The Book Stops Here (13 page)

She pursed her lips sardonically. “Now, why am I not surprised that you’ve already got a theory worked out?”

I had known what her reaction would be, but I bristled, anyway. “It’s not a theory, Inspector,” I said flatly. “Vera’s killer attacked me in the studio parking lot two days ago. He specifically mentioned that he’d seen that news segment the night before and that’s why he was threatening to kill me.”

She stopped writing midsentence. “Wait. Somebody attacked you? Threatened to kill you? Were you hurt? Why am I just hearing about this?”

I held on to my dignity, but I was ridiculously pleased to hear real worry in her voice. It meant a lot.

It was odd and a little upsetting that with each crime scene, Inspector Lee and I would start out almost as adversaries. Then slowly, throughout the process of solving the crime, we would rebuild the trust we’d had before and she would see me more as a cohort than a suspect. And then the mystery was resolved, the guilty party was carted off to jail, and Lee and I would go our separate ways. I just wished that the next time we saw each other at a crime scene, she would remember that we weren’t enemies.

I quickly knocked on wood that there
wouldn’t
be a next time.

“I was attacked in the parking lot of Peapod Studios, where we tape
This Old Attic
,” I explained. “The security guard was knocked to the ground. He was hurt worse than I was, but I came away with bruises on my chin and my arms.”

“Criminy, Brooklyn,” Inspector Lee said, her concern growing. “Who was this guy?”

“He’s a horrible man,” I said, scowling at the memory. “A big, ugly brute who threatened to kill me and Vera.” I waved my hand in the direction of Vera’s body lying on the floor. “Clearly, he acted on his threat.”

“But who is he?” she asked again.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know his name. Vera knew, or at least she knew his address.”

“How did she know him?”

“She told me she bought the book at his garage sale.”

Inspector Lee nodded slowly as she wrote down that detail.

I continued. “After the attack, the police came to the studio. I told them to talk to Vera and get the guy’s name and address. They assured me they were going to talk to her that afternoon or the next day. That all happened two days ago.”

“Do you remember the names of the cops you talked to?”

“Yes. Stern and Wilkins. The studio is at the base of Potrero Hill, so I guess they work out of whatever police station is closest.”

“Good.” She wrote down the names, then looked up at me. “Now tell me why this guy was threatening Vera.”

“She found the book at his garage sale for three dollars,” I explained again. “I appraised it on the show for twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“What the hell? What’s with these damn books?”

“They’re art,” I said. “They’re rare. Collectors are willing to pay a lot of money to own them.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She brushed back her hair with one hand and exhaled in exasperation. “It’s always got to be about a book with you.”

“Books are my job!” I cried in frustration. “I work with books every day.”

She grinned suddenly and I could tell that her happiness stemmed from being able to get a rise out of me. In some circles, that would brand her a sociopath, but I let it go. I liked her. We usually got along just fine, despite the barbs. She simply enjoyed giving me grief, as my brothers did. If we were in second grade, she would probably chase me around the playground, throwing rocks at me. And in second-grade parlance, that meant she liked me.

“The point is,” I began patiently, “the guy who attacked me admitted right out loud that he’d seen that news segment Monday night. He threatened to kill me and Vera if we didn’t give him the book. And now Vera is dead.”

“Right. I’m pretty clear on everything now.” She glanced around the shop again. “Do you think he found the book?”

“I know for certain that he didn’t because the book is at home in my safe.”

That stopped her. “You have the missing book.”

“It’s never been missing.”

“Wainwright, you never cease to amaze me.” She shook her
head as she flipped to a new page in her notepad. “How about if you start at the beginning again?”

•   •   •

T
en minutes later, I was finished going over my story for the third time.

She folded her arms across her chest. “But the news didn’t announce how much you appraised the book for.”

“Right. The producers wouldn’t allow them to tell the actual price I’d given. But the anchorman made a smart-ass reference to a family of four being able to live for two years on the money the book was worth.”

