Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1925

L auren arrived early at the Hotel Astor, and yet Joe was already there, framed by the twin marble and bronze stairways as he scanned the space. Even in a tuxedo, with harp music floating in the air, he looked the part of a cop. His expression might be mistaken for on-the-job vigilance, but she recognized it as something else. The firm set of his jaw, the occasional press of his lips, the slight knitting of his brows—that's how he'd always looked when he'd been looking for her. Watching. Waiting.

The pull that drew her toward him was magnetic and automatic. Perhaps Anita and Lauren's roommates were right that she spent too much time among the dead, because by contrast, Joe Caravello made her feel very much alive. Surely the attraction she felt was only natural upon renewing a lost connection.

As soon as he saw her, he closed the remaining distance between them. "I still say you should have let me pick you up rather than meet you here. I'd feel much better if I knew you didn't have any trouble along the way."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Joe."

"So I noticed." A smile hooked his lips and fanned a spark inside her.

She ignored it, and he stepped behind her, helping her out of her cloak.

Lauren's belted black dress with filmy sleeves and handkerchief hem wouldn't come close to matching the glamour of the other guests. At least her carnelian-and-turquoise earrings and matching hair combs fit an evening dedicated to Egyptian art.

"I assume my father is upstairs," she told him after he returned from the coat-check room. Noticing his bow tie hadn't been tied correctly, she stepped into the shadow of a potted palm tree, and he followed. "You did say I was here to help you," she whispered, pulling the ends of his tie to unfasten it.

A lump shifted behind his collar.

With only one false start, she looped and tucked until it lay right. Satisfied, she gave a light pat to her handiwork and peered up at him. "Perfect. Shall we?"

"By all means." He offered his arm, and after a brief hesitation, she took it. "Is this too old-fashioned a gesture for you?" he asked.

"Not at all. I'm as old-fashioned as I ever was." She patted her chignon and glanced pointedly to all the shingle bobs and fringed dresses on other women milling about, tendrils of smoke rising from cigarettes. "I don't even smoke."

"I believe the term you're looking for is classic ." He kept pace by her side. "You know the great thing about classics, don't you?"

"I'm an Egyptologist. I could talk your ear off about the great things about classics."

He chuckled. "Never out of style. Tonight's gala being a case in point."

Her face heated by the smallest degree. "Egypt is endlessly fascinating," she deflected as they stepped into the elevator.

"Indeed." Joe watched the needle above the door that marked their progress as they climbed ever higher. On the mansard level, they stepped out, passed through the promenade, and headed to the banquet hall.

With buttressed ceilings, this hall was decorated in the Louis XV style and was one of many reasons Hotel Astor was known as the crown jewel of Times Square. Plush carpets patterned with medal lions cushioned Lauren's heels, and fan-shaped chandeliers dripped with crystal and amber light. Around the perimeter, linen-clad tables displayed Egyptian artifacts in locked glass cases.

"You're here!" Lawrence broke away from the men with whom he'd been conversing and made his way to Lauren and Joe. "Come, you shall have a private viewing of the items we've brought before the masses arrive."

"Shall I look for forgeries among them?" Lauren teased.

"Do your worst, Doctor." Lawrence grinned. "But you'll not find a fake here. All of these came directly from Egypt after having been uncovered and procured by legal means, in full cooperation with the Egyptian government."

Joe edged toward one of the tables. "You're holding an auction with these?"

"The items on those two tables are all open to silent bidding this evening. But those three tables over there hold some of the artifacts we've been curating for the Napoleon House over the last few years. We'll not be parting with those tonight. They're too valuable not to share them with the general public as soon as the house in Newport is renovated and passes inspection. You'll pardon me, both of you, but I've got some final preparation to do. Take your time and enjoy."

While Lawrence excused himself, Lauren moved to the closest table. Through the glass, she peered at a breathtaking necklace made of teardrop beads of gold, carnelian, lapis lazuli, turquoise, and green feldspar. The pectoral, which was about eight centimeters wide and more than four centimeters tall, was backed in gold and inlaid with all the semiprecious stones present in the necklace, with the addition of garnet.

