It wasn’t right.
She looked up from her clipboard and grinned. “Am I under surveillance?” she teased.
“Guilty.” He smiled and closed the distance between them.
She reached out a hand to squeeze his. “Thank you for coming.”
“You sounded like you could use some company.” He glanced at the mummy in the glass case. “In the form of a living human being.”
“Well, she’s not much for conversation, that’s true, but she’s a really good listener, and I know she’ll never leave when I’m counting on her to be there.”
Joe wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. He could only imagine how painful it was to feel betrayed by what Lawrence had done so soon after she’d worked to restore that relationship. Not only had Lawrence taken the credit for her work, but this was the second holiday in thirty days that he’d planned to spend with her and then didn’t.
Joe understood why that was hurtful.
He also realized that with his line of work, he might disappoint her in the same way. He wanted Lauren to be able to count on him, but he couldn’t promise that he’d always be there for her, either. Not as long as he was on the force. And he wasn’t ready to quit just so he could be home every night at five and make sure he never missed a holiday.
Had he made a mistake in kissing her? If he couldn’t give her the reliability she craved, was he only toying with her heart? The idea hollowed out a space in his chest.
But surely this was not the time to bring it up. Not when she was already hurting. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. Then she stepped away from him and gave him a smile though her lashes were wet. “Enough self-pity. I admit that I pushed him away the second I felt him withdrawing. I hoped he’d protest the idea of spending Christmas apart, but he didn’t. The biggest surprise is that I dared to hope for anything different. Apparently I’m not worth fighting for.”
“Of course you are,” Joe said. “If there is ever a time I can’t be here for you, you have to know that it won’t be my choice.”
Her expression sobered. “I understand the nature of your job, Joe,” she said quietly. “I know your schedule isn’t always up to you. It’s different.”
He nodded, even as he wondered if the result would be the same. Lauren might say she understood, but would she grow resentful over time, as her mother had? Most wives would.
“Speaking of your job,” she said, “how’s it going, Detective? Any new developments to discuss?”
Joe unfastened the top two buttons of his coat and loosened the scarf about his neck. “Vincent Escalante admitted to forging the oyster shells, too. But we still don’t know the identity of the forger for Mr. Sanderson’s canopic jars or for Ray Moretti’s papyrus. Nor have I been able to locate Daniel Bradford, to my everlasting vexation. Could the same person have forged all of these? Would you be able to tell by any trademark techniques, either in the forgeries themselves or in the provenance documents?”
Lauren tilted her head. “That’s an interesting idea. For example, someone could tell if two portraits had been painted by Gilbert Stuart or by John Singer Sargent by looking at their technique. Even Mary Cassatt and Claude Monet have their differences, though both are impressionists.”
Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets. “The trouble is that we’re dealing with various mediums within the forgeries, and the forgersare not showcasing their own technique but doing their best to imitate someone else’s.”
“Artists have been making copies for millennia, especially artists whose original work failed to generate a sustaining income. Sometimes, for their own gratification, they paint or etch their initials onto copies they’re particularly proud of. But it would be extremely well hidden.”
Joe walked to the nearest bench and sat, leaning against the wall. “Did Peter Braun ever tell you he had artistic aspirations? And I’m not talking about painting from lantern slides on a rich person’s dining room walls.”
Lauren came and sat beside him. “Did he tell you that?”
“He did.”
She crossed her ankles. “How sad. The more I learn about this man, the more sympathy I have for him. Though I know he’d never want that. If he turns out to be our forger, I can’t say that I’ll rejoice.”
“That’s because you want to see the good in people. You want them to succeed.” It was an admirable trait. Ironically, Joe’s work required the opposite: detecting the bad and holding people accountable for their failings.
“From what you know of him,” Joe asked, “does he have the skill to create all the forgeries we’ve found that haven’t been connected to Escalante?”
“I don’t know. There haven’t been many da Vincis and Michelangelos, who could excel in multiple arts.” She drummed a finger on the clipboard. “But maybe we’re not looking for a Michelangelo.”
“How’s that?”
She stood. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Setting a brisk pace, Lauren crossed the gallery to a giant tomb made of massive limestone blocks. Joe read the sign posted outside it. “The Tomb of Perneb?” This hadn’t been here when Lauren and he had visited the museum as kids.
