I sighed. “The police never saw it, did they? You never told them Abraham gave it to me, did you? Why?”
“Apparently, you didn’t find it necessary to reveal that fact, either,” he countered; then, without another word, he picked up my camera and snapped off several photos of the book cover. Putting the camera down, he pulled a white linen handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at the blood, then scrubbed it. He put the book back on the table and folded the handkerchief. “There. I’ll take this to the police for analysis. In the meantime, you can get to work.”
I stared in disbelief. “Are you insane?”
Ian craned his neck to get a look at the cover. “Is it gone?”
“Pretty much,” Derek said, tucking the handkerchief back in his pocket.
“Good work, Stone,” Ian said, visibly relieved. “Guess that takes care of it, then.”
I whipped around and slugged his arm. “That was evidence!”
“Hey,” he protested, rubbing his arm. “It won’t bring Abraham back, so why should it matter?”
“It matters,” I repeated, slightly more shrill than required.
Derek shook his head firmly. “Not if it means turning the book over to the police.”
“They need to see it!”
“Why?” Ian asked.
I whirled to face him. “What if it’s not Abraham’s blood? What if he attacked his assailant and that’s the killer’s blood on the book? What if-”
“Jeez, Brooklyn,” Ian said. “Chill out.”
Derek held up his hand to stop the argument. “I’m tasked with keeping this book secure. I fully intend to turn over those photos and have them examine the blood on this handkerchief.”
“But what about the book itself? The police-”
“Will destroy it in their zeal to investigate combined with their typical cloddish incompetence,” Derek said with a dismissive wave.
“I thought you were working with them.”
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow them to bollix a priceless work of art I’m determined to protect.” He picked up the book again and held it at an angle to check that he’d cleaned it thoroughly.
“Oh, give me the damn book,” I said.
He returned it to its place on the white cloth, then pulled the cloth until the book was directly in front of me.
“I knew you’d see reason,” he said.
“Oh, please.” I jabbed my finger at him. “I want to hear the results of that handkerchief analysis.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He raised an eyebrow, looked at Ian. “Prickly thing.”
Ian nodded. “Always has been.”
“Not funny.” But apparently they didn’t care. “Don’t you both have somewhere else to be?”
Derek thought for a few seconds. “Not really.”
“Me, neither,” Ian said, checking his watch.
I huffed out a breath. They were worse than my brothers now that they had a shared bond, namely, the joy of tormenting me.
Not that I’d ever let these guys know, but I didn’t want to see the Faust covered in slimy black fingerprint dust, either. At the same time, a twinge of guilt rippled through me. I wanted Abraham’s killer caught, but I wanted the book to be protected, too. I tried to convince myself that Abraham would’ve felt the same way.
I ignored my peanut gallery and pulled a pair of reading glasses, a notebook and a pen from my bag to take a closer look at the book and figure out what tools and supplies I would need to bring in from my own studio.
The Winslow Faust was large, probably about fourteen inches tall and ten inches wide. I would need my metal gauge to get an accurate measurement, but that was my educated guess. Gathering the corners of the cloth around the book, I hefted it a few inches off the table. It was heavy, perhaps four, maybe five pounds. I stared at the thickness. Three inches? At least. I added the metal gauge to the list of supplies, along with my table-mounted hands-free magnifying glass.
The two clasps used to keep the book tightly closed were made of brass and shaped to form what looked like stylized eagle claws, each approximately one inch wide and two inches long. They slid through two brass bridges welded to the front cover, then clicked into place, essentially locking the book closed. The brass claws were affixed to one-inch-thick leather straps that were fitted seamlessly into the back cover leather.
My shoulders twitched. I could hear Ian breathing. I turned and found him and Derek inches from my back, watching my every move.
“Want to give me a little room here, guys?”
Ian stepped back immediately but Derek stood his ground.
I sighed and picked up the magnifying glass to examine the red rubies embedded in each leaf point of the fleur-de-lis border. There were thirty rubies total, all clouded and dusty. They would need to be removed for cleaning, then reset.
With the jewels and the elaborate gilding and the strange brass claws all vying for attention, the book should’ve appeared gaudy and crude. Instead, it was a masterpiece. Anyone would feel humbled and privileged to be gazing at such an incredible work of art. Or maybe it was just me, the book nerd.