Текст книги "The Lies That Bind"

Автор книги: Kate Carlisle

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

I’d managed to let my fears get the best of me, even though I’d seen right through Naomi’s lies. I’d been enveloped in a nasty, miserable red haze of jealousy. Or is jealousy a green haze? Either way, it wasn’t pretty.

I guess one could conclude that my feelings for Derek were even stronger than I’d realized. And that was so freaking scary, I wanted more than anything to grab the mop and clean my kitchen floor. But I couldn’t. I had five minutes to pull myself together, so I rushed to my room and gave it my best shot.

The doorbell rang. I ran down the hall, then skidded to a stop. It wouldn’t do for him to hear me racing to the door. And since when had I ever played games like this?

I blew my bangs off my forehead and walked the rest of way.

“Oh, hi.” There, that didn’t sound awkward. Not at all. Much.

“About time,” he murmured and took one step into the house, but it was more like he stepped into me, fitted his mouth to mine and took.

And nothing else mattered.

Out on the sidewalk an hour later, after we’d had a nice conversation and some tea . . . no, really. After that long, lovely kiss at the door, Derek had pulled me into the living room, where he insisted we sit down and talk. He proceeded to assuage any fears I might’ve had about him and Layla. Of course, I assured him that I hadn’t given it a second thought, but he persisted in telling me the whole story.

He’d never met Layla before, but a mutual friend had told him to look her up when he got to the city. This was weeks ago, and they’d planned to meet over cocktails the night of the Covington Library event, when Abraham died. Derek found me with blood on my hands, and the rest was history. He never contacted Layla again. So I had spoiled their big date. I did not regret it.

Then, when Derek showed up at BABA with Gunther, Layla thought they ought to pick up where they’d left off and go for cocktails after the party. Derek quickly disabused her of that possibility.

He wasn’t as sure of Naomi’s motives as I was. He suspected Layla had lied to her niece about him to save face. He had a point, I thought. After all, how would it look to her underlings if the great and powerful Layla couldn’t lure a man into her bed?

I stood on the sidewalk as Derek opened the passenger door of his Bentley.

“I can drive my own car,” I said in protest.

“Why bother?” he asked. “I’ll drive you to your class, and afterward we’ll go out to dinner. Do you like Italian?”

I gazed at him across my shoulder. “Is the pope Catholic?”

“Italian it is,” he said, patting my butt. “Now get in the car.”

I laughed lightly and climbed into the butter-soft leather seat of the Bentley and buckled my seat belt. The car smelled new. And sexy. Or maybe that was just the mood I was in.

Derek hopped in and started the engine. “I need to make one stop. Do you mind?”

“No, we have time.”

“Good.” Within minutes, he’d driven over the bumpy streetcar tracks running down Market Street and continued up Kearny to Pine. We talked of normal things, the weather, my family, Gunther’s brilliant lithographs. He drove two more narrow blocks to Stockton, then pulled into the elegant porte cochere of the Ritz-Carlton.

“We’re stopping at your hotel?” I said, a tad incredulous, though I shouldn’t have been. He was, after all, just a man. “We don’t really have time for this.”

Although, if pressed, I would be more than willing to comply. I was learning quickly that I was that kind of girl.

He checked his watch, then pierced me with a look. “You’re right. You have to be at work in one hour, and I intend to take a lot more time than that.”

I broke out in a sweat and started to whistle.

He laughed. “I simply forgot my wallet, darling. We’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay.” Because really, how often did I get a chance to go to the Ritz?

“It’s not like you to forget your wallet,” I said as we entered the hushed lobby.

“I was in a rush to see you.”

I smiled at him. As excuses went, that was a good one.

We rode the elevator up to the penthouse. I thought about it. The penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton went for what, ten thousand a night? The guy had an expense account that didn’t quit.

Derek stopped at room 919, slipped his key card into the slot, and opened the door. “You can look at the view while I find my—”

He halted abruptly and I almost slammed into him. “Find your what?”

