Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“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.