by Jenn Bennett
“Everyone has invitations,” Hadley whispered.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Please do, because I think I see someone I know in a car that just pulled up.”
Lowe groaned. All they needed was someone to blow their cover. Big, public con jobs were so much more trouble than the intimate ones. He watched the line for a break, and when no one was paying attention, quickly prodded Hadley forward to skip several couples.
The doorman looked up and smiled. “Good evening.”
“It will be once we’re inside,” Lowe said, matching the man’s enthusiasm. “Damn cold night. Say, I hate to be trouble, but my assistant here accidentally left our invitation at the hotel. It’s my fault, really. We drove up from Los Angeles this afternoon, and I guess it was a longer trip than I thought, because I fell asleep in the room when I should’ve been changing clothes.”
“Well, it’s just that—”
“Then when she rang me to say that the car was ready, I had to scramble to get ready and we barely made it here on time. Anyway, if you really need the invitation, I’m sure we can telephone the Palace Hotel inside the lobby and ask one of the managers to open the room and verify it’s there.”
The attendant glanced at the impatient people in line behind them and scratched his ear.
“We’re booked under Columbia Pictures, if you want to call the hotel yourself,” Lowe added.
“Columbia?” He glanced at Hadley’s fur and extended an arm into the lobby. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Please, do come in.”
Well. That wasn’t so bad, after all.
Lowe led Hadley inside. Green patterned carpet spanned the spacious lobby. Lots of columns. Bronze Egyptian bas-relief on the walls. A train of attendees headed up and down an attractive staircase to a curved landing where drinks and finger food were being served. But it was what was on display at the back of the lobby that captured Lowe’s attention.
Sammy Levin’s private collection.
Hadley was right. They all shared a common obsession, all right. Mr. Levin’s, however, leaned toward the surreal. The centerpiece of his collection was a massive Egyptian throne with thick, carved arms lined with lotus blossoms. The sign above identified it as a prop from the movie Cleopatra, which meant that Theda Bara’s barely covered ass once sat upon that wood. How Mr. Levin managed to obtain it wasn’t much of a mystery, because lining the shelves around the throne was an expensive, if not eclectic, mix of Egyptian objects, from painted Hollywood paste to some statuary that looked very ancient, and very real.
Mr. Levin was loaded.
And with pockets deep enough to not only build a handful of neighborhood theaters like this but also acquire treasures that rightly belonged in Hadley’s antiquities wing. “Did you know he had all this?” Lowe whispered in Hadley’s ear.
“He’s outbid the museum on a few occasions,” she said. “Nothing big. A few pieces of jewelry and a broken funerary mask. I’d heard he has little academic knowledge of what he collects. He’s like a small boy in a toy store. He just desires and takes what he wants. The glitzier, the better.”
Hadley hadn’t met the man in person—Lowe knew that much. She’d said she caught a glimpse of him at a charity function last year, and had heard rumors he might be missing a few marbles upstairs. People said he had secret living quarters on the second floor of the theater and could sometimes be spotted in the balcony drinking whiskey in his bathrobe between shows.
Lowe could clearly imagine one of the canopic jars sitting pretty among all of this strange mix of old and new. But his curiosity warred with a renewed itch that they were being trailed. Would Dr. Bacall’s old partner dare attack them with magical creatures in a public place like this?
Best find the damned thing and get out. Fast.
After scanning the crowd for suspicious eyes, Lowe protectively drew Hadley closer and joined the line of people filing past the uniformed police guarding the display shelves. Half of them didn’t have any idea of the worth that sat inches away from their fingers. Hell, most folks just wanted their photograph taken as they perched on the throne. Hollywood trumped dusty relics.
Fine by him. It left half the exhibition wide open for their perusal. His gaze skipped over the objects, looking for the distinctive urn. But as they rounded a bay of shelves, Lowe’s eyes fixed on something else. Something horribly, horribly familiar.
The golden crocodile statue.
