Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

FRIDAY, JANUARY 22, 1926

A ll week long, Lauren had tried to convince herself that what Joe had brought to her Monday night was simply his own wild imaginings. His boss pressured him for answers, and Joe was supplying them from speculation. The Napoleon Society couldn't be a forgery ring. Dad couldn't be involved. Her name could not be attached to the newsletter of criminals. Besides that, there was no way Dad would hurt her this way or prey on countless others.

But the photographs Joe had brought had been impossible to reconcile. She had studied them this week, along with the copies of the provenance documents. The mistakes were identical, even though the provenance said the artifacts had been procured at different times and places. But these forgeries were the work of one or two people, not several.

"Knock, knock." Anita entered Lauren's office, smelling faintly of the cigarettes she preferred, and extended a stack of mail.

Thanking her, Lauren tossed it on the desk.

"It's not all junk this time, Dr. Westlake. Something from the Vandermeers." She paused. "You need anything else? Coffee, water?"

Lauren looked up at her assistant. "I don't think even coffee would give me what I need right now."

"That sounds serious." Anita slapped a Hershey bar on Lauren's desk. "Chocolate, then. It never fails to soothe and fortify. The almonds are protein, and your body needs that anyway."

There were worse ways to cope. As Anita whisked away, Lauren unwrapped the candy bar and took a bite, summoning the nerve to open what Miles Vandermeer had sent her.

It had occurred to Lauren on Wednesday that she had never truly inspected the jewelry Victoria had won at the gala in November. It had been displayed in glass cases at the Hotel Astor, and then she'd seen Victoria wearing the pieces at her Long Island Christmas party. But she hadn't looked at the back of either the necklace or the bracelet.

Dad had vouched for their authenticity.

She ought to see for herself. But after the threat she received two weeks ago, she couldn't risk being seen visiting collectors anymore.

After one more bite of chocolate, she drew a piece of Vandermeer stationery from the manila envelope.

Dear Dr. Westlake,

My secretary informed me of your request for photographs of the front and back of my wife's newest pieces of Egyptian jewelry. As it happens, I'd already had photographs taken for the purpose of filing them with our insurance company. One can never be too careful about safeguarding one's investments. I've enclosed copies of these photographs and hope they are sufficient for your purposes. If they are to be used in some kind of publication, we would be grateful to be named as the owners.

Yours very cordially, Mr. Miles Vandermeer, Esq.

Careful to handle only the white borders of the glossy photographs, Lauren pulled them out and felt herself begin to relax.

The workmanship on the pectoral, with the three-hundred-some pieces of inlaid stones, was breathtaking even in black and white. The photographer had expertly captured every detail. The next photograph showed the pectoral in context of the entire necklace. The next one showed the back.

Heat singed Lauren's face. The back of the pectoral was a smooth, flat surface of gold.

This was no royal woman's necklace from the Middle Kingdom. If it had been, the back would have been chased in gold—an outline of every detail on the front. She could not pretend the fault lay in blurry photography.

There were no lines. If this was real gold, and real semiprecious stones, it had not been made during the Middle Kingdom. It had never graced the neck of royalty.

Eyelids stinging, she flipped to the photographs of the bracelet, and stopped on the image showing the underside of the scarabs. She covered her mouth. The mistakes on every one matched the mistakes on the scarabs Joe had photographed and shown her on Monday.

Was nothing real? Was nothing as she had thought it to be? These were no token pieces, either. The amount the Vandermeers had paid to win them would have more than covered the cost of replacing the roof on the Napoleon House. So why had he seemed so concerned about the cash to get it done? Would Dad be able to refund the sum in full?

The implications made her light-headed. Then she turned to the last photograph, which showed the provenance documents. No dealer was named for the necklace or bracelet. According to this, Dad had found the pieces himself during an excavation in 1898. She struggled to believe that given the mistakes in workmanship. Besides, if these pieces were real, especially the pectoral, they would have been a glorious find. Surely something to write home about.

