The Lies That Bind

by Kate Carlisle

  We climbed out of the car. It was dusk and the air was chilling. I pulled my jacket tightly around me as we met the two officers on the sidewalk. One was a woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The other was Officer Ortiz.

  “Hello, Officer,” I said, and smiled at him.

  He looked at me with suspicion. That hurt. I hadn’t done anything to him. Yet.

  “Officers,” Derek said jovially. “It’s good of you to join us. Shall we?” He swept his arm up as if we were about to enter a grand ballroom.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Jack,” Ponytail said.

  “And you are…?” he asked in his most upper-crust snooty British butler accent.

  “Norris. SFPD.”

  He inclined his head and switched to his smooth-as-silk James Bond license-to-kill voice. “Derek Stone, at your service, Officer Norris.”

  Ortiz ignored them both and jerked his chin toward me. “What’s going on here?”

  “Naomi Fontaine,” I said. “We believe she planted evidence in Mr. Stone’s hotel suite. We want to ask her some questions so we called Inspector Lee to join us. Just wanted to keep everything aboveboard.”

  Derek added, “There won’t be any trouble, but we’re happy you’re here. Shall we go in?”

  “Hold it, pal,” Ponytail said.

  “It’s okay, Norris,” Ortiz said to her. To Derek he said, “I go first. You stay back.”

  Derek shrugged, but complied.

  Norris flexed her shoulder muscles, making her ponytail bob. “Let’s roll.”

  The only thing rolling were my eyes as she manfully adjusted her weapons belt. Then she moved and we followed close behind them, all the way to Naomi’s office. The door was open but Officer Ortiz knocked anyway.

  She looked up and gasped. “What in the world?”

  “Hi, Naomi,” I said, waving from behind the cops.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I bent to catch Ortiz’s gaze. “Do you mind?” Then I slipped in front of him and held up the Sleepy Hollow book.

  “Derek found this book in his hotel suite. Are you familiar with it?”

  She lost all color in her face and her mouth did that trout-caught-by-a-fishhook thing again. Open, close, open, close. Finally, she said, “I-I… Where did you get that?”

  “I just told you. Weren’t you listening?”

  She shook her head back and forth. “I didn’t… I don’t…” She grabbed her purse. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

  Norris yelled, “Put the bag down.” Both cops drew their guns.

  Naomi screamed, dropped the bag, and held up her hands.

  Inspector Lee came running down the hall, gun drawn.

  “I want my lawyer,” Naomi wailed.

  I turned to Derek. “I guess that answers the question of guilt.”

  Derek stared at Naomi. “Before they haul you off to jail, I want to know why you were so intent on framing me.”

  Her eyes widened. “It… it wasn’t me.”

  “And yet, you want to lawyer up,” I said, and jabbed my finger at her. “Not a good-faith gesture, Naomi.” I turned to Inspector Lee. “You’re arresting her, right?”

  “For what?” Lee asked. “Being an idiot?”

  “If only,” Norris muttered, reluctantly slipping her gun back into the holster at her hip.

  “Breaking and entering?” I suggested, then pointed at the book. “Or stealing a priceless art object?”

  “Where’d she steal it from?”

  I frowned at Derek. “From Layla, I guess.”

  Lee pushed back her jacket and holstered her gun. “So she basically stole the book from herself. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Brooklyn!” Naomi cried. “I didn’t do it.”

  I glared at her. “I’m having a real hard time believing anything you say, Naomi.” I turned down the hall in time to see Karalee jump back into her office and slam the door. Great. Everyone in the building would know all about it within minutes.

  Naomi ran into the hall. “Wait. Can I have my book back?”

  “Civilians,” Norris muttered, hand resting on her gun.

  Lee laughed without humor. “That’s a joke, right, Ms. Fontaine?”

  “No,” she said earnestly. “I need that book for…”

  I cocked my head. “For what?”

  “It’s evidence,” Lee said, ending the discussion.

  I slipped the book back into the Baggie and handed it to the inspector.

  Naomi’s eyes widened; then her shoulders slumped and she walked back to her office and closed the door.