“Oh, great.” She stopped writing. “So basically he spelled it out for everyone.”

“Yeah. The creep who attacked me admitted that he ‘used the Google’ to figure out that whole amount.”

“The Google, huh?” She gave me a half smile.

“Yeah.” I could see that she got the joke.

After taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “Sounds like we’ve got a motive for murder.”

I smiled grimly. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“So, tell me more about the book itself,” she said.

“It’s a really rare, limited edition of
The Secret Garden
.”

Her eyes widened. “
The Secret Garden
is a kids’ book. This guy was supposedly willing to kill for a kids’ book?”

“Yes.” I braced myself, afraid I was about to get more book grief.

Instead, she smiled as her gaze drifted. “I loved that book when I was a kid. Must’ve read it a hundred times.”

“Me, too,” I said, pleasantly surprised that we had something else in common.

She waved over one of the uniformed officers who had just entered the shop. After writing something down, she tore the page out of her notepad and handed it to him. “Do me a favor, will you?
Track these two uniforms down and find out when’s the soonest I can talk to them. They probably work out of Bayview, but if not, try Mission or Ingleside. They interviewed Ms. Wainwright Tuesday at Peapod Studios near Potrero Hill, and I want to know if they made it over here to interview our victim.”

He stared at the page, then said, “You got it, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Trent.”

The cop jogged out to the patrol car to make the call.

Inspector Lee turned back to me. “That’s some good work, Wainwright.” She smirked. “We might get you that junior-deputy badge one of these days after all.”

I patted my heart. “A girl can dream.”

Chapter Eight

After the medical examiner and his assistant arrived at the shop with their gurney and bags of equipment, it was too crowded to remain inside. And even if it wasn’t, I had no interest in watching them perform their gruesome tasks, so I stepped outside for some fresh air. Inspector Lee had told me to hang around for a while. I wasn’t sure why that was necessary, but I wasn’t about to disobey a direct order. I reminded her that I would need my shoes back as soon as possible and she saluted smartly.

Outside, the cold, rough surface of the sidewalk was another reminder that I had only my stocking-thin socks for protection. I walked cautiously back to my car, where I kept a pair of sneakers in the trunk for emergencies. Sitting in the front seat, I slipped on my shoes. The simple action brought a graphic image to my mind of Vera’s feet in her flashy knockoff Louboutins.

“They were the first thing I bought myself after I left my no-good boyfriend.”

I could still hear Vera’s voice in my head. She had told me and Angie about her shoes that first night at the television studio. She had been so excited about the book appraisal, so ready to sell the book, make some money, and turn the page on her old life.

Poor Vera. I squeezed my eyes closed, but I couldn’t erase the image of her lying on the chilly cement floor of her shop, after bleeding to death.

So much blood.

I rubbed my arms where goose bumps had taken up permanent residency. From experience, I knew the images of Vera’s blood-soaked blouse, her sightless eyes, and her brand-new fake Louboutins would stay with me for weeks.

Locking my car, I headed back to the shop to see what else Inspector Lee needed from me. I was still a little shell-shocked, still couldn’t believe I had found another murder victim. It had become a habit with me, but I would never be able to accept it as normal. How could anyone get used to finding dead bodies? And not just dead, but violently killed. Murdered. No, unless you were an undertaker or a homicide cop, it wasn’t something you ever wanted to get used to.

“Brooklyn.”

I stopped at the sound of that deep voice. Turning, I saw Derek walking purposefully toward me and noticed his black Bentley was parked a few spaces down the street.

“Derek.” I met him halfway.

“Come here, love,” he said, and hugged me close. Rubbing my back, he whispered, “Are you all right?”

I shook my head, upset about Vera, but so grateful that he had insisted on joining me. “Can you believe it?”

“Frankly, no,” he muttered.

“I can’t, either.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I didn’t know her very well, but I liked her.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

I lifted my head from his shoulder and we walked to the flower shop. “The one good thing is that I know who did it. It’s that
hulking creep who attacked me at the studio. He warned me that he would come after us both.”

