The Stolen Blue Page 11

  Harrison stopped by her office to see how the investigation was coming.

  “There’s been a lead,” Claire told him, “but nothing definite. Someone e-mailed Page One, Too, offering to sell The Brave Cowboy, A Thief of Time and Death Comes for the Archbishop. We don’t know yet if they’re Burke’s books. John Harlan e-mailed them back, trying to get more information, but we haven’t gotten a response.”

  “There’s no way to identify the e-mailer?”

  “It came from one of those services that provides anonymity.”

  “Did you tell university police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have they been getting anywhere with their investigation?”

  “No. They haven’t ruled out the possibility that the thief works here, and I wouldn’t want word to get out that I’ve been in contact with John. I’m afraid the thief would crawl under a rock if he or she knew, and we’d never get the books back.”

  Harrison had picked up a glass paperweight from her desk and was turning it over and over in his long hands. “Of course,” he said, putting the paperweight down. “Keep me informed.”

  ******

  Later in the day Claire ran into Gail in the hallway to the ladies’ room. The hallway was narrow, and one person needed to step aside to let the other pass. The issue of who stepped aside could be awkward. Some people pulled rank, some people tried very hard not to. Gail avoided the issue by looking at the floor and sidling close to the wall. Her face had a pinched expression, and she wore a baggy brown dress. Claire could have squeezed by, but Gail stopped and asked about the book investigation.

  “Nothing new,” Claire felt obligated to reply, hoping Harrison had kept his promise not to discuss the e-mail query with Gail or anyone else. “How’s your car? Ruth said you’ve been having problems.” Gail had been out sick, and their paths hadn’t crossed since Claire’s conversation with Ruth.

  “The one thing you can count on when your life turns to shit is that your car won’t run,” Gail said.

  What could be wrong with Gail’s life? Claire wondered. Money problems? Men problems? Health problems? Rivals at work problems? “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  A curtain opened in Gail’s eyes, and for an instant Claire could see that something was very wrong, but the curtain quickly closed again. “No,” Gail said. “Ever since the accident, it’s been one thing after another with the car. Now it’s an electrical problem. It starts up all by itself while sitting in the driveway. It stops dead in the middle of traffic. The lights go off and on with no rhyme or reason. I’ve found a new mechanic who thinks he can fix it.”

  “Good luck,” Claire said, wondering why—with interest rates as low as they were—Gail didn’t just buy a new car. She’d seen Nissans advertised for as little as one hundred dollars a month.

  “Thanks,” Gail said, scurrying down the hall like a mouse that’s been spooked by a hawk in the sky.

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT TIME JOHN CALLED, CLAIRE WAS SITTING AT HER DESK trying to decipher an obscure memo from Harrison, which began with the pompous phrase, “To be sure,” and went on to say “my deliberations on the subject have led me to conclude that it would be in the best interests of everyone concerned to weigh carefully all of the options presented.” Any memo that began with a sentence like that belonged in the round file, and that was where it was headed. How could someone use so many words to say so little? Claire wondered. Words were the tools of the librarian’s trade, and one would have thought that command of the English language would be the first requirement for Harrison’s job.

  Fortunately, John Harlan always got right to the point. “Hey, Claire,” he said. “I received another communique from Five Numbers asking me to make an offer on all of the books.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, let’s see there’s Ben Hur, Red Sky at Morning, Ride the Pink Horse…” While he read off the list of books, Claire compared it to her own and saw a gaping hole.

  “It’s all the novels,” she said. “But not all the books.”

  “What’s missing?”

  “The Austin/Adams folio.”

  “Damn,” John swore in his Texas drawl. “How in the hell did I miss that? I was so excited about gettin’ the books back, I must have skipped right over it. I haven’t seen one of those folios on the market for years. It must be worth, oh, hell, I’d say eighteen thousand dollars anyhow.”

  “Thirty or more,” Claire replied.

