Homicide in Hardcover (4 page)

He blocked my path again. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“And you’re going to stop me?”

“It appears I already have,” he said with another one of his smirks.

I threw up my hands and stormed around the room. “You are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.” I turned and pointed at him. “No, wait. I haven’t actually met you, have I? I don’t have a clue who you are and yet you slander and falsely imprison me just because-”

“Enough already.” He pulled a sterling silver card holder from the breast pocket of his expensive black suit and handed it to me. “Derek Stone.”

I read it aloud. “Stone Security. Derek Stone, Principal.” Underneath his name it said COMMANDER, ROYAL NAVY, RET. On the next line it said SECURITY AND INVESTIGATIONS. and in smaller letters in the lower left-hand corner the card said A DIVISION OF CAUSEWAY CORNWALL INTERNATIONAL.

I looked up at him. “Causeway Cornwall is the underwriter for the Winslow exhibition.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at me as if I were a particularly bright three-year-old. “And Stone Security specializes in arts and antiquities. There were certain security issues that required my team’s presence at the opening tonight. We’re working hand in hand with the local police.”

I resisted groaning. “So why didn’t you just say so, Commander?”

He shrugged. “I was having such a good time, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

I rolled my eyes, stuck his business card in my pocket, took a breath and cautiously held out my hand. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright.”

He started to take my hand, but stopped abruptly. I looked down and again saw the blood caked on my fingers.

The door swung open with a bang.

“Brooklyn, there you are! Oh my God!” Robin, tears streaming, ran across the room and pulled me into her arms. “I just heard about Abraham. It can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” I whispered, and lost it for real. I sobbed on her shoulder, finally releasing all the tears that had been choking me.

We stayed like that, hugging and rocking back and forth, for a few minutes, until Robin sniffled and said in a low voice, “Leave it to Abraham to make this exhibit unforgettable.”

I gave her a watery smile. “He always was a showman.”

She hiccupped and we both laughed; then fresh tears erupted.

“Forgive me, ladies,” Derek interrupted. I’d forgotten he was still there, observing our emotional water-works. I refused to care what he thought of us.

“Who’s Double-Oh-Seven?” Robin whispered in my ear.

I sniffed. “Security.”

“Extremely hot,” she said.

“A jerk,” I countered. “And touchy.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Derek coughed discreetly. “The local police will question you now, Ms. Wainwright.”

Oh boy.

“Why are they questioning you?” Robin asked.

“I-I found him,” I said, and stared at my hands.

She shrank back. “Oh my God! Brooklyn, no! Is that his blood? Oh my God.”

I felt my lip trembling and looked up at Derek. “Can I wash my hands first?”

“It’s evidence,” he said, his voice cool. “Leave it.”

Homicide inspector Nathan Jaglow, tall, probably in his fifties, with short, curly gray hair and a sad smile, was a very patient man. His partner, Inspector Janice Lee, was Asian American, pretty but painfully thin, with long, lustrous black hair. They took notes, asked questions and occasionally made me repeat myself, just so they could write my words down exactly as I’d stated them.

They’d commandeered another binder’s workroom and they sat across from me at a high worktable. I didn’t know whether they were both pretending to play good cop until someone else showed up to play bad cop, but I liked them. Unlike Derek Stone, they seemed to believe me when I insisted I hadn’t killed Abraham. However, that didn’t keep them from asking me to go over my story in minute detail several times.

Early on, a crime scene technician swabbed my hands in order to test the blood to see if it matched Abraham’s. I was allowed to wash my hands in the workroom sink, which made me feel somewhat better. I could now look at my hands without sliding to the floor.

Jaglow held up a large Ziploc baggie. Inside was a ten-inch knife with a wide, rounded blade. “Can you tell me what this is?”

The knife was smeared with blood.

And there went my stomach again.

“Deep breaths, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said, her gravelly voice calm and strangely seductive. “I know it’s difficult but we really need your expertise right now. Take your time.”