———

After work that evening, while Elsa and Ivy were out, Lauren brought the box of letters to the living room and searched them until her eyes grew bleary. Dad never mentioned finding a pectoral in the year 1898 or beyond it.

Sighing, she leaned her head back on the sofa. She hadn't really expected to find a record of it. If that piece had been in his possession all this time, he would have shown it to her. That's what he did. He missed birthdays and holidays, and never apologized for any of it in all the letters she'd read. In fact, he'd only apologized about all of that to Lauren after she'd been hired at the Met. But he did show Lauren the treasures he'd found. Except this one.

"I need to ask him about it," she said aloud, trying to convince herself. She had no desire to call him tonight.

A honking horn from outside snapped her circuitous reveries. Sitting up, she looked through the box again. She'd only read letters her dad had written from 1898 on. Maybe she ought to read those written by Mother. The chances that she would be the one to mention a specific find of his seemed small, and Lauren thought she'd already read through all of them, anyway.

She pulled all the letters out of the box to sort through them again and found one that had been lying flat on the bottom. It was from 1898, in her mother's hand. Lauren skimmed the first couple of paragraphs. Then,

I wanted to wait until your return to tell Lauren about my diagnosis. She deserves to have both parents here to support her. But now you tell me you're extending your trip indefinitely, and for all your words, I could not decipher the real reason why. Do you realize I have yet to feel my husband's arms around me since I learned I have cancer?

Lauren knew something was wrong. I had to tell her, Lawrence. As soon as I did, she ran into your office and locked the door. She locked me out, as you have done. I don't blame her—she's a child of five and doesn't understand. Perhaps in your office with its maps and pictures of Egypt, she can be far away from here, and far away from the news she is too small to carry.

I wish you were here to comfort your daughter, even if you won't come home for me. My only recourse was to go outside and climb the tree outside your office so I could climb through the window. I pulled on a pair of your trousers under my dress—let it never be said that you're the only Westlake who loves an adventure—and did my best to climb that tree. I would have succeeded, too, if only I'd been two inches taller to reach the branch I needed. Next, I went to the carriage house for reinforcements but found the ladder had all but rotted. By this time Nancy found me, and I was so exhausted from my failed attempts I hadn't the strength to fight her off when she brought me back inside. I suppose it was the sight of blood that made her a little hysterical. It was only my hands from the bark. And perhaps my knees. I'm afraid your trousers will never be the same.

Neither will Lauren.

Tears coursed down Lauren's cheeks. She remembered that day. She remembered running from what her mother had told her and doing her best to hide from it. She remembered Mother knocking on the door and calling her name. Lauren had covered her ears and rocked back and forth under Dad's desk. All the while, Mother had been trying to reach her, sick as she was.

Why hadn't Dad come home? Why had he left his wife with such a burden to carry on her own? Anger bubbled and steamed, the pressure building inside Lauren. Swiping the tears from her face, she read on.

You'll never guess who paid us a call here today. Theodore Clarke was in the area visiting his good friend Dr. James Breasted, who teaches at the University of Chicago. The last time Theo called on me I was a young woman living in Manhattan under my parents' roof.

You must have told him about my diagnosis—did you?—because he arrived with the most gorgeous flowers. Glorious roses in every shade of pink and yellow, with green hydrangea blooms, bursting with life and beauty and fragrance. He brought five vases full, which kept Nancy busy placing them throughout the house. Anyhow, he came when Lauren was romping about outside.

It felt so good to speak with another adult, aside from Nancy. I'd have rather spoken to you, Lawrence, but you weren't here. He was. I can't tell you how refreshing it was to have someone to talk to, who listened to me. We didn't get more personal than propriety allowed, I assure you. He didn't stay overlong—not even long enough to see Lauren, for he had another appointment to keep. But I shall enjoy the flowers as long as they live, and remember that on this day, I felt cared for, or at least noticed. By someone.