  “Well, now, that depends on whether you’re buyin’, or sellin’. In this case we’re buyin’, and when I buy, I rarely pay more than sixty percent of retail. I have to make a profit somehow.”

  “The History of the Blue is missing, too.”

  “Who’s gonna give a hoot about that book? Every small town in the West has a self-proclaimed historian who self-publishes a history. Nobody reads ’em but the author’s mother. I’ve had The History of the Blue on my shelf for years, and I haven’t been able to sell it. I’m considerin’ putting it in my discount bin. What do you think the novels are worth?”

  Claire, who had already calculated the books’ value, subtracted the folio and came up with, “Twenty thousand.”

  “Kind of steep, isn’t it?”

  “The Ben Hur is inscribed to Pat Garrett. A Billy the Kid collector could be willing to pay a lot for that book.”

  “Even so, that’s a retail price. If I offer that much, anyone who knows anything about books is gonna know I’m workin’ with you.”

  “Then, offer sixty percent.”

  “Or fifty to allow some negotiating room.”

  “I don’t want to dicker, John. I just want the books back.”

  “Askin’ a book dealer not to dicker is like askin’ a coyote not to yip, but for you, Claire, I’ll try. Is it your money?”

  “Yes,” Claire admitted. She had no guarantee that she’d be reimbursed by the insurance company, but getting the books back was so important to her she’d decided to pay for them herself.

  “How about offering ten thousand depending on condition? We’ve got to see them before we pay for them. How else are we going to get the seller to come in? Are you sure you can identify the books?”

  “They have fingerprint features like the inscriptions to Burke and Pat Garrett.”

  “If we keep the offer low, we’re more likely to find out who we’re dealing with. A dealer’s not gonna accept a low offer even on stolen merchandise; it’s just not their nature.”

  “Do you think a dealer is going to come walking into your store with a boxful of stolen books?”

  “No. I think the dealer will send a representative. Let’s compromise at eleven.”

  “All right.”

  “When I e-mail Five Numbers back, do you want me to ask about the missing books?”

  “Then they’d know for sure you’re working with me.”

  “I don’t think anyone will sell the folio intact anyway. The prints are more valuable razored out and sold on the art market.”

  “I know.” Claire sighed.

  “I’ll make the offer and see if I can lure the son of a bitch in. Are you going to tell those back stabbers at the library what we’re up to?”

  “Only the university policewoman I’ve been dealing with,” Claire said.

  She got off the phone with John and called Rachel, who was not in her office. Claire left a message on her beeper. Instead of calling back, Rachel showed up fifteen minutes later.

  “I was at the food court, where there was a food fight going on.” she said. “Students!” She sat down in the chair facing Claire’s desk. “I hope you have something for me to work on besides fighting, drinking, and Rohypnol. Sometimes I feel like I’m Rohypnol cop.”

  “What’s Rohypnol?”

  “Roofies, Mexican Valium, the date-rape drug.”

  Claire picked up a pencil and turned it over in her fingers. “John Harlan at Page One, Too, got an e-mail offer to sell all the stolen novels.”

>   Rachel’s sharp eyes focused on Claire. “But not all the books?”

  “No. If he can lure the seller into the store, can you set up a sting?”

  “Sure,” Rachel said.

  “Will you do it all by yourself?”

  “I’ll have to. We don’t have the staff here, and it’s not likely I can interest the APD in a book theft. I have the authority to make arrests off campus as long as they are in Albuquerque.”

  “I’d like to be there.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Not a good idea. Could be the thief knows you. If they see your car in the parking lot, they’ll never come in.”

  “I won’t go in my own car. I can hide in the bathroom next to John’s office. You’ll need me to identify the books before you can make an arrest.”

  “There’s a good chance the seller is—or is connected to—someone who works here. Are you prepared for that?”

  Was she? Claire leaned against the back of her chair and straightened her shoulders. “Yes,” she said.

