by Perry, Meg
I introduced myself again. "Where'd Elliott go?"
"He's over there." Matt indicated the other side of the room with his head. "Talking to college people."
"Yeah, Pete's doing that too." I took a closer look at Matt. He was awfully young. I seriously wondered if he was over 21. I decided to go ahead and ask the lamest question in the history of parties. "What do you do?"
Matt perked up a little. "I work for an antique book dealer."
Well, whaddya know. "No kidding. I'm a librarian. So I'm kind of an antique book dealer too."
He laughed. "Well, I’m not a dealer. I’m just the clerk. That's how I met Elliott. He came in to buy something."
"Ah. I know some of the dealers in town; who do you work for?"
"Quentin Brashier. In Brentwood."
I nodded. "I've never been in there, but I know where it is. That must be interesting."
Matt grimaced. "Most days, not. A lot of Quentin's business is online now. I spend a lot of time in line at UPS."
"Oh, I guess that makes sense."
"We did have something interesting happen last month. A homicide detective came in."
Really. My Spidey sense tingled. "Whoa. What for?"
"He had a torn piece of paper that had been found at a crime scene. It looked old and he wanted to see if it really was."
Holy shit. My brain started working. I didn't want to alert this kid to the fact that I had a peripheral involvement in the case. "Was it?"
"Quentin said no...but I don't know."
Really. "Really? Why?"
Matt looked uncomfortable. "I have a degree in art history, and I took a whole class in reproductions and counterfeiting. I know how to age things to make them look old, and how to tell the difference. And I'm pretty sure that scrap of paper was really old, and not aged like Quentin said it was."
Oh my God. "What makes you think that?"
"Old vellum has tiny holes, pinpoint marks that the writers made for lining up the words. And the texture of old vellum is uneven because it was made by hand from scraping the animal's skin. No one does that any more, so reproductions are always on smooth paper. This piece of paper had both of those things."
"How did you get a look at it?"
"A customer came in while the detective was there, and I went over to take care of her. When I came back, Quentin was talking to the cop, and I picked up the magnifying glass and took a look at the paper. It was still in the plastic bag, but I could see well enough. I really think it was several hundred years old."
"But your boss said it wasn't."
"Right." Matt shrugged. "And he's the boss, so I didn't disagree with him."
"Yeah, that's not usually a good career move."
Matt laughed, then grew serious. "Listen, I realize I just met you, but...can I ask you some advice?"
"Sure, I guess."
Matt looked uncomfortable. "Elliott wants me to quit my job. He says we'll be able to spend more time together that way. He's got family money, that's how he can afford this place, and he says he'll take care of me. But...it would really make me nervous to be without a job. What do you think?"
Oh jeez. I was probably not the best guy to ask for relationship advice. But..."How long have you all been together?"
"Two months."
"Do you like your job?"
He lit back up. "Oh yeah, I love it! Besides, what other job am I going to find in this economy with an art history degree?"
"True. I think if I was you, I'd hang on to my job a little longer. I mean, Elliott does work full-time, it's not like he's going to have that much extra time to spend with you if you don't work. And what are you going to do all day when he's at work?"
Matt frowned. "I know. I don't know what he expects me to do with my time. It's not like I can cook, and he has a housekeeper." He shrugged. "I was thinking I'd probably keep the job anyway, but I'm glad that someone's confirmed it."
We talked a little longer, then Matt went to get another drink and I wandered back to where Pete was. He had finally extricated himself from the tenure discussion and was talking to someone I recognized vaguely. The guy turned out to have gotten his doctorate at UCLA and used the research library a lot, so we decided that’s how I knew him. Then he wandered off and Pete and I were on our own.
The party was gradually breaking up. Pete and I didn’t want to be the first couple to leave, but after about three other couples had left, we figured we were safe. We said our thank yous and goodbyes, found the VW, and started home. We talked about other people for a while, then Pete said, “I saw you talking to Elliott’s boyfriend. Is he over 21?”
I laughed. “I wondered the same thing at first. But he has a bachelor’s degree in art history, so he must be. Guess where he works?” I filled Pete in on the conversation I’d had with Matt.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, that was my reaction too.”
“So, why did the boss say that it was a fake?”
“Matt didn’t know, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Pete thought for a minute. “Suppose Matt’s boss – what was his name?”
“Quentin Brashier.”
“Suppose Brashier saw the paper, knew it was old, but didn’t tell Belardo and Eckhoff because – why? Because he was Wally’s partner?”
“Nah, that’s too much of a coincidence. Maybe he just figured he might be able to get a piece of the action, if the other section of the torn sheet turns up. And now he knows to be on the lookout for it.”
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he really did think it was faked.” Pete thought some more. “Did Matt mention the Book of Kells?”
“No. We only talked about the age of the paper, not the identification of what it might be.”
Pete nodded. “If this guy is the Art Theft unit’s go-to guy…hmm. Belardo needs to know that. But if I was Belardo, I wouldn't go back and accuse the guy of lying just yet. I'd just take the paper to UCLA, like we all said he should at the beginning, and get a second read."