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and repeated that several times, telling myself to relax.

“It’s called a-a Japanese paper knife,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse. “It’s made in Japan.” Duh, I thought. I took a sip of water and continued. “It’s used to cut paper.” Again, duh. I could no longer think straight.

“You’re doing great,” Inspector Jaglow said. “So this is a tool used for cutting paper. Paper used in making or repairing books, I presume.”

I nodded. “Is that what killed him?”

He paused for a moment, then said, “We still need to determine that.”

“He was shot, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said evenly.

“But the blood on the knife…” I gulped.

“He might’ve grabbed it,” she said, apparently unconcerned that her partner was glowering at her. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Wainwright?”

“What? No.” The only gun I’d seen lately belonged to Derek Stone, but he was one of them. Or so he’d said.

Jaglow’s eyes narrowed in on me. “What are you thinking, Ms. Wainwright?”

I chewed my lip, unsure what to say next. They’d worn out my last nerve. All I could picture was Abraham, so happy tonight, so glad we were friends again. I wanted to hug him and hear him laugh. Against my will, tears sprang to my eyes.

The two cops exchanged glances.

“I guess that’s enough for tonight,” Jaglow said as he stood and slipped his notebook into his back pocket. The action pulled his jacket back and I could see his gun in the holster under his arm. Yet another reminder that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “We’ve got your contact information and I assume you’re not leaving town anytime soon?”

Was that cop humor? I’d probably laugh about it later.

“No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Really. Anything you want to know, please call me. I want to help find whoever did this.”

“We appreciate that.” They led me out of the workroom and pointed the way back down the hall to the room where I’d left Robin and Derek Stone.

Derek came out into the hall just then, and as he passed me, he whispered, “I’ll be watching you like a hawk, Ms. Wainwright.”

My stomach knotted up. I didn’t know where to turn. Uniformed police officers stood guard in front of several of the doors to the different studios. Yellow crime scene tape was strewn across the double doors at the far end.

“Commander,” Inspector Lee called. “We’d like to meet in here if that’s acceptable to you.”

I turned in disbelief. They actually called him Commander? And cared about his preferences? I’d thought he might be lying, but he really was working with the local cops. I was so screwed.

I surreptitiously clenched my fists as I continued the long walk down the hall. It wasn’t pleasant to recall how many ways I’d insulted the commander, but at least those thoughts distracted me from the highly disturbing fact that I’d blatantly lied to two San Francisco homicide inspectors tonight.

Okay, maybe I hadn’t exactly lied, but if omission was a sin, I was guilty as charged. Not once, but twice.

First of all, I’d never mentioned to Inspectors Jaglow and Lee the words Abraham said before he died. I tried to convince myself the reason I’d left out that little detail was that I couldn’t be sure exactly what Abraham had said.

But that was me, lying to myself. He’d said, “Remember the devil.” I’d never forget it. But what did he mean? Maybe he’d been referring to the book.
Faust
was the story of a man who sold his soul to the devil. Did I need to read the book? Maybe there was something in there that would give me the first clue to what he’d been talking about. Who was the devil? And why was I supposed to remember him?

My mind was spinning and I realized I was seriously exhausted. I would need a good night’s sleep before I could begin to figure out what the words meant.

I stopped, leaned against the wall of the overly bright hallway, closed my eyes and faced the truth. Omitting Abraham’s last words to the inspector had nothing to do with the real reason why I felt truly sick with guilt.

No, the real sin of omission occurred when I’d neglected to tell the police that I had seen and spoken to the one person who had the means and opportunity to actually murder Abraham Karastovsky.

My mother.

Standing by myself in the long hall, I was abruptly aware of a disturbance in the Force. Chilled, I scanned the hallway in both directions. I’d felt this way before and knew that Minka LaBoeuf was somewhere in the vicinity. I couldn’t see her but it didn’t matter. She was close. Too close. I could smell the sulfur.

