finger pushing in a dimple. "I thought so. We do still need the Morettis' financial contributions, so keep up the friendly relations there, but the collection Clarke has promised the Met upon his death—one cannot overstate its importance to the museum. I hope I don't have to tell you how much he amassed, a sampling of all the ages and phases of ancient Egyptian art. The man discovered eighteen tombs."

"I'm well aware, sir."

"He's sensitive about the King Tut discovery eclipsing his decades of work. He knows we've lent our staff photographer and other team members to help Carter catalog the tomb as he clears it out, and I pray that doesn't affect his confidence in how we value him and his collection. We need to reaffirm the decision he already made. In other words, don't give him a reason to change his mind about the Met being the recipient of his legacy."

Heat prickled Lauren's scalp. If the stakes were this high, perhaps she wasn't the best person to give this tour after all. Then again, whatever quarrel her father had had with Clarke had been decades ago. Dad might hang on to it, but since Clarke had clearly come out the winner, perhaps it was no longer an issue.

Mr. Robinson narrowed his eyes. "You've gone pale. What's wrong?"

"My father worked with him in Egypt, many years ago."

"On good terms, I hope?"

Unable to agree, she twisted her strand of pearls around one finger.

He rocked back on his heels. "Good heavens, Miss Westlake. If there is any bad blood between them, and I mean even a drop, don't tell him who you are. I doubt your name will come up anyway. It's not important. What is important is that you show him how seriously we take the stewardship of art. We must prove to him that none do it better. Not Boston. Not anyone. Reassure him that we are the best, the only choice for his collection." He blew out a breath and smoothed his mustache.

After checking his watch, he began walking through the rooms, and motioned for Lauren to follow. "I'll be with you the entire time. I'd conduct the tour myself, but no one knows these rooms better than you. I'll help make sure the conversation doesn't derail, that's all."

"And when will this take place?" she asked.

"We're meeting him in the Great Hall now."

———

Theodore Clarke carried himself with the bearing of a pharaoh. In a camel-colored suit with a blue dress shirt and gold tie, he wore the colors of sand, sky, and sun. Were it not for her father's grievances against him, Lauren would be even more starstruck to meet him.

Mr. Robinson managed the introductions, calling her simply Lauren, stripping her of both her doctorate and her surname. She understood his reasons, but it still stung.

"Well, Lauren." Mr. Clarke shook her hand. At the age of sixty-two, his hair and beard were sterling silver, his skin bronzed by the African sun. She could well imagine him in a pith helmet. "Let's see all the work you've been doing while the boys have been playing in the sand."

She smiled in appreciation of his attempt to set her at ease. "How would you like to see the most recent artifacts they sent back?" she suggested.

"An excellent place to start," Mr. Clarke agreed.

In the New Accessions room, Mr. Robinson began to relax, and Mr. Clarke's energy for all Lauren showed him served to heighten hers.

After narrating some of the smaller pieces, she brought him to the coffin of Hetsumina, proudly describing how she was discovered and the hope of finding her twin. "They deserve to be together," she said.

"Oh, undoubtedly." Mr. Clarke's eyes glinted as he slowly circled the coffin. "The race is on," he said at last. "Are you a betting man, Mr. Robinson? Who will find Hatsudora first? Your team, or mine?"

Mr. Robinson sputtered until Mr. Clarke laughed. "Never fear, my good man. Even if my team should find it, and if by some miracle we'd be able to arrange with authorities to remove it from Egypt, I would direct it this way. Over my dead body."

Clearly bewildered, Mr. Robinson laughed nervously.

"Whether she comes to us before or after your death," Lauren jumped in, "it's only right that the twins should be together again. I do hope you'll come and see our spring exhibition on the Egyptian afterlife, Mr. Clarke. Hetsumina will have a prominent place in it. I guarantee that when her twin joins her here, the two will be treated as nobly as they were in life, their stories displayed for the world to see."

At this point, Mr. Robinson reminded Mr. Clarke how many millions of people from around the globe visited the Met every year. The implication was clear: Clarke's legacy and name would reach the most people by being enshrined at the Met.

"A pleasing prospect, for any collector," Mr. Clarke agreed. "But tell me, will you banish my collection to inventory as soon as you find a way to bring in pieces from King Tut's tomb?"

"That's not going to happen." Mr. Robinson carefully addressed his insecurity, reminding him that Egyptian law declared that in the event of discovery of an intact tomb like King Tut's, it all belonged to Egypt. Unless the government made exceptions, everything being moved out of it was only traveling as far as Cairo.

