Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1925

T extbooks and translations sprawled over Lauren's desk, topped by a reproduction paperweight she'd picked up from the sales desk: a twelve-inch-tall statue of Hatshepsut, female pharaoh from the eighteenth dynasty. She tipped her mug, only to find a shallow swirl peppered with leftover grounds.

"Knock, knock." Only Anita Young, Lauren's assistant, entered that way. It had begun because her hands were often full, but even when she was perfectly capable of rapping her knuckles on the door or its frame, she preferred to speak her arrival.

"Come on in."

Anita's black bob grazed her jawline as she nodded toward the small plant wilting on the corner of the desk. "I'm curious why you even bother, Dr. Westlake. You're clearly not trying to keep it alive. It's only gathering dust."

"Oh, I barely even notice that thing anymore. It was a gift from my cousin. Elsa works in the American Museum of Natural History and insists I ought to have something living in my office. Other than me." She wiped one fleshy leaf with her fingertip, then dumped the last swill from her mug into the pot. "Drink up, little one."

Anita snorted. "The living is not your specialty. But the long dead is all the rage anyway. Speaking of which, the new shipment is here, and Mr. Klein is done unpacking. Want to go see?"

Lauren left her chair before Anita finished asking.

Together, they headed to the receiving room designated for their department, and Lauren thrilled at the sight of crates and lids and sawdust. After Egypt's declaration of independence from Britain, which came eight months before Tut's tomb was discovered, archaeologists hadn't been sending as much back to their home countries as they used to. A revised agreement with the Egyptian government meant most of it stayed there. Nationalist pride surged among the Egyptians, and they were taking much more interest in preserving and celebrating their rich and noble history. Whatever Albert Lythgoe and Herbert Winlock sent back to the Met was granted by special agreement.

Pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, Lauren lifted an alabaster lotus flower from a nest of wrappings. As she finished unwinding linen from the object's base, sand sifted between her fingers. She rolled the grains between her forefinger and thumb and imagined brushing the sand away from the object for the first time, after discovering it herself.

Anita turned toward approaching footsteps. "Good afternoon, Mr. Robinson," she called out as the Met's director strolled through the door.

"Ladies." He nodded, his hair and mustache the color of moonlight on the desert. "All is intact from this shipment so far, I hope? As intact as the pieces were before they shipped, at least."

Lauren brushed the sand from her hands. "We've only just begun here, but Mr. Klein didn't say otherwise."

"Who?"

"The registrar," she reminded him. Fred Klein was the most unassuming man she'd ever met, always shying away from attention and meticulous about details. He was well-suited to his job of carefully unpacking every single object that arrived.

"Ah yes, yes, of course. Well, that's something, I suppose." The crescents beneath his eyes held more than their usual share of cares.

"Did you need to speak to me, sir, or were you just checking up on the delivery?" Lauren asked.

"I've had a meeting with the Morettis. You remember Ray and his wife, Christina?"

"Of course." They were longtime patrons of the Met, and more generous in their financial support than most. "Their donation to the Egyptian department helped fund the current expedition."

Mr. Robinson winced. "Right. I'm afraid they think we aren't sufficiently grateful. Mr. Moretti came today with an offer to give the Met a portion of his collection, but with the caveat that all of his items be grouped together, and the room in which they are housed be named for him."

Anita released a low whistle. "That's nervy."

A smile cracked the placid planes of Mr. Robinson's face. "Previous directors have gone along with such strings-attached proposals, but I won't. I explained the museum can't meet those stipulations since the exhibits change routinely, and we need flexibility with how we use the space. Mr. Moretti rescinded his offer to donate his items altogether. He may choose to withdraw his financial support, as well."

He looked pointedly at Lauren, though she had no idea what she had to do with the situation. "We can't afford to lose any more support. We certainly can't afford bad press, or even the appearance that the Met is exclusive or discriminatory. Given the Morettis' interest in Egyptology, it would go a long way if you could make some kind of overture to them."

A ridge formed between Lauren's brows. "I'm no donor relations expert, Mr. Robinson."

"You don't need to be. Just be yourself."

Anita gestured to the sawdust-packed crates. "Dr. Westlake is most herself when surrounded by inanimate objects. The older the better."

Mr. Robinson's mustache twitched. "If you want your department to be as robust as possible, you'll find a way to steer the Met back into Ray Moretti's good graces. Don't underestimate yourself."

