The Lies That Bind

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 begi

“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.

Butcher shops displayed rows of cooked ducks hanging from metal racks, drying in the breeze. Baby bok choy, snow peas, and ruffle-leafed Chinese cabbage filled the vegetable stands in front of the markets. I breathed in the scents of fried wontons and sweet sausage buns and wanted to eat everything I could smell.

Two blocks into the heart of Chinatown, we found the address on Mr. Soo’s business card.

“It’s a take-out joint,” I said, casting a disappointed look inside the seedy café. The cashier sat on a high stool, daintily dangling her shoe while she read a magazine and twirled her thick hair around her fingers. It wasn’t the most appetizing way to attract customers.

I checked Soo’s business card. “Suite 317.”

We walked past the restaurant storefront to a door just beyond it. A clouded porthole window allowed a view inside, and Derek held his hand up to block the sun’s glare as he stared through.

“If you’d rather wait out here, I wouldn’t think any less of you,” he said.

“But I would,” I replied with determination. No way was I going to chicken out now. “Let’s go.”

He pushed the door open and we walked inside. The door slammed shut behind us, instantly casting the enclosed space into darkness. The narrow hall led to a set of stairs and we started climbing. I tried not to breathe in too much. The place was dank, gloomy, and redolent of sesame oil and sweet and sour pork.

“Guess he’s on the third floor,” I whispered.

Derek led the way to the third-floor landing and pushed open another door to a long hall. There was more light here, with doors on either side leading to offices or apartments. We got to number 317 and knocked.

I wasn’t surprised when no one answered, but I was taken aback when Derek tried the doorknob and it opened easily.

“Should we go in?” I asked, unsure of walking into someone’s private dwelling. Although, truth be told, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d done so.

“It’s an office,” he said, moving ahead into the room.

“Oh, good.” I followed him into Mr. Soo’s office, where a glass block wall separated the small dingy waiting area from an interior room. Dark, scarred wainscoting ran halfway up the walls, met by peeling flowery wallpaper in faded shades of green and pink. Two rickety folding chairs were set against one wall with a small plastic table between them. Despite the shabby surroundings, it was oddly comforting to see two well-thumbed back issues of Fine Books & Collections magazine lying on the table.

I had my own subscription to the well-respected industry magazine, so I took it as a good sign that whoever worked here was serious about books.

Derek knocked on the door leading into the next room. Once again, there was no answer.

“Is it locked?” I asked.

“No.” He pushed the door open and walked in. I followed him and skidded to a stop.

The room was in a shambles. Two padded chairs were upturned and torn open. The cottony stuffing was scattered around and bits of it fluttered in the air, stirred by our movements. One wall of bookshelves had been completely overturned. Books lay everywhere, jumbled in piles, covers splayed, pages bent. It was a mess.

“Oh, this is horrible,” I said, picking up the volume on top. “These are expensive books. How could anyone—”

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Derek put his finger to his lips, then grabbed my hand and ran over to another door. I hoped it led to a way out of there, but it didn’t. Derek swung the door open and we pushed our way into a tiny, cramped bathroom, barely big enough for one person, with a stained toilet and a sink that wouldn’t fit my two hands. The fixtures were rusted and water dripped intermittently from the faucet.

Derek shut the door and locked it just as footsteps sounded in the outer room. The thudding steps moved closer, coming into the torn-up room just outside the bathroom door.

I swallowed nervously and rested my head against Derek’s back, slipping my arms around his waist. I could feel his muscles flex, feel the tension in his body as we waited anxiously.

“What the hell?” a man said, his voice raspy.

Another set of footsteps joined the first man and that person swore ripely.

“What do we do now?”

“Find that book, damn it.”

“Oh, man, there’s no way. There’s gotta be a thousand books here.”

“Then get started. I’m not leaving without it.”

“Shit,” the other man whined. But he began moving things, searching for something.

I winced as I heard them throwing books around. Derek squeezed my hand in understanding and I could’ve kissed him. The tiny room was tight and uncomfortable and not much bigger than an airplane bathroom, but if I had to be shoved up against another human being in close quarters, I was perfectly happy to have it be him.