“Shit.”

Derek rarely swore.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stay here,” he said, reaching behind his back to grip my arm.

“What is it, Derek?”

He turned and put a finger to his lips “Shh. Somebody’s been in here.”

I whispered, “Maybe just the maid?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

He looked at me over his shoulder. “A man knows when his fortress has been breached.”

My heart stammered. Now, why did I find his words so sexy when they should’ve been just plain ridiculous? Maybe it was something in the British accent that gave them gravitas.

It was my turn to grab his arm as I glanced around anxiously. “They might still be here.”

“You’re to stay right here,” he said with an urgency that I’d rarely heard from him.

I nodded briskly. “All right.”

He didn’t have to tell me again. I’d been accosted in a hotel room recently and didn’t relish a repeat experience. I watched from the safety of the elegant foyer as he conducted a swift but professional sweep of the room.

After shifting all the pillows and checking under the couch, he moved to the dining table and chairs and on to the coffee table. Finally, he approached the small Regency-style desk next to the wall of windows. He checked the drawers, pulling each one out completely and turning it over to see if anything was attached underneath. He ran his hands smoothly over the top surface, then squatted down and felt under the desk.

“Ah,” he whispered, and crouched on his hands and knees to get a good look at whatever it was he’d felt. After prying it from beneath the desk, he stood.

“Is it a bomb?” I asked, cowering closer to the wall of the entryway.

“No,” he said, bemused. “It’s a book.” He ripped duct tape off a Ziploc freezer-strength Baggie as he walked toward me. I ventured into the room and met him halfway, watching as he undid the plastic zipper and pulled a book out of the Baggie. He appeared lost in thought as he studied it. Then he looked up.

“I suppose this is your bailiwick,” he said, handing the book to me. “Any thoughts?”

I frowned. “My first thought is that this is really weird.”

The book was crimson morocco leather, in near perfect condition. The spine was elaborately gilded with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow written in gold between the raised bands. The paper was heavily gilded on all three edges. I opened it to check the date of publication: 1905.

On the inside flyleaf, facing the title page, was a full-color Arthur Rackham illustration of Ichabod Crane and a pretty woman dressed in pink frills, walking under a gnarly tree. Hiding among the branches of the tree were a band of evil-looking pixies, grinning maniacally.

“Oh, it’s charming,” I whispered, turning it over to check out the back joint along the spine. It was strong, in mint condition.

“Yes, it’s lovely, I suppose,” Derek said grudgingly. “Why it was left here, hidden, I have no idea.”

“No.” It was indeed lovely and extremely rare; of that, I had no doubt. I imagined a collector would be willing to pay twenty or thirty thousand dollars, if not more.

“What in the world was this doing in a Baggie under your desk?”

He bristled. “I didn’t put it there.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I said. “I’m just wondering who did. And why.”

I could feel the tension radiating off him. While I studied the book, he paced back and forth in front of me, visibly furious. It made me wonder how someone like him, with his legendary self-control and fervent belief in the order of law, could stand to be put in a position of having to defend himself to the police.

He probably felt upside down and discombobulated, although he might describe it in less whimsical terms. Whatever you called it, I knew the feeling. I felt his pain.

“If I knew who did it,” he said tersely, “they’d be in jail by now.”

Baffled, I shook my head. “What were they trying to prove?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He took the book from me and studied it for a few seconds, then handed it back. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s one of Layla’s books. Clearly, someone put it here to frame me.”

“How would they get in?” I waved away the question. “Never mind. Housekeeping.” I had intimate knowledge of the ease of slipping a key off the housekeeping trolley.

“Exactly.”

“But who? Naomi again?”

“I don’t know.” His fists clenched as he paced. “Is she smart enough to carry out such an elaborate scheme?”

“She’s smart enough, but this would take more than mere smarts. It’s so brazen, it’s almost . . . diabolical.”