"But the names of Carter and Carnarvon have traveled the world over while mine has been erased." Clarke's voice was wistful. "Did you know, young lady, that under my direction, the tomb at KV 61 was found in 1910? It was the last tomb found in the Kings' Valley for twelve years, before Tut was discovered at KV 62. My team stopped digging six feet from glory. Cairo's Egyptian Museum had a Theodore M. Clarke room, devoted to my discoveries. It isn't there anymore."

Lauren knew. "Mr. Clarke, the body of your work stands on its own. Your discovery of the tomb of Yuya and Thuyu gave scholars objects to study that previously had been seen only in paintings on the walls of looted chambers. That was only one of your landmark contributions."

His eyebrows lifted along with the corners of his lips.

"We also know that you employed Howard Carter during his season of poverty, having him illustrate many of your finds. If you hadn't kept him afloat during those years, he may not have lasted long enough to dig for Lord Carnarvon. Even if others don't know that, we do."

Mr. Robinson's nods were clipped but emphatic. "You earned your place as an honorary fellow of the Met, and nothing will take that away."

Unless it was Lauren's imagination, Mr. Clarke's chest lifted as though an unseen burden dropped away. "Onward," he said, the boom in his voice boding well.

Each passing room felt less like a formal presentation and more like a meeting of like minds. After the highlights in the main galleries, they moved below ground to show him all the work that went on behind the scenes, from their receiving and conservation rooms to the workshops dedicated to creating display cases to show the artifacts to their best advantage. Lauren would never tell her father this, but despite her misgivings, it was easy to enjoy Mr. Clarke's company.

By the time they'd circled back up to the Great Hall, the museum had opened to the public for the day, the eager crowd a fitting finish for the tour. Mr. Robinson offered to take their guest out for brunch next, and Clarke agreed. While her boss left to make a brief call to his secretary, Lauren stayed with Mr. Clarke, answering any last questions he had about what he'd seen this morning.

"Forgive me, Lauren," he said. "But there's something familiar about you. Have we met before? You must excuse an old man's memory."

"We've not met before today," she assured him.

His narrowed eyes searched hers. "Do I know your parents, then? Mr. Robinson never told me your surname. I didn't want to embarrass him by pointing that out, but please, tell me."

She couldn't ignore a direct question, and she wasn't about to lie. "My name is Dr. Lauren Westlake," she told him quietly. "I studied under Dr. James Breasted in Chicago."

"Ah! James and I have been good friends since before you were born, I'm sure. You could not have studied with a finer, more brilliant man. A true pioneer among Americans in the field of Egyptology."

Relief washed through her that her professor's was the name he landed upon.

And then, "Westlake," he said, voice softening. "Could it be that I have the pleasure of addressing Goldie Rediger Westlake's daughter?"

Lauren's heart skipped over a beat. "You knew my mother?"

To her great surprise, Mr. Clarke lifted her hand and brushed a whiskery kiss to her knuckles before folding it in both of his. "Once upon a time. Again, before you were born. Your hair is a rich walnut, while hers was a honeyed sunshine, but in your fair complexion and the charming dent in your chin, the resemblance is so strong I can't believe I didn't see it earlier. I was truly sorry to hear of her untimely passing. Forty-two was far too young."

Shock tied Lauren's tongue. Theodore Clarke loomed large in her father's letters, and here he was, speaking about Mother like he knew her, from her maiden name to the shade of her hair to her age when she died. What had their relationship been? And yet he hadn't mentioned a connection to Dad at all, though the two of them had worked together. Nothing about this made sense.

"My father—" She stumbled headlong into the blunder.

"Yes, I knew him, too." Patting her hand, he let it go and smiled as Mr. Robinson returned. In a whisper, he added, "The less said about him, my dear, the better."

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1925

Joe closed the folder on Ray Moretti and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. After his encounter with the man Friday night, he'd expected to find some kind of clue in his file. All that wealth had to come from somewhere. Likely somewhere illegal.

But so far, everything checked out fine. Born in Brooklyn, he'd attended a Catholic military boarding school for most of his school years, which accounted for his accent. From there, he earned a four-year degree in business. He owned three hotels, an office and retail building, and two pharmacies. He was licensed as a real estate agent in the state of New York, current on all his certifications and permits, and he paid his taxes. For his age, he'd done well for himself, a sterling example of the new-money ideal. But was that enough money to cover a Fifth Avenue brownstone, a Long Island estate, regular contributions to the Met, and his own antiquities?