Then she walked out of the workroom two doors down from Abraham’s and spied me through the crowd of police officers milling around. Adrenaline spiked. The exhaustion I’d felt seconds ago was history as an overwhelming urge to attack her, to punch her in the stomach and run, took over. It totally irked me that the woman could fuel my rage faster than anyone I’d ever known, just by walking into the room.

As she walked toward me, Minka twirled a strand of hair around her middle finger, something she’d always done when she was nervous. Good to know she wasn’t as confident as she tried to appear to be. And how had I missed the fact that under her short black leather jacket she wore a skintight black catsuit tucked into thigh-high black boots?

Was the world ready for Minka the Dominatrix?

Her lips were slathered in coral lipstick and she’d ringed her eyes with black kohl. As she came closer, I could see the body suit straining at the seams near her stomach. Was it wrong to be gleeful over the fact that she’d put on weight?

“Well, if it isn’t Ms. High-and-Mighty herself,” she said in that distinctively whiny voice that never failed to boil my blood. “Karma’s a real bitch, isn’t it?”

“You ought to know,” I said. As comebacks went, that one sucked, but I was off my game.

She giggled and I shuddered. Her smile had always caused me more apprehension than her animosity did. It wasn’t her fault, but the left side of her upper lip naturally curled up so that when she smiled, she looked like a snarling dingo.

Fear was a perfectly reasonable reaction, but I tried not to show it.

She studied me. “I probably shouldn’t be seen chatting with you, now that you’re a murder suspect. It could ruin my reputation.”

“We’re not chatting, and your reputation was ruined a long time ago.” I sighed. Seriously, if I was going to trade barbs with Minka LaBoeuf, I needed to regroup.

“What are you doing down here, Minka?” I asked wearily.

“I work here,” she said with a sneer. “That’s more than I can say for you. I belong here. You don’t. So you’re not the one calling the shots this time. This time it’s
your
ass on the hot seat. How does that make you feel, Brooks?”

“Don’t call me Brooks,” I snapped. Brooks was the nickname my family and close friends used. Like my old college boyfriend. The same boyfriend Minka had been so obsessed with that she’d picked up a wide-blade X-Acto knife and stabbed me in the hand.

“Whatever,” she said.

I noticed some of her coral lipstick had migrated to her tooth and it gave me the strength to lob another round of insults her way.

“I know reality isn’t your forte,” I said. “But let me remind you that Abraham Karastovsky fired you from the Winslow job and I know that pissed you off.”

“And your point, as if I care?”

“Now you’re stuck in archives and we all know that’s the bottom of the barrel.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Right. But see, here on earth we call that motive and I’m sure the police would love to hear all about it.”

Her upper lip twitched and curled as her self-assurance slipped. She moved even closer and snapped her fingers back and forth in front of my face like some jive diva. “And I am so sure they would love to know who Abraham was hooking up with in his workshop earlier tonight.”

Every nerve ending in my body jumped into high alert. Had she seen my mother down here? But Mom had insisted that Abraham didn’t show up, so what was Minka talking about?

I grabbed her arm and whispered through clenched teeth, “Be careful, Minka.”

She pulled away from me. “Or what? You’ll kill me, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But I could see how someone could be pushed to the brink with her.

“Really? We both know you’d like nothing better than to-”

“Brooklyn?”

We both jumped back as Ian approached from down the hall. “Just the person I was looking for. Oh, hi, Minka.”

Minka made a sound of disgust, then took off in the opposite direction, her shoulders rigid, the heels of her hooker boots pounding the hardwood surface as she fled.

“Where’s she going?” Ian asked, frowning as he watched her stalk away.

“Straight to hell, I hope.”

We both watched as a uniformed officer stopped Minka from going any farther. After a few tense words back and forth, he escorted her into a workroom, for questioning, I assumed. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried, but decided to go with worried.

I turned to Ian. “What a horrible night, huh?”

