Date unknown: Daniel Bradford called Reuben Feinstein about a potential item to sell on speculation. Feinstein agreed.
Date unknown: Lawrence Westlake brought the antiquity to the store and told Feinstein a check should be made out to the Napoleon Society in the event of its sale.
November 24, 1925. Feinstein’s Antiques is broken into, but not reported to police. No insurance claim filed. Whoever broke in wanted information, not money.
November 25, 1925. Lawrence learns there has been a fire at the Napoleon House in Newport. Travels to Newport that night.
November 27, 1925. Lawrence arrives back in New York City with injuries to his head and hands and, allegedly, his shins. Claims he sustained injuries by falling to tracks, but this has been proven false. Refuses to offer another explanation.
January 4, 1926. Feinstein still refuses to name the person or persons who broke into his shop on November 24. Expresses relief when learns that Lawrence Westlake, who he has met only one time, is all right. Implied: Feinstein had feared harm had come to Lawrence.
In a daze, Joe gathered his things, including the half-eaten pastrami wrapped in paper, and paid for his meal at the register.
Back at headquarters, he barely returned McCormick’s greeting and picked up the telephone without taking off his coat. “Put me through to the fire inspector in Newport, Rhode Island,” he told the switchboard operator.
Several minutes later, the call went through. After introducing himself, Joe said, “There was a fire on the roof of the Napoleon House on November 25, the day before Thanksgiving. I don’t have the address, but it’s an old house they’re turning into a museum.”
“Yeah, we know it. There was only one fire that night.”
“What was the official cause of the fire? Faulty electrical wiring?”
“No,” the inspector replied. “It was arson.”
CHAPTER
30
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 6, 1926
Christina Moretti greeted Lauren like a long-lost friend when she and Joe arrived, even though Lauren wasn’t a friend, and this wasn’t a social call. Still, Christina insisted they share hot chocolate and French macarons in her Marie-Antoinette salon. The lonely woman carried the entire conversation herself.
For all her wealth and fashionable address, she clearly missed her former Brooklyn neighborhood and was hungry for the companionship she’d left behind when their social status moved them up and away from her roots. The Fifth Avenue mansion wasn’t nearly as isolating as their Long Island estate, but whether here or there, the old-money neighbors persisted in pretending they were superior in every way.
It wasn’t right, valuing and devaluing people based on where and when their money came from. That wasn’t class; it was arrogance. Lauren was so weary of people who pretended to be superior. Of people pretending to be anything other than who they really were.
Joe had called yesterday and confirmed that upon seeing the photograph, Thomas Sanderson had named Dr. DeVries as the secretive art buyer, Daniel Bradford. But what did that mean for Lauren’s father? She had no idea yet. It was good that they hadn’tseen each other since Saturday. Since she had to pretend to know nothing, Lauren felt like a fake herself. Surely, Dad would notice.
“Thank you for the refreshments, Mrs. Moretti.” Joe laid his napkin over the gold-edged china plate before him. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a look at the provenance for that papyrus now.”
“Of course.” Christina stood, her snuffling pug close at her heels. “But first, you must come take a look at the papyrus itself. Dr. Westlake says it’s quite magnificent.”
Lauren blinked. The papyrus was magnificent. As a forgery. “Do you keep it on display?”
“Oh yes, none of our visitors would ever be able to tell the difference.”
She led them into the Egyptian-themed dining room. Joe’s eyes widened at the tomb-inspired wall paintings, courtesy of Peter Braun, before he directed his attention to the glass-covered Book of the Dead fragment built into the table.
He bent to inspect it. “If this is a forgery, it’s the finest work I’ve ever seen.”
“Then maybe it’s not a forgery after all.” Ray Moretti entered the room and immediately owned it. He exuded a confidence that fast eluded Lauren.
Her face warmed at his suggestion that she might have been wrong. On the other hand, if this was truly genuine, how could she not be happy?
“It’s all right, Dr. Westlake.” He flashed a dazzling smile. “We all make mistakes.” He glanced at Joe. “Don’t we?” He was shorter than Joe by two inches, but there was something about the older man’s presence that took up more space in the room.
Joe’s shoulders squared. “Nonetheless, we’d like to see the provenance.”
Mr. Moretti unbuttoned his blazer and slipped a hand into his trouser pocket. “Have you got a search warrant for it?”
