Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1925

A n insistent purring vibrated in Lauren's palm. Cleopatra, the black cat she'd adopted shortly after moving to the Beresford, insisted on attention while Lauren drank her morning coffee from the comfort of the sofa. The dining room in the Beresford hotel-apartment complex offered excellent breakfasts, but she could not live without her own coffeemaker in the small space she called home.

Sunlight poured through square windowpanes, beckoning Lauren to appreciate the tenth-floor vantage point. If she couldn't be gazing at the pyramids of Giza, the view of Central Park, especially in autumn, was a lovely consolation. Between treetops and skyscrapers, she could make out the top of the massive Metropolitan Museum of Art.

"I still think we could have a bird in here without any trouble." Elsa shuffled out of the bedroom with a limp from a childhood bout of polio, tying the belt around her robe. Her chin-length blond-and-copper hair had already been finger-waved into place.

Lauren turned to her, amused. "The poor bird would disagree as soon as Cleo decided to break into the cage and go hunting one day when we're all at work."

"You're not really a killer, are you, sweetie?" Elsa rubbed under Cleo's chin. At twenty-five years old, she was an ornithologist at the American Museum of Natural History, which was right next door to the Beresford.

"And you're not really willing to put up with all the birdseed hulls and feathers a live bird would fling out of its cage, are you?" Lauren teased.

Elsa sighed. "I suppose not. I can barely stand the cat hair as it is." After washing her hands, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She leaned one hip against the counter and took a sip before asking, "Are you seeing Joe today?"

"No plans to."

"Shame. By the way, you never told me if you recognized him right away when he came looking for you in the park. Does he look the same as you remembered?"

Lauren smiled and made her way back to the couch. "The last time I saw him, he was twenty years old and lean as a beanpole. He has matured and filled out since then, as one would expect." Honest to goodness, thirty-five looked better on Joe than twenty. The fine lines fanning from his grass-green eyes did nothing to lessen how striking they were, framed by kohl-black lashes.

There had been something else there, too, both spark and shadow, when he confessed he didn't trust anyone. Years ago, she would have asked if he was referring to more than what happened to his father, and he would have told her. But too much time had passed for her to be his confidant now. Besides, he was a detective for the NYPD. The loss of trust in humanity probably came with the job.

"I'll bet he has." Elsa grinned. "I know my parents didn't approve of your friendship with him when you were living with us, but I think it's the bee's knees you're working with him. It might almost feel like a social life. At least, the only kind you'd allow time for, anyway."

Before Lauren could form a reply, Elsa raised her mug in a one-sided toast and took it to her bedroom to finish getting dressed.

In the next moment, Lauren's other roommate burst into the apartment and closed the door behind her. "Oh good, you're here, I was afraid I might miss you!" Ivy said all in one breath. She swiped a berry-pink cloche from her straight black bob and swept her bangs to one side. "I hope you don't mind." She extended a small brown bag to Lauren.

Lauren reached inside and withdrew a silver filigree picture frame. Inside was the photograph her father had given her earlier this week. The photo had been trimmed and matted with black, so one would never know the corner had been torn. What she had intended to discard, Ivy had restored and given a place of honor.

If only restoring the relationship could be as easy.

Lauren smiled, struggling to form a response.

"You're not angry, are you?" Ivy blurted. "I know you said you didn't want it. But look how cute you are, and how proud your daddy looks. He's the only parent you have left, and if I were you, I wouldn't throw that away."

Ivy Malone had lost both her parents and her brother to illness. She'd taken a job as a widow's companion and live-in personal secretary while completing her education, and now worked at the New-York Historical Society, down the street from the Beresford.

"You're right," Lauren told the young woman, who was one year Elsa's senior.

"To my thinking," Ivy went on, "having a distant, complicated relationship with your father is better than not having one at all. Don't focus on what you lost when he went away on all those trips, but see what you still have."

Lauren pulled her into an embrace and whispered her thanks.

The ringing telephone broke the two apart. While Ivy hung her coat and purse on the coat-tree, Lauren answered the call.

The switchboard operator connected her to her father.

She glanced at the framed photograph in her hand. "Hi, Dad."

Ivy whirled to face her, and Lauren nodded in silent agreement that this time she would not be dismissive.

"I called to see if you've given my proposal any more thought. To make a good showing before the Napoleon Society board and join me on our expedition."

She had less time now to jump through hoops than she had before, and she told him so. "I've been tasked by the police with checking for fakes among our top patrons, as a service to them, the Met, and the NYPD." Her father had never met Joe, so saying his name would mean nothing to him.

A beat of silence. "Isn't Newell St. John one of the Met's biggest supporters?"

Lauren hesitated before conceding that he was. St. John had the largest private collection in the state.

"Then that's the perfect place for you to start. Come with me today. He and I were in the same fraternity in college. He's hired me to catalog his collection. You can check for fakes at the same time. I'll ring him and let him know you're coming. That is, unless you've already made other arrangements?"