The letter fluttered to her lap. That explained how Mr. Clarke had known Mother. Had he previously been a suitor? Aunt Beryl would know. In any case, Lauren was touched to hear of Mr. Clarke's attentions when she needed the comfort of kindness, but Dad could not have enjoyed her referring to him as Theo. Had he been jealous? If he had said so in a reply, that letter had not survived. But she couldn't help but wonder if this played into the rivalry between them. Did Dad feel replaced? Threatened? He shouldn't, but sometimes people felt what they feared.

Cleo jumped on the mantel, threaded between the picture frames, then leapt to the bookcase. Before Lauren could stop her, the cat had found the shabti figures and knocked them to the floor.

"No!" Lauren lunged from the sofa but stopped when the two pieces broke into six. Dad had said they were made of faience. He said he'd excavated them himself years ago and kept them with her in mind all this time.

She'd never questioned whether they were real. Never questioned whether her father himself was a counterfeit.

Sometimes people felt what they feared. And sometimes they saw what they wanted to see.

Lauren scooped up the broken figures. The insides of the pieces were white.

"Plaster," she whispered. "Painted plaster." She hurled them back to the floor and watched them shatter.

Through the haze of white dust, she saw in her mind's eye the photographs Joe had brought of the forged papyruses and scarabs.

In her second article, she had written that plaster would show white if an artifact was scratched, chipped, or broken. Dad omitted it. Now she knew the real reason why. Even if those scarabs Joe had shown her didn't have the errors in the text, she'd bet they'd been made of painted plaster.

If Dad was fake, so was their so-called restored relationship. The dream she'd cherished, a mirage. A hole ripped open inside her where the love of her father should have been.

Joe was right. Dad was as guilty as Dr. DeVries. The photos she'd seen from Mr. Vandermeer today only added to the evidence. What a fool she'd been to let him back into her life, to place so much attachment on a man who only wanted to use her.

Mechanically, she swept up the mess on the floor. But the mess her father had made was so much bigger than she could manage.

Hands shaking, she stuffed the letters back into the box and retired to her room for the night. She fell into bed, burrowing into the covers, and begged for a deep and dreamless sleep.

"What does Tony Moretti do on a Friday night?" Oscar McCormick looked even younger in the plain clothes he wore for the stakeout. Headlamp beams from oncoming traffic flashed over his smooth-cheeked face.

Joe swiped a hand over the stubble that said he hadn't shaved since four o'clock this morning. Then he turned the wheel, steering the unmarked police car onto 6th Street, heading southwest. "We're about to find out."

They'd waited outside Tony Moretti's known place of business—an office building in Midtown—long enough for their worst enemy to be boredom. You lose focus, you look away, you miss the thing you're waiting for. Then they'd spied Moretti getting into a black Rolls-Royce. Now they were on the move.

McCormick was obviously trying not to look excited. "Do you think we're going to Little Italy? The Bowery?"

"I think we should concentrate on following their tail without getting noticed," Joe muttered.

"Right." After that, the kid was quiet, the cords in his neck visible as he craned to keep an eye on Moretti's car. Joe kept at least one vehicle between them at all times, sometimes more.

The drive was easy. One straight shot down 6th Street, for about two miles. If Moretti's driver had suspected a tail, they'd have turned a few times in an attempt to shake it off. Instead, the Rolls pulled to a stop in plain sight across from 77 MacDougal Street, in the Italian South Village.

"Italian Rifle Club," Joe said as he parked the car about half a block away. He pointed at the three conjoined Gothic Revival rowhouses adorned with full-height cast-iron balconies on all three levels.

McCormick peered through the windshield. "I don't see a sign."

"Trust me."

"I do."

The young man was growing on Joe, that was sure. "It doesn't have a sign out front, but it's been in this location since last year. Its official name is Tiro A Segno , which means ‘Fire at the target.'" He paused to watch Tony Moretti enter the building. "It's members only in there. This is as close as we get until he comes out again."

"If it's a club with membership, we can find out who the other members are to see who his associates might be."