  “You’ll need a convincing reason for your absence from the library.”

  “No problem; I’ll say I’m looking at a book collection.”

  “All right, then,” Rachel said. She stood up. “I’ll have to visit the thrift stores on Central.”

  “Why?”

  “To find a disguise.” She looked down at her uniform. “I can’t conduct a sting operation dressed like this.” Rachel’s beeper went off. She looked at the message, rolled her eyes, and said, “Something happening near the bookstore.”

  Claire had another long and boring meeting to attend. Rachel didn’t know what her call would lead to, but Claire knew what to expect at the meeting. Her coworkers would spend an uncomfortable hour trying to communicate with each other. Her presence was required, but she didn’t have much to contribute. She sat still as a stone while their words flowed around her.

  “Not necessarily,” Harrison said several times.

  “Of course.” Ruth provided the punctuation.

  “Sure.” Ralph was agreeable.

  So was Celia. “Good idea.”

  “If you say so,” mumbled Gail.

  Harrison’s long fingers unfolded and refolded the wings of a paper clip. Although he went through the motions of leading the meeting, his mind appeared to be wandering through a remote canyon. Ralph brushed the hair out of his eyes as he watched Harrison. Ruth’s eyes flitted around the table, landing on Claire with a curious expression. Celia played with the buttons on her denim jacket. Gail was pale and nervous. Claire wondered which one of these people was likely to show up at Page One, Too, if Rachel was right. The smart money would go to Gail.

  ******

  John Harlan e-mailed back and forth to Five Numbers, and the transaction date was finally set for the following Thursday. The price agreed on was eleven thousand dollars. The seller insisted on coming in exactly at 12:30. “On his or her lunch hour,” according to John.

  As soon as she had a date, Claire told her coworkers—beginning with Harrison—that she would be out of the office that day looking at a book collection in Santa Fe. “Anything interesting in it?” Harrison asked.

  “There’s a Songs of the Cowboys,” she replied. It was the first collection of cowboy poetry, a book the library didn’t have and one that Harrison coveted. “But I don’t know what condition it’s in.” Since Claire wasn’t used to lying, she was surprised by how fluently the words rolled off her tongue and by the lack of guilt she felt. Intuitively she sensed that the key to a successful lie was to divert the recipient’s attention with details. Once Harrison heard Songs of the Cowboys was available, covetousness would keep him from hearing anything else.

  By the time Thursday arrived, Claire had told all her coworkers she would be in Santa Fe and received no unusual reaction. She checked her e-mail often, but there were no messages regarding the books. Sleep became an elusive shadow that she spent long nights chasing around her bed. On Thursday morning, after hours of tossing and turning, she looked at the clock, saw it was five-thirty, and got up in the dark. She fed the cat, went into the den, and practiced tai chi. Was this a day for calming exercises, or for militancy? she asked herself. She felled the tree, punched the leopard, repulsed the monkey, and ended by embracing the tiger and skipping the infinite ultimate stance.

  As soon as the banks were open, she drove to her Norwest branch and got a cashier’s check for eleven thousand dollars. The seller had insisted on cash or cashier’s check. The check was as good as cash, and carrying that much money around in her purse made Claire uncomfortable. She had arranged for a cab to pick her up at ten-thirty, and she clutched her purse on her lap while she directed the driver to the back door of Page One, Too. John was waiting, and as soon as they were in his office, she handed the check over to him. He glanced quickly at the amount, then stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Right on time,” he said, looking at the clock on his wall that ticked as loudly as the clocks did in grammar school.

  Claire was always on time—sometimes even early—which put her at a disadvantage in a state with an elastic sense of time where events regularly started late. Charles Lummis had called it the Land of Poco Tiempo almost a hundred years ago, and in that respect New Mexico hadn’t changed. John suggested that Claire arrive at noon, but she had wanted time to prepare herself. “Is Rachel here yet?” she asked.

