Bookman's promise cj-3

by John Dunning

  “Josephine? Oh, she died last week in Denver.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Mmmm, I wouldn’t say that. She left behind some interesting stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “Way more than we can discuss here and now. But listen, if you ever do write that book you’re not writing, you’d better get together with me before you send it in.”

  He gave me a bitter little half-smile. “For which you would want…what? Assuming there was anything to any of this, which there isn’t.”

  “Oh, Hal, I am hurt by the implication that I’d do this for money. I’m a bookman! All I want is to see a great book come out of it. I can’t write it, but somebody sure needs to. If that’s really not gonna be you, maybe I should talk to somebody else.”

  “Such as…who?”

  “Oh, there’s no end of writers around. I know lots of ‘em. Some really good ones. That’s one of the things about the book business, you meet writers.”

  I saw the flesh sag a little around his cheeks and that alone was worth the price of my ticket to Baltimore.

  “I gotta go,” I said abruptly.

  It cost him a million in trumped-up arrogance to say this, but he said it. “You haven’t finished eating yet.”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to another table now.” I looked away at an absolutely stunning brunette who had just come in alone. “I think your date is here.”

  “That’s not who I’m waiting for.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame. Jesus, what a dish. Anyway, I’m sure your friend will be along any minute, and I’ve taken up way more of your time than I intended to.”

  Before he could say Stop, Wait a minute, or Get up from that chair and I’ll kill you, I was gone. I went clear across the dining room to a place near the window, but not so far away that we couldn’t see each other. I ate hungrily while Archer picked at his food, and every so often our eyes would meet and I’d smile at him and nod pleasantly. A roving waiter came by and asked if I wanted coffee and I said yes, thank you, even though I’d had three times my caffeine allowance for the day. I went back to the buffet for dessert, something else I didn’t need, but at least I stayed away from the cheesecake. The stewed apples were sensational.

  Archer didn’t seem to be eating much at all. After a while he pushed back from the table and got up. The moment of truth had arrived. He was coming my way.

  He was sitting at my table.

  “You should try these apples,” I said. “Wanna bite?”

  When he spoke again, all the bullshit between us was suddenly gone.

  “You really are an annoying bastard, Janeway. Do you have any idea how annoying you are?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s my one real talent, so I work at it.”

  He seethed while I ate the last of my apples.

  “So, Hal…what does this mean? Do you want to talk real now?”

  “Come up to my room. The number is 1015.”

  “I know what the number is.”

  “I need to make a phone call. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay. But listen very carefully to what I say. Don’t try any funny stuff with me, Hal. If Dean’s brother shows up with his gangster bodyguard, I promise—are you listening to me, Hal?—I promise, Hal, the first casualty of the evening will be you.”

  Fifteen minutes later I stepped off on the tenth floor. Archer opened the door to a midpriced plastic hotel room, indistinguishable from every Holiday Inn or Ramada the world over. I looked in the bathroom and closet, I opened the balcony door and looked outside; I barely resisted the urge to look under the bed. I checked the lock on the door, slipped the security chain into its slot, and sat on the bed. Archer watched in annoyance, but there was also a trace of alarm on his face. “What’s wrong with you? You act like a man on the run from somebody.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve lived this long partly because I make most of my mistakes on the right side of caution. I had the pleasure of meeting Dante this afternoon.”

  “Who’s Dante?”

  “You’re not helping us much here, Hal. I hope I don’t have to reinvent the wheel with every question.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then just this once I’ll draw you a picture. Big, ugly-assed thug who goes around with Carl Treadwell. An intimidator. A genuine bone-cruncher. Attila the Hun would cut him some real slack.”

  “I don’t know anything about Carl’s friends.”

  I looked dubious.

  “Believe what you want, but I stay away from Carl.”

  “What about Dean?”

  He went over to the bureau, picked up a pint bottle of scotch, and poured himself a short one. He was putting the bottle away when I said, “I take mine straight, thanks,” and he looked at me again with that mix of bitter amusement and contempt. But he poured me the drink.

  I took a sip. “I believe we were talking about Dean.”

  “Why don’t you refresh my memory about why I’m talking to you at all.”

  I sighed. “This is gonna be a toolbox-and-coveralls conversation all the way, isn’t it? You’re gonna make me work for everything I get.”

  At last he said, “Dean Treadwell helps me find books that I need in my work.”

  “Are you still living in Charleston?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “This seems like a long way to come, just to find a bookseller.”

  “That’s my damn business.”

  I sipped my scotch.

  “You try finding books in Charleston,” he said. “See how long it takes you to turn up a copy of anything truly rare.”

  “So you’re saying you stumbled upon Dean, way up here in Baltimore, and he performed for you. He found the books you wanted and that’s all there is to it.”

  “If I’m saying anything, that’s probably what I’m saying.”

  “Who’d you call on the phone just now?”

  “What possible business—”

  “Maybe I’m making it my business. Maybe I’m suddenly starting to see a whole scheme unfolding and it’s making me nervous as hell.”

  “What scheme? I don’t know what—”

  “How long have you really known about Mrs. Gallant and her books?”

