“My father—” She stumbled headlong into the blunder.
“Yes, I knew him, too.” Patting her hand, he let it go and smiled as Mr. Robinson returned. In a whisper, he added, “The less said about him, my dear, the better.”
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1925
Joe closed the folder on Ray Moretti and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. After his encounter with the man Friday night, he’d expected to find some kind of clue in his file. All that wealth had to come from somewhere. Likely somewhere illegal.
But so far, everything checked out fine. Born in Brooklyn, he’d attended a Catholic military boarding school for most of his school years, which accounted for his accent. From there, he earned a four-year degree in business. He owned three hotels, an office and retail building, and two pharmacies. He was licensed as a real estate agent in the state of New York, current on all his certifications and permits, and he paid his taxes. For his age, he’d done well for himself, a sterling example of the new-money ideal. But was that enough money to cover a Fifth Avenue brownstone, a Long Island estate, regular contributions to the Met, and his own antiquities?
The guy didn’t have so much as a parking ticket on his record. Not even a complaint by a neighbor. On paper, he was clean.
Instinct said otherwise. Nobody’s file wasthatclean.
He could almost hear Lauren’s voice, echoing what she’d told him last night after their appointment with the Vandermeers did not, in fact, reveal any forgeries.“I’ve never seen a man so sad to find out there’s been no wrongdoing,”she had teased. But it wasn’t wrongdoing he was after for its own sake. What he wanted, and needed, was progress.
“Sir.” Oscar McCormick approached his desk with another folder. “I found something that doesn’t make sense. I wondered if you have time to talk me through it.”
Truly, it wasn’t McCormick’s fault that Joe hadn’t taken a shine to him. The kid hadn’t done anything wrong so far, aside from being a constant reminder that he was only here because Connor wasn’t.
Mustering his manners, Joe motioned him over.
Before he could open the folder, however, the telephone rang again, and Joe answered it. At the operator’s request, he accepted a call from Elliot Henry at the Met.
“Sergeant Caravello? You called earlier asking for Peter. Did he return your call?”
“Not yet.”
“I figured. Well, he’ll be headed to lunch in half an hour, if you’d like to catch him there. You know the restaurant in the Met?”
“I’m on my way.”
He dropped the handset into the cradle. “Sorry, McCormick. Another time. Or ask someone else.” He didn’t stick around for his response.
———
Joe sat across from Peter in a corner of the cafeteria-style restaurant in the basement of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The plaster was a light cream color, but the huge square pillars holding up the floor above them were decorated with panels of scenic wallpaper.
Setting his notebook on the sea-green table, Joe noticed Peter’s tray. The food was sold à la carte, and all he’d selected was toast without butter or jam, a bowl of steamed broccoli, a glass of milk, and another of water. It certainly wasn’t the lunch of a man madewealthy by forgeries, or any other means. Such slim pickings would hardly fill a man’s stomach.
“Not hungry today?” Joe began.
“Just because I don’t eat as much as you presumably do does not mean I’m not hungry.”
Curious. He was too thin to be on a weight-loss program. “Tell me they pay you enough around here to get a decent lunch.” Joe already knew they did. Mr. Henry had told him Peter’s salary, which was pretty average for a middle-class white male in this city.
“I have better things to do with my wages than indulge my appetite, Detective. My conscience wouldn’t allow it.”
“So going hungry is a moral choice,” Joe said. “Care to explain?”
Peter laid down his fork and sat back. He chewed a bite of broccoli so slowly and thoroughly that at first Joe suspected it was merely to test Joe’s patience. Then he realized that was a way to make food last. To trick your stomach into thinking it held more than it did.
Peter sipped the milk, then followed it with a drink of water. “Compared to what my family has, this is a feast of unimaginable proportions,” he said at last. “Knowing that, I can’t bring myself to eat more.”
“Your family in Germany,” Joe confirmed.
Shadows darkened Peter’s countenance, but he didn’t deny it. “They are suffering. Wilson made sure of that. Do you have any idea how it feels to live in the land of plenty while the ones you love are stranded in desperation?” His passion was understandable.
It was also motive.
