Her outburst had not made her feel better. She’d cried herself to sleep that night. The truth was, she did need her father. She needed her father and mother both. But that didn’t stop him from leaving again. Her feelings made no difference. Better to keep them locked up tight.
“Lauren?” Elsa’s voice gently pulled her back. “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”
Lauren boxed up her memories along with the shabti she replaced in the crate. All of that had happened a long time ago. She and her father had both grown and changed. They were different people now.
Rejoining Elsa and Lawrence in the hall, she asked what his next steps were. The list of tasks and responsibilities he recited made her head spin. He led them to a room at the rear of the first floor and opened the door.
She knew this place. That desk with the drawers whose handles resembled little pyramids. The bookshelves with the feet carved to look like lions’ paws held the same collection of books. Even the rug spreading over the hardwood floor held the same stacked fan pattern.
Astonished, Lauren crossed the room to examine the framed map of the world on the wall. “Is it the same one?” she asked in a whisper. She could not count the number of times she’d come into his office while he was away, tracing her finger between Illinois and the postmark of his most recent letter.
“It is.”
Lauren turned to Elsa. “It’s like stepping into our old house. His office was exactly like this.” Even for all the visits she and her mother had made to Manhattan, her cousin had never come to Illinois.
“Ancient history isn’t the only past worth preserving.” Lawrence smiled. “Being here brings me some of my fondest memories.”
“Mine, too,” Lauren admitted. She was bewildered by the onslaught of nostalgia she felt in this partially burned Newport mansion.
“Do you sleep here, Uncle Lawrence?” Elsa pointed to a cot peeking out from behind the desk.
“When necessary.” He sighed. “I don’t like to spend money on a hotel when I have this grand house completely to myself. However, with the electricity off and the roof gone, I’m staying elsewhere while in town.”
The burden of his responsibility seemed like a physical weight upon his shoulders. “How long are you staying this time?” Lauren asked.
“I won’t leave until the most urgent repairs are completed. With one exception. I’ve got a reason to come back to New York by Tuesday. Don’t I?”
Hope sparked, and his knowing smile fanned it to life. “I do love to visit the past,” he admitted, “but it’s time for me to live in the present.”
Her birthday. He’d remembered, at last.
CHAPTER
15
NEW YORK CITY
MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1925
Ten minutes before their weekly meeting was scheduled to begin, Joe hoisted a cardboard box onto his boss’s desk. “You’ll want to see this.”
Inspector Murphy moved his coffee mug out of the way and stood to peer inside. “I’m listening.” Frost climbed up the windows behind him in crystal fronds, diffusing the morning light.
“I had a productive visit with Mr. Rosenberg, of Rosenberg’s Family Heirlooms.” Lauren had accompanied Elsa to the store late last week for some shopping and noticed some fakes while she was there. She let Joe know so he could pick them up and talk to Rosenberg. “He was refreshingly cooperative.”
Murphy withdrew one of several figures of the Egyptian god Horus. It was shaped like a human with a falcon head and had eyes that represented the sun and moon. “So these were forged.”
Joe confirmed it. “They were delivered to Rosenberg by a fellow named Vincent Escalante. He brings Rosenberg finds from bulk purchases he makes at estate sales, or so he says. Rosenberg carries them for a certain amount of time. If they sell, both men get paid. If not, Rosenberg returns them.”
Wrinkling his nose at the fake god, Murphy set it back in the boxand took another swig of coffee. “How much does something like this go for these days?”
Joe told him a sum that almost made him spit out his coffee.
“So where is this Escalante? In holding?”
“It’s only a matter of time.” Moving the box to the floor, Joe sat, and so did his boss. “Rosenberg has no contact information since Escalante always contacts him, never the other way around.” It was the same method employed by Daniel Bradford, the art buyer Thomas Sanderson named. Joe had asked Rosenberg if he knew Bradford or how to reach him. No dice. Figured.
Murphy’s brows pinched together. “What if one of Escalante’s pieces sold and Rosenberg had money for him? Wouldn’t he like to know?”
