The Lies That Bind

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 u

“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 co

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 i

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 stu

“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 ru

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, gri

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.”