“How can you be sure?” he asked quietly after we’d gone half a block. “Couldn’t it have been a simple robbery gone bad?”
I thought about it for a moment. “I suppose it could have been. But don’t you think it’s a remarkable coincidence that one day after a madman threatens to kill both of us, Vera is found murdered?”
“You know how I feel about coincidences.”
I glanced up at him. “There’s no such thing.”
“Exactly,” he murmured.
I scowled. “In this case, I agree.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
? ? ?
Later that afternoon I was back at work in the television studio, taping another segment for This Old Attic. It was strange to sit in the same place where I’d first met Vera, talking about books as though nothing odd or awful had happened that day. But I had a job to do. A job I loved. So I mentally set aside Vera’s murder to concentrate on the book in front of me.
In this case, it wasn’t just one book, but a set of them by Michael Connelly, the mystery author. I was appraising the first ten books in his Harry Bosch mystery series for the owner, Mr. Stanley Frisch, a self-described rabid mystery fan and Connelly devotee. Stanley was short and thin, with eerily pale skin, scruffy gray hair, and a sparse white mustache. He wore small, round steel-framed glasses that I feared might’ve been the exact same style worn by Michael Connelly.
The books he’d brought were all first editions and they had all been signed by the author. The first book, The Black Echo, included a rare five-dollar rebate deal marked on a blue band on the book cover. For serious book collectors, that little blue band was golden. In addition, each of the dust jackets was in almost pristine condition, thanks to the owner having kept them wrapped in archival plastic covers from the first day he bought them. Frankly, the books appeared to be unread.
“This is an exceptional set,” I said. “I commend you for keeping them all in such wonderful condition.”
“Thank you,” he said crisply. “Michael’s my favorite author so I didn’t want them to get ruined.”
“Do you know the author personally?”
“Oh, no, but I’ve met him whenever he’s come through on tours.” He smiled bashfully. “I’d like to think he remembers me.”
I nodded politely. “I noticed that he signed all the books with his name only. Did you ever ask him to sign any of them to you personally?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I don’t want my name on the books. I just want his name.”
I glanced at the camera. “That’s actually a good thing, because the market value of the book can be diminished if it’s been personalized.”
“I didn’t know that,” he whispered.
I picked up the first book in the series and held it out for the camera to get a better shot. “Do you know much about books, Stanley?”
“No. I just love them a lot.”
“That’s so nice to hear. But I ask because some collectors enjoy finding little quirks such as this blue rebate band on this copy of The Black Echo.”
He frowned. “Does that make a difference?”
“Yes, it does,” I said, smiling as I angled the book so the camera could see the spine. “I also noticed that the bindings of all the books are unusually tight and straight. Have you actually read any of these?”
“Oh, gosh, yes. I’ve read them all several times. I’m a huge fan. I’m just extremely careful.”
“I can see that you are.” I paused for a dramatic moment before making my big pronouncement. “And because of all the care you’ve shown these books, along with the fact that this first book is extremely rare and in such fine condition, I’ve appraised the entire ten-book set at . . . fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Oh.” He sucked in some air. “Oh, my.” His breathing grew shallow and his pale face quickly lost any color it had ever had.
“Are you all right?” I asked. But he wasn’t; I was pretty sure he was going to pass out. His head wobbled. I reached across the table and grabbed his arm to keep him from sliding out of his chair.
I shot Angie an anxious look. “Is there a doctor nearby?”
She shook her head frantically.
“Stanley!” I finally shouted.
Stanley jolted. “What? Oh.” Drawing in another big breath, he blinked and stared up at me. “What? No, I’m fine. It’s just . . . oh, my . . . it’s too much.”
“It’s exciting, isn’t it? But—”
“No, I mean the amount of money. It’s too much.”
“It really isn’t. That’s the price you could probably get if you sold the books to a reputable book dealer or auction house.”
“But I would never do that.”
“You don’t have to, Stanley.” I let out a breath and tried to compose myself for the camera. “You can simply enjoy them for the rest of your life and never sell them. But isn’t it nice to know that your efforts to keep them in fine condition have paid off?”