“Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m conducting a séance. I know they can’t hear me. It’s my way of thinking out loud as I look for clues among the inscriptions, the amulets buried with them, their jewelry and textiles. If you knew how to listen, they’d talk to you, too.”
Anita gave an exaggerated shudder worthy of Charlie Chaplin. “Pass.”
Lauren laughed, unperturbed, and went back to inspecting Hetsumina. “Well, she’s easier to work with than most people around here.”
“Aha, you mean mummies don’t need their egos soothed, and they don’t make unreasonable demands of your time or disturb your inner peace.”
“Now you’re on the trolley.” Lauren smiled. “They don’t fight. They don’t make promises, and they certainly don’t break them. Mummies don’t lie.”
There was no way around it. Joe needed an expert in Egyptology, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art employed the best.
“You may be able to catch her if you hurry.” The woman at the information desk hung up the phone and pointed through the Great Hall toward the rear exit of the building. “Her assistant says she just left.”
Thanking her, Joe hustled through a labyrinth of classical sculptures, then through a hall of decorative arts. Upon pushing out of the double doors, he paused at the top of the stone steps and scanned until he spotted her. She crossed the lane and took a left turn on one of Central Park’s countless paths.
He ran down the stairs and darted after her.
“Dr. Westlake!” he called.
Halting, she pivoted. Shadows draped the brim of her hat and fell over the contours of her face. He wasn’t surprised to see that she hadn’t followed the trend of bobbing hair and wore hers in a thick knot at the nape of her neck. “Joe Caravello, is that you?”
Out of habit, he showed her his wallet ID and badge.
She trotted toward him, radiant, and grasped his hand in both of hers. “Please tell me I didn’t hear you call me Dr. Westlake. We go back much further than that.”
Joe wasn’t sure how he’d expected her to respond to this surprise meeting, but he hadn’t expected this. “Yes, we do,” he admitted, disoriented by her warmth. “But that was a long time ago.”
“It’s so good to see you again.” Her voice had softened to velvet. The gloaming called out every detail of her face, from the dark lashes framing sparkling blue eyes to the subtle cleft of her chin. “I see you’ve followed in your hero’s footsteps. Well done, Joe. I knew you could do it.”
He took a step back, hoping to clear his head if he wasn’t so near her. Inspector Murphy was right that Joe had an interest in art most cops didn’t share. What Murphy didn’t know was that Lauren Westlake had been the one to introduce him to it. That was a lifetime ago, before they’d pursued their separate careers and lost touch.
Joe hadn’t come here with any hope of resurrecting what they’d had before. He was here on a mission. “Actually, my work is why I’m here.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. How can I help?” A flush entered her cheeks, and he hoped it was from the cold, not from the embarrassment of learning this wasn’t a social call. She resumed walking.
He kept pace with her. “I need your expertise, if you don’t mind. I need you to tell me if a particular piece is fake or genuine.”
“Egyptian, I assume?”
“Allegedly.”
She led him deeper into the park. Good grief, would she have taken this route without him? Didn’t she realize this wasn’t a safe place for women alone after dark?
“Do you have the object with you?”
“It’s locked away as evidence, but I have photographs.”
“There’s better light by the castle, especially since the Weather Bureau took it over as a weather station,” she said. “It’s on my way home, up ahead. Let’s take a look there.”
The Belvedere was a miniature castle atop a huge rock outcrop, complete with pavilions, terraces, and the best view of the park. The path curved, and they followed it up the stone stairs. Joe stayed several paces behind her, yet close enough to catch her if she were to stumble in those heels. Her hips twisted as she climbed.
He dropped his gaze to her ankles instead, until they reached a gazebo type of structure. Lauren stood in silhouette against a sunset over Central Park, and for a heartbeat, Joe forgot what year it was.
They’d been here before, the two of them. She’d been eighteen, and he twenty years old. Something squeezed in Joe’s chest for the lovestruck, naïve young man he’d been. This was where he’d thought he would finally kiss her.
This was where she’d told him she was leaving for college, and that she might never come back.
Joe wondered if she remembered.