"I—no, I haven't," she stammered. "I rang him a few times this week, but no one answered."

"He was traveling last week and let the staff take time off. There's your trouble. Come with me today," he said again. "What do you say?"

Even without her roommate's influence, Lauren could find no reason good enough to keep her from this opportunity. "Pick me up in thirty minutes. I'll be ready."

She would have to be.

———

The St. John estate on Staten Island sprawled over the land with spires and turrets fit for a medieval fortress. The Westlakes had always had enough money to be comfortable, but they'd been paupers compared to the millions represented by this mansion alone, not to mention all of the original masterpieces within. Separate galleries held different types of art: oil paintings, sculptures, and antiquities, which was where Lauren and her father would spend the day.

"Have you come across anything suspicious so far?" she asked him as soon as the butler left them alone. "Anything that could lead you to believe it was forged?"

He smiled at her. "That's why you're here, my dear. You are the expert. If it was my opinion the police wanted, they would have asked for it."

She turned away from the warmth in his eyes before she could mistake it for fatherly pride. She was far too old to care about that.

And yet, how could her spirit not respond when the one thing she'd wanted for years seemed to dangle so near her grasp?

Lauren was being ridiculous. She was here not as someone's daughter, but as Dr. Westlake, assistant curator of Egyptian art and special counsel to the NYPD. It was in that capacity that she carried on her work. Joe had asked her to do a job, and she would do it well.

That afternoon, Lauren mused aloud, "None of this was intended to see the light of day ever again. Yet here we are, handling these treasures half a world from where they came."

Lawrence looked up from his notebook. "Are you saying it's wrong? That we should forgo discovery altogether?"

She shook her head. "It's not that simple. Ancient Egyptians didn't want to be forgotten, and these discoveries help us learn and remember who they were, what they gave to us. So many firsts can be traced back to them."

"I agree. We are not tomb raiders, wishing only to steal and sell for personal gain. We are learning and preserving the culture. At least, that's how I see it. That's the mission of the Napoleon Society."

"But that's what the Met and Boston's Museum of Fine Arts are already doing," she said. "Why go to the trouble of starting a brand-new institution when you could be partnering with one that's already established?"

"What a question!" Lawrence chuffed a laugh. "There will never be too many museums in the world. Besides, mine will be accessible to people who may not want to navigate a cacophonous metropolis. Boston and New York are intimidating, loud-mouthed bullies to most folks. But Newport is a hospitable cousin near the shore. Dedicated solely to Egyptian artifacts and culture, the Napoleon House will appeal to the true enthusiast. Come look at this."

She crossed the hardwood floor, polished to the shine of citron. From outside, she could hear Mr. St. John's beagles barking. "What did you find?"

He held up a gold necklace, turning it slowly so all angles caught the light. "Such fine workmanship. Feel how heavy it is." He laid the collar across her open palms.

"I can't imagine wearing it for any length of time," she murmured.

"But you can imagine the woman who did, can't you?" Lawrence smiled, and then he was off, spinning a story about a noblewoman in Luxor, based on the piece and its provenance, and filling in the blanks with his own vibrant mind. His stature had diminished over the years, but clearly his mental acuity remained needle sharp.

His breath smelled of black licorice, as it had since she was a child. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the years peeling away until she was a little girl, spellbound by her father's stories. When he drew her inside the wonder of ancient Egypt, she felt his warmth pour over her. There was no other place she'd wanted to be in those moments. She belonged.

But was it love for her she'd felt, or simply his love for ancient cultures?

Lauren's eyes popped open. Even if Egypt was their only connection, she ought not cut that single thread. Ivy was right. As painful as the realization was, it was better than nothing.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1925

Joe rolled his sleeves to his elbows and punched a mound of bread dough on the floured table.

"You don't have something better to do at four in the morning?" Greta Caravello propped one fist on her aproned hip while flipping bacon in the cast-iron pan.

"Better than helping the best cook in the best boardinghouse in Manhattan? Forget about it." He winked at his mother. Besides, kneading dough proved better than a punching bag for working out stress—and it smelled a whole lot better, too. He jerked his chin toward the sizzling bacon. "Who could sleep with such a tease, anyway?"

"The rest of the house, apparently. Except for Doreen, who's in the dining room."

Joe nodded, but his thoughts had already veered elsewhere. He pounded the dough again. More than a week had passed since he'd asked Lauren to help track down forgeries, and so far he'd had no progress to report to his boss, other than being able to identify that the oyster shell in play the night of Wade Martin's murder had been a fake. That was something, but not enough. Still, how could he push Lauren to cover more ground, and faster, when she wasn't being compensated and had little time to work with? He couldn't. Neither could he get far without her. So while he waited for movement on the forgery front, he continued to work on various other cases, from robberies to missing persons.

"Your father will be down any minute." Mama pulled the bacon strips out of the pan and onto a sheet of brown paper. "Mornings aren't easy. He's not getting younger, if you haven't noticed."

