He frowned at the spot in question. “Itispainted blue.”
Lauren inwardly cringed, uncomfortable with correcting him. “That’s a shade of green.”
“Regardless, it matches the facsimile I have in my library. The British Museum’s Sir E.A. Wallis Budge’s elephant folio from 1890. I believe that’s the standard, is it not?”
“It is, but not many people know the story behind the printing of that book. Reproducing color illustrations of the Book of the Dead was exorbitantly expensive, you see. There were only a handful of sections in the original scrolls that had been painted blue. In order to save money, Budge’s publisher decided not to add the blue ink, and to instead substitute this aqua-green already used throughout the book. The variation is slight, and not many would even notice the difference.”
Christina leaned over the glass, her bob coming to points on either side of her face. “But how do you know?”
“It’s my job,” she said, as humbly as she could. “And I’ve seen an original in the British Museum.”
Mr. Moretti clapped his hands, and a servant appeared at the door. “Drinks.”
The servant went to the sideboard and began filling glasses. From the smell of it, he wasn’t pouring grape juice. Or near beer.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, sir,” Lauren said, suddenly anxious to make her exit. “Everything else about this section of papyrus is so convincing, I almost didn’t catch it.”
When the servant appeared at her elbow, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti plucked two of the glasses off the silver tray and waited for her to take the third.
“I—I don’t drink.”
“Yours is only a fruit cocktail, sweetie,” Christina said. “Go on.”
Lauren took a tentative sip from the tumbler and found it to be as sweet as cherries.
Mr. Moretti cocked his head and looked at her with an intensity that might flay the skin from her thoughts. “So you’re sure this is a forgery?”
“I wish I wasn’t.” She looked again at the beautiful, meticulously done piece. “But I’m sure.” She took another sip.
“Maybe I haven’t been clear.” Gripping the telephone tighter, Joe kept his voice as cool as he could. It was exhausting, being this polite. He really didn’t have time for it. “I’m not selling anything. I spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Vandermeer at the Napoleon Society gala two nights ago. We were introduced by Dr. Westlake, curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“The Vandermeers have already made their donations for the year. Their charitable giving cycle will begin again after the new year, so you may make an application after that.”
Joe white-knuckled the end of his rope with the Vandermeers’ secretary. Why didn’t these people answer their own phones, for pity’s sake? “I’m not asking for charity, either. As I said earlier, I’m calling from the police department. I want to make sure your employers have not been victim to a crime.”
“I assure you, nothing has been stolen, and they are both in perfect health.”
“Would you take a message, please, and have one of them call me at their earliest convenience? If I don’t hear from them soon, my only recourse will be to pay a personal visit.” He imagined none of that ilk would appreciate a police car at their home for all the neighbors to see. The news might even make it intoTown Topics, the society rag their type adored.
After hanging up, Joe leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. He’d been fighting a black mood all day, and dead-end phone calls like the one he’d just ended were only part of the reason.
Across the desks from him, Oscar McCormick ate a corned beef and sauerkraut on rye. Loudly. It didn’t smell good.
“You couldn’t wait until after your shift to eat dinner?”
“Hm?” He looked up, a little too delighted at having been addressed. “Have you had one of these yet? If you had, you wouldn’t wonder why I’d eat one at any time of day. I’d eat it for breakfast.”
“Youhaveeaten it for breakfast,” Joe reminded him.
“Exactly.” He grinned.
Joe shook his head and bit his tongue. The kid probably had no idea that had been Connor’s favorite thing to order from Katz’s, the Jewish deli on Houston Street, less than a mile from headquarters. The first time McCormick had brought the sandwich into the station, Joe had smelled it before McCormick had even come in the room and plopped down at Connor’s old desk. For a fraction of a second, Joe’s senses had tricked him into thinking Connor was back, that it had all been one big misunderstanding and things could go back to the way they’d been. The way things ought to be.
“Hey.” McCormick brightened. “Next time I go, I’ll get one for you, too, okay? This is the best thing on the menu.”
“Make it a pastrami with mustard,” Joe muttered.
Over McCormick’s protests, Joe straightened up his desk, locked the drawers, and left. He needed to let off some steam.
