Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1925

w hen Joe arrived at the Met just before four o'clock in the afternoon, it was empty except for the staff. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and most New Yorkers were hustling to make last-minute holiday preparations.

"Here to see Dr. Westlake?" the ticket salesperson asked as he approached. A small reproduction of a Rodin sculpture stood beside the register wearing nothing but a Santa hat.

"You got it." Joe showed her his badge, but she waved him through without looking at it. By now, most, if not all, of the Met staff knew who he was and why he came so often.

Enormous fir trees perfumed the Great Hall. Oversized ornaments and giant bows adorned the branches, along with a collection of art-themed ornaments that could be purchased at the sales desk. Red and gold carpets overhung the gallery balcony that embraced the space. Through saucer-shaped skylights, the lowering sun sent its final rays of the day.

Passing between the statuary, he made his way to the Egyptian gallery where Lauren had said she'd be. He paused when he saw her, unwilling to break her concentration. There was something beautiful about seeing her here, surrounded by the objects of her passion. But the scene also embodied a loneliness.

At the Oyster Bar earlier this month, when she'd told Joe that he was richer than she was, he hadn't been willing to accept that. But when he called her office today and learned what had happened with her father, along with what Dr. Breasted had written, he understood what she'd meant.

While his home was in a flurry, the kitchen steaming with every kind of food you'd want to savor on the most celebrated day of the year, Dr. Lauren Westlake was alone among the relics of an ancient civilization with zero plans with family herself.

It wasn't right.

She looked up from her clipboard and grinned. "Am I under surveillance?" she teased.

"Guilty." He smiled and closed the distance between them.

She reached out a hand to squeeze his. "Thank you for coming."

"You sounded like you could use some company." He glanced at the mummy in the glass case. "In the form of a living human being."

"Well, she's not much for conversation, that's true, but she's a really good listener, and I know she'll never leave when I'm counting on her to be there."

Joe wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. He could only imagine how painful it was to feel betrayed by what Lawrence had done so soon after she'd worked to restore that relationship. Not only had Lawrence taken the credit for her work, but this was the second holiday in thirty days that he'd planned to spend with her and then didn't.

Joe understood why that was hurtful.

He also realized that with his line of work, he might disappoint her in the same way. He wanted Lauren to be able to count on him, but he couldn't promise that he'd always be there for her, either. Not as long as he was on the force. And he wasn't ready to quit just so he could be home every night at five and make sure he never missed a holiday.

Had he made a mistake in kissing her? If he couldn't give her the reliability she craved, was he only toying with her heart? The idea hollowed out a space in his chest.

But surely this was not the time to bring it up. Not when she was already hurting. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry things turned out this way."

She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. Then she stepped away from him and gave him a smile though her lashes were wet. "Enough self-pity. I admit that I pushed him away the second I felt him withdrawing. I hoped he'd protest the idea of spending Christmas apart, but he didn't. The biggest surprise is that I dared to hope for anything different. Apparently I'm not worth fighting for."

"Of course you are," Joe said. "If there is ever a time I can't be here for you, you have to know that it won't be my choice."

Her expression sobered. "I understand the nature of your job, Joe," she said quietly. "I know your schedule isn't always up to you. It's different."

He nodded, even as he wondered if the result would be the same. Lauren might say she understood, but would she grow resentful over time, as her mother had? Most wives would.

"Speaking of your job," she said, "how's it going, Detective? Any new developments to discuss?"

Joe unfastened the top two buttons of his coat and loosened the scarf about his neck. "Vincent Escalante admitted to forging the oyster shells, too. But we still don't know the identity of the forger for Mr. Sanderson's canopic jars or for Ray Moretti's papyrus. Nor have I been able to locate Daniel Bradford, to my everlasting vexation. Could the same person have forged all of these? Would you be able to tell by any trademark techniques, either in the forgeries themselves or in the provenance documents?"

Lauren tilted her head. "That's an interesting idea. For example, someone could tell if two portraits had been painted by Gilbert Stuart or by John Singer Sargent by looking at their technique. Even Mary Cassatt and Claude Monet have their differences, though both are impressionists."

Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets. "The trouble is that we're dealing with various mediums within the forgeries, and the forg ers are not showcasing their own technique but doing their best to imitate someone else's."

"Artists have been making copies for millennia, especially artists whose original work failed to generate a sustaining income. Sometimes, for their own gratification, they paint or etch their initials onto copies they're particularly proud of. But it would be extremely well hidden."

Joe walked to the nearest bench and sat, leaning against the wall. "Did Peter Braun ever tell you he had artistic aspirations? And I'm not talking about painting from lantern slides on a rich person's dining room walls."

Lauren came and sat beside him. "Did he tell you that?"

"He did."

She crossed her ankles. "How sad. The more I learn about this man, the more sympathy I have for him. Though I know he'd never want that. If he turns out to be our forger, I can't say that I'll rejoice."

"That's because you want to see the good in people. You want them to succeed." It was an admirable trait. Ironically, Joe's work required the opposite: detecting the bad and holding people accountable for their failings.

"From what you know of him," Joe asked, "does he have the skill to create all the forgeries we've found that haven't been connected to Escalante?"

"I don't know. There haven't been many da Vincis and Michelangelos, who could excel in multiple arts." She drummed a finger on the clipboard. "But maybe we're not looking for a Michelangelo."

"How's that?"

She stood. "Come on, I'll show you."

Setting a brisk pace, Lauren crossed the gallery to a giant tomb made of massive limestone blocks. Joe read the sign posted outside it. "The Tomb of Perneb?" This hadn't been here when Lauren and he had visited the museum as kids.

"Actually, that label is a bit misleading, since Perneb's burial chamber remains in Egypt. What the Met bought from the Egyptian government in 1913 was simply some of the aboveground chambers of his tomb. This section, which took three years to put back together again here, contains the rooms that his family would have entered to pay him homage after he died." Lauren walked inside, and he followed her.

Suddenly, they were no longer in New York City on Christmas Eve, 1925. They were in ancient Egypt, more than two thousand five hundred years before Christ had even been born. Lauren described how Perneb's family would have used this space, and their beliefs about his spirit exiting through a false door and re-entering the land of the living.

"But the really wonderful thing for us and for those who view this tomb," she went on, "is that they didn't finish decorating it in time. Perneb must have died early, and they used it the way it was."

Joe must have missed something. "How is that wonderful?"

"Because we get to see the process they used. Look here." She pointed to the vignettes carved into the wall and painted. They were life-sized portrayals of Egyptians shopping at the market, carving meat at a butcher's stall, bringing platters of food and vegetables toward that mysterious false door.

"Now come back to the vestibule." Again, she led the way, confidence in her stride. "See? All we have here are etchings, the outlines the painters would have filled in. Look at this. Do you see these horizontal lines?" She pointed to four faint bars that had been drawn across the wall.

"The finished product was not the creation of one artist, or even one group of artists who worked on these relief murals from start to finish. The first group of workers came in and simply drew lines like these across the walls. They are at waist, knee, elbow, and shoulder levels. Ancient Egyptians loved uniformity."

"That's all that first group did?"

"Yes, then the second group came in with chisels and hammers and carved away the background, so the figures would stand out in relief."

"And the third group would come in and paint," he guessed. "Right?"

"Exactly. By the end, those lines drawn by the first group were either carved away or painted over. We've known this was their process for some time, but now we have proof of it."

Joe saw the connection to the forgery cases at once. "One person is great at carving. Another paints with flawless precision. Another can sculpt. But they all work together. Is that what you're thinking?"

"I could be wrong, but to me, this makes more sense than finding one single super artist."

Joe brought out his notebook and started scribbling. He ended by writing Daniel Bradford's name again and circling it. "Daniel Bradford was involved in the sale of Mr. Sanderson's fake canopic jars, and if he's sold forgeries to one person, chances are he's sold more. If there's a forgery ring, it would not surprise me to learn that he's involved."

Lauren glanced at her watch. "It's past closing time. Security will want us to leave soon."