Neither was Mama. Age lined her face, bowed her shoulders, and frosted her brown hair. Finished with the dough, Joe set it back in a greased bowl for a final rise.

Sal Caravello shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen, buttoning his collar. "On schedule for breakfast?" The question implied authority, but his demeanor did not.

"It's all right, Pop." Joe squeezed his shoulder, nearly wincing at how thin he'd grown. "Everything will be ready in time."

Only then did Pop lift his chin. Almost as though he'd been a child expecting punishment and was relieved to escape a scolding.

Joe regretted his part in that. For years, Joe had blamed his father for the mismanagement of money that had led to losing the family restaurant. Desperate for funds, Pop had made a risky investment that turned out to be a scam. It wasn't Pop's fault. It was the confidence man who'd taken his money and run. Inspector Murphy had been right that Joe had a thing about fakes. But that didn't mean his new assignment tracking forgeries wasn't a completely legitimate mission on its own.

Joe checked his watch. "I'll see to Doreen." The only one of their nine boarders who wasn't a college student, fifty-year-old Doreen Boyle was a flower vendor at the Union Square market. She needed to be in place there well before sunrise to receive deliveries from Long Island and New Jersey nurseries.

After passing through the short hallway connecting the kitchen and dining room, he pushed through the swinging door and greeted her. "About ready to go?"

"I'm perfectly capable of walking myself." Doreen dabbed her napkin to her mouth, then folded it beside her plate. Silver threaded the black braid coiled at the back of her head.

"You certainly are." Joe made it his business to escort her anyhow. Union Square was only a few blocks away, but it was dark. "I just like the company on my way to work."

Chuckling, she stood and pulled on her coat. "I doubt your day starts this early, Joe. Connor's never did."

"In a city that never sleeps, New York's finest rarely do, either." He kept a smile in place for her, even as the mention of her nephew soured the coffee in his stomach. Connor had provided for his aunt right up until he'd been arrested. She would have been completely alone had Joe's family not taken her in. But it didn't take a detective to see that room and board did nothing to mend her broken heart.

The walk to Union Square Park held the chill of a season on winter's doorstep. "Speaking of Connor, did you notice anything unusual in what he said or did in the weeks or months before...?"

Lines grooved her brow. She retied the shawl over her head, a nervous habit he'd noticed before. "He didn't talk about his work with me. I can't imagine all the grisly things you police must en counter, and frankly, I don't want to. He knew that. However, I do remember that he started asking me more questions."

Joe pressed for examples.

"He asked if I'd ever thought of living anywhere other than New York City. Isn't that odd? I've spent my whole life in Manhattan, and so has he. The only person I know who moved away was a dear friend who dreamed of wide-open spaces. But I've lost touch with her."

It was an odd question, coming from Connor. He'd been a proud New Yorker ever since they'd met as kids. There was something special about the neighborhood in which one grew up. Loyalty to it rivaled the fervor some folks had for the Yankees or the Sox.

It was that loyalty to one's roots that had kept Pop from pulling up stakes from Union Square and moving north, along with all his best customers. One establishment after another—from private mansions to Tiffany's jewelry store—had closed its doors and migrated away. But Joe's parents staunchly refused to go. Both could trace back two generations to this area, God rest them. They'd find a way to stay, Pop had said. But it was Mama who had found that way, by turning their four-story brownstone into a boardinghouse.

Though Joe and Connor were only teens when the Caravellos lost the restaurant, Connor had been the one to clap Joe on the shoulder and tell him things weren't so bad as long as they remained in the neighborhood.

"Then he said something about me finding something else to do, other than selling flowers," Doreen continued. "I told him the only other thing I'd enjoy would be growing them myself but selling them suited me fine. To play along, I asked if he'd ever thought of being a cop anywhere else."

"And?"

Doreen shrugged. "He went real quiet for a minute, and I thought he might actually say yes. But when he finally replied, he said this was our home, and there was no point pretending otherwise."

Headlamps cut through the dark as delivery trucks motored up to the curb at Union Square, idling while drivers hopped out and unloaded their sweet-smelling cargo. The interview was over.

Doreen bustled about, positioning huge paper-wrapped bouquets in upturned crates, while Joe lined up potted hydrangeas and chrysanthemums on the sidewalk. The air hummed with the predawn hustle, the floral fragrance competing with the exhaust fumes of the trucks.

Straightening, Doreen rubbed the small of her back. "Off with you, then," she told Joe, a smile contradicting the scold in her voice. "I know Connor told you to watch out for me. I don't think he meant for you to trade your work for mine."

Keeping tabs on her might be his duty, but it wasn't work, and he told her so. He tipped his hat to her, then descended into the subway station for the ride south.

On his way to headquarters, Joe rolled the morning's conversation around in his mind before mentally filing it with everything else he knew—and didn't know—about Connor. Friends weren't supposed to keep secrets from one another. Something had been bothering him enough to consider moving. Whatever it was, why hadn't he confided in Joe?