“Huh?” He looked at me in complete surprise as though he hadn’t realized I was standing there. This was the charmingly befuddled Ian I knew and loved.

We’d been engaged several years ago for almost six months until I took pity on him and broke it off. Thankfully, we were still good friends and if he was being honest, he’d concede he’d never been in love with me.

He’d professed his so-called love shortly after watching me produce an exact copy of a Dubuisson binding, right down to the gilded imprinting of one of Dubuisson’s “one o’clock birds.” Ian was easily impressed, though I must admit I was damn good.

See, Pierre-Paul Dubuisson was an eighteenth-century bookbinder, the royal binder to Louis XV of France. And one of his most celebrated signature designs was that of a bird with wings extended, facing one o’clock. The “one o’clock birds.”

Only a fellow book geek would get excited about something like that, and Ian was geekier than most. I could picture our kids, scary little Poindexter types with leather-stained hands and annoying tics and constant questions. No, I’d done us all a favor by breaking up with him.

“Brooklyn?”

“Huh?” I blinked up at him. “Sorry, I zoned out.” Did I tell you we were a pair? “What’s up?”

“It’s about the
Faust.”

I shivered. “What about it?”

“I need you to take over the restoration. Can you start tomorrow?”

“But…” What could I say? Images of Abraham passed like a slide show in my head. The party atmosphere earlier. The hugs. The shared laughter. Doris Bondurant playfully slugging him. Then the fear. Finding him dying. The whispered phrase. The book slipping out of his jacket. Then death. And blood. So much blood.

The curse.

“Ian, you know I would help if I could, but…”

His expression was sorrowful. “I know, I know. I hate to even ask.”

He slung his arm around my shoulder and led me down the hall, away from the curious glances of the police. “The Winslows are threatening to pull the book from the exhibit if it’s not ready by next week’s official opening. I really need to know if you can do it.”

“Of course I can do it,” I said quickly. “That’s not the issue. There’s, you know, Abraham to consider.”

It seemed to me, stepping in to take the place of a murdered friend carried a fairly high creep factor with it.

“I know, babe,” he said, running both hands through his hair in frustration. “But there’s no one else I can count on.”

“The Winslows can’t pull the book, can they?”

“You haven’t met them, have you?” he asked warily.

“Yes. No.” I stopped walking and looked up at him. “But the
Faust
is the most important book in the collection. It doesn’t matter if it’s restored or not. It’s already a work of art. Display it as is.”

“Believe me, I’d love to, but they don’t see it that way. Mrs. Winslow said she wants it to look pretty.” He shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

He had a point. On the other hand, if there weren’t “civilians” out there wanting me to make their old books look pretty, I’d be out of work.

“You’ll be paid well,” he said.

“You know I don’t care about that.”

Then he quoted the salary he was willing to pay me and I knew I’d be a complete idiot not to take it. Yes, the timing was unfortunate. And yes, I was about to sacrifice my principles for money. So sue me, but the job needed to be done and I wasn’t about to let it go to somebody else.

I smiled tightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always.”

He grinned and gave me a chuck on the chin. “Good stuff, you.”

It was a classic Ian thing to do and say, and it brought home the fact that Ian wasn’t a laid-back Californian but an upper-crust, old-school Bostonian, out of his element in the land of fruits and nuts. I imagined he grew up in a stately home where his parents and siblings greeted one another with cries of “hail, fellow” and “pip-pip” and “cheerio, old bean.”

“Do you mind if we discuss the details tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m really beat.”

He gave in with a nod. “Sure. Why don’t you come by my office around ten tomorrow morning and we’ll talk?” Then he surprised me by pulling me close for a hug. My eyes began tearing up again, so I took a deep breath and stepped back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

He slugged my arm gently. “Thanks, kiddo.”

While Robin took a shower in my guest bathroom, I did what I always did when I was completely at my wits’ end and unsure what to do next.

I worked.

