Homicide in Hardcover Page 4
“You have his blood on your hands.”
I looked at my hands. Maybe I wavered because he grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me and said, “Oh no, you don’t. No more fainting.”
I slapped his hands away. “Let go of me. I’m not going to faint.”
“Then stop breathing so heavily.”
“What is wrong with you?”
He leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles nonchalantly. “You killed a man and there’s something wrong with me?”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Tell it to the cops.”
“How dare you?” I sucked in a much-needed breath before continuing. “You don’t even know me. Abraham Karastovsky was my friend. My teacher. He-he was like my uncle. We talked tonight and he was so happy and-and then I found him in that room. He died in my arms.” I felt my throat close and had to stop. I put my hand over my eyes.
“Oh, here we go again,” he said. “I’m sure the local cops will be properly hoodwinked.”
I shrieked. I admit it. Then I gritted my teeth, looked him in the eye and said, “First of all, I never faint. Well, except for tonight. It was the blood. I have this thing about blood. Never mind, why am I explaining myself to you?”
“I have no idea.”
I paced away, then whipped around. “Second, I don’t give a damn what you think. I did not kill Abraham Karastovsky. I know the truth and that’s all that matters. And by the way, I’m thinking the cops are going to be interested in hearing your alibi, too, pal.”
He snorted with contempt.
“And third,” I continued, “no one says hoodwinked anymore.”
His eyes narrowed to angry pinpoints as he leaned closer. “Hoodwinked. It means to trick, deceive, dupe.”
I jabbed his lapel. “I know what it means, but nobody uses it outside of a Dickens novel.”
We stared at each other with suspicion and ire.
I shook my head. “Why am I even talking to you? You’re obviously just another insane person carrying a gun.” Oh, crap, he was carrying a gun. He could’ve used it to kill Abraham. I felt sick all over again.
“Never mind,” I said. “Nice talking to you. See you around.”
He blocked my path again. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“And you’re going to stop me?”
“It appears I already have,” he said with another one of his smirks.
I threw up my hands and stormed around the room. “You are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.” I turned and pointed at him. “No, wait. I haven’t actually met you, have I? I don’t have a clue who you are and yet you slander and falsely imprison me just because-”
“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?”
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?
My mind was spinning and I realized I was seriously exhausted. I would need a good night’s sleep before I could begin to figure out what the words meant.
I stopped, leaned against the wall of the overly bright hallway, closed my eyes and faced the truth. Omitting Abraham’s last words to the inspector had nothing to do with the real reason why I felt truly sick with guilt.
No, the real sin of omission occurred when I’d neglected to tell the police that I had seen and spoken to the one person who had the means and opportunity to actually murder Abraham Karastovsky.
My mother.
Chapter 4
Standing by myself in the long hall, I was abruptly aware of a disturbance in the Force. Chilled, I scanned the hallway in both directions. I’d felt this way before and knew that Minka LaBoeuf was somewhere in the vicinity. I couldn’t see her but it didn’t matter. She was close. Too close. I could smell the sulfur.
Then she walked out of the workroom two doors down from Abraham’s and spied me through the crowd of police officers milling around. Adrenaline spiked. The exhaustion I’d felt seconds ago was history as an overwhelming urge to attack her, to punch her in the stomach and run, took over. It totally irked me that the woman could fuel my rage faster than anyone I’d ever known, just by walking into the room.
As she walked toward me, Minka twirled a strand of hair around her middle finger, something she’d always done when she was nervous. Good to know she wasn’t as confident as she tried to appear to be. And how had I missed the fact that under her short black leather jacket she wore a skintight black catsuit tucked into thigh-high black boots?
Was the world ready for Minka the Dominatrix?
Her lips were slathered in coral lipstick and she’d ringed her eyes with black kohl. As she came closer, I could see the body suit straining at the seams near her stomach. Was it wrong to be gleeful over the fact that she’d put on weight?
“Well, if it isn’t Ms. High-and-Mighty herself,” she said in that distinctively whiny voice that never failed to boil my blood. “Karma’s a real bitch, isn’t it?”
“You ought to know,” I said. As comebacks went, that one sucked, but I was off my game.
She giggled and I shuddered. Her smile had always caused me more apprehension than her animosity did. It wasn’t her fault, but the left side of her upper lip naturally curled up so that when she smiled, she looked like a snarling dingo.