He could tell the idea disheartened her. As soon as they stepped out of the tomb, she had to face the fact that she was about to spend Christmas alone.

At least as far as she knew.

Joe accompanied her to her office.

"I'll just be a moment." She squeezed his arm before stepping to her desk and shuffling papers and mail around. Then she stopped so abruptly that he came alongside her.

"What's wrong?"

She passed him the note she'd been reading. In blocky black letters, it read M IND YOUR OWN BUSINESS . It was unsigned.

Joe laid a hand on the small of her back. "Where did this come from? Is there an envelope?"

She passed one to him. There was no stamp or return address on it. The only text was Lauren's name, without even an address beneath it. Someone had gotten into the building and either tucked it into her mailbox or put it on her desk.

Joe asked himself who would want her to stop hunting forgeries. Newell St. John hadn't liked it, but his concerns had been addressed more than a month ago. But Ray Moretti still held on to a forged papyrus. "Did you keep the invitation to the Morettis' Christmas party?" He'd like to compare the handwriting.

"He wouldn't have sent this. The Morettis picked me up in their car and drove me to their house, basically insisting that I not mind my own business, remember?"

"Humor me."

Lauren bent over her desk, riffling through a stack of old mail until she handed him a card. The envelope was engraved with her work address. The invitation inside, however, included a handwritten note.

Dr. Westlake, it would be an honor to have you and a guest in my home. Beneath it, Ray Moretti had signed his name.

It was a lucky break to have a handwriting sample. But it didn't match Lauren's four-word note.

She had the grace not to say she'd told him so as she returned it to the desk.

"So we have no idea who sent you this mild threat that fails to specify a consequence," he muttered. When the Black Hand Society sent a note, the person on the receiving end was in no doubt as to what would happen if they didn't comply.

But any threat against Lauren, no matter how toothless, was one too many. There was no way he'd let her be home alone after this.

"I'll take this and have it analyzed at the station," he said. "Let's get out of here. It's time for Christmas, and you're not going home alone."

By the way Joe's parents greeted Lauren, she could have imagined she was a long-lost member of the family. This was far better than the Beresford.

Joe had brought her through the main entrance of the brownstone, but after only a glimpse at the sparkling spruce in the living room, he'd ushered her downstairs into a kitchen bubbling over with savory aromas, including salmon, lemon, and dill.

"December twenty-fourth is giorno di magro in the Italian tradition," Joe told her. "No meat. But plenty of pasta, seafood, and dessert."

Joe's mother turned at the sound of her son's voice. With a smile that wreathed her face, she stopped stirring the pot on the stove, brushed a wisp of grey hair from her face, and clasped Lauren's hands. Lauren felt years of labor in the calluses. This woman worked because she loved.

"Welcome to our home," Greta said.

"Thank you for allowing me to intrude at the last minute like this."

"You're not an intrusion, my dear. You are wanted. You are making our holiday special." She sounded like she meant it. From what Joe had told her on the way here, his brother held such a grudge against their father that he and his family didn't even visit for Christmas. It broke his parents' hearts.

Lauren's throat grew tight to think of it. She knew what it was to feel left behind.

Something boiled over, and Greta turned back to stir the pot.

"Ah, bellissima !" Sal Caravello kissed both her cheeks, Italian style, and asked if her language studies included his native tongue, too.

"Working on it." She slid Joe a glance and smiled. "So far all I know is capisce and capisco ."

"A good start." Sal chuckled. "The rest you can figure out from our hands." He gestured broadly.

"She's a quick study, Pop." Joe turned to Lauren. "Speaking of hands, ready to get them dirty?"

Eager to participate, Lauren traded her coat for an apron. "How can I help?"

With patient guidance from Sal, Lauren sliced golden-brown bread, then topped each round with smoked salmon and a dollop of some kind of herbed cheese, adding a sprig of fresh dill and a few capers to each crostini. The assembly complete, she washed and dried dishes while the real cooks did what she couldn't.

She'd never been around anything like this. Sal and Greta worked together seamlessly, proof that they'd prepared thousands of meals over the course of their decades-long marriage. Joe, she noticed, took on the kinds of tasks that may have pained arthritic hands and wrists.

