“How’s that?”
“The policeman who shot him is awaiting trial. The jury will decide whether that was an accident or self-defense. I’m trying to figure whether the forgery had anything to do with Martin’s death.”
The antique dealer stared at Joe. “I’ve never met Wade Martin or this Escalante fellow in my life. I’ve never spoken to either on the telephone. I certainly never carried any of Escalante’s forgeries in my shop.”
“I believe you,” Joe said. But that wasn’t all he wanted to get a line on. “You sell higher-end antiques, don’t you? In fact, I bet some of your items come from an exclusive, in-demand art buyer named Daniel Bradford.”
Feinstein tugged his collar.
Joe opened the binder he’d brought with him and pulled out one of McCormick’s photographs from yesterday morning. He still planned to meet with Mr. Sanderson and have him ID Dr. DeVries, but two positive identifications would be even better.
After wiping off the table in front of him, Joe spun the photograph to face Feinstein. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture? Besidesme, that is.” In this shot, McCormick had captured everyone who’d come for the artifact exchange.
Soup dribbled from Feinstein’s spoon. Without taking a bite, he set it down. Sweat shone on his skin. His glasses slid down his nose, and he removed them, then mopped his face with a handkerchief.
Joe had hit a nerve. “You see someone you know, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Mr. Feinstein, I’m on the verge of catching a forger who has cheated countless people and roped upstanding businessmen like yourself into the deception. It’s not your fault. You don’t deserve this misery. Help me catch him.”
“None of these people broke into my shop.”
Not surprising. “Let’s put the break-in aside. Point to the person you recognize and tell me who he is.”
“I never asked for any of this, you know.”
“But you can help put an end to it.”
Behind Feinstein, people shuffled through the lines with their tickets, and the place filled with the smell of enough cured, smoked, and steamed meat to feed half the borough, it seemed. As soon as one table opened up, a busboy would clear it and wipe it down as more diners would claim it. Bells dinged as satisfied customers brought their tickets to cash registers to pay at the end.
All of that faded to a meaningless blur when Reuben Feinstein finally pointed to a man in the photograph.
Lawrence Westlake.
“This man?” Joe tapped Lawrence’s likeness.
“That’s right.”
Blood pounded in Joe’s ears. He took out four more shots from what McCormick had given him and spread them on the table. Perhaps a different angle would help Feinstein identify Daniel DeVries instead. “Take another look,” he urged.
Huffing a sigh, Feinstein pointed at Lawrence in all five pictures. “I may be color-blind, Detective, but I know who I saw. One doesn’t forget the man who brings in the antiquity he did.”
Joe would get to that later. First, “What’s his name?”
“He never told me, or if he did, I honestly don’t remember it.” Sweat trickled from Feinstein’s temple. “All I know is, this man came in one time to deliver an antique that I’d agreed to sell on spec when Daniel Bradford told me about it over the phone. I was expecting to meet Bradford, since he’d been the one to call. But this man showed up with it instead. Didn’t introduce himself, but his voice wasn’t like the one I remembered on the phone. When I asked him who to write the check to once the item sold, he said to make it out to the Napoleon Society.” He heaved a great sigh. “When was this photograph taken?”
“Saturday morning.”
“Which Saturday morning? This past one?”
When Joe confirmed it, Feinstein exhaled. “Thank God, thank God he’s okay.” The man’s relief was palpable. Then his lips pursed, and his mood shifted into one Joe couldn’t quite read.
“Mr. Feinstein, when did this man come in with the artifact? What was it he gave you, and who purchased it? Do you have a copy of the provenance?”
“I have to go. I’ve said too much. Please, if you want to help, don’t follow me,” he said, an uncanny echo of Lawrence’s parting words. His tray full of uneaten latkes and tepid soup, Feinstein rushed off to pay his ticket and leave.
Nerves firing, Joe scooped the photographs back into the envelope and tucked them away. It was time for yet another fresh sheet in his notebook.