The guy didn't have so much as a parking ticket on his record. Not even a complaint by a neighbor. On paper, he was clean.

Instinct said otherwise. Nobody's file was that clean.

He could almost hear Lauren's voice, echoing what she'd told him last night after their appointment with the Vandermeers did not, in fact, reveal any forgeries. "I've never seen a man so sad to find out there's been no wrongdoing," she had teased. But it wasn't wrongdoing he was after for its own sake. What he wanted, and needed, was progress.

"Sir." Oscar McCormick approached his desk with another folder. "I found something that doesn't make sense. I wondered if you have time to talk me through it."

Truly, it wasn't McCormick's fault that Joe hadn't taken a shine to him. The kid hadn't done anything wrong so far, aside from being a constant reminder that he was only here because Connor wasn't.

Mustering his manners, Joe motioned him over.

Before he could open the folder, however, the telephone rang again, and Joe answered it. At the operator's request, he accepted a call from Elliot Henry at the Met.

"Sergeant Caravello? You called earlier asking for Peter. Did he return your call?"

"Not yet."

"I figured. Well, he'll be headed to lunch in half an hour, if you'd like to catch him there. You know the restaurant in the Met?"

"I'm on my way."

He dropped the handset into the cradle. "Sorry, McCormick. Another time. Or ask someone else." He didn't stick around for his response.

———

Joe sat across from Peter in a corner of the cafeteria-style restaurant in the basement of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The plaster was a light cream color, but the huge square pillars holding up the floor above them were decorated with panels of scenic wallpaper.

Setting his notebook on the sea-green table, Joe noticed Peter's tray. The food was sold à la carte, and all he'd selected was toast without butter or jam, a bowl of steamed broccoli, a glass of milk, and another of water. It certainly wasn't the lunch of a man made wealthy by forgeries, or any other means. Such slim pickings would hardly fill a man's stomach.

"Not hungry today?" Joe began.

"Just because I don't eat as much as you presumably do does not mean I'm not hungry."

Curious. He was too thin to be on a weight-loss program. "Tell me they pay you enough around here to get a decent lunch." Joe already knew they did. Mr. Henry had told him Peter's salary, which was pretty average for a middle-class white male in this city.

"I have better things to do with my wages than indulge my appetite, Detective. My conscience wouldn't allow it."

"So going hungry is a moral choice," Joe said. "Care to explain?"

Peter laid down his fork and sat back. He chewed a bite of broccoli so slowly and thoroughly that at first Joe suspected it was merely to test Joe's patience. Then he realized that was a way to make food last. To trick your stomach into thinking it held more than it did.

Peter sipped the milk, then followed it with a drink of water. "Compared to what my family has, this is a feast of unimaginable proportions," he said at last. "Knowing that, I can't bring myself to eat more."

"Your family in Germany," Joe confirmed.

Shadows darkened Peter's countenance, but he didn't deny it. "They are suffering. Wilson made sure of that. Do you have any idea how it feels to live in the land of plenty while the ones you love are stranded in desperation?" His passion was understandable.

It was also motive.

"So you're sending money to family instead of spending it on yourself," Joe prompted. "Is it helping?"

"One would think." He bit the toast and took his time chewing again. "One would think that American dollars would make them rich beyond their dreams. But don't forget, there is corruption to pay for, too."

Joe frowned, sliding his notebook to his lap and making a note beneath the table. "Sounds pricey."

"You have no idea. There are bribes they must pay to get their mail. Bribes to keep them from being robbed of it. Bribes for the privilege of breathing, I suppose." He threw up his hands, his feeling of helplessness palpable. "They end up with little. But even that is better than nothing."

Joe considered this. Peter needed money, and a lot of it. That didn't mean he was forging art to get it, though. It only meant he had an immediate need for cash, in addition to the chip on his shoulder Joe had observed last time they spoke.

"What about bringing them here?"

"What about the questions you came here to ask?" Peter drank the water with controlled sips, even though his stomach growled loud enough for Joe to hear. "Surely you didn't come to ask about my family."

Joe recalibrated the conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was spook Peter, and he didn't have enough to bring him in to the station yet.

Peter's attention slid past Joe. With recognition in his eyes, he gave a curt nod.

Turning, Joe spotted a blond-haired man in his early thirties at a table for two. He opened a book and read while he ate.