Joe stood near her. "Explain it to me. Explain all of it."

She lifted her gaze to his and found he was in earnest. "All right, Detective—"

He held up a hand. "I know we normally use our professional titles in public, but how about for tonight, you call me Joe. I don't want to put people off if they learn I'm a detective before I have a chance to make a fair first impression."

"But you will be honest with them, won't you? About who you are and what you're doing?"

"Of course. I'd just like to make it through the small talk before they decide to clam up."

Fair enough. With a nod, Lauren turned her attention back to the necklace in the case. "You can see from the card placed next to it that the pectoral—that's the pendant—is inlaid with three hundred seventy-two cut pieces of semiprecious stones. It also tells us the necklace is dated from circa 1887–1878 BC, and that it was excavated in 1914. What the card doesn't say is that the symbols of the falcons, cartouche, cobras, sun disks, and the figure holding up two palm ribs all combine so that together, it translates to ‘the god of the rising sun grants life and dominion over all that the sun encircles for eternity to King Khakheperre.' This would have been worn during the Middle Kingdom by a royal woman in the king's family."

Joe studied the falcons, each row of their feathers alternating between turquoise and lapis lazuli. The tail feathers were tipped in carnelian, and everything was framed in gold. "And your father didn't want to keep this for his museum?"

Lauren tapped the glass case with one finger. "This piece will go for an extraordinary sum. Maybe he needs the money more at this point. If you were to flip the pectoral over, you'd see that the gold backing is engraved with every detail you see on the front, right down to the dozens of individual falcon feathers. This was a trademark of Middle Kingdom jewelry, especially for royals. The only person who would know about that gorgeous detail would be the wearer, and that was enough. Truly remarkable."

The next case held a charming bracelet ringed with gold-encased scarabs the size of her thumb, linked side by side. "You've seen scarabs at the Met. They are the most common amulets of ancient Egypt, so they aren't all that valuable by themselves. But these are made of lapis lazuli and framed in gold, so it will fetch a pretty price, although a fraction of what that necklace will."

They moved among the tables, and she filled in any details not written on the description cards. He took notes as studiously as though he were to be tested on the material.

"I've always thought the ancient Egyptians were obsessed with death," Joe mused aloud.

"You miss the point," Lauren told him. "They were obsessed with life."

"The afterlife, you mean."

"Isn't that life, too? It's easy to lose sight of the fact that there is more to life than the years we spend on earth. But the Egyptians never forgot it. They started building their tombs as soon as they had enough resources to begin. They spent more money on their comforts during the afterlife than they did for this one."

Ridges formed across Joe's brow. "And I've always thought that was a little sad."

"I know what you mean, and obviously, I don't share their polytheistic religion," Lauren said. She believed in one true God, even if He had felt distant at times, especially during her turbulent teenage years. "The fact that the Egyptians believed in many things to save and protect them doesn't really set them apart from our culture today, though, when you think about it."

Joe lowered his pencil and notebook. "Go on."

"What do New Yorkers put their trust in? For some, it's wealth. Status. Others idolize happiness and use whatever means they can to achieve it, but it won't satisfy. When anyone makes their own happiness the ultimate goal, no matter the cost..."

"It never ends well. You're right. Most crimes are committed for selfish reasons."

"Exactly. All that to say, I've learned many things from Egyptology, not the least of which is the idea that what we do in this life matters in the next. That we should be preparing ourselves for what comes after. Death isn't the end of life—it's really the beginning of our eternity."

Lauren's mother had not been well enough to bring her to church on a regular basis, but she taught her from the Bible at home. Among the truths they clung to was that they would meet again in heaven, where there were no tears or pain or sorrow.

Joe looked at her with a compassion she'd rarely known. "I'm so sorry about your mother. You'll see her again."

Lauren wondered if she'd spoken her thoughts aloud before realizing she hadn't needed to. Joe had been there for her when her mother died, when Lauren was fifteen. Were it not for his support, the weight of her grief would have crushed her.

