“Stone,” he said into the phone.
As someone spoke to him, he wrapped his arm around me so that I was pressed against him.
He groaned, then uttered a quiet expletive. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” We made eye contact and I watched him say, “Fine, I’ll be there shortly.”
He ended the call, then pulled me closer so he could bury his face in my hair. I heard him whisper another expletive. It was so unnatural to hear it coming from him, I pushed myself away.
“What is it?” I asked. “What happened? Who was that?”
“Inspector Lee,” he said, his voice muffled against my neck. “Naomi just gave up Gunther to the police.”
As we waited for the valet to bring Derek’s car around, Gunther called him as well, demanding that Derek post his bail. Derek explained to his client that since he hadn’t been arrested yet, he might be jumping the gun just a bit.
But Gunther wasn’t in the mood to quibble. The police had taken over his hotel room and were conducting a search. We headed over there, and as he drove, Derek filled me in on what Inspector Lee had told him.
It happened while Lee was questioning Naomi. She’d asked why Naomi had tried to implicate Derek in the murder by insinuating he’d had an affair with her aunt Layla.
Naomi had nattered on about how Layla was always bragging about her conquests. Derek was supposed to have been one of them. Naomi said her aunt tried to hit on any man who showed up at BABA. She named names. Lee wrote all of them down. Then Naomi dropped the Gunther bomb. According to her, Layla and Gunther had jumped each other the first night Gunther arrived in town. They’d been having hot sex regularly after that. The night Layla died, Gunther showed up to have sex with Layla in her office.
Ew. I’d been in that office. Good thing I hadn’t touched anything.
Lee tried to call Naomi’s bluff, but the girl insisted she wasn’t lying about this one. The police had no choice but to track Gunther down at his hotel and question him. They’d quickly obtained a search warrant, and after a preliminary investigation of his room, the cops found another rare antiquarian book hidden in the armoire behind his clothes.
Inspector Lee wanted me to examine the book.
Gunther wanted Derek to be there while he was questioned.
I wanted to be left alone with Derek.
Was I cursed? I was definitely sensing a pattern here. Everyone was getting what they wanted but me, and possibly Derek. Through half-closed eyes, I checked him out while he drove. His lips were tight with irritation and pent-up emotion as he took the next corner more sharply than necessary. I couldn’t blame him. I was frustrated beyond belief. And there was nothing I could do about it for the foreseeable future.
So I concentrated on other questions. What did the books in the hotel rooms mean? Who had put them there? If Naomi had planted them, why? Was she angry at the men in Layla’s life? Why Derek? As it turned out, he had little connection to Layla, but Naomi seemed to believe otherwise.
I wondered if there were other books planted in other hotel rooms still left to be discovered. It was an odd way to distract everyone from the real crime.
Derek was completely innocent, of course, but I didn’t know Gunther from a gopher. What little I did know included the facts that he liked to party and he craved attention. I guess he craved Layla, too. That alone made him a suspect in my book.
We arrived at the Clift Hotel and took the elevator to the sixth floor. The police were milling outside a room halfway down the hall and we walked toward them.
“They’re here,” one of cops shouted into the room. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Go on in.”
We entered the suite, a large, pleasant space that featured ultramodern Philippe Starck furnishings of blond wood covered in cool fabrics of white, lavender, and coral. Gunther was pacing furiously in the area next to the dining table. He was a mess. His clothing was rumpled and his hair stood on end, probably from his own fingers grabbing and scratching in aggravation. His shoes were kicked under the table. Derek strolled over to join him while I searched out Inspector Lee. She found me first.
“There you are,” she said, emerging from the bedroom. She held the book out for me. “It’s already been checked for fingerprints.”
I must’ve looked as horrified as I felt, because she quickly added, “We didn’t mess it up.”
“I hope not,” I muttered. The book was still in its Ziploc bag, so I popped it open and eased the book out. I scrutinized it for a few minutes, turning it over in my hands, studying the joints, the gilding, the leather, the paper.
“This is a real beauty,” I said. I had no doubt that it was a first edition of Treasure Island, dated 1883, which made it very rare and fine indeed. The brown buck leather cover showed only the slightest rubbing in a few spots. The frontispiece, a superb color illustration of three pirates gloating over a chest filled with gold, had an inlaid page of tissue covering it. This was often done in books with fine engravings, in order to guard against the picture rubbing off on the title page opposite.
“Be careful with this,” I said, handing it back to Inspector Lee. “It’s probably worth thirty or forty thousand dollars.”
Lee bobbled the book in stunned disbelief. “You’re shit-ting me.”
“I’m not,” I said. “You really don’t want to drop it.”
“Why in the world?” she muttered under her breath as she turned the book over and thumbed through the pages. “Nice pictures, but still, it’s just a book. What some people will waste their money on.”
“It’s a small piece of fine art,” I said. “People who love books and are fascinated by the art that goes into making them are willing to pay the price.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I remembered seeing Treasure Island listed on Naomi’s computer screen. I squeezed my eyes closed to try and picture the spreadsheet in my mind. I think the price might’ve been close to one hundred thousand dollars.