  Derek and I followed the cop back to the gallery.

  Lee turned and held up her hand to stop Derek. “We’re going to have to search your hotel room, Commander.”

  “Didn’t you already do that?” I asked.

  Lee looked at me as though I’d been smoking lettuce or something.

  I glanced from her to Derek and back. “But you arrested him,” I said haltingly. “Why didn’t you…”

  Derek put his hand on my shoulder. “I wasn’t arrested, darling, just questioned.”

  “Oh, good.” I turned to Lee. “You should fingerprint his hotel room.”

  “Wow, good idea,” she said.

  I shook my head and sighed. “Go ahead and mock me, but I’ve had a bad day.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she said, her tone friendly again.

  “You won’t find any fingerprints,” Derek said tightly.

  Lee gave a philosophical shrug. “Let’s give it a shot anyway.”

  As predicted, the police didn’t find any fingerprints in Derek’s hotel room, so Naomi was safe from imprisonment. For now.

  After my class, Derek and I went out to a marvelous Italian restaurant near Nob Hill. Over tender short ribs in a Barolo reduction with sweet potato ravioli, accompanied by a stunning Bartolo Mascarello, Derek shared what he’d learned during his evening at the police station. He’d spent half the night there with Inspector Lee. Suspect or not, he still had that British commander vibe going for him and the San Francisco cops loved him. Hell, who didn’t?

  On the night of Layla’s death, the police had confiscated her computer. What they found among her personal and business records were several bank accounts to which large deposits were made on a regular basis. A separate ledger with three different entries noted down payments of twenty thousand dollars each, for the books listed, with the merchandise scheduled to be turned over that very week.

  “Down payments? Of twenty thousand dollars? For each book?” I mentally picked my jaw up off the floor. “Was there a list of the books being sold?”

  “Yes,” Derek said, then tasted the deep red wine.

  “Well?” I waited, but he was intent on torturing me as he swirled the wineglass, then took another sip. “Derek, swallow the damn wine and tell me what books they were.”

  “Patience, darling. Your father wouldn’t approve of my drinking something this exquisite any other way.”

  “You’re right,” I grumbled, and slumped back against the booth. “Just tell me if one of the books was an Oliver Twist?”

  His eyes sparkled as he set down his glass. “I think you’ve already guessed.”

  “It was,” I whispered, then tried to put the pieces together. “I thought it was being saved for the silent auction, but the real reason Naomi didn’t want to sell me the book was because it was already promised to another buyer.”

  The wine steward poured more lovely red liquid into my glass. When he left, I looked at Derek. “There’s no way that Oliver Twist is worth twenty thousand dollars, and that’s just the down payment. I mean, I did a damn good job of restoring it, but how much did Layla expect to get paid? Whatever it was, it’s a completely fraudulent deal.”

  “Yes,” he said, and bit into a succulent piece of beef. “And where does Naomi fit in?”

  “I don’t know.” I cut into a pillowy ravioli square.

  “Well, I can tell you that the police went b
y to speak with Naomi Monday night.”

  “I saw them come in.” I swallowed the bite and almost swooned. The buttery ravioli sauce was extraordinary. “Oh, my, I need a moment.”

  “It’s rather good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s heaven.” I took a sip of wine, then exhaled softly. “Ah. Where was I? Oh, yes, the police showed up during the wake, just as the crowd was thinning out. Inspector Lee had Naomi in her sights and it looked as if they were going to arrest her. But she was back at work last night, free as a bird.”

  “They merely confiscated her computer,” Derek revealed. “They’ve combed through it. It appears she knew nothing about these prepayments.”

  “Oh, she knew,” I said, absently pointing my fork at him. “She’s hiding something. Why else would she be so nervous when I asked her about the Oliver Twist?”

  “And this was the same Oliver Twist that Layla mentioned she was auctioning off at the Twisted festival?”

  I considered the answer as I munched on a perfectly prepared haricot vert. “I thought so, but now I’m not sure. If it’s listed as a presale, how can they be auctioning it off?”

