by Freya Barker
I look around the table at the group assembled. Durango PD Operations Commander, Keith Blackfoot, lead investigator Boris Parnak from the La Plata County Criminal Investigations Unit, along with James Aiken of the FBI International Operations Division, and Ella Friesen, an art trafficking Interpol specialist seem to be waiting for me expectantly. Luna Roosberg, one of my agents, is passing around folders.
“I apologize again for keeping you waiting,” I start. “Ella? Since you and James called this meeting on short notice, why don’t you bring us up to speed?”
“Very well,” she says with only a hint of her Dutch accent. “In the last year and a half, we’ve noticed an increase in the theft of rare manuscripts and print work from libraries, museums, and private collectors. The apparent trend started in the UK with the burglary of some of its finest libraries and quickly expanded to the rest of Europe. The MO suggested an organized effort by more than one individual. Almost a year ago, several rare works were stolen from a private collection in Switzerland for a collective value of twenty-six million dollars. One item alone, a copy of The Birds of America, by John James Audubon, was last valued at twelve million dollars in 2010. Six months ago, we finally got a lead when one of the stolen manuscripts, a copy of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, appeared in the collection of a wealthy Texas enthusiast here in the U.S. The collector was a rich cattleman with no real knowledge and was clearly duped. The man was easily cleared but was able to provide us with some information on the auction house.” She indicates the files Luna distributed. “As you can see, the auction house appears to be U.S. based, and we’ve been able to monitor some of their online activities. Two weeks ago, we picked up on a communication to a British gentleman named Troy Sinclair. He’s a rare-books specialist, who used to work for the University of Cambridge. He was terminated two years ago by the University when an early Shakespeare sonnet he was working on went missing from the library, only to be discovered in his possession. He claimed he was behind on his work and had simply taken his work home. The University terminated him since removing any of the rare documents from the library is immediate cause for dismissal. However, there wasn’t evidence at the time of intended foul play. Still, his name went on our persons of interest list. You’ll find a copy on page three.”
I flip through the file and find the message.
Pkg en route DRO
DRO stands for Durango-La Plata County Airport.
KERRY
“What’s with you and these fine male specimens?”
Marya stands beside me as we watch the FBI agent’s broad back disappear down the street. Yes, I gawked. The moment I heard the door shut, I hustled to the window to get a good look at his enticing backside.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her, turning back to this morning’s haul from the post office; a box of recent romance releases. Most of my customers are female and the romance genre is one of the more popular ones, so I try to stay up to date with my selection.
“Whatever,” I hear Marya mumble before she says a little louder, “If you’re not interested, you won’t mind me having a go at this one, right?” It’s a challenge and I know it. Still, I just shrug my shoulders, keeping my back turned and my focus on the stack of books in my hand. Normally, I love the smell of books above all else, but right now I can’t smell anything but the lingering scent of Damian Gomez. Damn him.
“You know it wouldn’t hurt for you to have some fun from time to time,” she says under her breath.
“By the way,” I ask in an attempt to distract her, and myself. “Did you get any calls or deliveries while I was gone?” I’m still waiting on that box of first editions. I figure maybe they would’ve sent it by courier instead of USPS, but Marya shakes her head.
“No deliveries, no calls,” she confirms.
“Well, dammit. Those books should’ve been here already. I’ve dealt with these guys before, and they’ve always delivered on time. Never had a problem.”
IT’S JUST BEFORE SIX, closing time, when the store phone rings.
“Kerry’s Korner. Kerry speaking, how can I help you?”
“Hi, girl.” I hear my bestie, Kim. on the other end. She’s run my original store in Cortez since I opened up in Durango.
“Hey, sweetie. Everything okay there?” I ask. Kim has struggled finding decent help since the birth of her son, Asher.
“Yes,” she says enthusiastically. “This new girl is really working out. I’m so relieved. But that’s not why I’m calling. With everything going on, I forgot to mention that last week I received a box in a shipment I think was meant for Durango. It was addressed to the Durango address, but just like my boxes, had Kerry’s Korner in big print. They probably failed to check the actual address when they were sorting and simply shipped the whole thing here.”
“Thank God,” I exclaim, relieved. “I’ve been wondering where it was. Okay,” I tell Kim. “I was planning to head into Cortez at some point to see my favorite little man anyway. Maybe sometime next week?”
“Sounds good,” Kim chuckles. She knows I adore my godson. He’s such a sweet little baby, and I rarely go longer than a couple of weeks before I need my snuggle fix. “If you come a week from Wednesday, Mal will be out of town so maybe you can spend the night? We’ll have a chance to catch up with a bottle of wine.” Kim’s husband is a security specialist and sometimes has to go out of town for a few days for work. It’s been ages since Kim and I have had a girls’ night, so I’m immediately on board.
“Let me check to see if Marya can open next Thursday.” I turn to Marya, who is cleaning the coffee counter. She’s already waving her hand in the air.
“No problem,” she says, having obviously listened in on the conversation.
“You’re the best, Marya.” I give her a big grin when she throws a smile over her shoulder. “Looks like it’s a plan,” I tell Kim, who squeals on the other end. After promising her I’ll be there after seven and will bring the wine, we end the call.