“Yes, it is.” He gritted his teeth. “And I’m determined to find out who did it.”

“I’ll help,” I said immediately.

He tilted his head to study me.

“What?” I demanded finally. “I’m going to help. I don’t care what—”

“Yes, I can use your help.”

“—you think, I’m . . . what? I mean, it’s not like you can stop me, but . . . really?”

He flashed me a sexy, lopsided grin. I wondered if he could hear my little heart pitter-patter as I returned his smile.

“Yes, really.” His grin faded and he reached out to touch my cheek. “Because whoever tried to frame me has also hurt you, darling. And that is one thing I cannot forgive.”

Chapter 15

En route to BABA to confront Naomi, I called the police to report the break-in of Derek’s hotel suite. They transferred me to Inspector Lee’s voice mail, where I gave her the rundown on Derek’s hotel room, the book, and where we were headed now.

As Derek brought the Bentley to a stop directly in front of BABA’s doors, Inspector Lee returned my call. I put her on speaker.

“Don’t even think about walking inside until I get there,” Lee shouted. “I’m calling a unit to meet you. They should be there in two minutes. Two minutes. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said. “But I have a class to teach and Derek’s just hanging out here with me.”

“Do not walk inside that building,” she shouted.

“No need for hysterics, Inspector,” Derek said calmly. “We’ll wait right here for you.”

“Hysterics?” she said softly, venom dripping off the word. “You ain’t seen hysterics, pal. I’ll slap both your asses in jail if you’re not outside when I get there.”

“Harsh,” I said, meeting Derek’s amused glance.

“You ain’t seen harsh, either,” Lee groused.

“Now I’m intrigued,” Derek said.

She just growled, then hung up.

I stuck my cell in my jacket pocket. “I think she likes us.”

“What’s not to like?” He leaned over, unlocked the glove box, and pulled out a really scary-looking gun. “By the way, I think you should wait in the car.”

“No. Whoa. A gun?” I waved my hand at him. “There are people in there. My students. That’s not necessary, is it? It’s just Naomi. She’s hardly a . . .”

“A what?” he said. “A killer? We don’t know that, do we?”

“But—”

“Sweetheart, believe it or not, I’m a highly trained professional. I’m not going to shoot up the place.”

“I know, I know,” I said, as fear and nerves set up shop in my heart. “But that gun is really big.”

“Thank you, darling.”

I snorted a laugh, ladylike to the end.

He reached for the door handle and I grabbed his arm. “Let’s just give it a minute, please? I’d rather have the police confront her than us.”

“You’re about to get your way,” he said, as police lights flashed behind us. “They’re prompt anyway. I’ll give them that.”

“I’ll say.” I had a feeling Inspector Lee had threatened her fellow officers with the wrath of God if they didn’t get here before we went inside. Good to know she could pull strings like that.

We climbed out of the car. It was dusk and the air was chilling. I pulled my jacket tightly around me as we met the two officers on the sidewalk. One was a woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The other was Officer Ortiz.

“Hello, Officer,” I said, and smiled at him.

He looked at me with suspicion. That hurt. I hadn’t done anything to him. Yet.

“Officers,” Derek said jovially. “It’s good of you to join us. Shall we?” He swept his arm up as if we were about to enter a grand ballroom.

“You’re not going anywhere, Jack,” Ponytail said.

“And you are . . . ?” he asked in his most upper-crust snooty British butler accent.

“Norris. SFPD.”

He inclined his head and switched to his smooth-as-silk James Bond license-to-kill voice. “Derek Stone, at your service, Officer Norris.”

Ortiz ignored them both and jerked his chin toward me. “What’s going on here?”

“Naomi Fontaine,” I said. “We believe she planted evidence in Mr. Stone’s hotel suite. We want to ask her some questions so we called Inspector Lee to join us. Just wanted to keep everything aboveboard.”

Derek added, “There won’t be any trouble, but we’re happy you’re here. Shall we go in?”