Robin had kindly insisted on spending the night and I was frankly grateful for the company. So now I focused my camera lens on the medical treatise I’d been working on this afternoon, trying to get a good shot of the book’s tattered foredge.

“How can you concentrate on work?” she asked as she came into the room rubbing a towel over her wet hair. I had to marvel that even in my old chenille bathrobe, she looked like a party girl.

And since I was closer to her than I was to my own two sisters, I didn’t mind confessing, “I’m working so I can keep from seeing him dying over and over again in my mind.”

“Oh, honey.” She gave me a tight hug. “Keep working, then. I’ll just wander.”

“Help yourself to wine if you want.”

She disappeared down the hall and was back in two minutes with glasses for both of us.

“Your place is great,” she said as she strolled through the room, moving from window to window to check the view from the sixth floor of what was formerly a corset warehouse, now converted to trendy artists’ lofts.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” I glanced around with more than a little pride. I’d fallen in love with the place six months ago after I’d decided to concentrate on my own book restoration and conservation business. The wa-a-ay South of Market Street neighborhood was, hmm, eclectic, as my mother would say instead of admitting it was downright scary and no place for her daughter to live.

Despite Mom’s fears, I’d taken the plunge and was now the very proud owner of one-eighth of the top floor of the six-story brick building. The open, sunny, warehouse-sized front room was perfect for my studio. It was filled with all my book presses and worktables and benches and tool racks and leather rolls and supply cabinets and bookshelves, along with an office desk and chair.

My living area in back had massive skylights, lots of windows, a huge bathroom and a view of the bay so breathtaking it made the slightly seedy environs and semiweekly frantic phone calls from my mother completely worth enduring. Add a mere six-block walk to the Giants’ ballpark and that was enough to sway my father’s opinion in my favor.

And so far, I loved all my neighbors. How often did that happen?

I watched as Robin checked that the front door was still locked. A minute later, I could hear her fiddling around in the kitchen.

While she was gone I had another troubling vision of Abraham dying in front of me and felt more disturbed than ever. I wondered how I was supposed to sleep, tonight or ever again.

I tried to feel some pleasure and satisfaction that Ian had singled me out to restore the
Faust
. But at what cost? I hated that Abraham and I had repaired our friendship only to have him die in my arms.

At that moment, I vowed that I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d brought his killer to justice. Even if the police never found the bastard, I swore I would track him down and make him pay.

Robin returned with a small plate of cheese, crackers and olives.

“Hey, thanks.”

“I know you were dreaming of Chinese food, but this will be healthier.”

I acknowledged the truth with a grunt and a sip of wine as she cruised back to the front window and checked the street scene below. A few seconds later, I heard her gasp.

“What’s wrong?”

She whipped around. “Don’t panic. But Derek Stone followed us home.”

I almost choked on my wine. “What’re you talking about?”

“Did I stutter? Brooklyn, the man followed us home.”

“What-why?”

“Because he got lost? Because he’s a jerk? Because he’s a serial killer? Never mind. Come here and see for yourself. That’s his car parked across the street.”

I jumped off the high chair and turned the lights out, then joined her at the window. She’d pulled the curtain back so I could stare out at the well-lighted street. A couple was just leaving Pho Kim, the Vietnamese restaurant across the street. I ate there all the time. Incredible prawns and Bahn Hoi to die for, but that probably wasn’t relevant just now.

I watched two people staring at the display in the window of the Afro-Pop Bookstore. A woman walked her dog nearby. It was a comfortable, diverse neighborhood where people walked and shopped and lived and worked and generally didn’t worry about strange men sitting alone in ridiculously expensive cars.

“Okay, there’s definitely a black car parked there.” I didn’t know a Bentley from a baboon, so I wasn’t willing to admit more than that. “How do you know it’s him?”

“Oh, please.” She put her fist on her hip. “A brand-new black Continental GT Bentley does not escape my notice, nor does the driver.”

“I get that.” Robin did know her status symbols. “But how do you know that Derek Stone is driving that particular car?”