“Joe and I met with three more Met patrons this week, and thankfully didn’t find any forgeries in their collections. Plus, on my lunch breaks, I’ve been visiting various art dealerships to view their Egyptian antiquities with a goal of catching fakes before anyone purchases them. So far, Mr. Aaron Tomkins has been the only dealer to refuse me access.”
“And?”
“I haven’t found any new forgeries in the dealerships, but I feel better about having checked. Don’t worry, Dad. I can think of at least four more topics to cover for future issues of your newsletter.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
“One of our honorary fellows came for a tour of the EgyptianArt department on Monday,” she added. She’d have told him sooner, but Dad had been gone again this week, and this was a topic best discussed in person. She wanted to see his reaction. “Theodore Clarke. Didn’t you work with him years ago?”
Her father scratched the side of his nose. “I did. You conducted the tour yourself?”
She told him she had, with Mr. Robinson joining them. “We started with New Accessions. I showed him Hetsumina, and he seems bound and determined to find Hatsudora, her twin.”
Sunshine reflected off the ice, and he squinted into it. “Does he? Well, that sounds like the sort of challenge he’d enjoy. I hope the Met team finds it first, though.”
Lauren agreed. “Although, he did say if his team found it, it would eventually come into our holdings anyway. He’s willing his entire Egyptian collection to the Met upon his death, but I bet he’d loan it to us before then for a special exhibition. He’s loaned so much to us before.”
“Generous.” He tugged his hat lower, suddenly captivated by the skaters. “Did he happen to mention working with me once he knew who you were?”
Lauren reached for a response that would be truthful and tactful. “Mr. Robinson rushed him off for brunch right after he made that connection, so there was no time to chat about it. But I’m sure he’s aware you’re working in the area, especially since the Napoleon House is right there in his hometown.” Suddenly, she wondered if his concern about his reputation in Newport had more to do with Clarke’s opinions than he’d let on. “By the way, are you still staying at a hotel when you go? Have you thought about asking if he has a guest room you could occupy instead, just for the short term?”
Dad scoffed, as she expected he would. “Utter nonsense,” he said. “Neither of us would abide being under the same roof, however expansive that roof may be. Whoever said ‘time heals all wounds’ had never encountered Theodore Clarke. You have no idea what—” He cut himself off with a noise of frustration she’d never heard fromhim before. “Please, Lauren, leave it at that. Don’t dig. Don’t talk to your aunt, and if you can manage it, stay away from that man. Let these bygones stay buried.”
A few hardy pigeons skittered along the ground, hunting for crumbs. Silently, Lauren watched them while Dad’s flurry of words settled like snow upon her. The last of her hot chocolate had grown cold, and so had she.
Officially, Joe wasn’t on duty. But he never stopped thinking like a cop. So when he arrived at the pond in Central Park, he took a few minutes to surveil the area.
Lauren had said he’d be able to find her here this afternoon. Hanging back by the trees, he scanned the skaters and saw children with parents or nannies. A few rowdy adolescent boys, their voices cracking, their horseplay harmless. Pairs of young women with ermine muffs must have hopped over from their Fifth Avenue homes.
And then there were Elsa and Ivy, whooping and laughing without a care what others thought of it.
Lauren wasn’t with them.
His attention swerved off the ice, taking in the line at the food and drink vendor, another cluster around the skate rentals booth, looking for her signature turquoise blue coat, the one the same color as that little Egyptian hippo at the Met.
There. She sat with her father on a bench a short distance from the skating pond. Her nose and cheeks were pink, her scarf wrapped tightly about her neck and tied above one shoulder. Her chocolate brown hair was gathered in a knot, but the wind had pulled a few strands free.
Joe’s gaze kept moving, analyzing, suspecting, until it snagged on a man with a newspaper occupying a bench diagonally across from the Westlakes. Who came to Central Park to read the news? It was too cold for that this time of year, unless he was waiting for a loved one who was skating on the pond.
The guy wasn’t turning pages.
Moving closer, Joe confirmed his suspicion that the only thing this guy was reading—or trying to read—was lips. His line of sight was pinned on Lawrence and Lauren. He looked familiar, too. Broad shoulders. Dark hair on a small head that even his fedora couldn’t disguise. Very large hands.
Joe would have enjoyed walking up to him and personally disrupting his attempted eavesdropping. But the momentary satisfaction wasn’t smart for long-term strategy. If this guy knew that he’d been made, he’d run.
“Joe!” Lauren waved him over.
He could almost feel the spy staring holes into his back as he went to her. Fine. Good. Let him see that Lauren had a friend watching out for her. Let him notice the slight bulge at Joe’s hip and figure that was a holstered gun.
All of this was pure conjecture, of course. And his gut had been wrong before.
Then again, it had also been right.
The Westlakes were both standing by the time he reached them. Joe shook Lawrence’s hand. “Good to see you again,” he said. “How are things progressing in Newport?”
“Could be worse.” Then he launched into an update that lasted five minutes. “Well,” he said at last, “this old man has had enough winter for one day. I’m heading back.”
After he’d left, Joe pointed at Lauren’s shoes. “Wrong footwear.”