Levin was Monk’s silent customer.
No. It couldn’t be. Absolutely impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could will it away, then looked again. Oh, yes. It was the crocodile. And since he knew for a fact that the other statue—the real crocodile—was resting in a display case in New York, this had to be Adam’s forgery.
Lowe’s entire body seemed to catch fire from within. He loosened his tie, momentarily numb as panic jumbled his thoughts. He wiped his brow and glanced behind him. Okay, all wasn’t lost. All they had to do was find the damn urn and run for the door. And maybe it wasn’t even here. Maybe Hadley had guessed wrong. He swung back around to suggest it, only to find her leaning inches away from the shelf, staring at the crocodile.
“Lowe,” she whispered. “This looks exactly like the Late Period statue that was stolen from the tomb at Faiyum. How in the world did it end up here?”
He stood mute, feeling dangerously unsteady, as if the floor had liquefied beneath his feet. His body flashed from hot to cool. Sweat coated his skin.
He’d have to tell her now. And when he did, she’d suspect forgery with the amulet. She’d know he’d been planning to cheat her father, and she’d hate him for it. For the past week, he’d been thinking he was uncomfortable about all the sneaking around he’d been doing to keep their affair hidden, but that was only half the problem, wasn’t it? That was him lying to himself about lying to her, thinking that he could somehow juggle all the deceptions and sweep the forgeries under the proverbial rug. That he could cancel his debt to Monk and help Hadley’s father, all without her knowing. Which would’ve been a fine plan if it were only a simple affair.
But somewhere between the time he first saw her in the train station and the last night he’d slept in her bed, it became so much more, and now he was well and truly fucked.
He was going to lose her over this. He should’ve just told her. She’d understood about Adam and Stella—maybe she would’ve understood this, too. But not now. It was too late.
He was an idiot. A goddamn idiot.
A tall, thin man in full tails approached. At his temples, two gray streaks ran through dark hair, swooping up like wings. “Good evening,” he said. “Are you enjoying my collection?”
“Mr. Levin,” Hadley answered, one octave too high.
Helvete.
Levin squinted at Hadley. “Have we met? You look terribly familiar, my dear.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“We’ve just arrived from Los Angeles today,” Lowe quickly said, somehow gathering the wherewithal to pull himself together.
“Yes, from Columbia Studios—is that right? The doorman told one of my men, and I had to come meet you myself. What exactly do you do?”
Terrific. The man would know they’d lied about leaving the invitation at the hotel, wouldn’t he? Lowe stuck out his hand and quickly concocted a second story. “James Anderson, producer. And this my assistant, Miss Black. We’re here to scout locations for a mystery picture. Heard about your gala and decided to drop by. Hope you don’t mind that we showed up uninvited.”
“Of course not. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
Might’ve been Lowe’s imagination, but Levin seemed to squeeze his hand a little too hard. He reminded himself that Monk often conducted silent deals, and surely hadn’t given out Lowe’s name. So there was no reason to panic.
Levin’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your pictu
re about, exactly?”
Lowe summarized a Dashiell Hammett serial from Black Mask magazine about a hard-boiled private detective solving a missing gem case on the streets of San Francisco. Levin appeared to be listening. Hadley, however, did not. Throughout Lowe’s story, she stole several curious glances at the crocodile statue, and upon hearing Levin’s enthusiastic response to Lowe’s fake script, stepped forward and pointed to the statue.
“Pardon, Mr. Levin,” she said. “But I’m quite taken with this. Where in the world did you acquire such a thing?”
“My dear, it’s funny you should ask. I purchased it from a man who deals in, shall we say, under-the-table sales of antiquities.”
“Oh, my.”
Levin crossed his arms and leaned closer to Hadley.
“Have I shocked you?” Levin asked her. “Because it quite shocked me when my lawyer discovered the paperwork was not in order. And it shocked me even more when I heard there was another statue just like it rumored to be in the private collection of a Scottish laird now living in Manhattan.”
