Page 15 of The Metropolitan Affair (On Central Park Book #1)
CHAPTER 15
NEW YORK CITY MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1925
T en minutes before their weekly meeting was scheduled to begin, Joe hoisted a cardboard box onto his boss’s desk. “You’ll want to see this.”
Inspector Murphy moved his coffee mug out of the way and stood to peer inside. “I’m listening.” Frost climbed up the windows behind him in crystal fronds, diffusing the morning light.
“I had a productive visit with Mr. Rosenberg, of Rosenberg’s Family Heirlooms.” Lauren had accompanied Elsa to the store late last week for some shopping and noticed some fakes while she was there. She let Joe know so he could pick them up and talk to Rosenberg. “He was refreshingly cooperative.”
Murphy withdrew one of several figures of the Egyptian god Horus. It was shaped like a human with a falcon head and had eyes that represented the sun and moon. “So these were forged.”
Joe confirmed it. “They were delivered to Rosenberg by a fellow named Vincent Escalante. He brings Rosenberg finds from bulk purchases he makes at estate sales, or so he says. Rosenberg carries them for a certain amount of time. If they sell, both men get paid. If not, Rosenberg returns them.”
Wrinkling his nose at the fake god, Murphy set it back in the box and took another swig of coffee. “How much does something like this go for these days?”
Joe told him a sum that almost made him spit out his coffee.
“So where is this Escalante? In holding?”
“It’s only a matter of time.” Moving the box to the floor, Joe sat, and so did his boss. “Rosenberg has no contact information since Escalante always contacts him, never the other way around.” It was the same method employed by Daniel Bradford, the art buyer Thomas Sanderson named. Joe had asked Rosenberg if he knew Bradford or how to reach him. No dice. Figured.
Murphy’s brows pinched together. “What if one of Escalante’s pieces sold and Rosenberg had money for him? Wouldn’t he like to know?”
Joe had asked the same thing. “Rosenberg says Escalante travels so much, visiting estate sales all over the States, he’d be hard to pin down anyway. Escalante sets up appointments with Rosenberg whenever he’s acquired more artifacts to sell. Rosenberg has promised to let me know the next time he calls. I’ll meet him there.”
Murphy grunted his acknowledgment. “It’s about time you made an arrest.”
Joe agreed. He was tired of dead ends and zipped lips. He’d also visited Mr. Feinstein over the weekend to see how he was getting along after the break-in to his antique shop two weeks ago. “No complaints,” Mr. Feinstein had told him. But Joe didn’t know if he believed it. Still, there was no evidence to the contrary. Joe had searched the daily logbooks for any other indications of Black Hand Society–inspired blackmailing, and hadn’t found it.
Bending, Joe reached into the bottom of the box and scooped out a palm-sized oyster shell gilded on one side with gold, carved with a cartouche on the other. He slid it across Murphy’s desk. “Look familiar?”
“Should it?”
Frustration swelled. They’d talked about this not two months ago. “The Connor Boyle and Wade Martin case.”
Murphy’s grey eyes clouded with rebuke. “I’m not on that case, Detective, and neither are you. So would you like to tell me what you’re doing with evidence you have no business with?”
He’d like nothing better, in fact. A slow smile tugged at his lips. “I picked this up at Rosenberg’s along with the Horus statues. It came from Escalante, who has an exclusive agreement with Rosenberg, which means the shell Martin was holding had to have come from his shop. If someone else is working this case, why haven’t they made this connection already? Someone should have searched Martin’s place or Boyle’s for a receipt that would lead to Rosenberg. At the least, they could have canvassed the pawn and antique shops and asked about it.”
Murphy gestured toward the window separating them from a city of six million souls. “Do you have any idea how many of those are in Manhattan alone?”
Joe did, actually. “But this one is within walking distance of our station. It would not have taken much effort for the official investigator to find it. Seems like it’s not a priority.”
“Caravello. It is not your priority. I told you that months ago.”
Joe held up his hands in surrender. “I’m more than happy to let the assigned investigators do their job. But when breaks like this land in my lap, what am I supposed to do?”
The corners of Murphy’s mouth pulled down. He picked up the shell, studying the carved interior. “Aside from the gold—if that’s even real—this trinket is a piece of junk. It doesn’t mean anything and has no bearing on the main charge in Boyle’s arrest.”
“I hear you.” Joe lowered his voice. “It might be as inconsequential as Wade Martin’s loose change or the smokes in his pocket. Especially since he claimed never to have seen it before the night he was killed.”
As if inspired, Murphy lit his own cigarette and inhaled from it before blowing smoke from his mouth.
“But he also said Boyle dropped it into his drink that night. Now pair that with the fact that Boyle told me expressly not to look into it, and that’s a recipe for—”
“When?” Murphy held the cigarette to the side, holding it aloft while ashes flaked and fell. “When did he tell you that?”
“Thanksgiving night, sir. His aunt lives in my parents’ boardinghouse, and I drove her to visit him.”
Murphy rose, leaned his thick chest over the desk, and pointed with the smoking end of his Chesterfield. “You’re telling me that you discussed an open investigation with the accused when you knew it was strictly forbidden?”
Joe stood and faced him. “I’m telling you that I visited a man in jail on Thanksgiving, and he’s the one who brought it up. Scout’s honor, I even told him not to. But he was insistent on telling me to drop the oyster shell completely. If it didn’t matter, why should he be concerned?”
“Caravello!” Murphy’s fist pounded the desk. “Are you trying to get fired? Or is it my head on the platter you’re going for? This isn’t a game.”
Joe picked up the shell and set it back in the box. “The way I see it, I’m giving you valuable information for free. I’ll write up my report about finding this shell at Rosenberg’s and what he had to say about it. You can pass the report to the official investigating team.”
Murphy took another drag and blew through his nose. “Bring me Escalante,” he fumed.
“I intend to.” Joe heaved the box against one hip.
“Don’t include in your report that you talked to Boyle,” Murphy added. “And, Joe, for your own job security, do not talk to him again.”