Ten minutes later, I lock the store and wave goodbye to Marya, who is climbing in her car, when an unexpected hand on my shoulder has me swinging around.
“I guess I got here a bit too late,” the guy with the British accent says with a smile. Dick.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I tell him, pissed he thought he could just put his hands on me. The offensive hands come up defensively and he smiles apologetically. The most unconvincing smile I’ve ever witnessed.
“I apologize. I simply came to see if I could convince you to change your mind and have dinner with me.”
Seriously? My mouth falls open at the gall of this guy. He appears to be a tad slow on the uptake. Yesterday I stayed polite, not wanting to piss off a potential customer, but it’s obvious this guy’s interests go beyond my store and I need to cut him off at the pass. Trying to calm my heart, still pounding a hole in my chest, I take a deep breath before responding. “I guess I wasn’t clear enough yesterday, so let me be blunt; I am not interested. Does that help?” I can’t help adding a layer of sarcasm. He apparently doesn’t take too well to that since his eyes narrow to slits. Something he tries to conceal with a toothy smile that once again has my hair stand on end.
“It’s clear,” he grinds through his teeth. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” With one last glare, he turns on his heels and walks in the direction of town. It strikes me as weird he apparently is walking. My store is on the outskirts of town in a small plaza off the highway, and there is no sidewalk. For a minute, I keep my eye on him as he simply marches along on the side of the road, looking ridiculous in his suit and tie.
He never once turns around though, and when he disappears around the corner, I let out a relieved breath. That guy really creeps me out, and I’m glad it’s still light out with quite a bit of traffic on the road. I walk at a stiff clip to my Subaru, parked around the corner. I’m eager to get home and get some dinner going. Luckily, I don’t have to stop in town for groceries; I filled my frid
ge earlier this week. I hate to admit I’m a little shaky and am glad my little rental is only minutes from the store, just up the mountain. I managed to get a one-year lease on the small bungalow. A little remote, but nice and quiet, just west of town. When I pull into the driveway, I take one last look at the road behind me.
CHAPTER 3
Damian
“Anything new on that trafficking case?” I ask Luna when she walks in.
It’s been a week since I’d last heard from Ella. The meeting was just to put us on alert, but without more intel, there is very little for us to do. Not complaining though, as we’re having a hard enough time keeping up with other cases. Interpol is working the information garnered from the Texas collector, trying to get a bead on this Troy Sinclair. James Aiken is following up on the U.S.-based auction house. For now, we have nothing concrete to work with, except for that intercepted message.
“Actually,” she answers. “I do.” Sitting down across from my desk, she hands me a printout. “That’s a list of local individuals and businesses known to deal or collect rare books. I cross-referenced with the list James sent us and marked those.”
I look at the two-page printout and right away my eyes zoom in on a name I’ve tried, and failed, to forget this past week. Kerry’s Korner. Well, fuck. A bright red mark sits beside the name. When I scan down, there are two more red marks. One is White Rabbit Books, a store around the corner from Main Street in the center of town. The other is an individual—Bruce Willoughs—a name I am familiar with. An exorbitantly wealthy retired oilman from Texas, who built a massive mansion in the mountains outside Durango. I know him because, over the years, he has been involved in just about every charitable function in the region. I can’t say I particularly like the guy, having run into him a handful of times, but that doesn’t mean I can see him involved in anything like this. Still, the fact he’s possibly had dealings with the same auction house is enough reason to go have a talk with the man. As for Kerry’s business, it would be a perfect front to fence stolen rare manuscripts and books. From what I can recall, she has a locked, glass shelving unit against the far wall that appeared to hold some older print works. I probably should have a closer look.
“Two stores and Mr. Willoughs. You want to take a run up the mountain?” I ask Luna. Since Bruce and I are far from friendly, I figure she’ll likely do better with him. He has a penchant for younger women, which is one of the reasons he rubs me the wrong way.
“You sure you don’t want to take him on?” Luna says with a smirk. She knows. The last run-in I had with him was very public, when my youngest sister, Bella, was visiting from Farmington. The bastard had followed her to the bathrooms, when I’d taken her out for dinner at Seasons, and accosted her in the hallway outside. Bella had come back to the table with a face like thunder. After I finally got out of her that he’d put his hands on her uninvited, I headed over to his table and set him straight, loud enough for the other diners to hear. All he gave me was an arrogantly dismissive wave of his hand, and if not for Bella’s intervention when she grabbed me from behind, I would have had him by the throat. Despite his name as a local philanthropist, Bruce Willoughs is a self-righteous bastard.
“Har-har,” I tell Luna. “You head up. I’d be surprised if he were stupid enough to try and put his hands on you. After all, you carry a mean weapon. That damn gun is almost bigger ’n you are.”
Luna snickers and pats her hip holster. “That’s what she said,” she says with a wink in an uncharacteristic display of humor, before turning serious. “I’ll head up there after lunch. Want me to pick you something up?”
“No, thanks. I’ll grab something in town. I’ll go check out the bookstores.”
