The Lies That Bind (25 page)

“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.

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.

I had a sudden memory of another tight space I’d hidden in recently. I’d been shocked to learn Derek was hiding in there, as well. Those were some good times.

One of the men must’ve tried to pick up the fallen bookcase because I heard the screech of heavy wood against wood.

Then one of them began to scream.

“Oh, my God!” Then more screams.

“What?” his partner said. “Shut up! Whoa, holy shit, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Two sets of footsteps scrambled and someone fell; then both of them tore out of the room, fleeing down the hall.

There was silence. I realized I was holding my breath, so tense I thought I might crack in two.

Derek quietly unlocked the door, then pushed back against me until he could squeeze through the doorway and out of the oppressively small room.

I followed him, gasping for breath.

He took hold of the heavy bookcase and lifted it.

I shrieked; I couldn’t help myself. I recognized the dead man buried under hundreds of books and the heavy shelf.

It was the Asian man I’d seen storming out of Layla’s office the first night of class.

“Mr. Soo, I presume,” Derek said.

It had to be Mr. Soo. In his hand, he was clutching the
Oliver Twist
I’d restored so lovingly.

In the middle of his forehead was a bullet hole.

“Another dead body?” I cried, having officially reached the end of my rope. “What the hell is going on with me? Was I a serial killer in a past life? Why do I keep finding dead people?”

Enough already.

“I agree it’s all become a bit chary,” Derek confessed as he struggled to keep the bookcase suspended.

“Chary? I hope that’s another word for totally unfair and highly annoying.”

“Something like that,” he said, grimacing as he shifted to lower the bookcase.

“Hey, wait, I want my book,” I said, pointing to the
Oliver Twist
in the dead man’s hand. I began to push books out of my path.

“Sorry, love,” he said, and shoved the bookcase back far enough that it no longer crushed the unfortunate Mr. Soo when it crashed to the ground.

“But, Derek, it’s worth—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, grabbing my arm and heading for the door. “We’re leaving now.”

I looked over my shoulder in dismay. “It would only take a second to—”

“We don’t have a second, love.” He looked both ways down the hall, then took off running for the stairs. “Hear those sirens?” he said as he reached the end of the hall and opened the door to the landing. “The police are going to stop right outside this building, I guarantee it. And since I’ve already spent several hours under police scrutiny, I don’t wish to draw any more attention to myself than is necessary.”

“Oh, good point.” I’d already determined that the book was well away from that sliver of blood seeping from—
well, never mind
, I thought, shivering at the picture of Mr. Soo lying dead in that room. It bothered me to leave the
Oliver Twist
, but I knew it would end up as evidence and eventually be returned to Naomi, who might still sell it to me.

Derek was more important right now. We had to get him away from there.

We raced down the stairs as police sirens pierced the air, growing louder and louder. Sure enough, they came to an abrupt stop on the side street bordering Mr. Soo’s building.

On the ground floor, we walked briskly toward the back of the building and exited onto the narrow one-way street that ran parallel to Grant. A walkway between office buildings and past several hole-in-the-wall eateries took us to the next street over, which was Kearny. From there, we strolled back to Union Square, window-shopping on the way.

Despite acting as a dividing line between the fashionable shops of Union Square and the monolithic skyscrapers of the Financial District, Kearny Street itself was slightly seedy with small discount shops, funky food joints, check-cashing services, and the occasional bar.

But it was a beautiful day in the city, with brilliant blue skies and a lovely breeze drifting through the canyons of high-rises on our left. We seemed a million miles away from the tawdry murder scene in Chinatown, and as we turned up Post Street, it felt as though we had all the time in the world.