Derek said nothing at first but kept his arm around my shoulders as we walked.

“How can you be sure?” he asked quietly after we’d gone half a block. “Couldn’t it have been a simple robbery gone bad?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I suppose it could have been. But don’t you think it’s a remarkable coincidence that one day after a madman threatens to kill both of us, Vera is found murdered?”

“You know how I feel about coincidences.”

I glanced up at him. “There’s no such thing.”

“Exactly,” he murmured.

I scowled. “In this case, I agree.”

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

•   •   •

L
ater that afternoon I was back at work in the television studio, taping another segment for
This Old Attic
. It was strange to sit in the same place where I’d first met Vera, talking about books as though nothing odd or awful had happened that day. But I had a job to do. A job I loved. So I mentally set aside Vera’s murder to concentrate on the book in front of me.

In this case, it wasn’t just one book, but a set of them by Michael Connelly, the mystery author. I was appraising the first ten books in his Harry Bosch mystery series for the owner, Mr. Stanley Frisch, a self-described rabid mystery fan and Connelly devotee. Stanley was short and thin, with eerily pale skin, scruffy gray hair, and a sparse white mustache. He wore small, round steel-framed glasses that I feared might’ve been the exact same style worn by Michael Connelly.

The books he’d brought were all first editions and they had all been signed by the author. The first book,
The Black Echo
, included a rare five-dollar rebate deal marked on a blue band on the book cover. For serious book collectors, that little blue band was golden.
In addition, each of the dust jackets was in almost pristine condition, thanks to the owner having kept them wrapped in archival plastic covers from the first day he bought them. Frankly, the books appeared to be unread.

“This is an exceptional set,” I said. “I commend you for keeping them all in such wonderful condition.”

“Thank you,” he said crisply. “Michael’s my favorite author so I didn’t want them to get ruined.”

“Do you know the author personally?”

“Oh, no, but I’ve met him whenever he’s come through on tours.” He smiled bashfully. “I’d like to think he remembers me.”

I nodded politely. “I noticed that he signed all the books with his name only. Did you ever ask him to sign any of them to you personally?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I don’t want my name on the books. I just want
his
name.”

I glanced at the camera. “That’s actually a good thing, because the market value of the book can be diminished if it’s been personalized.”

“I didn’t know that,” he whispered.

I picked up the first book in the series and held it out for the camera to get a better shot. “Do you know much about books, Stanley?”

“No. I just love them a lot.”

“That’s so nice to hear. But I ask because some collectors enjoy finding little quirks such as this blue rebate band on this copy of
The Black Echo
.”

He frowned. “Does that make a difference?”

“Yes, it does,” I said, smiling as I angled the book so the camera could see the spine. “I also noticed that the bindings of all the books are unusually tight and straight. Have you actually read any of these?”

“Oh, gosh, yes. I’ve read them all several times. I’m a huge fan. I’m just extremely careful.”

“I can see that you are.” I paused for a dramatic moment before making my big pronouncement. “And because of all the care you’ve shown these books, along with the fact that this first book is extremely rare and in such fine condition, I’ve appraised the entire ten-book set at . . . fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Oh.” He sucked in some air. “Oh, my.” His breathing grew shallow and his pale face quickly lost any color it had ever had.

“Are you all right?” I asked. But he wasn’t; I was pretty sure he was going to pass out. His head wobbled. I reached across the table and grabbed his arm to keep him from sliding out of his chair.

I shot Angie an anxious look. “Is there a doctor nearby?”

She shook her head frantically.

“Stanley!” I finally shouted.

Stanley jolted. “What? Oh.” Drawing in another big breath, he blinked and stared up at me. “What? No, I’m fine. It’s just . . . oh, my . . . it’s too much.”

“It’s exciting, isn’t it? But—”

“No, I mean the amount of money. It’s too much.”

“It really isn’t. That’s the price you could probably get if you sold the books to a reputable book dealer or auction house.”