Joe trapped an unholy oath in his throat.
“No, no, no,” Lauren whispered, spreading her fingers through the dust and shards on the floor. “He must have grabbed something from one of the storerooms. If he had a key to get into my office, it’s as likely he grabbed an item from the inventory.” She moaned again. “How many thousands of dollars—tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands—have I cost the Met?”
“This wasn’t your doing,” Joe told her. “We’ll find whoever did this and hold him responsible, not you.”
“It doesn’t matter. This—whatever it was—it was irreplaceable.” She covered her eyes. Her chin trembled. “What has been destroyed today? And what will be next? I’ll lose my job over this and my entire career.”
Not if Joe could help it.
“Lauren.” He put his arm around her, holding her to his side. “Didn’t you used to have a statue paperweight from the sales desk?”
Her gaze jerked to the desk. Then she sorted through the mess until she found enough slivers to piece together again. She swiped her finger through some dust and rubbed it against her thumb.
The lines in her face relaxed. “It’s fake. That statuette of Hatshepsut was nothing more than plaster. Whoever wrote this note must have no idea about Egyptology if he thought this was a pricelessantiquity. Even a hobby collector should have known better. Which means whoever wrote this could not have been the forger we’re looking for.”
“I don’t think we can rule that out yet.” Joe shut the door behind them, then shifted to sit on the floor with Lauren. “He could have meant to throw us off by calling this reproduction priceless. Either way, it’s an escalated warning. The statue is fake, but the threat is real. Let’s see that invitation to the Moretti Christmas party one more time.”
Shadows dimmed her eyes as she looked at him, then pulled the invitation from a pile on her desk. She withdrew the card and held it beside today’s anonymous note.
The handwriting was distinctly different.
Lauren released a breath. “Mr. Moretti knows his Egyptology,” she admitted. “Shelves in his personal library are devoted to the subject, including several volumes that I studied for my doctorate degree. If he’d wanted to threaten me, he wouldn’t have smashed a fake—or at least, he wouldn’t have called it priceless.”
“Hang on.” Dread lined Joe’s gut. He reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew the photograph he still carried of Wade Martin with a black X over his face.
His heartbeat pounding, Joe flipped the picture over to seeWade Martinwritten on the back. He looked from it to the note they found today, comparing especially the capital letters fromWadeandWestlake, and fromMartinandMind your own business.
The handwriting was a match.
God in heaven.
All breath left his lungs. He looked to Lauren, unnaturally still beside him, eyes wide. Her pulse was visible in the hollow between her collarbones.
She’d seen. She knew what this meant.
Lawrence hadn’t been paranoid in Newport. He must have known the cause of his fire had been arson, either a punishment or a warning of greater harm to come. Lauren hadn’t been imagining thingson the train and at Grand Central. Someone had been taking her photograph, and now they knew why. If she didn’t stop consulting, she’d be next.
“Joe,” she rasped, looking to him for answers, for help, though he’d been the one to lead her into danger.
He gathered her to himself, lifting her onto his lap as she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Her aunt and uncle had been right about him. They’d been right that she’d be better off cutting all ties and that spending time with Joe would only lead to trouble.
“You’re not the one who’s threatening to hurt me.”
But if she was hurt by anyone, it would be because of him.
Her tears wet his neck and undid him. He longed to keep her safe, whether that meant holding her close or pushing her far away from him and the world of crime he lived in. Would she understand that? Could he survive it? He buried kisses in her hair and held her tighter.
“What do we do?” she asked him.
If only he knew the answer. “Be careful,” he began anyway. “Don’t tell anyone your schedule who doesn’t need to know. Mix up your routine. If there’s a place and time you usually have lunch, for instance, change it. Take a taxi to work. No more walking through Central Park.”
She agreed.
“I shouldn’t be seen with you, either, unless absolutely necessary. But McCormick and I will be watching as much as we can to make sure you’re safe.”
She leaned back and twisted to face him. “What about my father? I think he’s in trouble, too.”
“We’ll get a patrol on his place, too, but you are my priority.” He pushed the words past a growing wedge of anger. “The threats should be for me, not you. You don’t deserve this. This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for what I’ve asked you to do.”