“A forgery?” Hadley squinted at the statue. “How intriguing. It looks quite original.”
Levin smiled. “Doesn’t it? Your partner here does excellent work.”
A silence hung between the three of them, one that ballooned inside the stuffy theater lobby until it muted everything. It wasn’t the first time Lowe had been in situations like this—in which he needed to make a split-second decision to either bullshit his way around the problem or flee. But damned if he wasn’t rooted to the floor right now without a single word on his tongue.
All at once, everything suddenly slipped out of his reach. His money. His future. His pride. And from the look on her face, Hadley herself.
And, as if God hadn’t smote him well and good enough already, a dark-headed man in a long brown coat stepped out from Levin’s shadow.
“Good to see you again, Magnusson. Was worried you might be avoiding me.”
Monk Morales.
Not Bacall’s ex-partner following them, after all. If Lowe’s world hadn’t just fallen apart, he might’ve laughed at the irony; he’d used Velma’s last mojo bag on the wrong person.
Levin nodded to a couple of policemen guarding his collection and spoke to Lowe. “Why don’t the four of us have a little talk in my office upstairs. These officers will make sure we aren’t interrupted.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
HADLEY DIDN’T SAY A word as Levin led them into a locked hallway on the second floor of the theater. Surely this was all wrong. There was an explanation of some sort. A good reason. She remembered back to that afternoon they’d eaten clam chowder at the wharf, and Mrs. Alioto had mentioned Monk Morales was looking for him. Lowe had trivialized it. Made it sound like it was nothing.
Running a forgery ring was not her idea of nothing.
In her mind, Lowe’s face splintered into two images: the Lowe she knew—the one she’d given her body and heart to—and the Lowe she’d pictured before they ever met. The digger. Treasure hunter. Part of a family of criminals.
Forger.
Levin unlocked a door. The policemen waited outside while she trailed Lowe and Mr. Morales into a grand office that had dark wood, expensive rugs, a fireplace, and a ridiculously dramatic desk that took up half the room. The walls were lined with shelves. Mostly books, but a few stray Egyptian pieces. No canopic jars. And at the moment, she couldn’t even make herself care.
Levin paused in front of the fireplace. He warmed his hands for a moment, and then settled behind his enormous desk, looking more like a king than a theater owner in his high-backed leather chair. “I must say, Miss Bacall, I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have friends in such low places.”
Her shoulders went rigid. “You know who I am?”
“Spitting image of your mother. My late wife was friendly with her. They used to rub elbows at museum parties.”
Maybe it was his late wife who acquired the canopic jar from her mother.
Levin reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a cigar. “And everyone knows your father, of course. We run into each other in New York now and then. Or we used to, when he’d make the trip out East to bid on pieces for the museum.”
“He’s never spoken of you,” she said tartly.
Levin snipped off the tip of his cigar. “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him. But when Monk’s men reported hearing about the two of you”—he nodded at Lowe—“gallivanting around town together, I was surprised. Does Dr. Bacall know you’re making time with a con artist? Because I would think the museum would frown upon such affiliations. Could tarnish their reputation—especially if word got out that Mr. Magnusson is playing the forgery game.”
“Leave her out of this,” Lowe said. “She has no knowledge of any of it. And frankly, Mr. Levin, I didn’t make the deal with you—this matter is between Monk and me.”
“It damn sure is,” Monk said, pushing the brim of his hat high on his brow until it looked as if it might fall off his head. “And what are you gonna do to square it?”
“The only thing I can do. Return your money.” Lowe narrowed his eyes and raised his hand as if to calm the air between them. “I can stop by your place and give you half in cash tomorrow—”
“I don’t want my money back,” Levin said, throwing the cigar on his desk like an overgrown child. “I want the real statue.”
“Not mine to give,” Lowe said.
