Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1925

A t last, on the third Saturday that Lauren spent inspecting Newell St. John's antiquities, she found what she was looking for. An ointment jar made of Egyptian alabaster was fake. But there was no triumph in her voice when she pronounced it.

Lawrence's head jerked up. "You found a forgery?"

She confirmed she had. "What's the provenance for this object?"

Flipping through a folder of documents, Lawrence stopped when he came to the corresponding record. "Here it is. ‘Spherical jar inscribed with Hatshepsut's titles as queen, 12.3 centimeters high, with a diameter of 12.8 centimeters.' Dated to circa 1492–1473 BC. The inscription reads: ‘King's Daughter, King's Sister, God's Wife, King's Great Wife (principal queen), Hatshepsut, may she live and endure like Re forever.' This jar was purchased in Luxor with other objects presumed to be from tomb 1, wadi D in the Wadi Gabbanat el-Qurud, 1917."

"Did St. John make the purchase himself?" Lauren asked.

"We'll have to ask him. But first, tell me why you doubt the object's authenticity."

She pointed to the hieroglyphs etched into one side, contained within a rectangular border. "The inscription gives it away with a few basic errors. One hieroglyph is incomplete, two are incorrectly formed. It's as if this has been copied from a photograph of an original work where some of the inscription was unclear in the image." She could see how it would happen. The thin white lines were delicate, barely contrasting with the creamy, almost translucent alabaster. "There is no way anything genuine with Hatshepsut's name on it would have a misspelling."

Lawrence squinted, then pulled out a magnifying glass to see it closer. He murmured his agreement.

Footsteps echoed across the gallery, and Lauren looked up to see Newell St. John approaching as if he'd stepped right off the cover of Town & Country . Apparently fresh from the stables, he still wore his riding breeches and jacket with English boots, and smelled of leather and horseflesh. His rusty blond hair had mellowed to parchment yellow with age.

"I see I've come at an interesting time. What have you found?" He addressed Lawrence.

"Dr. Westlake made the discovery, Newell. She'll explain it better than I could." Lawrence nodded for Lauren to do so.

She did, careful not to make Mr. St. John feel foolish for having been duped by what she considered elementary mistakes. "Not many collectors are fluent in hieroglyphs," she said, "so the fault isn't yours. I'm sorry this beautiful jar isn't genuine."

The man's shoulders squared. "Young lady, I have invited you into my home as a favor to your father. If I'd known you would cast suspicion on my collection, I'd have thought better of it."

She licked dry lips. "I don't blame you for not liking the news, sir. No one wants to be deceived."

"You misunderstand. It isn't that I don't like what you've told me so much as I don't believe it. At this point, all I have is your word."

Heat infused her face.

"Come now, Newell," Lawrence said. "You forget you're speaking to a doctor of Egyptology, a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"Assistant curator," St. John corrected. "The main curator is in the field, doing the real work of discovery."

"And he trusts me to catalog and inspect every item that comes through our doors at the Met." She lowered her voice, hoping to soothe. "No one is going to run to the press about this. We only want to protect you—and others—from forgeries that would not only waste your money but also discredit the many wonderful, authentic pieces you do have. It's an impressive collection by any standard."

"There's a reason for that. I'll have you know that the piece you've singled out was procured for me by Theodore Clarke himself."

Lauren's heart sank. Clarke was a legend twice over. In graduate school, she had learned all about the American millionaire who went to Egypt for his health and ended up discovering monumental tombs. On a professional level, she knew him as an honorary fellow of the museum who had promised to donate his entire collection to the Met upon his passing. If Mr. Robinson was nervous about staying in the Morettis' good graces, he would be exponentially more so about Mr. Clarke.

"You worked with him yourself, Lawrence," St. John added. "You can vouch for him."

Her father's smile was controlled and unconvincing.

When Mr. St. John asked for a moment alone with him, Lauren tried not to feel dismissed.

By the time Joe arrived at the St. John estate in response to Lauren's phone call, the master of the mansion was waiting for him in a parlor fit for a British aristocrat. Not that Joe had ever had the pleasure of one's presence. But the mahogany-paneled walls, the fieldstone fireplace, the leather wing chairs and faded tapestry hanging behind them ... well, it was a far cry from his parents'boardinghouse.

"Detective Sergeant Caravello, NYPD," he said upon entering, showing his badge.

Lauren introduced him to Newell St. John and Lawrence Westlake, who had to be her father, but she didn't say so. From the way Lauren had talked about him when they were younger, he'd pictured a larger man.

"Have you finished raiding all the speakeasies and arresting all the violent criminals?" Mr. St. John queried, eyes hard. "If not, I can't understand what you're doing here."

So far as first impressions went, this wasn't a great one. But Joe knew the type. Defensive. Deflecting. He could handle it.

"I understand you've been the victim of a crime, Mr. St. John. I'm here to get to the bottom of it."

"I don't believe this," Mr. St. John said. "Theodore Clarke is the most esteemed name among American explorers in Egypt. You're telling me he brought me a fake?"

"Newell," Mr. Westlake said, "Mr. Clarke is no Egyptologist. He's a rich man with good luck. That doesn't make him infallible to falling prey to forgery. It's a booming business in Luxor and has been for centuries. The shop dealers there know it's a prime location for anyone who wants to purchase a piece of antiquity. They simply increase the supply to meet the demand. I'm not saying Mr. Clarke intended to deceive you, my friend. He's a businessman, not a scholar."

