“He smashed a reproduction, a paperweight.”
Fred’s chuckle was breathy, sticking to her ear. “Tony has no concept of art.”
“But why did you even start?” Mr. Clarke asked. “How did it all begin?”
“Enough talking!” Fred spat. “Just let me leave, and I won’t shoot her. I’ll let her go once I’m far enough away.”
“Not a chance.” Sweat rolled into Joe’s eyes, and he blinked it back. “This is the end of the line for you.”
Mr. Clarke stayed quiet, but she knew he was there, a silent witness keeping vigil. His lips moved in what she could only hope was prayer, because there was no way Joe had a clear shot. When she moved, so did Fred, pressing himself closer to her back. His body odor was overpowering.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, but instead of hearing the distinctive shout of the NYPD, she heard German. Red-faced, Peter Braun rushed in through a side door.
In that split second of distraction, Fred angled toward it, exposing to Joe the hand that held the gun.
A shot exploded and blood sprayed Lauren’s face. Fred’s gun hit the floor. Lauren broke free from Fred, lunged forward, and kicked the gun to Mr. Clarke while Joe and Peter rushed Fred and tackled him.
At last, Fred Klein was under arrest. By the looks of his mangled hand, he’d not be forging with it again. As for Lawrence Westlake, he’d gotten away without confessing to anything.
Joe had blood on his hands. Thank God it wasn’t Lauren’s.
He gripped Fred’s upper arm, and Peter held him fast from theother side. They’d wrapped Fred’s injury with strips torn from muslin sheeting, but the wound soaked through.
“Go ahead,” Peter said, glancing toward Lauren. “See to her before you go.”
Mr. Clarke passed Joe a couple of handkerchiefs and took his place, keeping the criminal secure.
After cleaning his own hands, Joe hurried to where Lauren sat near the coffin bearing Hatsudora’s name. Half of her hair remained loosely pinned while the other half curtained one side of her face. Kneeling, he brushed it behind her shoulder and wiped Fred’s blood from her cheek. Her eyes were vacant, as though she’d shuttered the world from view.
He took her cold, shaking fingers in his and pressed a quick kiss to them. “You are so brave. And I’m so sorry you had to be,” he whispered. She deserved more words than that, but there was no time for that now. “I’ve got to go. I need you to come to headquarters, you and Mr. Clarke and Peter, too, to give your statements about what happened here this morning.”
She nodded.
“Oscar and I will take Fred and Lawrence in the police car.”
“You found him?”
“Oscar caught up with him. Mr. Clarke has a car here and will take you and Peter to headquarters after we take the prisoners in. You can wait about ten minutes or so after we leave. Wish I could give you more time to recover first, but it’s best to get statements while the event is fresh in your mind.”
Another nod.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Returning to his prisoner, Joe told Peter and Mr. Clarke where to go when they reached headquarters, then hauled Fred Klein into the corridor.
Jefferson, one of the Met security guards, stood guarding a handcuffed Lawrence Westlake. “McCormick went to pull the police car up to the door,” he said. “Told him I’d handle this one.”
Joe thanked him for his part in helping Oscar catch him.
“Just doing my job,” said Jefferson. “He hasn’t said a word, Sergeant.”
“He will.” As soon as Lawrence heard everything Fred confessed to, Joe was sure he’d crack and confess, as well. For the time being, both prisoners were silent, aside from Fred’s moaning about his injury.
“Our NYPD surgeon will tend it as soon as we get to the station,” Joe told him.
A few minutes later, he and Jefferson marched their prisoners to one of the more obscure exits facing Central Park and out into the glaring light of a January morning. The bracing cold cut through Joe’s wool uniform and chilled the sweat on his skin.
Oscar opened a back door to the car and watched, his hand hovering near the gun in his holster, in case either prisoner tried anything. Joe doubted they would, but vigilance was always a good idea.