“Is that right?” Levin snagged the base of his candlestick telephone and angrily set it down in front of him with a thud. “Then shall I call the Scottish collector myself and let him know there’s a possibility his crocodile is a forgery, as well?”
Lowe closed his eyes briefly and exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “Listen—”
“How long have you been doing this?” Hadley said, interrupting the conversation. She really didn’t care if the other men were gangsters or kings. “How long?”
Lowe’s face turned toward hers. “Hadley—”
“Is that what you’re doing with all the finds you bring back from Egypt?”
“No. No,” he repeated. “I’ll tell you everything.” His voice was low. Eyes, pleading. “Please. Just let me talk to Monk.”
All at once, the heat left her body as her mind drew a line from the crocodile statue to the reason they were at the theater. “The amulet,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her fingers. “That too?”
“Hadley—”
She jerked away from his reach. “Tell me, right now. Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t going to cheat my father. That you weren’t going to let him hand you a check while . . .” God, she couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk. “Please tell me that you weren’t going to let him die to make a dollar.”
Lowe rushed for her as she tried to back up. He managed to grabbed her hand and pull it against his chest. She could feel his heart racing. “I swear to all things holy, I wasn’t. I mean, I was—at the beginning. I needed the money, and fast. I didn’t know you, or your father. I didn’t know this would happen between us.”
Her eyes blurred. “But it did.”
“And I changed my plans to go through with it,” Lowe insisted, his bright blue eyes rapidly darting back and forth, as he intently tried to trap her gaze. “I couldn’t—wouldn’t. God, Hadley, please believe me. I promised you I wouldn’t lie when this hand is holding yours.”
“You should’ve told me!” Hadley jerked away from his grip and swiped at her eyes. Hurt and anger shredded her good sense into tiny pieces that blew away like confetti. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. And like a siren’s call, her swell of grief called to the specters, clanging a silent alarm. She felt them come: shadows slithering in the corners of the room . . . dark shapes shifting in the background of her bleary vision. The temperature in the cozy office dropped several degrees.
>
“Your personal problems are riveting,” Levin said dryly. “And I’m sure your father will be thrilled to hear that you’re consorting with men like Magnusson. But unless you want the entire city to know, I suggest you convince your beau here to do what I’ve asked. I want the real statue. Immediately.”
Lowe ignored the man and held his hands out as she backed away. “Hadley, don’t. Take a deep breath. You can kill me later if you want, but don’t hurt them. You’ll regret it.”
“You should’ve told me,” she repeated. A black sea of Mori specters covered the room, climbing the bookshelves. Scurrying across the ceiling. Rising up from the floor. Their half-human shapes circled Lowe.
They were so hungry.
Hadley’s control was slipping. She heard an anguished growl and was distantly aware it came from her.
“What the hell is going on?” Levin mumbled.
“Magnusson,” Monk barked. “If you ever want to work again, you’d better pay attention. I want my money back, and Levin wants the real statue. Get your ass over here and start making calls.”
“Hadley, please. Count if you need to,” Lowe said.
She was beyond counting. Or caring.
“I’m not screwing around.” Monk’s arm lifted. Metal clicked.
Hadley swiveled in time to see a gun pointed in Lowe’s direction. And that’s when she snapped.
The Mori swarmed to a shelf near Monk and pushed a vase over the edge. It tumbled through the air and shattered on his shoulder, sending out a shower of ceramic shards.
“Arghhhh!” Monk stumbled as the gun flew from his hand.
Lowe lunged after it, while Levin leapt up from his chair with a confused shout.
And in the scuffle, Hadley gave the Mori their freedom. They’re yours, she thought.
Their collective dark shiver reverberated through her bones.
Books shot off the shelves, pages flapping—leather-bound bullets sailing from every direction, pummeling the three men. Monk’s knees buckled. He fell to the floor under a pile of books. Glass shattered. Light bulbs popped, shrouding the room in shadow, but for the orange glow flickering in the fireplace.
