Homicide in Hardcover

“Enough already.” He pulled a sterling silver card holder from the breast pocket of his expensive black suit and handed it to me. “Derek Stone.”

I read it aloud. “Stone Security. Derek Stone, Principal.” Underneath his name it said COMMANDER, ROYAL NAVY, RET. On the next line it said SECURITY AND INVESTIGATIONS. and in smaller letters in the lower left-hand corner the card said A DIVISION OF CAUSEWAY CORNWALL INTERNATIONAL.

I looked up at him. “Causeway Cornwall is the underwriter for the Winslow exhibition.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at me as if I were a particularly bright three-year-old. “And Stone Security specializes in arts and antiquities. There were certain security issues that required my team’s presence at the opening tonight. We’re working hand in hand with the local police.”

I resisted groaning. “So why didn’t you just say so, Commander?”

He shrugged. “I was having such a good time, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

I rolled my eyes, stuck his business card in my pocket, took a breath and cautiously held out my hand. “I’m Brooklyn Wainwright.”

He started to take my hand, but stopped abruptly. I looked down and again saw the blood caked on my fingers.

The door swung open with a bang.

“Brooklyn, there you are! Oh my God!” Robin, tears streaming, ran across the room and pulled me into her arms. “I just heard about Abraham. It can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” I whispered, and lost it for real. I sobbed on her shoulder, finally releasing all the tears that had been choking me.

We stayed like that, hugging and rocking back and forth, for a few minutes, until Robin sniffled and said in a low voice, “Leave it to Abraham to make this exhibit unforgettable.”

I gave her a watery smile. “He always was a showman.”

She hiccupped and we both laughed; then fresh tears erupted.

“Forgive me, ladies,” Derek interrupted. I’d forgotten he was still there, observing our emotional water-works. I refused to care what he thought of us.

“Who’s Double-Oh-Seven?” Robin whispered in my ear.

I sniffed. “Security.”

“Extremely hot,” she said.

“A jerk,” I countered. “And touchy.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Derek coughed discreetly. “The local police will question you now, Ms. Wainwright.”

Oh boy.

“Why are they questioning you?” Robin asked.

“I-I found him,” I said, and stared at my hands.

She shrank back. “Oh my God! Brooklyn, no! Is that his blood? Oh my God.”

I felt my lip trembling and looked up at Derek. “Can I wash my hands first?”

“It’s evidence,” he said, his voice cool. “Leave it.”

Homicide inspector Nathan Jaglow, tall, probably in his fifties, with short, curly gray hair and a sad smile, was a very patient man. His partner, Inspector Janice Lee, was Asian American, pretty but painfully thin, with long, lustrous black hair. They took notes, asked questions and occasionally made me repeat myself, just so they could write my words down exactly as I’d stated them.

They’d commandeered another binder’s workroom and they sat across from me at a high worktable. I didn’t know whether they were both pretending to play good cop until someone else showed up to play bad cop, but I liked them. Unlike Derek Stone, they seemed to believe me when I insisted I hadn’t killed Abraham. However, that didn’t keep them from asking me to go over my story in minute detail several times.

Early on, a crime scene technician swabbed my hands in order to test the blood to see if it matched Abraham’s. I was allowed to wash my hands in the workroom sink, which made me feel somewhat better. I could now look at my hands without sliding to the floor.

Jaglow held up a large Ziploc baggie. Inside was a ten-inch knife with a wide, rounded blade. “Can you tell me what this is?”

The knife was smeared with blood.

And there went my stomach again.

“Deep breaths, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said, her gravelly voice calm and strangely seductive. “I know it’s difficult but we really need your expertise right now. Take your time.”

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and repeated that several times, telling myself to relax.

“It’s called a-a Japanese paper knife,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse. “It’s made in Japan.” Duh, I thought. I took a sip of water and continued. “It’s used to cut paper.” Again, duh. I could no longer think straight.

“You’re doing great,” Inspector Jaglow said. “So this is a tool used for cutting paper. Paper used in making or repairing books, I presume.”

I nodded. “Is that what killed him?”

He paused for a moment, then said, “We still need to determine that.”

“He was shot, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said evenly.

“But the blood on the knife…” I gulped.

“He might’ve grabbed it,” she said, apparently unconcerned that her partner was glowering at her. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Wainwright?”

“What? No.” The only gun I’d seen lately belonged to Derek Stone, but he was one of them. Or so he’d said.

Jaglow’s eyes narrowed in on me. “What are you thinking, Ms. Wainwright?”

I chewed my lip, unsure what to say next. They’d worn out my last nerve. All I could picture was Abraham, so happy tonight, so glad we were friends again. I wanted to hug him and hear him laugh. Against my will, tears sprang to my eyes.

The two cops exchanged glances.

“I guess that’s enough for tonight,” Jaglow said as he stood and slipped his notebook into his back pocket. The action pulled his jacket back and I could see his gun in the holster under his arm. Yet another reminder that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “We’ve got your contact information and I assume you’re not leaving town anytime soon?”

Was that cop humor? I’d probably laugh about it later.

“No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Really. Anything you want to know, please call me. I want to help find whoever did this.”

“We appreciate that.” They led me out of the workroom and pointed the way back down the hall to the room where I’d left Robin and Derek Stone.

Derek came out into the hall just then, and as he passed me, he whispered, “I’ll be watching you like a hawk, Ms. Wainwright.”

My stomach knotted up. I didn’t know where to turn. Uniformed police officers stood guard in front of several of the doors to the different studios. Yellow crime scene tape was strewn across the double doors at the far end.

“Commander,” Inspector Lee called. “We’d like to meet in here if that’s acceptable to you.”

I turned in disbelief. They actually called him Commander? And cared about his preferences? I’d thought he might be lying, but he really was working with the local cops. I was so screwed.

I surreptitiously clenched my fists as I continued the long walk down the hall. It wasn’t pleasant to recall how many ways I’d insulted the commander, but at least those thoughts distracted me from the highly disturbing fact that I’d blatantly lied to two San Francisco homicide inspectors tonight.

Okay, maybe I hadn’t exactly lied, but if omission was a sin, I was guilty as charged. Not once, but twice.

First of all, I’d never mentioned to Inspectors Jaglow and Lee the words Abraham said before he died. I tried to convince myself the reason I’d left out that little detail was that I couldn’t be sure exactly what Abraham had said.

But that was me, lying to myself. He’d said, “Remember the devil.” I’d never forget it. But what did he mean? Maybe he’d been referring to the book. Faust was the story of a man who sold his soul to the devil. Did I need to read the book? Maybe there was something in there that would give me the first clue to what he’d been talking about. Who was the devil? And why was I supposed to remember him?