She squeezed his hand in gratitude and felt a measure of that comfort all over again.

Guests began to arrive, and Lauren watched for people she knew. "There's Newell St. John," she said. "Have you spoken with him?"

"I tried. He's still sore about what we discovered and with me in particular. I hope he doesn't poison the rest of the guests here against me."

"You'll need to tread more carefully if you're going to get any cooperation from others."

"You know I've always been a straight shooter."

"Yes, and you're shooting yourself straight in the foot." She glanced away, smiled at someone, and turned back. "Come, you'll want to meet Victoria Vandermeer and her husband, Miles."

"Is she the one wearing a gold arm cuff and—what is that on her head?"

Lauren smiled. "Let's call it a headband. But yes, that's the one. The Vandermeers are extremely generous with the Met, but they offend easily. So we won't lead with the fact that we're looking for fakes. Just like St. John, they'd be insulted at the insinuation."

"Touchy lot, these artsy types," Joe mumbled.

Lauren didn't deny it. "If you're going to earn these people's trust, you'll have to put in the time to listen to their small talk. Ready to be charming?"

He flashed her a dazzling smile in response, and she held back a laugh as she led him to meet the couple.

"It's so good to see you again," she began and, with practiced ease, introduced Joe to Victoria and Miles.

"When Miles and I heard about a new, exclusive society, we just had to come and learn all about it," Victoria gushed. "How many people received an invitation to this gala, do you know?"

All it took after that was a few questions from Joe, and Lauren knew Victoria could talk for another twenty minutes without stopping. Miles nodded and smiled beside her, a reflection of light bobbing on his spectacles. He was taller than his wife by five inches, but she owned the larger personality by far.

At the edge of her vision, Lauren spotted none other than Ray and Christina Moretti. With a pang of alarm, she remembered that Mr. Robinson had tasked her with smoothing things over with the couple. She'd completely forgotten. She wouldn't be surprised if they'd cut off all ties with the museum by now, but if she could do anything to salvage the relationship, she would. Holding up one finger, she signaled that she would soon return.

———

Forcing himself to listen to Mrs. Vandermeer, Joe angled himself so he could keep Lauren in view. She was talking to a man in his fifties with silver-threaded dark hair. The woman on his arm looked at least twenty years younger. Strands of diamonds in her ears stretched long enough to reach past her blond hair and brush her shoulders.

"What is so interesting over there?" Victoria Vandermeer turned around, then faced her husband with a knowing look before whispering to Joe, "No wonder you can't look away." She waved a fan as if something smelled. "New money. If you ask me, those people and their kind only play the fool when they pretend to prestige. How did they get an invitation, anyway?"

Joe managed a response of some kind while making a mental note that the Vandermeers didn't like that the Morettis made their money instead of inheriting it.

By the time Lauren returned to their little cluster and the Vandermeers moved on to mingle elsewhere, he'd never gotten around to talking about forgeries with the Vandermeers at all.

"Who were you speaking to?" he asked Lauren.

She led him farther away for a modicum of privacy. "Ray and Christina Moretti. They have a huge collection of Egyptian artwork. But you don't need to waste your time talking to them."

"And why's that?"

"I've seen his collection before. Most of it he inherited from his father, although he did send a buyer directly to Cairo to bring back a few more pieces."

"So you don't think he would have acquired anything stateside in the last three years?"

She shook her head. "No. I also don't want to insult him further by suggesting he's been fooled. He's been one of the biggest supporters of the Met for the last several years, but I'm afraid that's about to change, if it hasn't already."

"Why? Did the Met not want donations of ‘new money'?" He shrugged at her incredulous expression. "Mrs. Vandermeer's words, not mine."

She glanced over her shoulder, likely reassuring herself they weren't within earshot. "Mr. Moretti recently offered to give the Met a portion of his collection to put on display with the caveat that the room in which it is housed be named for him."

Joe caught himself before whistling. "That's quite a caveat."

