The Lies That Bind (24 page)

“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?

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.

“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—”