"But we're not about to waltz in there and ask for a list," Joe added. "We don't want to risk Tony getting suspicious."

A bang on the roof of the car shot adrenaline through Joe. In the next instant, a hand gloved in black was knocking on Joe's window.

"Can I help—Mr. Moretti." Joe rolled down the window. "Nice to see you again."

"Hey, Joe." Ray Moretti laughed. "I thought that was you. Are you here for the club? You're Italian, right? Caravello?"

"Half Italian."

"Can't half Italians be members? They got a thing for purebreds or what?"

Joe shrugged. "I'm not a member yet. My friend here is definitely not Italian, so..."

Ray leaned down and looked at McCormick. "Nice to meet you. This is the first time I've seen you without Dr. Westlake. You two still working together?"

"No," Joe said truthfully. "She has enough to do with her own job. I released her as a consultant."

"Well, win some, lose some, right? Say, I don't want to be rude, Joe, but I'm freezing out here. Why don't you boys come in and be my guests. Get a coffee, read the paper." When Joe hesitated, Ray added, "It won't be a problem. I'll vouch."

Joe smiled.

Inside the rifle club, a warm glow pervaded an atmosphere of newsprint, roasted coffee, and men's cologne. Newspapers in English and Italian draped a rack near the front door. Loud conversation grew louder as it ricocheted off wood-paneled walls. Framed photographs celebrated famous members, past and present. There was Enrico Caruso, the opera tenor. There was Fiorello La Guardia, formerly on the New York City Board of Aldermen, currently serving in Congress.

Tony Moretti wasn't in sight.

While Ray vouched for them with a stocky Italian wearing a shoulder harness beneath his jacket, Joe glanced at McCormick and sent him what he hoped was a reassuring nod. A nod that said he hadn't planned on dragging the kid into this place, but he'd safely see him out again.

They went deeper inside, passing through smaller rooms with round tables lit by votive candles and wall sconces. Hearty greetings followed Ray. This was gold. Joe studied and memorized every face. It could be Joe had seen them before in a daily lineup. But they wouldn't recognize him. That's why the detectives wore masks. He couldn't ask for a better in to see who Ray's friends were. The assignment for tonight had been to watch Tony. But friends of one brother might be friends of the other.

"So, Joe, what's your pleasure?" Ray turned a broad smile on him. "You're not going to raid the joint for booze, are you?"

"That's not why I'm here." But he didn't doubt that a little gin, if not something stronger, made its way into the coffee mugs.

"Didn't think so. Say, how about a little target practice for you and your friend?"

So far, McCormick had not been named, and Joe didn't mind keeping it that way. The less the Morettis knew about the young officer, the better. Call it paranoia, call it instinct. But Joe didn't like the idea of these brothers getting familiar with such a young, impressionable cop.

"Come on. You'll blow off some steam." Ray led them down the dark stairway, toward the percussive sound of shooting.

In the cellar, it was a strange thing indeed to have Ray Moretti give Joe a weapon. But when he placed a rifle in the open hands of Oscar McCormick, the hair on Joe's neck lifted.

"How about you, Ray?" Joe asked. "Join us?"

"Not my style." He wrinkled his nose. "My tastes are more refined, remember? I come for the conversation, the camaraderie. My brother, though..." He tilted his head and pointed to a man halfway down the range. "Just watch."

Joe did. Straight from the shoulder, Tony Moretti fired his weapon into the circular paper target downrange. Then the target moved back twice as far, and he finished unloading his weapon.

Hanging from wires on a pulley system, the targets came back to Moretti, who plucked them from metal clips. As if he sensed his audience, he turned the target to face Ray, Joe, and Oscar. With an eerie grin, Tony poked his little finger through the hole his bullets had made at the center of it. He'd been as accurate at one hundred yards as he had been at fifty.

"Bull's-eye." Ray shook his head in obvious admiration. "Practice makes perfect." When he faced Joe again, the smile he wore matched his brother's.