Murphy snorted a laugh. “Last I checked, you can’t arrest someone for a spotless background check. He’s the victim of a forgery and chooses to hang on to the artifact anyway. He doesn’t want to press charges.”
“He doesn’t want me to do my job. That’s what it is. This guy, nobody crosses him. So why would he be okay with a forgery? Something’s wrong. We need eyes on both Braun and Moretti.” As of right now, he didn’t have enough on either for a search warrant, which he needed if he was ever going to get convicting evidence.
“You’re reaching, Caravello. Reaching hard.” Murphy broke off the head of a gingerbread cookie and popped it in his mouth. “I know you’d hoped that hunting for forgers would lead you to big fish, top dogs in organized crime. That doesn’t mean you get to conjure one out of thin air so you can arrest him.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. Read my report again.”
Murphy glowered. “You telling me how to do my job, Detective?”
Joe’s lips pressed into a thin line. He knew better than to answer that.
“As for putting man-hours into watching these two, you know as well as I do that we can’t spare it until Manhattan dries up or Prohibition ends. I’ve got a mind to pull you off this wild goose hunt.”
Joe knew this was coming. “I only spend a few hours a week on this.” Which Murphy could see if he actually read the reports.
“All right.” Murphy slapped the folder closed. “Listen, I agreed to let you work on this as long as it isn’t a drain on police resources with nothing to show for it.”
“Understood, sir. I will continue to be as careful with resources as ever. I’m committed to seeing this through.”
Inspector Murphy leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I get it. You’re committed. No one doubts that, least of all me. It’s your strength, but it’s also your weakness. You don’t know when to let go.”
Joe held his gaze without speaking. Outside, tires squealed, and car horns blared, followed by two men shouting.
A knock pulled Joe’s attention toward the door, where Oscar McCormick held up one hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sirs, but this is urgent. Your phone kept ringing, Caravello, so I answered it. It was Mr. Rosenberg. He said Vincent Escalante will be at his shop in twenty minutes.”
Joe stood, the chair scraping the floor in his haste. “Merry Christmas,” he told Murphy, and scrammed.
———
Eighteen minutes later, Joe parked an unmarked police car outside Rosenberg Family Heirlooms. Right on time, a man got out of his truck half a block away and pulled a dolly from the bed. After stacking three crates onto it, he rolled it toward the shop. Rosenberg opened the door for him as he neared.
Another fifteen minutes passed before Escalante emerged, his dolly and crates rolling much lighter over the slushy sidewalk thistime. Patiently, Joe waited for him to pack up his truck and drive away.
Judging by Escalante’s unhurried pace and his proper use of turn signals, he had no idea he had a tail.
Escalante led Joe into the Bronx, to a brick townhouse with black iron railings flanking the cracked cement front steps. Islands of snow dotted the sidewalk. Joe parked the car and strolled up to Escalante, who was unloading the crates from the back of the truck.
“Need a hand with that?” Joe asked him.
Escalante glanced at him, then past him at the stairs leading to the front door. “Yeah, sure. These aren’t heavy. They’re just awkward, you know? Those broken steps aren’t friendly to my dolly, either.”
“I figured. Load me up.”
Escalante stacked two empty crates in his arms. Taking the third crate himself, he led the way up the stairs and unlocked the door. “Come on in. Set them down on the floor over there, thanks.”
“You sure? Where do they really go?” Joe brushed past him, bypassed the living room, and strode down a hallway until he found a room that smelled more like a workshop than a home, with hints of paint or varnish and plaster of paris. Bingo. “This looks right.” He set the boxes down. The curtains were pulled shut, but daylight seeped between the cracks. “Vincent Escalante, right?”
The man’s face darkened as he stood in the doorway. “Who are you?”
“We have a mutual friend in Mr. Rosenberg. You’re Vincent Escalante, correct?” He picked up a copy ofNational Geographicfrom one of the tables. A golden coffin mask shone from the cover. “Says here that’s your name. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for inviting me in.” He dropped the magazine and walked farther into the space.
“Excuse me, but I’d like you to leave now.”
“Detective Sergeant Joe Caravello, NYPD.” He showed him his identification wallet, then pulled one of the fake deity statuettes from his pocket. “Recognize this?”
He barely looked at it. “Never seen it.”
“You might want to reconsider lying to a cop, Vinnie. Mr. Rosenberg tells me you tried to sell this through his shop. Your asking price is a little high for a fake.”