“Hold it, pal,” Ponytail said.

“It’s okay, Norris,” Ortiz said to her. To Derek he said, “I go first. You stay back.”

Derek shrugged, but complied.

Norris flexed her shoulder muscles, making her ponytail bob. “Let’s roll.”

The only thing rolling were my eyes as she manfully adjusted her weapons belt. Then she moved and we followed close behind them, all the way to Naomi’s office. The door was open but Officer Ortiz knocked anyway.

She looked up and gasped. “What in the world?”

“Hi, Naomi,” I said, waving from behind the cops.

“What’s wrong?”

I bent to catch Ortiz’s gaze. “Do you mind?” Then I slipped in front of him and held up the Sleepy Hollow book.

“Derek found this book in his hotel suite. Are you familiar with it?”

She lost all color in her face and her mouth did that trout-caught-by-a-fishhook thing again. Open, close, open, close. Finally, she said, “I—I . . . Where did you get that?”

“I just told you. Weren’t you listening?”

She shook her head back and forth. “I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” She grabbed her purse. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

Norris yelled, “Put the bag down.” Both cops drew their guns.

Naomi screamed, dropped the bag, and held up her hands.

Inspector Lee came running down the hall, gun drawn.

“I want my lawyer,” Naomi wailed.

I turned to Derek. “I guess that answers the question of guilt.”

Derek stared at Naomi. “Before they haul you off to jail, I want to know why you were so intent on framing me.”

Her eyes widened. “It . . . it wasn’t me.”

“And yet, you want to lawyer up,” I said, and jabbed my finger at her. “Not a good-faith gesture, Naomi.” I turned to Inspector Lee. “You’re arresting her, right?”

“For what?” Lee asked. “Being an idiot?”

“If only,” Norris muttered, reluctantly slipping her gun back into the holster at her hip.

“Breaking and entering?” I suggested, then pointed at the book. “Or stealing a priceless art object?”

“Where’d she steal it from?”

I frowned at Derek. “From Layla, I guess.”

Lee pushed back her jacket and holstered her gun. “So she basically stole the book from herself. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Brooklyn!” Naomi cried. “I didn’t do it.”

I glared at her. “I’m having a real hard time believing anything you say, Naomi.” I turned down the hall in time to see Karalee jump back into her office and slam the door. Great. Everyone in the building would know all about it within minutes.

Naomi ran into the hall. “Wait. Can I have my book back?”

“Civilians,” Norris muttered, hand resting on her gun.

Lee laughed without humor. “That’s a joke, right, Ms. Fontaine?”

“No,” she said earnestly. “I need that book for . . .”

I cocked my head. “For what?”

“It’s evidence,” Lee said, ending the discussion.

I slipped the book back into the Baggie and handed it to the inspector.

Naomi’s eyes widened; then her shoulders slumped and she walked back to her office and closed the door.

Derek and I followed the cop back to the gallery.

Lee turned and held up her hand to stop Derek. “We’re going to have to search your hotel room, Commander.”

“Didn’t you already do that?” I asked.

Lee looked at me as though I’d been smoking lettuce or something.

I glanced from her to Derek and back. “But you arrested him,” I said haltingly. “Why didn’t you . . .”

Derek put his hand on my shoulder. “I wasn’t arrested, darling, just questioned.”

“Oh, good.” I turned to Lee. “You should fingerprint his hotel room.”

“Wow, good idea,” she said.

I shook my head and sighed. “Go ahead and mock me, but I’ve had a bad day.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said, her tone friendly again.

“You won’t find any fingerprints,” Derek said tightly.

Lee gave a philosophical shrug. “Let’s give it a shot anyway.”

As predicted, the police didn’t find any fingerprints in Derek’s hotel room, so Naomi was safe from imprisonment. For now.

