Over the past few months, Lauren had taken down, stone by stone, the wall she’d built to protect her heart from further hurt from her dad. She felt every one of those stones where they still lay in a pile in her chest. She felt them shift. But she would not build that wall again, could not jump to another conclusion that could shut Dad out forever. Against her will, however, doubt stacked upon doubt, past hurts the mortar between them. The wall grew.
With all her strength, she kicked at it. “How could you say such a thing? How could you, Joe?”
Then she realized she already knew. Joe’s father had deceived his family in the past. Joe had felt betrayed by that, and if her hunch was right, by his friend Connor, as well. He never talked about it, but Greta had mentioned on Christmas Day that Doreen’s nephew had been Joe’s friend. They’d worked together on the force, and now he was in jail. That was all she knew, but it was enough.
Joe was trying to protect her from what he’d experienced. But he was wrong.
“My dad is not your dad,” Lauren said.
A spark of understanding flared in Joe’s eyes. “You’re right about that. Pop was a victim.” He left it there, but the implication swung between them, too bright and harsh to look upon directly.
“You’re so sure my father is at the core of a forgery ring? Without even giving him the chance to explain himself? I don’t know why this happens over and over, but somehow, he is made to look like a villain. He’s misunderstood. When he’s allowed to share his side of the story, we always find him not guilty.”
Joe sat back on his heels. “One or two forgeries might be a mistake.But all of the ones I showed you tonight—that’s a pattern. It points to intention.”
Lauren stood. If Joe stayed here any longer, said any more, she’d come apart inside. “Leave,” she whispered. “I can’t do this, Joe. I can’t believe this of him.”
He rose. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”
Unable to bear his searching eyes, she looked past him to the fireplace mantle. “Don’t do this to me,” she said to the father staring back from the photograph.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 19, 1926
The Brooklyn Bridge passed over Joe. Or rather, he passed beneath it. Through the web of steel cables and Gothic arches, a full-bellied sky promised snow.
The chests of confiscated guns and knives kept in the Property Room were full again, which meant they needed to be disposed of to make room for more. Joe had volunteered to escort the weapons on the city’s tugboatMacomon their way to the Narrows, the strait between Brooklyn and Staten Island. Oscar McCormick had come with him.
At the moment, Joe’s thoughts traveled over the bridge, back into Manhattan, and landed at the Met, with Lauren. He had known she’d be upset when he told her his theory about the Napoleon Society and her father. He wasn’t surprised she’d put up a fight. But he hadn’t expected her to throw him out.
Lauren needed time, he reminded himself. Joe had been uncovering evidence of her father’s betrayal without her, piece by piece, and she’d learned about it all at once. That was a shock. He got that. How long had it taken Joe to get over Connor’s betrayal?
Maybe that was the wrong question. One didn’t get over something like that. The best one could do was get through it.
“What did the new commissioner say?” McCormick’s voicebrought him back to the main deck of the tugboat. Joe knew he was asking about the meeting he’d had to discuss everything he’d learned about Connor, the guns, and the wine.
The pilot inside the wheelhouse couldn’t possibly hear them. With the tug chugging down the East River, they could barely hear themselves. It was a luxury to speak freely. As reluctant as Joe was to trust other policemen, the kid hadn’t been around long enough to turn. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d learn from Connor’s example and take a stand for what was right and good.
“He took it seriously,” Joe told him.
“You didn’t get in trouble for looking into it?”
Joe shook his head. Wind chapped his face, and the smell of exhaust from all the river traffic clung to him. “McLaughlin said that since Moretti’s connection to Connor’s case isn’t yet proven, I’m free to watch for anything suspicious where he’s concerned. His file is clean, but his brother’s isn’t.”
McCormick sniffed and ran a handkerchief under his reddened nose. “He has a brother?”
“Tony.” Joe wondered if he’d seen him. Had he been at the Christmas party? If so, had he been wearing normal clothes or disguised in French silk and powdered wig? “No convictions, just charges, but none have stuck.”
“Like what?”
Joe shifted his weight. A wooden chest did not make a comfortable chair. “Mostly accomplice and accessory type charges. But combined with all these other loose ends, it’s enough to warrant keeping an eye on him.”
“Four eyes are better than two,” McCormick quipped. “That is, if you’re planning a stakeout. I don’t think you’re supposed to do those alone.”
Joe chuckled. “Yeah, Mick. Okay.”
They stared out over the tug’s wake, since the wheelhouse blocked the view forward anyway. All Joe could see was where he’d been. Snowflakes formed and flurried, disappearing in the dark grey river.
Finally, nine miles south of the Brooklyn Bridge, the tugboat reached the Narrows. As it slowed and made a wide turn, Joe and McCormick shoved a wooden chest to the rear of the deck, opened it, and dumped the contents into the drink. The East River splashed as they emptied one chest after another.