Fear was a perfectly reasonable reaction, but I tried not to show it.
She studied me. “I probably shouldn’t be seen chatting with you, now that you’re a murder suspect. It could ruin my reputation.”
“We’re not chatting, and your reputation was ruined a long time ago.” I sighed. Seriously, if I was going to trade barbs with Minka LaBoeuf, I needed to regroup.
“What are you doing down here, Minka?” I asked wearily.
“I work here,” she said with a sneer. “That’s more than I can say for you. I belong here. You don’t. So you’re not the one calling the shots this time. This time it’s your ass on the hot seat. How does that make you feel, Brooks?”
“Don’t call me Brooks,” I snapped. Brooks was the nickname my family and close friends used. Like my old college boyfriend. The same boyfriend Minka had been so obsessed with that she’d picked up a wide-blade X-Acto knife and stabbed me in the hand.
“Whatever,” she said.
I noticed some of her coral lipstick had migrated to her tooth and it gave me the strength to lob another round of insults her way.
“I know reality isn’t your forte,” I said. “But let me remind you that Abraham Karastovsky fired you from the Winslow job and I know that pissed you off.”
“And your point, as if I care?”
“Now you’re stuck in archives and we all know that’s the bottom of the barrel.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Right. But see, here on earth we call that motive and I’m sure the police would love to hear all about it.”
Her upper lip twitched and curled as her self-assurance slipped. She moved even closer and snapped her fingers back and forth in front of my face like some jive diva. “And I am so sure they would love to know who Abraham was hooking up with in his workshop earlier tonight.”
Every nerve ending in my body jumped into high alert. Had she seen my mother down here? But Mom had insisted that Abraham didn’t show up, so what was Minka talking about?
I grabbed her arm and whispered through clenched teeth, “Be careful, Minka.”
She pulled away from me. “Or what? You’ll kill me, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But I could see how someone could be pushed to the brink with her.
“Really? We both know you’d like nothing better than to-”
“Brooklyn?”
We both jumped back as Ian approached from down the hall. “Just the person I was looking for. Oh, hi, Minka.”
Minka made a sound of disgust, then took off in the opposite direction, her shoulders rigid, the heels of her hooker boots pounding the hardwood surface as she fled.
“Where’s she going?” Ian asked, frowning as he watched her stalk away.
“Straight to hell, I hope.”
We both watched as a uniforme
d officer stopped Minka from going any farther. After a few tense words back and forth, he escorted her into a workroom, for questioning, I assumed. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried, but decided to go with worried.
I turned to Ian. “What a horrible night, huh?”
“Huh?” He looked at me in complete surprise as though he hadn’t realized I was standing there. This was the charmingly befuddled Ian I knew and loved.
We’d been engaged several years ago for almost six months until I took pity on him and broke it off. Thankfully, we were still good friends and if he was being honest, he’d concede he’d never been in love with me.
He’d professed his so-called love shortly after watching me produce an exact copy of a Dubuisson binding, right down to the gilded imprinting of one of Dubuisson’s “one o’clock birds.” Ian was easily impressed, though I must admit I was damn good.
See, Pierre-Paul Dubuisson was an eighteenth-century bookbinder, the royal binder to Louis XV of France. And one of his most celebrated signature designs was that of a bird with wings extended, facing one o’clock. The “one o’clock birds.”
Only a fellow book geek would get excited about something like that, and Ian was geekier than most. I could picture our kids, scary little Poindexter types with leather-stained hands and annoying tics and constant questions. No, I’d done us all a favor by breaking up with him.
“Brooklyn?”
“Huh?” I blinked up at him. “Sorry, I zoned out.” Did I tell you we were a pair? “What’s up?”
“It’s about the Faust.”
I shivered. “What about it?”
“I need you to take over the restoration. Can you start tomorrow?”
“But…” What could I say? Images of Abraham passed like a slide show in my head. The party atmosphere earlier. The hugs. The shared laughter. Doris Bondurant playfully slugging him. Then the fear. Finding him dying. The whispered phrase. The book slipping out of his jacket. Then death. And blood. So much blood.
The curse.
“Ian, you know I would help if I could, but…”
His expression was sorrowful. “I know, I know. I hate to even ask.”