"Why would she do that when you're doing it so well for her?" Anita muttered so quietly that only Lauren could hear.

"I know you don't like conflict," Mr. Robinson said, "which is why you're so good at making it go away. You should have listed soothing egos as a skill on your résumé."

The tease drew a smile, but he was right. Her dislike of conflict made it hard for Lauren to push back against him now. "Anita and I are already swamped. We've got to sort all Mr. Lythgoe is sending back from the field and get ready for the spring exhibition, too. Next year, I'll ask him to switch places." She kept her tone light, but she wasn't joking. She'd worked here six years and hadn't once been included on an expedition.

Mr. Robinson's mouth firmed into a tight line. "Oh no, you are right where you belong, Miss Westlake. We need you right here."

The words cinched like a fetter around her chest.

Barely covering a huff, Anita broke in. " Dr . Westlake, shall we get on with cataloging these priceless artifacts that only you can understand?"

Mr. Robinson took his leave, and Anita indulged in a gigantic roll of her eyes.

Resigned to the task he'd left with her, Lauren turned her attention to an inscribed coffin and the mummy inside. "Hello, Hetsumina," she breathed, in awe of how well preserved everything was. "We've been waiting for you. What do you want to tell me?" Several moments passed while she inspected the hieroglyphs.

"Not that it bothers me, but you're doing that thing again," Anita said.

Lauren lifted a shoulder. "Habit."

"Sure, I get it. I chew the end of my pencil. You talk to mummies." Her blue eyes danced with good humor.

"Oh, come on. It's not like I'm conducting a séance. I know they can't hear me. It's my way of thinking out loud as I look for clues among the inscriptions, the amulets buried with them, their jewelry and textiles. If you knew how to listen, they'd talk to you, too."

Anita gave an exaggerated shudder worthy of Charlie Chaplin. "Pass."

Lauren laughed, unperturbed, and went back to inspecting Hetsumina. "Well, she's easier to work with than most people around here."

"Aha, you mean mummies don't need their egos soothed, and they don't make unreasonable demands of your time or disturb your inner peace."

"Now you're on the trolley." Lauren smiled. "They don't fight. They don't make promises, and they certainly don't break them. Mummies don't lie."

There was no way around it. Joe needed an expert in Egyptology, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art employed the best.

"You may be able to catch her if you hurry." The woman at the information desk hung up the phone and pointed through the Great Hall toward the rear exit of the building. "Her assistant says she just left."

Thanking her, Joe hustled through a labyrinth of classical sculptures, then through a hall of decorative arts. Upon pushing out of the double doors, he paused at the top of the stone steps and scanned until he spotted her. She crossed the lane and took a left turn on one of Central Park's countless paths.

He ran down the stairs and darted after her.

"Dr. Westlake!" he called.

Halting, she pivoted. Shadows draped the brim of her hat and fell over the contours of her face. He wasn't surprised to see that she hadn't followed the trend of bobbing hair and wore hers in a thick knot at the nape of her neck. "Joe Caravello, is that you?"

Out of habit, he showed her his wallet ID and badge.

She trotted toward him, radiant, and grasped his hand in both of hers. "Please tell me I didn't hear you call me Dr. Westlake. We go back much further than that."

Joe wasn't sure how he'd expected her to respond to this surprise meeting, but he hadn't expected this. "Yes, we do," he admitted, disoriented by her warmth. "But that was a long time ago."

"It's so good to see you again." Her voice had softened to velvet. The gloaming called out every detail of her face, from the dark lashes framing sparkling blue eyes to the subtle cleft of her chin. "I see you've followed in your hero's footsteps. Well done, Joe. I knew you could do it."

He took a step back, hoping to clear his head if he wasn't so near her. Inspector Murphy was right that Joe had an interest in art most cops didn't share. What Murphy didn't know was that Lauren Westlake had been the one to introduce him to it. That was a lifetime ago, before they'd pursued their separate careers and lost touch.

Joe hadn't come here with any hope of resurrecting what they'd had before. He was here on a mission. "Actually, my work is why I'm here."

"Oh. Yes, of course. How can I help?" A flush entered her cheeks, and he hoped it was from the cold, not from the embarrassment of learning this wasn't a social call. She resumed walking.

He kept pace with her. "I need your expertise, if you don't mind. I need you to tell me if a particular piece is fake or genuine."

"Egyptian, I assume?"

"Allegedly."

She led him deeper into the park. Good grief, would she have taken this route without him? Didn't she realize this wasn't a safe place for women alone after dark?

