“No, you should watch it right away.” I knew she was only half listening to what I was saying, so I repeated myself. “I’m not kidding. You need to get a copy of that segment and watch it as soon as possible.”
She glanced up at me and sighed. “And why is that?”
“Because that little bit they showed on the news is what motivated Vera’s killer to come after her.”
She pursed her lips sardonically. “Now, why am I not surprised that you’ve already got a theory worked out?”
I had known what her reaction would be, but I bristled, anyway. “It’s not a theory, Inspector,” I said flatly. “Vera’s killer attacked me in the studio parking lot two days ago. He specifically mentioned that he’d seen that news segment the night before and that’s why he was threatening to kill me.”
She stopped writing midsentence. “Wait. Somebody attacked you? Threatened to kill you? Were you hurt? Why am I just hearing about this?”
I held on to my dignity, but I was ridiculously pleased to hear real worry in her voice. It meant a lot.
It was odd and a little upsetting that with each crime scene, Inspector Lee and I would start out almost as adversaries. Then slowly, throughout the process of solving the crime, we would rebuild the trust we’d had before and she would see me more as a cohort than a suspect. And then the mystery was resolved, the guilty party was carted off to jail, and Lee and I would go our separate ways. I just wished that the next time we saw each other at a crime scene, she would remember that we weren’t enemies.
I quickly knocked on wood that there wouldn’t be a next time.
“I was attacked in the parking lot of Peapod Studios, where we tape This Old Attic,” I explained. “The security guard was knocked to the ground. He was hurt worse than I was, but I came away with bruises on my chin and my arms.”
“Criminy, Brooklyn,” Inspector Lee said, her concern growing. “Who was this guy?”
“He’s a horrible man,” I said, scowling at the memory. “A big, ugly brute who threatened to kill me and Vera.” I waved my hand in the direction of Vera’s body lying on the floor. “Clearly, he acted on his threat.”
“But who is he?” she asked again.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know his name. Vera knew, or at least she knew his address.”
“How did she know him?”
“She told me she bought the book at his garage sale.”
Inspector Lee nodded slowly as she wrote down that detail.
I continued. “After the attack, the police came to the studio. I told them to talk to Vera and get the guy’s name and address. They assured me they were going to talk to her that afternoon or the next day. That all happened two days ago.”
“Do you remember the names of the cops you talked to?”
“Yes. Stern and Wilkins. The studio is at the base of Potrero Hill, so I guess they work out of whatever police station is closest.”
“Good.” She wrote down the names, then looked up at me. “Now tell me why this guy was threatening Vera.”
“She found the book at his garage sale for three dollars,” I explained again. “I appraised it on the show for twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“What the hell? What’s with these damn books?”
“They’re art,” I said. “They’re rare. Collectors are willing to pay a lot of money to own them.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She brushed back her hair with one hand and exhaled in exasperation. “It’s always got to be about a book with you.”
“Books are my job!” I cried in frustration. “I work with books every day.”
She grinned suddenly and I could tell that her happiness stemmed from being able to get a rise out of me. In some circles, that would brand her a sociopath, but I let it go. I liked her. We usually got along just fine, despite the barbs. She simply enjoyed giving me grief, as my brothers did. If we were in second grade, she would probably chase me around the playground, throwing rocks at me. And in second-grade parlance, that meant she liked me.
“The point is,” I began patiently, “the guy who attacked me admitted right out loud that he’d seen that news segment Monday night. He threatened to kill me and Vera if we didn’t give him the book. And now Vera is dead.”
“Right. I’m pretty clear on everything now.” She glanced around the shop again. “Do you think he found the book?”
“I know for certain that he didn’t because the book is at home in my safe.”
That stopped her. “You have the missing book.”
“It’s never been missing.”
“Wainwright, you never cease to amaze me.” She shook her head as she flipped to a new page in her notepad. “How about if you start at the beginning again?”
? ? ?
Ten minutes later, I was finished going over my story for the third time.
She folded her arms across her chest. “But the news didn’t announce how much you appraised the book for.”
“Right. The producers wouldn’t allow them to tell the actual price I’d given. But the anchorman made a smart-ass reference to a family of four being able to live for two years on the money the book was worth.”