After my class, Derek and I went out to a marvelous Italian restaurant near Nob Hill. Over tender short ribs in a Barolo reduction with sweet potato ravioli, accompanied by a stunning Bartolo Mascarello, Derek shared what he’d learned during his evening at the police station. He’d spent half the night there with Inspector Lee. Suspect or not, he still had that British commander vibe going for him and the San Francisco cops loved him. Hell, who didn’t?

On the night of Layla’s death, the police had confiscated her computer. What they found among her personal and business records were several bank accounts to which large deposits were made on a regular basis. A separate ledger with three different entries noted down payments of twenty thousand dollars each, for the books listed, with the merchandise scheduled to be turned over that very week.

“Down payments? Of twenty thousand dollars? For each book?” I mentally picked my jaw up off the floor. “Was there a list of the books being sold?”

“Yes,” Derek said, then tasted the deep red wine.

“Well?” I waited, but he was intent on torturing me as he swirled the wineglass, then took another sip. “Derek, swallow the damn wine and tell me what books they were.”

“Patience, darling. Your father wouldn’t approve of my drinking something this exquisite any other way.”

“You’re right,” I grumbled, and slumped back against the booth. “Just tell me if one of the books was an Oliver Twist?”

His eyes sparkled as he set down his glass. “I think you’ve already guessed.”

“It was,” I whispered, then tried to put the pieces together. “I thought it was being saved for the silent auction, but the real reason Naomi didn’t want to sell me the book was because it was already promised to another buyer.”

The wine steward poured more lovely red liquid into my glass. When he left, I looked at Derek. “There’s no way that Oliver Twist is worth twenty thousand dollars, and that’s just the down payment. I mean, I did a damn good job of restoring it, but how much did Layla expect to get paid? Whatever it was, it’s a completely fraudulent deal.”

“Yes,” he said, and bit into a succulent piece of beef. “And where does Naomi fit in?”

“I don’t know.” I cut into a pillowy ravioli square.

“Well, I can tell you that the police went by to speak with Naomi Monday night.”

“I saw them come in.” I swallowed the bite and almost swooned. The buttery ravioli sauce was extraordinary. “Oh, my, I need a moment.”

“It’s rather good, isn’t it?”

“It’s heaven.” I took a sip of wine, then exhaled softly. “Ah. Where was I? Oh, yes, the police showed up during the wake, just as the crowd was thinning out. Inspector Lee had Naomi in her sights and it looked as if they were going to arrest her. But she was back at work last night, free as a bird.”

“They merely confiscated her computer,” Derek revealed. “They’ve combed through it. It appears she knew nothing about these prepayments.”

“Oh, she knew,” I said, absently pointing my fork at him. “She’s hiding something. Why else would she be so nervous when I asked her about the Oliver Twist?”

“And this was the same Oliver Twist that Layla mentioned she was auctioning off at the Twisted festival?”

I considered the answer as I munched on a perfectly prepared haricot vert. “I thought so, but now I’m not sure. If it’s listed as a presale, how can they be auctioning it off?”

“Are there two Oliver Twists, perhaps?”

“I have no idea,” I said, grabbing my wineglass.

“I believe we should pay another visit to Naomi.”

As we drove away from the restaurant, I called Inspector Lee to explain the situation. I described Naomi’s reaction when I’d mentioned I wanted to buy the Oliver Twist.

“I’m willing to swear she knew about Layla’s prepayments,” I said. “I’m going to confront her, with or without a police presence.”

“With,” Inspector Lee barked into the phone. “You’ll wait for me.”

“Gladly,” I said, and winked at Derek. He’d already bet she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“And just so you know,” Lee said. “We gave her back that Oliver Twist book a few days ago.”

I stared at Derek.

“The plot thickens,” he murmured.

“Yes, doesn’t it just?” So last night when I’d asked Naomi if I could buy the Oliver Twist, she’d already obtained it from the police. She had to have known exactly what book I was talking about. And judging from the dull pallor of her skin when I told her it wasn’t a first edition, I was willing to bet she’d already sold it.