I START AT WHITE RABBIT Books, telling myself it makes more sense to start at the one furthest from the office. I’m told the owner isn’t around, but the elderly woman manning the store is able to tell me, after consulting the computer in the small office in the back, that the only time they’d received a shipment from this online auction house had been about a year ago. No other orders are pending from what she can see, but she assures me she will check with the owner and have him contact me. I leave her my card with my cell phone number written on the back.
I stand outside by my Expedition, taking in the warm June sun and looking around for a place to grab some lunch before I head to Kerry’s Korner. I’m delaying and I know it. Nothing really strikes my fancy since I suddenly seem to have worked up an appetite for sweets. Giving in, I climb behind the wheel and turn the car in the direction of the small strip mall just west of town.
It only takes me about five minutes to pull into the parking lot in front of the store, and through the window I can see Kerry moving between two rows of shelves, a stack of books in her hands. Just like last week, her messy hair hangs free and loose, a flowing top hides curves I’d like to explore. Goddammit. I’d just managed to scrape off Cora—although she might not have received the message since I’ve ignored several texts and at least five calls this past week—and for damn sure don’t want to start anything else. Especially not since this particular woman, at the very least, appears to be a potential person of interest in this new case. I don’t color outside the lines. Not ever. Rules are there for a reason.
My resolve firmly in place, I push open the door and head in. The little bell alerts Kerry as she comes out from between the shelves and stops in her tracks when she spots me. The hint of alarm on her face, as her eyes meet mine, is quickly replaced with irritation. One hand comes to rest on her cocked hip and her pose screams attitude. Instantly my resolve melts because, as it turns out, I like attitude—a fuck of a lot. “Double shot?” she asks, caving first when I don’t say a word and simply stare back at her. Those pale gray eyes turn away first, and her body starts moving toward the counter.
“Please,” I say politely, although the thoughts going through my head are anything but polite. Coffee is a good way to break the ice, and I’m glad to see she’s fully stocked on pastries. “And a cinnamon roll, if you have one.” I receive a curt nod in reply before she reaches for a paper cup. “For here,” I add and watch her hand freeze midair.
“Here?” The high-pitched squeak is almost comical and telling of how much I rattle her. Good. She rattles me, too. “Here?” she repeats, this time at a more natural tone. I just smile and nod, pointing at the couch in front of the window. A few local newspapers are strewn across the coffee table, and I pick one up. The Dove Creek Press, a small newspaper from a town by the same name. The guy who writes the articles has a quirky, direct style I enjoy. I do my best to focus on a piece about their upcoming Pick ’n Hoe festival but am too distracted by Kerry’s movements behind the counter. The soft tinkle of the copious bracelets around her wrists makes her impossible to ignore. A gypsy—that’s what she looks like, despite her blonde hair. She carries the appearance of being footloose and carefree, but something about her seems tightly wrapped up. It’s hard to believe this woman would have anything to do with an international trafficking ring, but you never know.
I watch as she walks over, almost stumbling over her own feet when she sees me looking. Immediately, a dark blush spreads over her face and her teeth bite down on her lower lip. Christ—even that is sexy. I put the newspaper down on my lap to hide my insistent physical response.
“Sit with me a minute,” I quickly say, as she puts down my coffee and a plate with the biggest cinnamon roll I’ve ever laid eyes on and threatens to walk away.
“I have something—” she starts but I interrupt.
“Just a minute. Please?” Her eyes soften a little at my plea, and she sits down in one of the club chairs, perched right on the edge, with her back ramrod straight. She looks decidedly uncomfortable, and I’m about to make it worse. “How long have you had this store?” I ask, to try and get her talking without showing my hand right off the bat.
“This one? Not that long. A couple of years. Why?” she wants to know.
“Just curious. I know
Kim is managing your place in Cortez. I’m simply wondering how the expansion is working out for you.” She lightly shrugs her shoulders, relaxing back a little in her chair.
“I’m doing okay,” she says, trying unsuccessfully to hide a little, smug smile. “Having Kim on board really opened up a lot of possibilities I wouldn’t have been able to explore without her. Opening this place and starting the online bookstore—it’s all fallen into place.” I can see by the way her face glows she’s proud of what she’s accomplished. Good. That’s good. I just hope to God she did not get herself involved with this band of thieves.
“Your online business, is that the same as the stores’? New or secondhand books?” I ask, easing into the area I want to question her about.
“Online is mostly pre-owned. People who are looking for certain books that are no longer in print or sometimes they want something special, like a first edition of their favorites. I have a decent network of dealers and sellers who specialize in special prints or rare editions.” Kerry is completely animated talking about her business, using her whole body to speak. If what she was saying wasn’t so important to my case, I’d be happy to watch her talk about anything. But this is the information I’m after, so I go in for the kill.
“Have you ever had any dealings with The Gilded Feather Auction House?” My question is followed by dead silence, as Kerry’s hands still and her mouth falls open.
KERRY
The bastard!
It’s my own damn fault for getting carried away, thinking I may have misjudged this man when he starts asking me how my business is doing. Enjoying the fact that a man is actually interested in what I do—appreciates what I’ve built. Should’ve known better.
