“Okay, how’s this: two days ago, the antique dealer Reuben Feinstein made a call about his property getting egged. I went over there to check things out, and when I chatted with him, he mentioned that the restoration side of his dealership is slowing down because the specific supplies he needs are out of stock all over the tri-state area. I spent most of yesterday visiting his suppliers. Feinstein was right. Gold, turquoise, a certain kind of black paint—all consistent with Egyptian art—are in high demand.” He paused to let Murphy absorb that.
“I couldn’t get a list of his customers without a warrant,” Joe continued, “but it doesn’t take much math to put two and two together here. My gut tells me that if we find those involved in making or dealing forgeries, we’ll find criminals who are guilty of other crimes. Racketeering, trafficking, and Prohibition violations. One crime leads to another.”
The inspector tapped ash into a tray. “Even if what you say is true, you’re forgetting one problem. Where are the victims, Caravello? When is the last time someone came to us to report that their artifact was forged?”
“I’m well aware of that dilemma. If it’s a good enough forgery, they won’t even know it’s not genuine. If it’s obviously fake, theywouldn’t have acquired it in the first place. Or if they figure out it’s fake after the purchase, they may be too embarrassed to report that they’ve been duped. That’s why we go looking. You’ve told me yourself that purely reactive policing is bad policing. Here’s a chance to be proactive.”
Murphy took a deep breath, but Joe wasn’t done speaking yet.
“Remember the oyster shell?” he asked. When Murphy didn’t respond, Joe went on. “You read my report. When I was handcuffing Martin, I noticed he held a gilded oyster shell dripping with gin. There was an Egyptian carving on the inside of it. When I asked him about it, he claimed that Boyle had dropped it into his drink before the raid. Why? What does that shell have to do with anything?”
“It’s not your job to find out. That’s up to the investigators assigned to that case.”
“But there’s a connection there. And that’s not all. I’ve been looking around at some art dealerships and antique stores. There’s an undercurrent of Egyptian art flowing through Manhattan, and it’s cloaked in secrecy. I’m telling you, it’s worth looking into. Something is going on.”
Murphy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t possibly sell this to the public, you know. Nor can I get funding from the Board of Aldermen or the Board of Estimates for this. More resources for murder investigations? Sure. Armed robberies? You bet. But to look into crimes that haven’t even been reported...” He took a long drag and exhaled. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
Joe nodded.
“So I know you have an appreciation for art that most cops on the force do not. I also know you have a thing about fakes. It’s personal for you. Can you deny it?”
“Sir?”
“Scams. No one likes them, but you have more reason than most to crusade against them. I get that.”
“This has nothing to do with my father, Inspector. It’s a proactiveavenue of investigation we haven’t tried yet. What we’ve tried so far isn’t working.”
“You said that already.”
“It bears repeating.”
Murphy’s mouth slanted in what Joe hoped was resignation.
“I wouldn’t come to you with this proposal if I wasn’t willing to do the work myself,” Joe pressed.
A beat passed, and then another. The inspector blinked. “You’re qualified to tell a fake from the real thing?”
“I know who is.”
CHAPTER
2
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1925
Textbooks and translations sprawled over Lauren’s desk, topped by a reproduction paperweight she’d picked up from the sales desk: a twelve-inch-tall statue of Hatshepsut, female pharaoh from the eighteenth dynasty. She tipped her mug, only to find a shallow swirl peppered with leftover grounds.
“Knock, knock.” Only Anita Young, Lauren’s assistant, entered that way. It had begun because her hands were often full, but even when she was perfectly capable of rapping her knuckles on the door or its frame, she preferred to speak her arrival.
“Come on in.”
Anita’s black bob grazed her jawline as she nodded toward the small plant wilting on the corner of the desk. “I’m curious why you even bother, Dr. Westlake. You’re clearly not trying to keep it alive. It’s only gathering dust.”
“Oh, I barely even notice that thing anymore. It was a gift from my cousin. Elsa works in the American Museum of Natural History and insists I ought to have something living in my office. Other than me.” She wiped one fleshy leaf with her fingertip, then dumped the last swill from her mug into the pot. “Drink up, little one.”
Anita snorted. “The living is not your specialty. But the long deadis all the rage anyway. Speaking of which, the new shipment is here, and Mr. Klein is done unpacking. Want to go see?”
Lauren left her chair before Anita finished asking.
