Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

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 sting 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.