"Mr. Robinson, our director, declined the offer as respectfully as he could, but we're concerned that Mr. Moretti may choose to withdraw his financial support, as well. So the last thing I want to do is ask to dig around in his private property, looking for forgeries."

"You're sure about this?"

She touched his arm. "I'm not letting him off the hook because I'm afraid of how he'd react. I really don't see the need for it. Trust me."

A short laugh puffed through his nose.

"Oh, that's right." Her eyes narrowed, but a smile curved her lips. "You don't trust anybody anymore. Well, trust me or not, but I'm telling the truth. Let's connect you with other collectors instead."

Lauren introduced him to several more patrons of the Met, the women sparkling with jewels, the men dripping with self-importance. After engaging in the socially expected amount of small talk, he told them he had reason to believe forgers had been taking advantage of the King Tut craze. "If you've acquired any Egyptian artifacts within the last three years, Dr. Westlake would be happy to take a look to affirm their authenticity."

It didn't prove to be a popular idea.

"Think of it this way," Lauren added. "If your art is genuine, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing for certain. If not, the police will have more evidence and clues to catch the forgers."

Her gentle prodding persuaded several couples to agree, as long as all would be done with the utmost discretion. No one wanted anyone else to know their investments were being questioned.

During the meal, Joe took cues from Lauren to follow proper dining etiquette. While the waitstaff served chocolate soufflé and refilled coffee cups, Lawrence Westlake took the podium and waxed eloquent about the date. Three years ago, he explained, King Tut's tomb was opened, reigniting a passion for Egyptology.

"And as we gather here in a great hall decorated for Louis XV," he went on, "may we not forget that one hundred twenty-six years ago this year, a French soldier discovered the Rosetta Stone during Napoleon's Egyptian campaign, the first step in unlocking the ancient Egyptian language of hieroglyphs."

Though he much preferred listening to the man's daughter, Joe took notes as Lawrence recited the mission of the Napoleon Society; named the board members, who stood in turn; and argued for the need of another educational society and museum.

Frankly, Joe wasn't convinced, but he was intrigued. The more he learned about this world and the people who inhabited it, the closer he would come to finding forgers and solving the significance of that oyster shell Connor had allegedly plunked into Wade Martin's drink minutes before the raid.

The lights dimmed, and on a screen at the front of the room, lantern slides projected the images of artifacts already acquired for the Napoleon House. Lawrence and another board member took turns narrating these, while a third member followed with descriptions of the items available in the silent auction.

Joe leaned toward Lauren, catching the fragrance of apple blossoms from her hair. "You should have been up there," he whispered. "You'd do a much better job."

The smile she sent him in return, complete with wrinkled nose, was halfway between a scold and gratitude. He quite enjoyed it. He always had.

When the lights turned on, Lawrence announced that dinner was over and bidding in the silent auction was now open. So was the dance floor. A string ensemble struck up a waltz.

Soon, Joe and Lauren were the only ones at the table, the others having left to make their bids. He took the last sip of his coffee as Lawrence approached, a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm so glad you came, Lauren. It's important to me that you understand the importance of what I'm doing." The elderly gentleman reached for his daughter's hand, and then lifted it to bring her to her feet. "What do you say? For old times' sake."

She hesitated, then agreed.

While Lawrence led her onto the floor, Joe left the table and ambled along the perimeter of the room, making mental notes about who was bidding on the items. A forger could be here tonight, studying the artifacts and the people who would buy them. If Joe was a forger, that's what he'd do.

Questions filled his mind as he watched the guests orbit the artifacts and one another. Had Joe introduced himself to a crook? Had he told him that he was on the hunt?

No matter. Forgers loved the adrenaline rush. They loved the challenge. Fooling a New York police detective and a curator for the Met was most likely a challenge a forger would be eager to meet.

Assistant curator. Joe could hear Lauren's voice in his mind, correcting him. She was far too modest. He scanned the swirling couples until he found her again. That strange hemline, cut to resemble triangles, pointed to shapely ankles as she moved across the floor.