It was midnight when we parked the Bentley in front of the building, so I doubted we would find Naomi at work. Inspector Lee was already there, waiting with two other cops. BABA was locked up for the night, but low lights shined through the textured glass section of the door.

Sure enough, after Inspector Lee hammered her fist on the door for almost a minute, Ned lumbered over to let us in.

“Huh,” he said. “Late.”

“Yeah, go back to sleep,” Lee said.

“ ’Kay.”

Ned trundled off and Lee led the way to Naomi’s office and pushed the door open. “You’re working late, Ms. Fontaine.”

Naomi jerked and shrieked at the same time. “You scared the hell out of me! What do you want? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me what you’re working on,” Lee said. She rounded the desk and grabbed the minicomputer. I was pretty sure it was a move that wouldn’t hold up in court, but I liked it.

“You already took my work computer!” Naomi cried, trying to grab it back. “This one’s mine!”

“Looks like an Excel spreadsheet,” Lee said, and made eye contact with me as she began to read off the screen. “It’s a list of books and prices. What’s this column?” She squinted at the small screen. “Date acquired. Date purchased. Date completed.”

“We often sell our books,” Naomi whined. “It’s not a crime. The books belong to Layla. I mean, me.”

“But passing a book off as more rare or better than it really is to gain a higher price is a crime,” I said. “It’s called fraud. It’s like theft, only really worse.” Okay, I was blathering. I silently beseeched Inspector Lee to pick up the ball.

Her gaze narrowed in on Naomi. “Are you defrauding your clients, Ms. Fontaine?”

Naomi took a deep, shuddering breath. “I didn’t know it was fraud! Layla has all these people she sells books to, and they were calling me. They wanted their money. Or . . . or they wanted their books. One man came by and he was not kidding around. He threatened me, told me I’d be sorry if I didn’t comply, so I gave him the book he wanted.”

“The Oliver Twist?” I asked.

Her face was a mask of shock and pain. “He said Layla promised it to him. He said he already paid her part of the money, so I gave him the book and he gave me the rest of the money.”

She gasped. It was clear she wished she hadn’t brought up the money. But she had, and I believed her admission signified that she wasn’t cut out to be as wicked as her auntie Layla.

“What did this man look like?” Lee asked. “The one who gave you the money?”

“He was . . .” Naomi winced and looked away.

“Go ahead,” Lee coaxed.

She took a deep breath. “He was Asian.”

“Ah, my people,” Lee muttered. “So? Tall? Fat? Short? Bald?”

“Tall. Normal build.” She gazed up at Lee with a sycophantic smile. “He was really nice-looking.”

“Swell. Did you get a name?”

Eager to please now, Naomi nodded. “Mr. Soo.”

“And how much money did he give you?”

Naomi chewed her lower lip. Now I could see her brain calculating how much to tell us.

“How much money, Ms. Fontaine?” Lee repeated, softly this time, but with more deadly intent.

Naomi’s shoulders shook nervously. “Ten thousand dollars.”

“In cash?”

She nodded, clearly miserable at having to disclose the true amount.

“No wonder you could afford a new wardrobe,” I marveled.

“It’s my money,” she said defiantly. “I’m Layla’s next of kin, so her book business comes to me.”

“Book business,” I said in disgust. “Sounds more like a ring of book thieves.”

“I’m not a thief. The book belonged to me.”

“Did it?” I asked. “Or did it belong to BABA?”

“We should probably finish this up downtown,” Lee said. She signaled to the cop watching from just outside the office door and he came forward instantly.

“No,” Naomi cried, and burst into tears.

I couldn’t blame her. I was ninety-nine percent positive she was innocent, because as much as she’d attempted to channel Aunt Layla, trying to dress like a hooker and conduct business like a shark, Naomi just couldn’t pull it off. She’d given it her best shot, but she was missing the key ingredient, the true bitch gene.

So if Naomi was innocent, who killed Layla Fontaine?