  “I never heard that name in my life before tonight.”

  “Now see, Hal, that’s a lie. If you’ve got to lie, at least try to develop some style to go along with it. People appreciate honest bullshitters like Dean and me, but nobody likes a cold liar like you, Archer. Nobody.”

  “How dare you,” he seethed.

  “Yeah, right. Maybe you can sell that indignation in polite society, but to me you just look like another scared street rat.”

  “How dare you!” he shouted.

  “Gosh, Hal, I seem to have offended you, and just when you were beginning to like me so much. Could it have been something I said?”

  “You’re wasting my time. I don’t think you know anything.”

  “About what? Is that why you invited me up here, to find out what I know? I’ve got startling news for you, Hal. I came up here to find out what you know.”

  He swished his drink, buying himself a moment to think. In a calmer voice, he said, “Let’s get this straight. I don’t care anything about your little old lady, or her…”

  He blinked, as if he’d just saved himself from a stupid blunder.

  I smiled at him. “Or her what?”

  “Or her books. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  “Nice try, but I think you were about to say something else.”

  “I can’t be held accountable for your silly hunches.”

  “Hal, please. I know you’re much the superior being here, but do I really look that stupid?” I cleared my throat. “Obviously I do. It’s amazing, dense as I am, how I picked right up on that crack in your story.”

  “What crack? You’re talking in riddles.”

  “Are you still trying to tell m
e that what you were going to say was you have no interest in my little old lady or her books? Isn’t the whole reason you brought me up here because of Josephine and her books?”

  We stared at each other.

  “Oops,” I said.

  He went on, blindly stonewalling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Could it be you were about to say my little old lady and her grandfather? Or my little old lady and her mother, who was screwed out of what should have been her daughter’s by a shyster bookman and her drunken husband?”

  “You should be the one writing fiction, Janeway. My interest is purely academic. If there’s Burton material that has never been seen, and if you have some kind of access, which based on this conversation so far looks goddamned doubtful, then yes, I would be interested in knowing about it.”

  “Even though you’re not doing Burton.”

  “Yes! Jesus Christ, do we have to go all the way through this stupid dance? Of course I’m interested. What historian wouldn’t be interested in seeing material like that?”

  “Then maybe we can work out a deal.”

  “I don’t even know what you’ve got to deal with. Why should I deal anything with you when all you’re probably doing is wasting my time?”

  “Bluster all you want, Hal, but these questions won’t go away. What are you doing with the Treadwells? Don’t you know how suspicious this is, given the history of that bookstore and its double-dealing with Mrs. Gallant’s books? Don’t you realize how far beyond chance it is that you went looking for a rare-book dealer and just happened to stumble over Dean Treadwell, six hundred miles away, at exactly this moment in time?”

  “What double-dealing? What coincidence?”

  “Are you actually trying to tell me you don’t know about the Treadwells? You don’t know how Josephine was robbed of those books eighty years ago?“

  He tried an artificial laugh but it came out shrill, like a hyena’s bark. “Eighty years ago! Jesus, you are out of your mind.”

  “Do you really think you’re fooling anybody with this bluff? I didn’t kick your door down, you’re the one who brought me up here. If you want to talk, talk, but don’t try feeding me any more of that bullshit about Dean looking for rare books on your behalf. Do I look like I just leaped out of some bookstore in far left field? What rare books? What books do you need that only Dean Treadwell can find for you? Old Dean must be a killer bookman. I saw him in action this morning and I didn’t think he could find his own cock in a pissing contest, but hey, maybe I was wrong. Give me the titles of a few books he’s finding for you. I’m prepared to be knocked out by Dean’s brilliance, so go ahead, give me his best shot.”

  “I don’t have to give you anything.”

  “Tell me just two titles you’ve been looking for and only Dean can find them.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Just one title, Hal. One lousy title and I’ll believe anything you say.”

  “This conversation is over.”

  “Have we been having a conversation? I couldn’t tell.”

  “Get the hell out of here! Get out now or I’ll call hotel security.”

  “I’ve got to improve my manners, I’m getting thrown out of everywhere these days.” I tried for a look of contriteness. “Can I finish my drink first?”

  The room went suddenly quiet, and only in its void did I realize how completely I had been thinking and acting like a cop again. It had started last week with Whiteside, with Denise, and it wasn’t just the nature of my questions or my interrogative manner, it was part of my heartbeat. A good cop suspects everybody of everything.

  In that minute the case swirled through my mind and I saw them all: Josephine, Ralston, the Treadwells, and Denise, carried out of her bedroom on a coroner’s stretcher. The thought I’d just had was so farfetched it had come only as an impression, lacking even the words to give it substance, but almost at once it became specific. I thought of the kid who had seen a fleeting white man leaving Ral-ston’s house. Archer was a white man. So were the Treadwells. So was Dante. And Denise had had Josephine’s Burton: for one night only, but who would have known that?

  What if these sons of bitches had been following Josephine? What if they knew she’d died at Ralston’s? What if they’d killed Denise?