I wanted another look at that spreadsheet. Who was the buyer for this book? Had he already made the down payment? Was he scheduled to pick up the book sometime soon?
“Can we talk somewhere privately?” I said.
Inspector Lee gave me a suspicious look, then said, “Come into my office.” She walked through the bedroom, into the luxurious bathroom. “So what’s up, Wainwright?”
I glanced around at the rubbed marble walls and walk-in rain-forest shower. “Nice place.”
“I like it,” she said with a shrug. “What’s on your mind?”
“You saw Naomi’s spreadsheet, right?”
“Gee, let me guess. You saw it, too.”
“Well, it was right there, so…”
“Yeah, I know. So cut to the chase.”
“I was thinking that if you want to trap these book scammers, I can help. We set up a sting.” Revved up, I began to pace. “There’s no way Naomi is the ringleader. That was probably Layla. So someone new has taken over. We can find out who. I know books, so I’ll be your contact. I’m sure they’re scalping the buyers. I remember the Treasure Island was listed for six figures. It’s not worth that much, but they’re jacking up the price, promising more than what’s really in the book. Like the Oliver Twist. It’s not really a first edition but someone will believe it is, and they’ll pay the price. I can call and set up a meeting. Then we can-”
“Whoa, whoa, easy, girl,” Lee said, waving her hands at me.
“Come on, this’ll work.”
“We’re not running a sting operation,” she said sarcastically. “This isn’t TV, Brooklyn, and you’re not Angie Dickinson.”
I frowned at her. “Angie Dickinson?”
“Police Woman?” she said. “Sergeant Pepper Anderson? Come on. What are you, anti-American or something?”
“Hey, it’s a little before my time.”
“Mine, too,” she said, grinning. “But my dad loved that show.”
I smiled reluctantly. “Okay, so I guess that’s a big N-O on the s
ting operation?”
“Good guess,” Inspector Lee said dryly. “But thanks for the offer.”
I shrugged. “Fine. When you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah, right.” Her phone rang and I left her to it, walking back into the living room, where Derek was waiting for me.
“I apologize, but I’m going to stay for a while,” he said, stroking my back. “Shall I arrange for a driver to take you home?”
“Will you be stuck here all night?”
“It’s beginning to look that way.”
“Then I guess I…”
At that moment, Inspector Jaglom walked into the suite, followed by the two cops who’d been standing in the hall earlier. They were all joined by Inspector Lee, who came out of the bedroom and approached Derek’s client.
“Gunther Schnaubel,” she said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Layla Fontaine.”
I woke up the next morning and grabbed a cup of coffee, then called Derek. He answered immediately, sounding tired.
“Did you make it home last night?” I asked.
“No, I’m still at police headquarters.”
I expressed my sympathy, then asked, “Did you find out what happened? Why did they arrest Gunther?”
“They obtained an Interpol report. Gunther was arrested several times for breaking and entering back in Austria. It was years ago, but that didn’t matter.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? So he not only had the skills to break into my hotel room-he was also having an affair with the murder victim. It’s circumstantial, but they can hold him for forty-eight hours while they try to drum up more evidence.”
“But why would he break into your hotel room and hide a book there?”
“To divert the police from himself to me.”
“But then, why would he hide a book in his own room?”
“Exactly,” he said in a withering tone. “That’s the point I keep bringing up to the police. They say it could be a ruse to divert suspicion away from himself, so they’re going to hold him for the next day or so.”
“Are you stuck there?”
“No, I was just leaving as you called.”
“Good,” I said. “You should get some sleep.”
“Unfortunately, that’s all I’m good for right now. But I’d like to see you later. Have you any plans for this afternoon?”
I hesitated, then came clean. “I thought I might drive over to Chinatown.”
“Ah, that’s my girl.”
We parked in the Union Square garage and walked a block up Grant Avenue to the steps of Chinatown. Derek had insisted on coming along and I was glad of it. Even though I’d walked the colorful streets of Chinatown dozens of times in the past, I’d never before been there on a mission to roust a possible extortionist.
I suppose it was harsh to call Mr. Soo an extortionist until we heard his side of the story, but I was happy for Derek’s company, anyway.
We walked along the narrow sidewalk, past electronics stores and teahouses and jewelry shops filled with ivory, jade, and amber and thousands of rainbow-colored strands of beads. Souvenir shops hawked every conceivable tchotchke known to man, from ornately beaded silk slippers and wallets in every color to wooden back scratchers, articulated wooden snakes, kites of every shape and size, willowy bird cages, Chinoiserie teapots, jewelry boxes, and delicate eggs on wooden pedestals.
Butcher shops displayed rows of cooked ducks hanging from metal racks, drying in the breeze. Baby bok choy, snow peas, and ruffle-leafed Chinese cabbage filled the vegetable stands in front of the markets. I breathed in the scents of fried wontons and sweet sausage buns and wanted to eat everything I could smell.
Two blocks into the heart of Chinatown, we found the address on Mr. Soo’s business card.
“It’s a take-out joint,” I said, casting a disappointed look inside the seedy café. The cashier sat on a high stool, daintily dangling her shoe while she read a magazine and twirled her thick hair around her fingers. It wasn’t the most appetizing way to attract customers.
