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 picture 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.”