At some point after the Napoleon Society began selling forgeries, the thrill of deception had become its own reward, or so Joe supposed. Lawrence had been running the ring since he’d moved to Manhattan seven months ago. Which meant that when he approached Lauren last October, his only goal was to use her. The expedition he’d invited her to join would have been funded by selling forgeries.
Mr. Radcliffe made a note in the margin of his legal pad. “The situation escalated after Dr. Lauren Westlake declared Mr. Moretti’s papyrus a fake. Ray decided that if it had almost fooled Dr. Westlake, it would fool anyone else. He didn’t want the forger to get caught. He wanted to go into business with him and take a cut of the profit, as repayment for the money Ray had already paid for the fake. It was also a fee for allowing the forger to live.”
“That’s why Ray sent his brother, Tony, to Feinstein’s antique shop to find out who brought in the papyrus.” Joe flipped to a copyof the police logbook and pointed to the nighttime complaints about the noise. “That was the night of the break-in. Feinstein didn’t know Lawrence’s name, just that he’d had the check made out to the Napoleon Society. Under duress, Feinstein shared that much with Tony and was scared into keeping the whole thing quiet. It didn’t take Tony long to learn about the Napoleon House in Newport. He set it on fire to lure a Napoleon Society board member to him.”
Joe had to admit, it was a great plan, as far as crimes went. It was a secluded area. Tony knew Lawrence would already be vulnerable because of the fire. Those injuries Lawrence had claimed were from falling on the train tracks were actually from Tony, who apparently felt that his business proposal needed a little something extra. Tony promised that full cooperation would put him in the mood to expedite the roof repair with his connections.
The deal was made.
The door hinges squeaked. Joe and Mr. Radcliffe stood while Connor entered with his lawyer, Mr. Dover. The defense attorney’s thinning hair had been shellacked into place with Brilliantine, and his mouth seemed carved into a perpetual scowl. After brief introductions, they sat.
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Dover tented his hands on the table.
“I need to nail a pair of slippery criminals. I have all this evidence.” Joe gestured to what he’d gathered. “But I need a witness. A living witness. The two who gave me all this were shot and killed this morning in my custody.” He looked to Connor, whose eyes were ringed with shadows. He’d lost weight since Thanksgiving.
Mr. Dover unbuttoned his pinstripe suit jacket, exposing the matching vest beneath. “They were shot and killed by the criminals you want to put away?”
“By one of them,” Mr. Radcliffe clarified. “He left the weapon he used at the scene of the crime.”
Mr. Dover nodded, apparently familiar with this tactic of using a weapon once—with care not to leave fingerprints—and discarding it on the spot.
“Big market for guns these days,” Joe said, and watched Connor’s gaze flick away. Both attorneys had already been given the evidence linking Connor to the weapons that had gone missing from the police’s custody.
“This one caught my interest especially, though.” Joe pushed an enlarged photograph of the rifle across the table. “Mr. Boyle will find that familiar.”
“Don’t respond to that.” Mr. Dover lifted his glasses and looked under them at the photo.
“Here’s the serial number.” Joe shared another photo, then brought out another slip of paper. “This is a receipt from one of the raids Mr. Boyle participated in. It itemizes all the weapons confiscated and allegedly surrendered to the Property Room. That’s his signature there. That’s the serial number, make, and model of the rifle we recovered today. I believe the man who used it today to gun down my prisoners was Tony Moretti.”
A frown deepened on Mr. Dover’s face.
Connor’s sallow complexion veered green. Behind his NYPD detective badge, Joe grieved again that his friend’s choices had led here. But there was still time to make a right decision.
Mr. Radcliffe folded his hands on the papers before him. “Mr. Dover, we’d like you and your client to listen to a story. The ending is up to you.”
And then, with the cadence of an opening statement fit for the courtroom, the prosecutor told of a young policeman, an alcoholic even before Prohibition. He had lost his way, gotten mixed up with the Morettis somehow, and ended up accepting French wine in return for four free guns a month. Then his conscience grew too heavy to ignore, and he stopped. He didn’t fulfill his contract with the Morettis, which meant his life, or worse, his aunt’s, might be in danger. So when Tony Moretti gave an order to kill Wade Martin, Connor did it.
From inside a manila folder, Mr. Radcliffe pulled out the photograph of Wade with Tony’s writing on the back. “This was found in the city directory in Mr. Boyle’s desk.”
Sweat gathered at Connor’s hairline and trickled down the sides of his gaunt face.
“Martin worked in one of Ray’s buildings, Mr. Dover,” Mr. Radcliffe went on. “He learned too much about the Moretti operations. My best guess is that the Morettis used your client to pull the trigger in what would appear to be a raid gone wrong. After all, why do your own dirty work when someone else could do it for you?”
“But today was different,” Joe added. “Too much was at stake. Tony had been keeping tabs on Lawrence, so he knew ahead of time about the meeting this morning and the risks involved. The Morettis knew that if Lawrence and Fred were arrested, they’d sing during interrogation about their ‘business arrangement’ and the extortion, arson, and fraud that went with it. Ray couldn’t risk being arrested, let alone imprisoned. So Tony silenced Fred and Lawrence—but too late.” He gestured to the evidence Lawrence had gathered and shared as he died.
“As Sergeant Caravello said, Mr. Dover, I need a witness against the Morettis,” said Mr. Radcliffe. “Cooperation would be rewarded.”
“Rewarded in what way?” Mr. Dover asked. “The charge against my client in the case of Wade Martin is first-degree murder. Are you saying you’d reduce the charge?”
“Yes.” Mr. Radcliffe leaned back. “A reduced charge and a reduced sentence. Plus, you could have a choice of prisons for the incarceration.”
A frown creased Connor’s brow. “What about my aunt?”
“We’ll make sure she’s okay, Connor,” Joe said.
“How? I don’t want her anywhere near the Morettis.”
“I don’t, either,” Joe told him. “I’ll make arrangements for her to move away if she wants. Someplace nice and quiet where she can begin a new life without looking over her shoulder.”