  “She is, but you may not be able to find her.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “She’s camouflaged pretty good.”

  “Have I got time to look?”

  “Hell, Claire, Five Numbers isn’t going to show up this early, hang around the store, and give us all the time in the world to get to know him or her.”

  “All right,” Claire said. She left John’s office and wandered through the bookshelves looking for Rachel, seeing the usual collection of badly dressed book buyers. People didn’t dress up for parties in Albuquerque, and they sure weren’t going to do it to look at secondhand books.

  Claire watched a woman in the Southwest section pull a book off the shelf. She wore scuffed boots, a long denim skirt with a frayed hem, and a fringed suede vest. Her hair was pulled up in a knot and streaked with gray. She had on no makeup, unless it was a foundation that made her skin tone drab and sallow. She wore granny glasses. Before she looked at the book, she pushed the glasses on top of her head as if she had a second set of eyes there. It was Rachel thirty years down the road. Rachel as a flower child turning into a middle-aged woman, the type of person least likely to be suspected of a crime. Her body language was frail and tired. Her shoulders were stooped. She squinted as she studied the book. Claire was impressed by Rachel’s acting skills, but discouraged by her concept of a book person. There was a mirror mounted high on the wall reflecting the aisle of books. Whoever manned the cash register could look into it and keep an eye on the customers. Rachel appeared in the mirror and so did Claire, but Claire had the image of a hunter, erect and alert. She was more excited by the prospect of catching the thief than she ever would have expected.

  When Claire walked by, Rachel ignored her keeping her eyes focused on the book she held in her hands. A backpack lay at her feet. A backpack so close to the bookshelves could make any librarian or bookseller nervous. Claire wondered if she had a weapon in it.

  When she got back to John’s office, the clock on the wall said eleven-thirty, which gave her an hour to kill. John asked her what she intended to do while she waited.

  “Read,” she said. She picked a copy of a price guide off the mess on his desk and took it into the bathroom, which badly needed cleaning. The sink had a layer of grime. There was scum under the toilet. The light switch was outside in John’s office.

  “I don’t think anybody’s going to know you’re in there, but just in case, I’ll turn the light off at 12:15. All right?” John asked.

  “All right.”

  Claire put the toilet seat down and sat on it trying to pay attention to the prices in the
price guide, but her mind kept wandering to the missing books. She heard John’s clock on the other side of the door ticking off the minutes with agonizing slowness. Tick. Stop. Tick. Stop. She tried to synchronize her breathing to its rhythm while she waited. Madelyn had once commented that you knew when it was the dark of the moon because phones stopped ringing and people stopped talking. Claire wondered if it were that time. John’s phone, which usually rang all day, became still. All she could hear was the squeak of his chair and the ticking clock. Eventually John walked across the floor and flipped the light switch, signifying it was 12:15 and leaving Claire in a darkness so total she couldn’t even see her fingers. Her mind peopled the darkness with the faces of her associates, and she wondered if one of them (or one of their representatives) would show up with her books. With nothing to look at, her other senses became more acute. The bathroom smelled. The clock ticked even louder. She didn’t count the ticks, and she couldn’t tell if fifteen minutes had passed or five. She waited, waited, and waited some more. There was nothing she hated more than waiting, and being trapped in a dark closet made it even more frustrating. John’s chair creaked. He got up, and she heard his footsteps pacing the room. He, at least, had the option of pacing, but she didn’t dare announce her presence by moving. Her feelings of excitement and apprehension peaked, then turned to despondency. She went from wondering who would turn up to fearing that no one would. Eventually she heard Rachel enter John’s office and declare, “They’re not coming.” John yanked the door open, and the bathroom was invaded by the light.

  “Damn,” John said. “No one showed up.”

  Rachel stood behind John with the glasses perched on top of her head. “Something must have spooked ’em.”

  “Maybe they decided to sell the books to someone else,” John said.

  “I hope not,” Claire replied.