"Friend of yours?" Joe asked Peter.

"Not really. It's just the registrar, and he prefers his own company, as you see. His job is unpacking everything shipped to the Met and packing up everything shipped out." Peter scoffed. "It's about the least-skilled job at the museum. Anyone with a day of training could do it."

Joe figured there was a little more to it than that but skipped ahead of that discussion. "How's work going?" He endured the expected tirade of complaints, then asked if Peter had ever worked on his own, or thought about it, since working here was so challenging.

Peter blinked. "Conserving antiquities isn't the type of work one could freelance. For steady pay, one needs to be attached to an institution. The bigger, the better. In theory."

"What about art? Surely you can do that on the side, on commission maybe. I imagine the Met has enough patrons to keep you busy that way. Unless I'm mistaken about the range of your skills."

"You wouldn't be the first."

"But you can do it, right? At least, Egyptian art? Or maybe it isn't that hard. For example, Dr. Westlake visited a patron who had life-sized Egyptian figures painted all over his dining room walls. She was impressed with the work, but this patron made it sound like it was no big deal. He'd used a lantern slide to project images on the surface and hired painters to fill in the lines."

Peter had stopped chewing. "Are you talking about Ray Moretti?"

Joe's pulse kicked up. He was on to something. "Why do you ask?"

"It was Moretti, wasn't it? I know it was, so don't pretend otherwise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I painted those walls myself."

Joe watched Peter while scribbling on his notepad. "He paid you well, I hope, despite his opinion that the work was easy?"

At this point, Peter speared three pieces of broccoli at once and stuffed them into his mouth. His jaw bunched as he chewed, abandoning his earlier method of making it last as long as possible. "He paid me a fraction of what the work was worth." His brown eyes smoldered. "He reminded me of all the money he'd given to the Met so far, as if he'd personally bankrolled my salary."

"You didn't push back, Mr. Braun?"

He chugged half the glass of milk at once. "As much as I dared. He drives a hard bargain, and I realized that making him upset might put my job at the Met on the line."

Joe could picture it. Peter Braun didn't stand a chance against Ray Moretti.

"If I lose my job here," Peter went on, "I can't help my family. That's not something I was willing to risk. And what I did for that man wasn't easy. You couldn't hire just any painter to mix those exact shades and pigments, using the exact materials the Egyptians used. It's as much a science as it is an art, and I'd challenge him to find anyone else who could do it better. I almost chose a career in painting, by the way. But commissions are unreliable."

"Well, I'm sure he knew you were the best," Joe told him truthfully. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have hired you. As I said, Dr. Westlake was impressed enough that she remarked to me about the skill of whoever had done it."

Peter flicked a glance at Joe. "Did she find anything else remarkable there?"

"Such as?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose and finished the toast in two giant bites. "He told me he was looking for a spectacular centerpiece for the room. Said he'd make his dining room table into a display case for it if he found it."

Maybe Peter was only curious.

But maybe his interest ran deeper. Peter had been in that room, seen the dimensions, and heard what Ray was looking for. He could have forged it himself and sold it for a profit far exceeding the money he should have been paid for painting the walls. Maybe he was asking Joe about it now to see if his work had fooled Lauren. What kind of personal satisfaction would that bring a man who'd felt slighted both by Ray and by the Met?

"Detective?" Peter pressed. "Did she see the papyrus? The Book of the Dead?"

Joe studied him. "Did Ray tell you that's what he was looking for?"

"Oh, never mind," he grumbled.

"I haven't seen that room myself," Joe said, "but I did attend a couple of Christmas parties last weekend. The Vandermeers' and the Morettis'. I went as Dr. Westlake's guest."

Peter drained the rest of the milk and set the glass down with a little too much force.

Joe had stuck a nerve. He kept striking. As casually as he could, he relayed every ostentatious detail, each one seeming to stoke the fire in the overlooked, underpaid conservator who didn't eat enough so he could send money to family.

"I understand you're looking for a forger because that's your job." Peter held his voice low. "But you see for yourself how wasteful these people are. That's the crime, Detective."

Joe flipped his pen over and under his fingers and back again. "Spending money in ways you don't approve of doesn't break any laws."

A scowl slashed Peter's face. "You know what I mean. People like that can afford to be scammed. What difference does it make to them? A small fortune to you and me would be pocket change for their kind. They'll get more money. Don't worry about them. I certainly don't."

This, Joe believed.