“Not a dime.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Lauren asked.
“It’s all in the paperwork I gave Lawrence. Somewhere in that folder is a ledger containing the date of accession and price paid for every piece, as well as the location.”
While Mr. Westlake scrambled to locate the ledger and turn to the right page, Lauren inhaled deeply. “If it was a gift,” she said, “this was most definitely a mistake. Clarke gained nothing from it.”
“Apparently neither did I.” The man’s jowls trembled, and his cheeks reddened. He stalked out of the room and slammed the door.
Mr. Westlake cleared his throat. “That could have gone better. Haven’t you heard that one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar?”
“I shoot straight,” Joe told him. “That’s it.”
Lauren stepped forward. “By the way, Dad, Sergeant Caravello is also a friend of mine. I first met him during our Christmas visit to Manhattan when I was twelve. Joe, you’ve figured this out, but this is my father.”
Mr. Westlake regarded him. “So that’s why you recruited Lauren to be your consultant.”
She looked away.
Joe wondered if he had any idea how insulting his remark had been. “No, I recruited her because she’s the best in the city.”
“Of course, of course. On that we agree. That’s why I’ve asked for her help, as well.” He turned to his daughter. “How does it feel to be in such high demand?”
“Like I have no time to waste. Did you find the entry he mentioned?”
Mr. Westlake opened the ledger and pointed to an entry dated 1917. Sure enough, it recorded a gift from Theodore Clarke of the spherical ointment jar. It changed hands in Rhode Island, well outside Joe’s jurisdiction.
Joe wrote down the details. “There was no crime here. This particular investigation is open and closed. Did you find anything else questionable?”
“This is the only fake we found in the Egyptian gallery, after three Saturdays of looking,” Mr. Westlake said. “We finished this afternoon, which is a good thing, since I doubt he’d let us come back next week anyway. Besides which, I have other plans.”
Lauren turned to him. “The gala for the Napoleon Society?”
A nod.
“I’ve heard of the Napoleon Society,” Joe said. “I thought it was in its infancy.”
“Not for much longer,” Mr. Westlake assured him, then went on to explain what he hoped to accomplish through the fundraising event a week from this evening.
“So all the private collectors in the area who favor Egyptian antiquities will be there,” Joe clarified.
Mr. Westlake smiled. “That’s certainly the goal.”
“Then that’s where I’ll be, too.” Joe regarded Lauren, looking for the friend she’d been to him before they’d grown up. “You coming? This is a fancy shindig, am I right? With tuxedos and lots of forks? I could use a little guidance on which cutlery goes with which course. More importantly, the folks I want to talk to would be much more willing to make my acquaintance if you were with me.”
“A valiant effort, Detective Caravello. But my daughter has already refused to attend, despite my repeated invitations.”
Taking a chance, Joe beckoned Lauren to the opposite side of the parlor and turned his back to her father, shielding her from view. “I know you two were never close,” he whispered. “But don’t let that interfere with our investigation. I need you by my side next Saturday to lend credibility and grease some stubborn hinges that might not budge for me if not for you. What do you say?”
“When you put it that way,” she breathed, “how can I refuse?”
CHAPTER
6
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1925
Lauren arrived early at the Hotel Astor, and yet Joe was already there, framed by the twin marble and bronze stairways as he scanned the space. Even in a tuxedo, with harp music floating in the air, he looked the part of a cop. His expression might be mistaken for on-the-job vigilance, but she recognized it as something else. The firm set of his jaw, the occasional press of his lips, the slight knitting of his brows—that’s how he’d always looked when he’d been looking for her. Watching. Waiting.
