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.”