“Two?” he asked, looking at Joe.
“Sure.”
Moretti picked up a glass and sent the waiter for the nonalcoholic drinks. “What line of work you in, Joe?”
“Law enforcement,” Joe told him. “NYPD detective.”
“New York’s finest. Well, good for you, and thank you for your service.Salute.” Brazenly, he lifted his tumbler and took a swig.
Joe smiled at his confidence. He hadn’t missed a beat, hadn’teven glanced at Lauren as if to question why she’d brought a cop to a party with alcohol. “You?”
“Management,” Moretti replied. “Real estate, hotels, a couple of pharmacies.”
“Big money in pharmacies these days,” Joe said. Since the only alcohol legally sold was for communion services or prescribed by doctors, business at pharmacies was booming. “It’s truly astounding how many ailments can be cured by liquor.”
Moretti laughed deep from his belly. “Isn’t that right? Astounding.” The man was one hundred percent at ease.
As if on cue, the waiter reappeared, and Joe handed Lauren’s club soda to her before picking up his own. He took a sip and tried not to grimace. But he hadn’t asked for it because he liked it. He’d asked for it to make sure the club soda they served at the party wasn’t spiked. He doubted Lauren would be able to tell.
This definitely wasn’t spiked.
“Dr. Westlake!” A human version of the lady in the oil painting materialized, wearing the gown in the portrait. Aside from overdone makeup, she seemed like a pleasant lady.
She kissed Lauren on the cheek and shook Joe’s hand while they were introduced. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to us to have you here.”
Her inflection had more Brooklyn in it than her husband’s, but what Joe heard even louder was a longing for ... something. Respectability, maybe, or the appearance of it. Maybe belonging. Maybe she really was lonely here and happy to see every friendly face.
“Are you here on behalf of the Met, then?” she asked. “Have they changed their minds about our request?”
Lauren’s smile pinched at the corners. “We’re not doing business tonight, are we? The others from the Met extend their greetings, of course, but I’m here as a friend. Mr. Moretti mentioned a tour of the mansion. I’m sorry we missed it.”
“Would you like to see it?” Christina placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Of course you would. You will appreciate the Egyptiangallery more than anyone else here. Come on, I’ll show you. Private tour.” She swept Lauren away, leaving Joe sipping a drink with Ray Moretti.
“I can see you don’t like that stuff, by the way.” Moretti laughed quietly. “Come on, I’ll give you a little tour of my own.”
Joe kept in step with his host as they climbed a winding staircase, then entered a small, dark room that looked nothing like the rest of the house. “Are we still in the château?” Joe asked.
“You don’t think old King Louis had his own cigar room?” Moretti laughed while turning to a cabinet. “You don’t have to drink that stuff. What’s your pleasure, really? I won’t tell a soul. You’re not on duty right now, are you, Officer?” He stood aside, revealing a row of bottles.
Joe moved closer and read the labels. Most were in French. Figured.
“So you’ve had these in your cellar since before the amendment passed, I take it,” Joe joked.
“Scout’s honor.” Moretti was joking, too. “Go ahead, Joe. And call me Ray.”
“Thank you, Ray. I don’t mean to come across as unsociable, but I’m not drinking anything stronger than this tonight.”
“Here’s a good one you might enjoy.” Ignoring Joe’s comment, Ray grabbed a bottle by the neck and cradled it for a moment before opening it. With a heavy pour, he filled two goblets and thrust one into Joe’s hand.
He set it on a table and drank the terrible club soda instead. Something surfaced in his host’s expression, and then it was buried but not gone.
Joe got the feeling Ray didn’t hear the wordnovery often.
CHAPTER
18
MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1925