"Maybe you could suggest that to him."
"Yeah, right."
"You think he's not open to suggestion?"
"I think he's not open to suggestion from me."
"Ah. So he'd let his homophobia get in the way of his investigation?"
Pete looked out the passenger window, brooding a little. "I don't know."
"Maybe you should call Eckhoff instead of Belardo."
"Nah, that's not the way things are done. Belardo would take that as an insult."
"Jeez." I shook my head. "Why couldn't Jennifer have lived in West LA territory? Tim could have handled the murder." Tim Garcia was my brother Kevin's partner.
"Yeah."
We were both quiet for a while. We got home and I parked in our spot behind the townhouse. I turned to Pete before we got out of the VW. "You're not going to call him tonight, are you?"
"Nah. It's late and it'll keep until morning."
We went inside, kicked off our shoes and flopped down on the sofa. I snuggled up a little, remembering my vow to be more romantic. "Why don't I call Belardo? I'm the one that talked to Matt. And maybe I could mention Conrad's name in passing."
Pete looked at me, a little surprised. "You don't mind doing that?"
"Nah. He doesn’t intimidate me."
Pete laughed. "Good. That’d be great. Thanks."
The next day was Sunday. Around 10:00, I figured it was late enough that Belardo would be answering his phone, and I called him.
His voice was gruff when he answered. “Belardo.”
“Detective Belardo, this is Jamie Brodie calling about the Howard Wallace case. I met a guy last night who works for Quentin Brashier, the book dealer you took the torn paper to. The employee, Matt Bendel, said that he got a good look at the paper when you were talking to Brashier, and he thinks Brashier was wrong about it not being old.”
“Oh yeah? And what does he base this on?”
�
��He has a degree in art history. He studied reproductions and counterfeiting, and he doesn’t think that piece of paper is either of those.”
“Huh.” Belardo must have been at a desk; I heard the sound of shuffling paper in the background. “He thinks Brashier lied?”
“Either that or Brashier just didn’t know.”
“I remember that kid. Little pa- little guy. Why didn’t he speak up when we were there?”
Maybe because he knew you thought he was just a little pansy. “Because he didn’t want to lose his job by arguing with his boss.”
Belardo grunted. “Okay. Where did you meet this kid?”
I wasn’t going to say at a party. “At a Santa Monica College get-together. His partner teaches with mine.”
“Okay. You got a phone number for him?”
“Um – yeah, hold on.” I went to find Pete, who was outside cleaning the patio furniture. “I need Elliott’s phone number. Belardo wants to talk to Matt.”
“Um – it was on that invitation. Where’d that go?”
I said to Belardo, “Hang on, we’re looking for the number.” Then Pete and I spent a couple of minutes looking for the invitation. We finally found it on Pete’s desk. “Okay, here it is. This is his partner’s number, but they live together.” I recited the number.
“Okay, thanks.” Belardo made a disgruntled sound. “Guess I’m gonna have to talk to art theft, see why they recommended this Brashier guy. Shoulda brought it to UCLA in the first place.”
“You still can.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks again.” He hung up.
We spent Thanksgiving with my family, driving down early Thanksgiving morning and spending that night. We drove back on Friday. On the way back, I got a call from Jennifer. The second day of the hoard clearing was scheduled, and she wanted to meet with us.
We arranged with Jennifer to meet Saturday evening at a Vietnamese restaurant in Venice. When Pete and I got there, Jennifer was waiting for us, working on a big pot of tea. She smiled, a bit wanly. "Hey, guys."
"Hey. How are you doing?"
She shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Raven called today and said the show isn't going to air, but the production company will still finish the cleanup and pay for the therapy. So I hope you guys can come and help on the second day of the cleanup. It’s a week from today. They couldn’t schedule me until they’d finished filming the rest of their season."
I said, "We don’t have anything planned." The waitress came and we ordered.
"Oh, good." Jennifer sipped her tea. "The police released the apartment a week after the shooting, but it took another week for me to move back in. The manager had to get the blood cleaned up from the hallway."
Pete nodded. "Did the police take much from the scene?"
"Only the boxes that were open that morning. Everything else that was still taped up, they left there." She turned to me. "I still want to go through those and see if there's anything of value. Miss Lucille told me that there were some first editions, and I'm sure she didn't make that up."
"Sure, we can do that."
Pete said, "Did Miss Lucille tell you anything else about what was in the boxes? Any indication about what this page was?"
"No. The police asked me about that several times, trying to stimulate my memory, I guess. But I remember very clearly when she told me that she was going to give the books to me. She talked about first editions, some of them signed, especially from LA-based authors. And she said there were a couple of things in the boxes that were really valuable. But she didn't say anything specific about any loose pages, or illuminated manuscripts, or anything that was really old." Jennifer paused. "Actually, the only kinds of books she talked about were mysteries. She really liked them. I think she's got some first edition Raymond Chandler somewhere in the boxes."
Pete was surprised. He was a mystery buff, although he complained vociferously about the investigative procedures in most of the mysteries he read. "Wow. Those would be worth something."
Jennifer sighed. "Yeah. I don't have any idea how to go about selling them, though."