  “Are there two Oliver Twists, perhaps?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, grabbing my wineglass.

  “I believe we should pay another visit to Naomi.”

  As we drove away from the restaurant, I called Inspector Lee to explain the situation. I described Naomi’s reaction when I’d mentioned I wanted to buy the Oliver Twist.

  “I’m willing to swear she knew about Layla’s prepayments,” I said. “I’m going to confront her, with or without a police presence.”

  “With,” Inspector Lee barked into the phone. “You’ll wait for me.”

  “Gladly,” I said, and winked at Derek. He’d already bet she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  “And just so you know,” Lee said. “We gave her back that Oliver Twist book a few days ago.”

  I stared at Derek.

  “The plot thickens,” he murmured.

  “Yes, doesn’t it just?” So last night when I’d asked Naomi if I could buy the Oliver Twist, she’d already obtained it from the police. She had to have known exactly what book I was talking about. And judging from the dull pallor of her skin when I told her it wasn’t a first edition, I was willing to bet she’d already sold it.

  It was midnight when we parked the Bentley in front of the building, so I doubted we would find Naomi at work. Inspector Lee was already there, waiting with two other cops. BABA was locked up for the night, but low lights shined through the textured glass section of the door.

  Sure enough, after Inspector Lee hammered her fist on the door for almost a minute, Ned lumbered over to let us in.

  “Huh,” he said. “Late.”

  “Yeah, go back to sleep,” Lee said.

  “ ’Kay.”

  Ned trundled off and Lee led the way to Naomi’s office and pushed the door open. “You’re working late, Ms. Fontaine.”

  Naomi jerked and shrieked at the same time. “You scared the hell out of me! What do you want? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Then you won’t mind showing me what you’re working on,” Lee said. She rounded the desk and grabbed the minicomputer. I was pretty sure it was a move that wouldn’t hold up in court, but I liked it.

  “You already took my work computer!” Naomi cried, trying to grab it back. “This one’s mine!”

  “Looks like an Excel spreadsheet,” Lee said, and made eye contact with me as she began to read off the screen. “It’s a list of books and prices. What’s this column?” She squinted at the small screen. “Date acquired. Date purchased. Date completed.”

  “We often sell our books,” Naomi whined. “It’s not a crime. The books belong to Layla. I mean, me.”

  “But passing a book off as more rare or better than it really is to gain a higher price is a crime,” I said. “It’s called fraud. It’s like theft, only really worse.” Okay, I was blathering. I silently beseeched Inspector Lee to pick up the ball.

  Her gaze narrowed in on Naomi. “Are you defrauding your clients, Ms. Fontaine?”

  Naomi took a deep, shuddering breath. “I didn’t know it was fraud! Layla has all these people she sells books to, and they were calling me. They wanted their money. Or… or they wanted their books. One man came by and he was not kidding around. He threatened me, told me I’d be sorry if I didn’t comply, so I gave him the book he wanted.”

  “The Oliver Twist?” I asked.

  Her face was a mask of shock and pain. “He said Layla promised it to him. He said he already paid her part of the money, so I gave him the book and he gave me the rest of the money.”

  She gasped. It was clear she wished she hadn’t brought up the money. But she had, and I believed her admission signified that she wasn’t cut out to be as wicked as her auntie Layla.

  “What did this man look like?” Lee asked. “The one who gave you the money?”

  “He was…” Naomi winced and looked away.

  “Go ahead,” Lee coaxed.

  She took a deep breath. “He was Asian.”

  “Ah, my people,” Lee muttered. “So? Tall? Fat? Short? Bald?”

  “Tall. Normal build.” She gazed up at Lee with a sycophantic smile. “He was really nice-looking.”

  “Swell. Did you get a name?”

  Eager to please now, Naomi nodded. “Mr. Soo.”

  “And how much money did he give you?”

  Naomi chewed her lower lip. Now I could see her brain calculating how much to tell us.

  “How much money, Ms. Fontaine?” Lee repeated, softly this time, but with more deadly intent.

