He nodded, a half smile on his lips. “And then these cases threw us back together, and I told myself to be content with this miracle, that you were back in my life. I didn’t even expect our friendship to pick up where we left off, and I still counted myself lucky thatfor however long these cases kept us together, we could be friends. That once we caught a few forgers, we might part ways again and go back to the way things were before. I’ve tried to be okay with that. But I can’t. I’m not.” His hand cupped the nape of her neck, his thumb drawing a slow circle beneath her ear.
Dusk fell outside the windows, and snow churned against the panes. Lauren’s heart thumped against her ribs. “Tell me what you were planning to say that night at Belvedere Castle, when we were young and the whole world seemed at our feet.”
Firelight flickered in his eyes. “I want to be more than your friend. I want to be the man who gets to take care of you, who makes you smile and sing and sigh. I want ... you know what I want.”
She could tell he was all out of words, and the fact that he was so nervous endeared him to her all the more. But he didn’t need to say anything else to make himself clear. He was right. She knew what he wanted. He needed to know that she wanted it, too.
Joe slid his hand to her cheek and leaned closer. “Capisce?” His gaze dropped to her lips before bouncing back to her eyes, his question lingering there.
Her pulse throbbing, she looped her hands around his neck, fingers curling in the hair above his collar. “Capisco,” she whispered, and kissed the smile on his face.
CHAPTER
20
MONDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1925
Figaro” had been playing in Joe’s head ever since Saturday. He hoped he wasn’t wearing a grin to go with it now that he was back in uniform. Silencing the music in his head, he entered his boss’s office for their weekly meeting.
Garlands and bows festooned a half-sized Christmas tree in the corner. It even had ornaments on it for goodness’ sake. A nutcracker on the windowsill was painted in a blue uniform with brass buttons not unlike the NYPD’s. Cute.
“So who’s the woman in your life?” Joe asked, dropping into a chair.
“Hm?” The inspector glanced up, then at the Christmas decorations. “Ah, that would be my mother’s doing. You didn’t think I had time for any other dame, did you? Here. Help yourself.” Murphy slid a plate of sugar cookies across the desk.
Joe picked up a snowman-shaped treat smeared with yellow frosting, then turned it toward Murphy in question.
“My sister’s kids helped decorate this year,” Murphy explained. “She couldn’t convince them that yellow was for stars. Whaddya gonna do, right?”
Chuckling, Joe finished the cookie in two bites.
“It’s like this, Caravello.” Murphy leaned back. “I’m reading your reports every week, and I’m not seeing a lot of progress on the forgery front. How do you feel about that?”
Was that a trick question? How did Murphy think Joe felt about that? “Obviously, more progress would be better. But it’s a long game. Like most everything else worth doing, it takes time and patience. It took years to take down the Black Hand Society.”
“You’re not working on anything like the Black Hand Society. No one is being blackmailed or murdered. This is low-profile stuff. It’s not the type of crime that makes headlines, and it’s certainly not the type city hall funds.”
“Crime is crime, right, Inspector? No one is dying in petty theft or parking violations, but we enforce those laws, too. The break will come, we’ve just got to be ready for it.”
“Uh-huh.” Murphy opened a folder of Joe’s reports. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Here are the forgeries you’ve found so far. An alabaster ointment jar, belonging to Newell St. John. Found November 14, but determined to be forged in Egypt decades ago. Canopic jars belonging to Thomas Sanderson, found on December 2. Forger at large. Horus statues at Rosenberg’s Family Heirlooms, brought in December 7—but Escalante, who brought them to Rosenberg, also remains at large. Then there’s a Book of the Dead papyrus belonging to Ray Moretti, found November 23, which he isn’t willing to part with.” He looked up. “Did I miss anything?”
“The oyster shell Wade Martin had when he was killed.”
“Right.” But Murphy’s expression suggested he wasn’t counting that. “Not your case.”
“But did anyone follow up with Rosenberg to confirm Martin bought that from his shop?” Maybe it had been Connor, after all, since neither man had confessed ownership. “Maybe whoever bought it mentioned why they would spring for it. A piece like that seems like a conversation starter. Please tell mesomeone’slooking into it. It doesn’t have to be me.”
“It betternotbe you, and that’s an order.” The inspector’s jawhardened. “What is the problem here? Do you not have enough work to keep you busy?”
Joe had plenty. He was interviewing suspects and witnesses for various crimes, starting missing-persons protocols, and doing all the paperwork that came with it.
“Did you ever engage with this art buyer, Daniel Bradford?”
Frustration boiled in Joe’s gut. “Not yet. Aaron Tomkins, the art dealer, told me he’d given Bradford a message for me, but that may or may not have been the truth.” His neck itched beneath his collar. Decades ago, the boys in blue would have gotten information through the persuasion of brute force. Joe wouldn’t resort to those tactics. But he still burned over not being able to track Bradford.
Joe changed the subject. “Did you read my recent report about Peter Braun and Ray Moretti? There’s a connection there. At least one of them is dirty, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out who, what, and how.”
When Murphy didn’t contradict him, Joe kept going. “There’s something about Moretti that isn’t right. His record is abnormally spotless. No one’s that clean.”