She wasn't dancing with her father anymore. Her partner was a fellow of middling years wearing a green silk ascot. His brown hair was short but wavy, held in place with enough Brilliantine to reflect the light. Thomas Sanderson, if Joe's notes were right. Deep, deep pockets. Sanderson was smiling, but Lauren wasn't. When she turned her head away from whatever Sanderson said, she locked her gaze with Joe's.

Before he even had time to make a conscious decision, he went to her. "Mind if I cut in?"

Sanderson halted his steps but didn't release Lauren.

And Joe had asked so nicely. Before he could clarify that his question wasn't really a question, Lauren pulled free of the man and stepped toward Joe instead.

"I don't mind at all," she breathed. To Sanderson, she smiled and said, "I find it best to cooperate with the police at all times, don't you? Have a lovely evening. I do hope you win your bid."

A smile tugging, Joe resisted the urge to flash his badge. Or the sidearm breaking the otherwise smooth lines of his tuxedo.

"Yes, quite." Sanderson gave a small bow, then faded from view.

Lauren turned to face Joe, light glancing off her dangling earrings. She stepped into his hold. "Thanks, Joe."

He liked the way her hand fit into his. Liked the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. But he had no idea what to do with the pinpricks in his chest when she directed that smile at him. It was pleasing and painful at the same time, almost like a thaw.

"You're welcome." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then guided her back into the dance. "How much was Sanderson bothering you?"

"You aren't going to believe this," she whispered, leaning in, "but somehow he'd heard that I found Mr. St. John's ointment jar to be a fake. He even knew it had been a gift from Theodore Clarke! I was mortified. We promised discretion."

"Who told him? Someone here?"

"No, several ladies called on his wife this past week—she's been ill—and it was one of those friends, but he couldn't recall which. I swear I didn't tell a soul about it—did you?"

"Outside of the report I had to write, no."

"Then I don't understand it. Unless one of Mr. St. John's servants let it slip to someone. In any case, I begged Mr. Sanderson not to say more about it to anyone else." Lauren inhaled deeply, apparently recomposing herself. "I do hope you haven't abandoned something important for my sake."

She was something important. "Rest easy. My priorities are right where they should be. Besides, this gives me a much better view." He looked over her head as they turned about the floor, alert for anything unusual. "I thought you were dancing with your father. For old times' sake."

A short laugh escaped her. " Very old times. I only recall dancing with him while standing on his feet when I was five or six years old. If he gave the impression we'd ever been in the habit of dancing, that was false."

Anger flared. Whatever emotional capital Lawrence had with her, he wanted to use. Why? "Whose idea was it for you to switch partners?"

"My father's, I'm sure. He waltzed me right over to Mr. Sanderson, but just before we reached him, my father told me to make him comfortable, to impress him, and to put him in a generous mood."

Joe almost tripped but recovered before stepping on her feet. He spread his hand over the small of her back. "He's using you."

"I know." Her tone held the edge of bitterness, but no surprise. She stayed quiet for the next few turns before adding, "So are you. That's why you contacted me again, isn't it?"

Her words were a blow, rendering him speechless for a moment. "You're helping me conduct an investigation," he said at last. "I never tried to trick you into it, and I wouldn't manipulate your emotions to get what I want."

She lifted her chin. "You're right, Joe. It's not the same, and I want to help you. I'm sorry. I'm not irritated at you, really. I'm irritated ... near you." A sigh swelled and released in her, and he watched the pulse in the hollow of her throat.

For a minute, Joe thought she might share with him what was truly going on behind those stormy blue eyes. She didn't.

Perhaps curving his hand to the hollow of her waist had made him forget they hadn't come here together. This wasn't a date. It was a job. He was here for clues that would lead to a forger. Clues that might shed light on Connor's demise.

The music ended, and Joe counted himself lucky that this brilliant woman had ended up in his arms, if only for half a dance. "On behalf of the New York Police Department, I appreciate your full cooperation," he teased.

"You're welcome, Joe." That smile again.

He hadn't realized until now how much he'd missed it.