  Denver’s three hours away. They hop a plane, bingo!

  I leaned forward on the bed and riddled Archer with my eyes. “Where were you this time last week?”

  “That’s none of your business either, but I was in South Carolina, working.”

  “Can anybody verify that?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “It’s a really, really simple one, Hal. It means, did anybody see you there?”

  “I know what it means. Why are you asking? Why do I have to verify anything?”

  “Obviously you don’t…yet. I’d still like an answer.”

  “The answer is no. When I’m working I see no one and I don’t pick up the telephone. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Sure. I admire that intensity, that’s why you’re so good. But I couldn’t help wondering if you were in Denver last Wednesday night.”

  “Why would you wonder that?”

  “I don’t know, just a wild hair. You’re sure you weren’t there?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Do you think I wouldn’t know if I’d just been halfway across the goddamn country?”

  “You’d know, all right.”

  “Why would I hide that? Did somebody rob a bank last Wednesday?”

  “Yeah, that’s what happened, Hal, I’m trying to pin a bank robbery on you.”

  He walked to the window and looked out into the night. “I think I’d like you to leave now,” he said softly. “This meeting hasn’t exactly been productive.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  I got up and went to the door, betting he’d say something.

  “What are you going to do now?” he said.

  I looked back across the room. “Oh, I don’t know, screw up your life as much as possible, I guess. I’ve got a friend at Publishers Weekly who’ll be interested that you’re doing Burton. She’ll call you to verify. Of course you’ll lie, but I’ll tell her to expect that. It won’t be much of a story, just a little squib. ‘Is he or isn’t he?’ Enough to let the world know.”

  “Damn it, Janeway, will you please listen? I am not doing Richard Burton.”

  “Then whatever I say won’t matter, will it?” I reached into my distant past and pulled out a name, a freckle-faced kid with pigtails I had loved madly in the third grade. “My friend’s name is Janie Morrison. If you read Publishers Weekly, you’ve probably seen her byline. She’ll love you, Hal, you’re such an awful liar. Janie cut her teeth on the New York Post, so she knows a bad liar when she hears one.”

  I pulled the chain out of its slot and looked through the peephole at the empty hall. I could feel his eyes on my back, and when I turned for a final look, he had moved away from the window and was regarding me with a pitiful, whipped-dog look. “I’m really sorry, Hal,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re such a flaming fucking dick-head, because I really did love your books. You’ve got the rarest of all rare gifts, and you’ve got it by the bucket. If you’d just get your head out of your ass, maybe you’d even be happy.”

  “What would you know about happy? Are you happy?”

  “Hey, I’m doing what I like, why wouldn’t I be happy? So what if it’s not perfect, I don’t believe in perfection. Maybe happy’s as good as it gets.”

  He said nothing.

  “C’mon, honey, talk to me. It’s not too late, we can still be friends.”

  He looked up and met my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “I never do. But if you change your mind, I’m at the Bozeman Inn.”

  I watched the floors tick off as I went down in the elevator. It stopped on three and I braced back against the wall, expecting…what?

&
nbsp; An elderly couple got in, eyeing me suspiciously.

  I was not just nervous, suddenly I was very nervous. What had seemed like a good idea had become, in Archer’s continued silence, heavy and tense, fraught with peril. I had had that sudden hunch, and once it was there I couldn’t shake it.

  Let it settle. See if it sticks.

  How many murder cases had I solved just this way? I’d get an idea, some harebrained notion that had no facts or logic to support it, and I’d start growing a case around it. How many times had I gone after a killer with nothing more than a wild hunch, and suddenly had the whole ball of wax fall into my lap?

  Long ago I learned that murder isn’t logical. Sometimes it is but those are the easy cases: the old man kills the old lady, the kid cuts his father a new orifice, the hooker shoots her pimp. The tough ones almost always go against the grain of common sense.

  I walked out into the cool night air. The world looked peaceful, serene: all the synonyms for tranquillity. I walked west, then south, around the Inner Harbor toward Federal Hill. I finally settled on a bench overlooking the harbor.

  The thought came again: What if these sons of bitches had killed Denise?

  How could they have known about her? The book was the only possible motive and no one knew Denise had had it. Just Denise herself, Ralston and his doctor, Erin, and me.

  I had another hunch, dark and full of trouble. Suddenly I feared for Koko. Koko knew things no one else knew.

  My cop juice was finally perking. What if Denise’s killer had not been a two-bit Denver cockroach looking for pocket change? If the Burton had been the motive, the killer had turned into a much bigger cockroach. What if it had all begun here, not in Denver? Almost surely, then, Archer was in the middle of it. So were the Treadwells. Dante was their enforcer, and I had just put out big pieces of myself as roach bait.

  And what about Koko?

  The night was no longer young but under the circumstances, I didn’t care much about propriety. I stopped at the first phone booth I saw and punched in her number.

  “Come on, Koko, answer the damn phone.”

  I let it ring twenty times before I gave up, cursing the darkness.

  CHAPTER 16

  Forty minutes later the cabbie looked back over his shoulder and said, “What part of Ellicott City you want?”