“I’m sure,” Ian agreed. “But the world of rare books is small. He’ll get caught eventually.”
“Minka told me Enrico was working with a new collector now. She wouldn’t tell me the guy’s name but said he made them sign a confidentiality agreement. I wonder if-”
“Wait. Minka’s working with Enrico?”
“Apparently, but-”
“That’s a pile of crap. What does he need an assistant for?”
“I’ve never seen you so fired up,” I said. “He must’ve really burned your butt.”
“You have no idea.” He finished off his last triangle and wiped his hands on his linen napkin.
“But listen,” I said. “Maybe this confidentiality agreement guy is part of the government sting you’re talking about.”
“I can only hope,” he said. “But that’s another reason why I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep my distance.”
Starting sometime after two o’clock this afternoon.
It was one thirty by the time I took off for Enrico’s house in the exclusive neighborhood of Sea Cliff. This enclave overlooking China Beach was known primarily for its famous celebrity residents, but the area also had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the ocean side looking into the bay that was more breathtaking than any I’d ever seen.
I guess I was an unabashed fan. I did love my City.
Lunch with Ian had been enlightening, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more personal in his disgust for Enrico.
Enrico had said he had something to show me and now I wondered whether he’d show me other books he’d taken from the Winslow collection. Would he be that bold? I hoped so.
I found his house and parked a few doors down. It was one of the smaller homes on the block but still lovely, with manicured hedges and freshly planted flowers lining the walkway. I climbed the brick steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a moment, I rang it again, then glanced around the neighborhood. It was completely deserted in the middle of the day. No gardeners, no kids, no signs of life.
After another minute, I knocked on the door.
“Enrico?” I called. “Are you here?”
Maybe he was in the back. I walked around to the side of the house, but the high gate was locked and I couldn’t see whether there was a back house or studio.
I returned to the front door and knocked again. I hated to think I’d driven out here for nothing. Without a clear thought, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and I pushed it open a few inches.
“Enrico?” I called again. “Anybody home?”
I peeked inside. I couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door open a foot and stepped inside. “Enrico? It’s Brooklyn. Hello.”
Was I actually walking into his house without an invitation? But he had invited me. Maybe he’d left the door open for me. I glanced around the small, fussy foyer. An arched entry led to the living room and after closing the front door, I ventured in farther. If he came home, I’d be sitting on the couch, waiting for him.
Yeah, that would work.
A large desk in the corner of the room was stacked with bills and papers. I glanced through a few, wondering whether I’d see any notices of sale or e-mails about his eBay business. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Well, unless I got caught. But if I could find some evidence of his thefts, I could bring the Winslows some justice.
I heard a noise out on the street and glanced nervously over my shoulder. I could handle Enrico coming home to find me sitting on his couch but not rifling through his private papers.
A small vertical file held a stack of bills and checks, and I thumbed through them. They were all made out to Enrico Baldacchio, no fake name. I recognized a few of the check writers, some booksellers and an antiquities dealer.
One name jumped out at me.
Ian McCullough.
I stared in horror at Ian’s check, payable to Enrico in the sum of five thousand dollars. The memo line said “Services.”
My first thought was blackmail. Was this the real reason Ian was so angry with Enrico? But that was absurd. It was more likely that Ian had paid Enrico for something tangible, like a book.
Perhaps a stolen book?
And there went my mind, circling back around to blackmail.
I slipped the check into my jacket pocket. Now what? I was trying to figure out my next move when I heard the scuff of a heel against the concrete walkway out front.
Crap. I froze for one long second, then scanned the room for a place to hide. There was nothing. No closet, no room to hide behind the couch.
So much for my plan to relax on his couch. I didn’t want to be discovered going through Enrico’s house, especially by Enrico. Not since I’d found that check from Ian.