"Do you have the object with you?"

"It's locked away as evidence, but I have photographs."

"There's better light by the castle, especially since the Weather Bureau took it over as a weather station," she said. "It's on my way home, up ahead. Let's take a look there."

The Belvedere was a miniature castle atop a huge rock outcrop, complete with pavilions, terraces, and the best view of the park. The path curved, and they followed it up the stone stairs. Joe stayed several paces behind her, yet close enough to catch her if she were to stumble in those heels. Her hips twisted as she climbed.

He dropped his gaze to her ankles instead, until they reached a gazebo type of structure. Lauren stood in silhouette against a sunset over Central Park, and for a heartbeat, Joe forgot what year it was.

They'd been here before, the two of them. She'd been eighteen, and he twenty years old. Something squeezed in Joe's chest for the lovestruck, na?ve young man he'd been. This was where he'd thought he would finally kiss her.

This was where she'd told him she was leaving for college, and that she might never come back.

Joe wondered if she remembered.

"Here we are again." Lauren's smile was wistful, and he had his answer. "Shall we sit?" She approached the nearest bench, which was dotted with evidence that pigeons had made themselves at home here recently.

Joe shrugged out of his jacket and spread it over the seat for her. "Please."

With thanks, she lowered herself. Sitting beside her, he withdrew a few photographs, taken from different angles, of the gilded oyster shell Wade Martin had been holding the night Connor had shot him.

With astonishing speed and confidence, she pronounced it a fake.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Positive. This is a pendant for a necklace. You see this hole at the top? A genuine piece would have two holes, not one. That's how they strung pendants so they would lay flat."

Joe didn't know what this meant for Connor's case, but as Murphy had pointed out, it wasn't his to begin with. All he could do was pass the information along and let others decide what to do with it.

It did, however, confirm his hunch that Lauren's expertise would be invaluable. He slipped the photographs back into his pocket. "I wish I could do that. It would make my job a whole lot easier."

"You can." Her lips tilted in the same lopsided smile she'd given him thousands of times before. He beat back the memories and focused on the task at hand. "All you need to do," she was saying, "is study Egyptology since childhood, earn a degree from the University of Chicago, and study abroad, not only in Egypt but also in Germany since they have the best translations and dictionaries of hieroglyphs—which means, by the way, you'll have to learn to read the German language, too."

He sat back against the bench. "Trying to impress me?" She'd practically recited her résumé, almost as if proving herself. He supposed she'd had to do a lot of that, working among men who may not believe that behind that beautiful face, a brilliant mind could spar with them—and win.

She colored.

"I was impressed even before all that, you know," he reminded her. "Listen, I'm looking into Egyptian forgeries. I have a hunch they've been flowing through Manhattan along with King Tut fever. But to find the forgers, I first have to find the forgeries and work backward. Would you contact private collectors you know to see if they have acquired anything new—so to speak—recently? And if they have, would you be willing to sleuth out real from fake?"

"You want me to be a consultant for the NYPD?"

"I do."

"Aren't your consultants usually men?"

"You're the one I want," Joe said. "That is, you're the best, and I need the best. I wish I could pay you, but this will have to be pro bono. We have zero appropriated funds for this."

She waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. I'll do it. Thank you for believing that I can. It will be a service to our patrons and to the Met itself in the cases where the patrons have promised to bequest their acquisitions to the museum. Better to root out the forgeries before they ever enter our building."

"Exactly." He was glad she saw it that way. He figured that being a police consultant would be a boon to her résumé, too. "If you need me to talk to your boss to get the time off work for official police business, I can do that."

"I'm already overwhelmed at work. I'll have to help with your investigation after museum hours."

That changed things. He'd imagined her conducting these meetings in broad daylight. "Walk me through what you're thinking."

"I'll go in the evenings." She said this as if it were a perfectly reasonable solution.

But the evenings were dark. It was barely past six right now, and night had already fallen. "Alone?" Disapproval made his voice rough.

She cocked her head, the whites of her eyes gleaming. "Who is it that you don't trust? Is it me, the collectors, or the people I may meet along the way?"

From the second highest point in Central Park, Joe looked out over the oasis. City lights twinkled in the deepening darkness. More than two million souls lived in Manhattan alone, and nearly six million when counting all five boroughs of New York City. "I don't trust anybody," he said at last. It was a lesson he'd learned too often, and too late.