I had an idea. "Actually, I do."
When I first moved to LA, I spent several of my weekends exploring the independent bookstores in the area. There had been a mystery bookstore in Westwood; I'd met one of my boyfriends there. It was closed now, but there was another one, called Cloak and Dagger Books, up in Pasadena. I'd been there several times and thought the owner might be interested in signed, first edition Raymond Chandlers. I explained it to Jennifer, and she agreed it sounded like a plan.
But first, we had to get through the boxes and find the books.
December
Monday morning, I was working on a presentation for a graduate history class when an instant message popped up from Nancy at circulation. "There’s a police detective here to see you. Asked you to meet him outside."
I sent back "ok" and went downstairs and outside. Jon Eckhoff was waiting for me on the bench in the sculpture garden. “Hey. Hope I’m not interrupting your day.”
“Nah, it’s okay. Where’s Belardo?”
Eckhoff looked a little uncomfortable. “He’s sort of turned the case over to me.”
“Hmm.” I figured I might know why – Belardo’s homophobia – but I didn’t ask. “So what’s up?”
"We've stalled out in the investigation. We can't find anyone with connections to Wally that doesn't check out. We tried to track down the old lady's attorney, and found out that he died three years ago at the age of 93, and the practice closed. And it was a solo practice; he didn't even have a receptionist. And the old lady had no family at all that we can turn up. So we're down to one lead: the torn page."
I took a wild guess. "And that's where I come in."
"Yeah. We want to question the book dealers, but we figure that if we do it as the police, whoever has the other piece of the page will just get more spooked than he already is. So we thought we might create a little stirring of the pot, so to speak."
“How so?”
"You have university credentials; you'd be the perfect guy to ask a few questions without being obvious. We figured you could be representing the university, looking for something for a donor to buy and present to the library. We'll visit all the antique book dealers in town, but of course we want to focus on Quentin Brashier. We think Brashier might know who has the other section of the torn page, or have been approached by that person. We might be able to shake something loose, make the killer nervous enough to do something, make a mistake."
"I can't do that without permission from the university. And the university librarian."
"We've already got that." I must have looked skeptical; Eckhoff said, "You'll have an email from the head librarian when you get back to your office."
"Okay." I thought for a minute. "Can we do this on a Saturday? This is a really busy time at work right now."
"Sure, no problem. I'll be coming along for the ride, going into the shops with you, but keeping my mouth shut. You can introduce me as a representative of the anonymous buyer. We’ll come up with a fake name."
“Won’t Brashier recognize you? From when you took the page in after the murder?”
“I wasn’t there. Belardo was on his own that day.”
"Okay." I sighed. "So when are we gonna perpetrate this little charade?"
"How's this Saturday?"
"We’re finishing the clean of Jennifer’s apartment this Saturday. How about next Saturday?"
"Perfect. We’ll go over your script that morning." Eckhoff stood up and slapped my shoulder. "I'll pick you up at 9:30. Most of these places don't open until 10:00." We said goodbye, and I watched him walk off. I still wasn't sure this was a good idea, but I figured if cops were asking the questions, they'd get nothing.
At home that evening, I told Pete about the plan. “I wondered if I should say anything to Elliott’s boyfriend, Matt, since he works there. I don’t know if it would be worse if he was prepared, or not.”
“Oh, y
ou don’t have to worry about that. Elliott told me last week that Matt quit his job not long after the party. Apparently Brashier was asking Matt to do things that Matt wasn’t willing to.”
“Things. Like, dishonest things, or sexual harassment?”
“Harassment. Elliott had been after Matt to quit, and I guess that was the final push.”
“That’s too bad. Matt didn’t really want to quit his job. He said it was impossible for an art history major to get a job in a field that was even related to art these days.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. But I do think Elliott is serious about him. He’s not just going to kick him to the side of the road. Actually, he said that he was trying to talk Matt into going to graduate school.”
“Is Elliott going to pay for it?”
“He said he was.”
“Good. That’ll be good. One of the things Matt was worried about was what he’d do all day when Elliott was at work. Now he’ll have a dissertation to write.”
“Do you want to be a kept man?”
I laughed. “No, thanks. I’ve already written a dissertation. Besides, right now I make a little more money than you. You’d have to be the kept one.”
“But I’ve already written a dissertation too.”
“Well, then. We’re both just going to have to keep working.”
Val didn't come up and Susannah couldn’t make it, but the following Saturday, Pete and I reconvened with Jennifer, Mike the organizer, Dr. Hayman the psychologist, and Stan the Junk Man and his remaining crew. All the remaining boxes and bags had to be opened and examined. We convinced Jennifer to concentrate on the boxes, since that’s where anything of value would be found.
About half of the boxes were books. Jennifer and I sorted through them. When we found something that I thought might possibly have any value, we put it aside. Everything else went in a stack for donation to the public library. There were still quite a few boxes with other items – clothes, shoes, craft supplies, school supplies, all kinds of stuff. Most of it was suitable for donation, and that's what Jennifer wanted to do with it. The local women's shelter was about to get lucky.