  Naomi’s shoulders shook nervously. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “In cash?”

  She nodded, clearly miserable at having to disclose the true amount.

  “No wonder you could afford a new wardrobe,” I marveled.

  “It’s my money,” she said defiantly. “I’m Layla’s next of kin, so her book business comes to me.”

  “Book business,” I said in disgust. “Sounds more like a ring of book thieves.”

  “I’m not a thief. The book belonged to me.”

  “Did it?” I asked. “Or did it belong to BABA?”

  “We should probably finish this up downtown,” Lee said. She signaled to the cop watching from just outside the office door and he came forward instantly.

  “No,” Naomi cried, and burst into tears.

  I couldn’t blame her. I was ninety-nine percent positive she was innocent, because as much as she’d attempted to channel Aunt Layla, trying to dress like a hooker and conduct business like a shark, Naomi just couldn’t pull it off. She’d given it her best shot, but she was missing the key ingredient, the true bitch gene.

  So if Naomi was innocent, who killed Layla Fontaine?

  Chapter 16

  Defeated, Naomi stood and the cop walked her out the door. They didn’t handcuff her because she wasn’t being arrested. She was just being taken in for questioning.

  Inspector Lee followed them out the door and down the hall. I was about to tag along when I realized they’d walked out without Naomi’s notebook computer.

  I hesitated for a nanosecond, then picked it up to check the screen. Hey, I couldn’t help myself. The spreadsheet wasn’t extensive, but it did list at least twenty books. I located both Oliver Twist and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

  No wonder Naomi had blanched when she saw me with the Sleepy Hollow. Somebody-Mr. Soo, maybe?-might’ve threatened her over that book, as well.

  I noticed the second page tab at the bottom of the spreadsheet and clicked on it. It took me to a list of mostly foreign-sounding names. That made a strange sort of sense. There was a huge market for fine art and antiquarian books in Asia and the Middle East, and buyers there were willing to pay top prices for the highest-quality books.

  In a separate column, Mr. Soo’s name was listed in most of the cells, while the name of a Mr. Tangorand filled
the remaining spaces. The columns weren’t identified. Were they the buyers? Or brokers, maybe?

  “Still investigating, my dear?”

  I twitched at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Stop sneaking up on me.”

  “Better me than Inspector Lee,” he whispered loudly. “Who has not left the building, by the way.”

  “Okay, okay.” As I set the notebook back on the desk, I noticed the corner of a business card sticking out from under Naomi’s desk blotter.

  I pulled it out, read it, and waved it in the air. “It’s Mr. Soo’s.”

  Derek shook his head. “You’re impossible. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  We got into the Bentley, and instead of starting the motor, Derek watched me. I wasn’t sure why. Then he reached over and smoothed my hair back from my face, one finger skimming my cheek slowly. And I knew.

  He leaned in and I met him halfway. The kiss was warm, soft, purposeful. Wonderful.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  I knew what he was asking. It was the moment of truth. Did I have a choice? On a semantic plane, of course I had a choice. But if you could listen to the butterflies in my stomach, they were shouting-as loudly as butterflies could shout-Yes. The jackhammers in my heart pounded out Go-Go-Go. Desire flooded my brain and my face felt flushed. So I guessed I had my answer.

  “Let’s go back to your hotel.”

  His eyes narrowed, then relaxed, and he smiled and kissed me again. “Thank you.”

  He was thanking me? I wanted to thank him, too, but I sat silently, simply trying to breathe as he put the car in gear and drove off slowly. Was he as nervous as I was? Maybe. He was driving slower than usual.

  As we pulled into the porte cochere in front of the Ritz-Carlton, two valets rushed over to open the car doors.

  We walked through the lobby, hand in hand, and I felt as though every eye in the place was watching us. Could they tell what we were about to do? My throat began to dry up. I had to lick my lips and take several slow, deep breaths.

  As we waited for the elevator, Derek’s cell phone rang. I wanted to scream, Don’t answer that! But I behaved myself. He pulled the phone out, clutched my hand, and walked away from the elevator doors.