I checked Soo’s business card. “Suite 317.”
We walked past the restaurant storefront to a door just beyond it. A clouded porthole window allowed a view inside, and Derek held his hand up to block the sun’s glare as he stared through.
“If you’d rather wait out here, I wouldn’t think any less of you,” he said.
“But I would,” I replied with determination. No way was I going to chicken out now. “Let’s go.”
He pushed the door open and we walked inside. The door slammed shut behind us, instantly casting the enclosed space into darkness. The narrow hall led to a set of stairs and we started climbing. I tried not to breathe in too much. The place was dank, gloomy, and redolent of sesame oil and sweet and sour pork.
“Guess he’s on the third floor,” I whispered.
Derek led the way to the third-floor landing and pushed open another door to a long hall. There was more light here, with doors on either side leading to offices or apartments. We got to number 317 and knocked.
I wasn’t surprised when no one answered, but I was taken aback when Derek tried the doorknob and it opened easily.
“Should we go in?” I asked, unsure of walking into someone’s private dwelling. Although, truth be told, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d done so.
“It’s an office,” he said, moving ahead into the room.
“Oh, good.” I followed him into Mr. Soo’s office, where a glass block wall separated the small dingy waiting area from an interior room. Dark, scarred wainscoting ran halfway up the walls, met by peeling flowery wallpaper in faded shades of green and pink. Two rickety folding chairs were set against one wall with a small plastic table between them. Despite the shabby surroundings, it was oddly comforting to see two well-thumbed back issues of Fine Books & Collections magazine lying on the table.
I had my own subscription to the well-respected industry magazine, so I took it as a good sign that whoever worked here was serious about books.
Derek knocked on the door leading into the next room. Once again, there was no answer.
“Is it locked?” I asked.
“No.” He pushed the door open and walked in. I followed him and skidded to a stop.
The room was in a shambles. Two padded chairs were upturned and torn open. The cottony stuffing was scattered around and bits of it fluttered in the air, stirred by our movements. One wall of bookshelves had been completely overturned. Books lay everywhere, jumbled in piles, covers splayed, pages bent. It was a mess.
“Oh, this is horrible,” I said, picking up the volume on top. “These are expensive books. How could anyone-”
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Derek put his finger to his lips, then grabbed my hand and ran over to another door. I hoped it led to a way out of there, but it didn’t. Derek swung the door open and we pushed our way into a tiny, cramped bathroom, barely big enough for one person, with a stained toilet and a sink that wouldn’t fit my two hands. The fixtures were rusted and water dripped intermittently from the faucet.
Derek shut the door and locked it just as footsteps sounded in the outer room. The thudding steps moved closer, coming into the torn-up room just outside the bathroom door.
I swallowed nervously and rested my head against Derek’s back, slipping my arms around his waist. I could feel his muscles flex, feel the tension in his body as we waited anxiously.
“What the hell?” a man said, his voice raspy.
Another set of footsteps joined the first man and that person swore ripely.
“What do we do now?”
“Find that book, damn it.”
“Oh, man, there’s no way. There’s gotta be a thousand books here.”
“Then get started. I’m not leaving without it.”
“Shit,” the other man whined. But he began moving things, searching for something.
I winced as I heard them throwing books around
. Derek squeezed my hand in understanding and I could’ve kissed him. The tiny room was tight and uncomfortable and not much bigger than an airplane bathroom, but if I had to be shoved up against another human being in close quarters, I was perfectly happy to have it be him.
I had a sudden memory of another tight space I’d hidden in recently. I’d been shocked to learn Derek was hiding in there, as well. Those were some good times.
One of the men must’ve tried to pick up the fallen bookcase because I heard the screech of heavy wood against wood.
Then one of them began to scream.
“Oh, my God!” Then more screams.
“What?” his partner said. “Shut up! Whoa, holy shit, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Two sets of footsteps scrambled and someone fell; then both of them tore out of the room, fleeing down the hall.
There was silence. I realized I was holding my breath, so tense I thought I might crack in two.
Derek quietly unlocked the door, then pushed back against me until he could squeeze through the doorway and out of the oppressively small room.
I followed him, gasping for breath.
He took hold of the heavy bookcase and lifted it.
I shrieked; I couldn’t help myself. I recognized the dead man buried under hundreds of books and the heavy shelf.
It was the Asian man I’d seen storming out of Layla’s office the first night of class.
“Mr. Soo, I presume,” Derek said.
It had to be Mr. Soo. In his hand, he was clutching the Oliver Twist I’d restored so lovingly.
In the middle of his forehead was a bullet hole.
Chapter 17
“Another dead body?” I cried, having officially reached the end of my rope. “What the hell is going on with me? Was I a serial killer in a past life? Why do I keep finding dead people?”
Enough already.
“I agree it’s all become a bit chary,” Derek confessed as he struggled to keep the bookcase suspended.
“Chary? I hope that’s another word for totally unfair and highly annoying.”
“Something like that,” he said, grimacing as he shifted to lower the bookcase.
The Lies That Bind Page 19