A promise made and broken more than once. She was unwilling to argue with him anymore, and yet unable to agree.
“The only problem is, the board isn’t convinced you ought to have a spot on the expedition team.”
“Since I never asked for a spot, we’re in perfect agreement.” She plucked a petal from the chrysanthemums beside her.
“You’re qualified to come. I know that, and you know that. Butyou need to prove it to the board. You know, with publications, that sort of thing.”
Lauren stifled a dark laugh. She had proven herself to many people and institutions along the way to earning her doctorate in Egyptology and attaining this position at the Met. She most certainly did not need to prove anything for a role she hadn’t looked for.
“I have no time to impress some nameless board,” she began.
“Not nameless.” He cut her off, handing her a business card:Lawrence A. Westlake, executive board, Napoleon Society.A phone number and Manhattan PO Box followed.
She’d heard of the society but hadn’t known that her father was involved with it, let alone on the board. Still in a fledgling state, the organization was devoted to celebrating Egyptian history and culture, and was named for the man whose explorations in Egypt inspired so many others.
“Imagine what this could do for your career,” Lawrence said.
Lauren had gotten further in a career in Egyptology than most women could ever dream of. Still, she couldn’t deny the pull of the field.
“We’ve secured the perfect spot for our new office building and museum in Newport,” he went on.
“Newport? That’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect!” he repeated. “New York already has the Met, and Boston has the Museum of Fine Arts. But Newport is where all those patrons spend the summers, and the Providence Athenaeum, a short drive from there, holds all twenty-three volumes of Napoleon’sDescription de l’Egypte. It’s only fitting for the Napoleon Society to host a world-class collection nearby. I’ve been curating it for a few years now, and I expect it will be ready to open to the public in another two. Eighteen months if we’re lucky.”
“So this expedition is for that purpose?” she asked. “To discover and bring back artifacts for your new museum?”
“Precisely. We’ll have to do some maneuvering around the new regulations over there, but that won’t stop us. I’m inviting you to be part of that.”
She broke from his dancing gaze and watched the wind move through the trees. Beyond those, Manhattan’s skyscrapers needled the sky.Farbeyond that lay an ancient land she’d been to as a tourist and then later as a student, but never as a professional.
As much as she’d like to believe this opportunity would work out, that she could uncover history herself, she knew better than to hope.
“No, thank you.” Rising, she looked down at the white-haired man who had so often broken her heart. “But best wishes as you go about your business.”
She tried to ignore the hurt etched on his face. She refused to feel guilty for rejecting the offer before he had a chance to take it away.
As he walked her back to the Met, she tried to talk to him of something else—anything else. But the conversation fell flat.
Little wonder. Egyptology was all they had in common.
“One more thing.” Lawrence extended an engraved invitation. “The Napoleon Society’s fundraising gala will be November 21. Please come and hear more of what we’re all about.”
She took it, and he tipped his hat to her. “Thank you for meeting with me today. I am sorry, you know. And I am proud of you. I would recruit you to this expedition even if you weren’t my daughter. You’re good enough to be on the team, Dr. Westlake.”
Lauren hated that she didn’t believe him. She hated that she wished she could.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1925
Humming a melody from Verdi’sLa Traviata, Joe Caravello emerged from the subway station into the mottled dark of predawn Lower Manhattan. The sky was a bruise, the sidewalk a series of cracks and broken pieces. He trod the final few blocks to work, eager to reach the place where his thoughts had been for more than an hour. Longer, if he counted thinking in his sleep.
At 240 Centre Street, the five-story granite and limestone police headquarters filled a wedge of land bordered by Grand, Centre, and Broome Streets. Streetlamps illuminated the columns and porticoes over the three arched doorways but failed to penetrate the shadows gathered in his mind.
The clock on the dome began chiming the five o’clock hour as he climbed the steps and entered. After passing through the marble reception room and into the detective bureau, he poured himself a cup of tar-black coffee and took it to his desk.
“Detective Caravello?” A lanky figure approached. His sleeves were a half inch too short. Must be fresh out of the Police Academy on the fourth floor. “Oscar McCormick.” He shook Joe’s hand with a firm grip. “We’re neighbors now, so I thought I’d introduce myself.” He jerked a thumb toward the desk across from Joe’s. Up until two weeks ago, it had been Connor’s.
“I heard about what happened with Connor Boyle,” McCormick added.
