Mr. Sanderson obliged, and Joe wrote it in his notebook before catching her up to speed. Bradford was the dealer who’d sold the canopic jars. At last, a lead.
“I’m sure Mr. Bradford couldn’t be to blame.” Sanderson rested a hand on his dog’s head. “He brings art back personally from Cairo and Luxor, and supplies only the best high-end art dealerships in Manhattan, like the one I favor on Madison and 76th. It’s run by Aaron Tomkins.”
Joe wrote that down. Lauren wondered if the art dealer was involved in the forgeries. Tomkins almost certainly worked with more than one buyer. Were others selling forgeries through him, too?
“Bradford knew what I was looking for before he made his last trip,” the collector continued. “So he picked these up and offered them to me directly without going through Tomkins. Saved me a percentage of the cost by skipping the middleman. These must have been forged in Egypt before he brought them back. He’ll not suffer any consequences, will he? He’s as much a victim as I am in this. Please, please, take care in how you speak with him. I’d hate for him to refuse to work with me after this.”
“Of course.” Lauren gentled her voice. “We only want to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Only the forger himself is to blame.”
“Could you describe Bradford’s physical appearance for me?” Joe asked.
“Oh, he’s about five eleven. Grey hair. In his sixties, I’d guess, but he somehow manages to keep himself fit and trim. Brown eyes. A gentleman’s hands, with neatly manicured fingernails. When he’s agitated, a muscle twitches under his left eye.”
Joe looked up from writing. “You’ve seen him agitated? Do you recall the reason?”
Color crept up Mr. Sanderson’s neck. “Too many questions.”
“It could be important, sir. We’re almost through here.”
“No.” Mr. Sanderson shook his head. “What I mean is, Bradford gets that twitch when I ask him too many questions.”
This interview grew more interesting by the minute.
“I see.” Joe’s expression remained impressively neutral. “And what was the nature of the questions that provoked him?”
“I don’t know. Just ... questions about the artifacts. Where he found them, what they mean, what they’re worth.”
“All the usual questions one should be asking,” Lauren said, hoping to put him at ease. “You’re right to ask those things.”
“You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Sanderson,” Joe told him. “I’ll take it from here. What’s the best way for me to get in touch with Bradford?”
“Oh.” He patted Governor again and fed him a treat from his pocket. “I’ve only ever contacted him by sending messages through Tomkins, and then Bradford gets back to me when he can. I have no idea how to reach him directly, and I get the feeling he likes it that way.”
Deflating, Lauren locked gazes with Joe. They could only pray that Tomkins would cooperate.
CHAPTER
13
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1925
Snow flurried against a sky of gunmetal grey. Giant wreaths with red bows encircled the two stone lions flanking the Met’s broad entrance. It was Christmastime in New York, but Joe felt none of the spirit.
He’d paid a visit to Aaron Tomkins’s art dealership yesterday morning, with a message for Bradford to get in touch with Joe as soon as he could. He seriously doubted that the dealer would pass the message along, though, and called Lauren to tell her. So on her lunch break, she’d taken a cab there and offered to at least examine the Egyptian antiquities he had in stock, to catch any fakes before they left his gallery. Tomkins threw her out.
Yesterday had been an exercise in futility. He’d called every D. Bradford in every city directory the NYPD had, to no avail. He wasn’t surprised that the man’s number was unlisted, but he did wonder how he got enough business to support himself if no one could reach him. Then again, if Bradford was in as high demand as Sanderson and Tomkins claimed, the work found him.
It was a long shot, but Joe even took Bradford’s physical description to the Rogue’s Gallery at NYPD headquarters, where five-inch by three-inch cards were cataloged in long, narrow drawers with the precise measurements and photographs of known criminals.
But Joe didn’t have precise measurements or a photograph. He had one man’s recollection of another.
Joe stepped in a puddle of slush and shook his shoe, grimacing. Bradford wasn’t a ghost. He’d find him. But today, he had other plans.
Forgoing the main front doors, Joe cut a path around to the side of the building. For the first time in weeks, he was visiting the Met and wouldn’t see Lauren, since she and Elsa were traveling to Boston today. It was just as well.
“Morning, Caravello,” the security guard, Jefferson, hailed him as he entered. “Here for Dr. Westlake?”
“Not this time.” He unbuttoned the collar of his wool overcoat and stuffed his gloves into the pockets. “I’ve got a meeting with the restoration department for Egyptian art.” They didn’t know about the meeting yet, but they soon would. “This way?” Joe guessed at a direction.