"He's published books on his expeditions!" Mr. St. John protested. If he'd had a riding crop in hand to go with that fancy horse-riding outfit he sported, he probably would have given it a good whack right about now to make his point.

A look passed between father and daughter. Lauren said nothing. Mr. Westlake, however, pushed back. "He wrote the introductions. If you recall, he hired other people to take the photographs, write the chapters, and edit the work. His personal involvement amounts to very little."

A ripple passed over Lauren's brow. If she disagreed with what her father had said, she wasn't admitting it.

Mr. St. John turned his back and went to the window, where he watched his beagles chase each other over the lawn. No one said what Joe was thinking, which was that Mr. Clarke could have sold any number of forgeries to his connections in America based on his reputation alone, knowingly or unknowingly. But then, he was already a millionaire, which meant money could not be a motive.

Sensing the collector was simmering down from his previous boil, Joe began again. "I'll need to complete some paperwork here and take the piece in question back to the station for holding in evidence."

"We'll be discreet," Lauren offered.

"We?" The snooty collector mocked her. "I suppose you're on a special task force for the police department, too?"

"That's about the size of it," Joe told him. "If Dr. Westlake says what you've got is a fake, I'm taking it in. She's the expert here."

Mr. St. John rocked back on his heels. "Says who?"

The color drained from Lauren's face. The elderly man who shared her name lifted his hands to placate but was too slow in forming a response.

"Says the Metropolitan," Joe began, the Italian blood in his veins warming up. "Says a doctorate degree from the University of Chicago, decades of personal study, years studying abroad. Says the fact that she learned the German language since their dictionaries are the most advanced in translating ancient hieroglyphs. Says me, on behalf of the New York Police Department." He'd closed the distance between himself and the pale-faced collector, who probably hadn't been stood up to in quite some time. "So yeah, in this investigation, what she says goes. Clear?"

No one spoke. That left Joe with a blank form on his clipboard, a stunned collector, and two Westlakes with very large eyes.

He turned to the prettier one. "Did I get that right?"

"Exactly," she said.

Joe nodded. "So, Mr. St. John, how much did you pay for the jar and when?"

"I didn't. The jar was a gift."

Joe glanced from St. John to Lauren, and back again. "No money changed hands?"

"Not a dime."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Lauren asked.

"It's all in the paperwork I gave Lawrence. Somewhere in that folder is a ledger containing the date of accession and price paid for every piece, as well as the location."

While Mr. Westlake scrambled to locate the ledger and turn to the right page, Lauren inhaled deeply. "If it was a gift," she said, "this was most definitely a mistake. Clarke gained nothing from it."

"Apparently neither did I." The man's jowls trembled, and his cheeks reddened. He stalked out of the room and slammed the door.

Mr. Westlake cleared his throat. "That could have gone better. Haven't you heard that one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar?"

"I shoot straight," Joe told him. "That's it."

Lauren stepped forward. "By the way, Dad, Sergeant Caravello is also a friend of mine. I first met him during our Christmas visit to Manhattan when I was twelve. Joe, you've figured this out, but this is my father."

Mr. Westlake regarded him. "So that's why you recruited Lauren to be your consultant."

She looked away.

Joe wondered if he had any idea how insulting his remark had been. "No, I recruited her because she's the best in the city."

"Of course, of course. On that we agree. That's why I've asked for her help, as well." He turned to his daughter. "How does it feel to be in such high demand?"

"Like I have no time to waste. Did you find the entry he mentioned?"

Mr. Westlake opened the ledger and pointed to an entry dated 1917. Sure enough, it recorded a gift from Theodore Clarke of the spherical ointment jar. It changed hands in Rhode Island, well outside Joe's jurisdiction.

Joe wrote down the details. "There was no crime here. This particular investigation is open and closed. Did you find anything else questionable?"

"This is the only fake we found in the Egyptian gallery, after three Saturdays of looking," Mr. Westlake said. "We finished this afternoon, which is a good thing, since I doubt he'd let us come back next week anyway. Besides which, I have other plans."

Lauren turned to him. "The gala for the Napoleon Society?"

A nod.

"I've heard of the Napoleon Society," Joe said. "I thought it was in its infancy."

"Not for much longer," Mr. Westlake assured him, then went on to explain what he hoped to accomplish through the fundraising event a week from this evening.

"So all the private collectors in the area who favor Egyptian antiquities will be there," Joe clarified.

Mr. Westlake smiled. "That's certainly the goal."

"Then that's where I'll be, too." Joe regarded Lauren, looking for the friend she'd been to him before they'd grown up. "You coming? This is a fancy shindig, am I right? With tuxedos and lots of forks? I could use a little guidance on which cutlery goes with which course. More importantly, the folks I want to talk to would be much more willing to make my acquaintance if you were with me."

"A valiant effort, Detective Caravello. But my daughter has already refused to attend, despite my repeated invitations."

Taking a chance, Joe beckoned Lauren to the opposite side of the parlor and turned his back to her father, shielding her from view. "I know you two were never close," he whispered. "But don't let that interfere with our investigation. I need you by my side next Saturday to lend credibility and grease some stubborn hinges that might not budge for me if not for you. What do you say?"

"When you put it that way," she breathed, "how can I refuse?"