"You're in charge of seasoning," he told his mother. "No one can do it as well as you."

"We'll see about that," Sal countered. "An Italian feast calls for an Italian chef, after all."

Grinning, Joe winked at Lauren, his eyes red-rimmed and watering from all the onions he'd chopped for the pasta sauce.

Greta caught sight of her son's tearful face and joined her laughter to Lauren's. "Really, Joey," his mother said, "there's no need to cry. I'm sure your father won't ruin everything."

Sal guffawed and joined in the banter. Somehow even their teasing held their love for each other.

"Here now. Lauren will be the judge." Greta dipped a clean spoon into the simmering sauce and handed it to Lauren. Sal followed suit with a spoonful of his rival sauce.

"It's a tie," Lauren declared before tasting even one.

Above the laughter that followed, Joe said, "I told you she was smart."

Smiling, Lauren sampled the offerings, each one bursting with its own tantalizing flavors. "Don't change a thing," she said. "In either one."

After she'd plunged her hands back into the dishwater, Joe stepped beside her with a spoonful of something white and creamy.

"What is it?"

He smiled, his dark lashes still wet. "Extra mascarpone. From when we made tiramisu earlier. It has to chill before we eat it."

Lauren tasted it, closing her eyes with pleasure.

"Sweet enough?" Joe asked.

She looked at him and nodded. "It's just right. Everything here is just right."

When at last the evening meal was all but ready to serve, Joe turned to his mother.

"We've got it from here, Mama," Joe said. "Why don't you get yourself ready to enjoy the feast. We'll bring it out in twenty minutes."

Greta's flushed face glowed. "Thank you. Lauren, you come out of here, too. We've wrung enough work out of you for now."

Lauren smiled. "There's no place I'd rather be."

"The kitchen?" Greta dabbed her forehead with the end of her apron.

"With you," Lauren said, surprised at how strongly she meant it. "With all of you."

This was a family. This was a home. And they'd made her feel like it was hers.

"I'm glad you invited her." Pop inclined his head toward the swinging door that led to the dining room, where Mama and Lauren waited. The soft hum of their voices revealed they were deep in conversation.

"Me too," Joe said.

Pop nodded, as if satisfied that there was nothing more to say. He added the last of the salmon crostini to the platter and declared it was time to eat. As he carried out the appetizer, Joe's stomach clamored for all the courses that would follow: risotto, linguine, pan-fried swordfish, roast pumpkin with herbs, and sautéed spinach and mushrooms.

Joe entered the dining room behind his father and lit the candles placed about the room.

"I'm right on time, I see!" Doreen announced, pausing in the doorway. Joe pulled her chair out for her, then pushed it in as she sat.

Greta warmly welcomed her to the table. After introducing her to Lauren, she added, "Doreen sells flowers at Union Square. We have her to thank for the beautiful arrangements here and throughout the parlor."

"Beautiful, as always," Joe agreed, looking at Lauren as he took his seat across from her. Whatever his mother had said to her obviously put her at ease. Her blue eyes sparkled as she admired Doreen's handiwork. The candlelight burnished her brown hair to a coppery glow. Someone must have made a joke, because she laughed. It was a light, musical laugh, as if she hadn't received a threatening note—or an almost threatening one—at all.

But all he could think of was that if anything happened to her, it would be his fault for tangling her up in this forgery business. She hadn't asked to become involved. She could have said no.

Maybe she should have.

Lauren gave him a curious smile that made him realize he'd been staring. He shook himself from his reverie and looked again at the bottles used as vases for the holly. He frowned.

He had seen those bottles before.

The labels had been soaked off the glass, but if he wasn't mistaken, those bottles were an exact match for Ray Moretti's favorite drink. The wine he'd boasted of hoarding from France before Prohibition began almost six years ago.

Joe wondered why he hadn't noticed before now. More importantly, where had Doreen gotten so many?

Adding this to his mental list of questions to pursue later, he bowed his head in time for his father's blessing of the meal shared in honor of Christ's birth.