The Metropolitan Affair by Jocelyn Green

Author:Jocelyn Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction;FIC042030;FIC026000;FIC014000
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2023-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

20

MONDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1925

Figaro” had been playing in Joe’s head ever since Saturday. He hoped he wasn’t wearing a grin to go with it now that he was back in uniform. Silencing the music in his head, he entered his boss’s office for their weekly meeting.

Garlands and bows festooned a half-sized Christmas tree in the corner. It even had ornaments on it for goodness’ sake. A nutcracker on the windowsill was painted in a blue uniform with brass buttons not unlike the NYPD’s. Cute.

“So who’s the woman in your life?” Joe asked, dropping into a chair.

“Hm?” The inspector glanced up, then at the Christmas decorations. “Ah, that would be my mother’s doing. You didn’t think I had time for any other dame, did you? Here. Help yourself.” Murphy slid a plate of sugar cookies across the desk.

Joe picked up a snowman-shaped treat smeared with yellow frosting, then turned it toward Murphy in question.

“My sister’s kids helped decorate this year,” Murphy explained. “She couldn’t convince them that yellow was for stars. Whaddya gonna do, right?”

Chuckling, Joe finished the cookie in two bites.

“It’s like this, Caravello.” Murphy leaned back. “I’m reading your reports every week, and I’m not seeing a lot of progress on the forgery front. How do you feel about that?”

Was that a trick question? How did Murphy think Joe felt about that? “Obviously, more progress would be better. But it’s a long game. Like most everything else worth doing, it takes time and patience. It took years to take down the Black Hand Society.”

“You’re not working on anything like the Black Hand Society. No one is being blackmailed or murdered. This is low-profile stuff. It’s not the type of crime that makes headlines, and it’s certainly not the type city hall funds.”

“Crime is crime, right, Inspector? No one is dying in petty theft or parking violations, but we enforce those laws, too. The break will come, we’ve just got to be ready for it.”

“Uh-huh.” Murphy opened a folder of Joe’s reports. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Here are the forgeries you’ve found so far. An alabaster ointment jar, belonging to Newell St. John. Found November 14, but determined to be forged in Egypt decades ago. Canopic jars belonging to Thomas Sanderson, found on December 2. Forger at large. Horus statues at Rosenberg’s Family Heirlooms, brought in December 7—but Escalante, who brought them to Rosenberg, also remains at large. Then there’s a Book of the Dead papyrus belonging to Ray Moretti, found November 23, which he isn’t willing to part with.” He looked up. “Did I miss anything?”

“The oyster shell Wade Martin had when he was killed.”

“Right.” But Murphy’s expression suggested he wasn’t counting that. “Not your case.”

“But did anyone follow up with Rosenberg to confirm Martin bought that from his shop?” Maybe it had been Connor, after all, since neither man had confessed ownership. “Maybe whoever bought it mentioned why they would spring for it. A piece like that seems like a conversation starter. Please tell me someone’s looking into it.

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