“There’s a reason for that. I’ll have you know that the piece you’ve singled out was procured for me by Theodore Clarke himself.”
Lauren’s heart sank. Clarke was a legend twice over. In graduate school, she had learned all about the American millionaire who went to Egypt for his health and ended up discovering monumental tombs. On a professional level, she knew him as an honorary fellow of the museum who had promised to donate his entire collection to the Met upon his passing. If Mr. Robinson was nervous about staying in the Morettis’ good graces, he would be exponentially more so about Mr. Clarke.
“You worked with him yourself, Lawrence,” St. John added. “You can vouch for him.”
Her father’s smile was controlled and unconvincing.
When Mr. St. John asked for a moment alone with him, Lauren tried not to feel dismissed.
By the time Joe arrived at the St. John estate in response to Lauren’s phone call, the master of the mansion was waiting for him in a parlor fit for a British aristocrat. Not that Joe had ever had the pleasure of one’s presence. But the mahogany-paneled walls, the fieldstone fireplace, the leather wing chairs and faded tapestry hanging behind them ... well, it was a far cry from his parents’boardinghouse.
“Detective Sergeant Caravello, NYPD,” he said upon entering, showing his badge.
Lauren introduced him to Newell St. John and Lawrence Westlake, who had to be her father, but she didn’t say so. From the wayLauren had talked about him when they were younger, he’d pictured a larger man.
“Have you finished raiding all the speakeasies and arresting all the violent criminals?” Mr. St. John queried, eyes hard. “If not, I can’t understand what you’re doing here.”
So far as first impressions went, this wasn’t a great one. But Joe knew the type. Defensive. Deflecting. He could handle it.
“I understand you’ve been the victim of a crime, Mr. St. John. I’m here to get to the bottom of it.”
“I don’t believe this,” Mr. St. John said. “Theodore Clarke is the most esteemed name among American explorers in Egypt. You’re telling me he brought me a fake?”
“Newell,” Mr. Westlake said, “Mr. Clarke is no Egyptologist. He’s a rich man with good luck. That doesn’t make him infallible to falling prey to forgery. It’s a booming business in Luxor and has been for centuries. The shop dealers there know it’s a prime location for anyone who wants to purchase a piece of antiquity. They simply increase the supply to meet the demand. I’m not saying Mr. Clarke intended to deceive you, my friend. He’s a businessman, not a scholar.”
“He’s published books on his expeditions!” Mr. St. John protested. If he’d had a riding crop in hand to go with that fancy horse-riding outfit he sported, he probably would have given it a good whack right about now to make his point.
A look passed between father and daughter. Lauren said nothing. Mr. Westlake, however, pushed back. “He wrote the introductions. If you recall, he hired other people to take the photographs, write the chapters, and edit the work. His personal involvement amounts to very little.”
A ripple passed over Lauren’s brow. If she disagreed with what her father had said, she wasn’t admitting it.
Mr. St. John turned his back and went to the window, where he watched his beagles chase each other over the lawn. No one said what Joe was thinking, which was that Mr. Clarke could have soldany number of forgeries to his connections in America based on his reputation alone, knowingly or unknowingly. But then, he was already a millionaire, which meant money could not be a motive.
Sensing the collector was simmering down from his previous boil, Joe began again. “I’ll need to complete some paperwork here and take the piece in question back to the station for holding in evidence.”
“We’ll be discreet,” Lauren offered.
“We?” The snooty collector mocked her. “I suppose you’re on a special task force for the police department, too?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Joe told him. “If Dr. Westlake says what you’ve got is a fake, I’m taking it in. She’s the expert here.”
Mr. St. John rocked back on his heels. “Says who?”
The color drained from Lauren’s face. The elderly man who shared her name lifted his hands to placate but was too slow in forming a response.
“Says the Metropolitan,” Joe began, the Italian blood in his veins warming up. “Says a doctorate degree from the University of Chicago, decades of personal study, years studying abroad. Says the fact that she learned the German language since their dictionaries are the most advanced in translating ancient hieroglyphs. Says me, on behalf of the New York Police Department.” He’d closed the distance between himself and the pale-faced collector, who probably hadn’t been stood up to in quite some time. “So yeah, in this investigation, what she says goes. Clear?”
No one spoke. That left Joe with a blank form on his clipboard, a stunned collector, and two Westlakes with very large eyes.
He turned to the prettier one. “Did I get that right?”
“Exactly,” she said.
Joe nodded. “So, Mr. St. John, how much did you pay for the jar and when?”
“I didn’t. The jar was a gift.”
Joe glanced from St. John to Lauren, and back again. “No money changed hands?”
