The Sign of the Book (14 page)

“And the gunshot residue is inconclusive.”

“She admits she washed her hands, scrubbed 'em red, in fact, trying to get the blood off. If we can get her confession suppressed, I'll feel a lot better.”

“How'd your second interview go?”

“It was okay. Easier somehow than the first. I stayed cool and so did she, for the most part. She cried once; other than that, she was almost like any other client. Of course we both knew better. I explained what we're going to do and how, all subject to change. And I interviewed her at some length about what happened that morning.”

“Any surprises?”

“We'll have to comb through it all and talk to her again. I'm having my notes typed up this morning and I'll send a copy to McNamara. You can see the report when he gets it.”

“Did you see Jerry while you were in Paradise?”

“Only for a moment. As you can imagine, Bobby's parents are not real eager to help our case. They used ‘going to church' as an excuse.”

“How did they wind up with the kids?”

“They came out and offered, and that's what Social Services decided.”

“And Laura has no say at all in it.”

“She's not in a real good position, Cliff. They tend to look at what's right for the kids, not what the defendant wants. And they'd always rather place children with family.”

“So what's gonna happen to Jerry?”

“That's not clear yet. His mother was schooling him at home. Old Mrs. Marshall used to be a teacher, long ago, so they may just leave him there till the trial's over. None of this is set in stone. Social Services still has it under advisement. There's a lawyer in the county who's been assigned as guardian ad litem—protector of the children. My guess is they'll leave them there till we all see how the wind blows.”

“You've been busy.”

Softly she said, “Yeah. And it's never too early to begin preparing for the possibility that we'll lose.”

“Did the old folks remember you?”

“Oh, sure. I think they blame me for letting Bobby get charmed away from me. Because I wasn't forgiving enough, somehow I caused his eventual death.”

“There's logic for you.”

“I'd like you to try talking to Jerry, if you ever stop wandering in the wilderness.”

“Why me?”

“Because, in addition to being good with thugs and killers, you're pretty good with kids, kittens, and other furry creatures.”

“I'm good with women too,” I said, and I heard her cough.

“The old Marshalls,” I said. “What kind of people are they?”

“I always thought she was a really sweet woman. He's a bit cold, but you can't have everything. So what are you going to do now? You'll have a fine time trying to follow those guys across nine hundred miles of open country, if that's what you have in mind. They've seen your car, you know.”

“I don't need to follow them. I know where they're going.”

I got almost eight hours' sleep and was back on the road by nine. I wasn't about to go over that pass again, even in daylight. The weather forecast was for slippery conditions at the top of the world, with gale-force winds and blowing snow. Instead I went up 285, connected with 50, and stayed with the main highways on the longer, saner loop back through Gunnison and on south to Paradise. I had ten days until the Burbank Book Fair opened in north L.A. It was a two-hour flight from Denver. I could put the time to good use and catch up with my book suspects later. I still had no idea what I'd learn from them; this was nothing more than a grand hunch. But if all else failed, I could buy something great at the fair. I could schmooze with old pals and write off the whole trip as a booking expense. There are worse ways to spend one's time and money.

I arrived in Paradise in the early afternoon and went looking for Parley. I checked at his house and the café, then went on up to the Marshall place. At the top of the hill I saw his car among several others: Lennie Walsh's police cruiser, two black sedans, and a medium-sized, closed-bed truck with a ramp that extended onto the front porch. I pulled into the yard, got out, and started across the yard. Suddenly the judge was standing in the doorway in a plain black business suit, a matching hat, and a red tie, a picture of authority even without his robe. I was astounded to see him there.

“So who're you?”

“I'm with Mr. McNamara, Judge.”

“Let me guess. You would be Janeway, the one that started all this goddamn trouble.”

“That could be one way of looking at it. I'll be glad to apologize if that makes any difference.”

“Don't get smart with me, son. Where'd you get to know so much?”

“I'm a book dealer.”

“And I'm Whistler's great-grandfather. Where've you been all day?”

“I had to go down to Alamosa.”

“What for?”

“Personal business.”

“What personal business would you have in Alamosa?”

“Well, Judge, I can't exactly talk about it. That's what makes it personal.”

He bristled. “If it had anything to do with this case, I've got news for you, it ain't personal. Are you a lawyer?”

“No, sir, I'm not.”

“Then how about getting the hell out of here? We've been doing just fine without you, and you can see McNamara later on in town.”

“I'd rather stay, if it's all the same to you.”

“If it was all the same to me, I wouldn't have said get lost just now, would I?”

I put on my appeaser's face. “Judge, may I please make a point?”

“Let me make one first. How'd you like to spend the night in jail?”

Suddenly Lennie appeared in the doorway, his timing too perfect for coincidence. He stood smiling malignantly behind the judge, just out of the old man's sight.

“I came up to assist Mr. McNamara,” I said. “That's really all I'm doing.”

“What makes you think Mr. McNamara needs your help?”

“Because I know books. And he doesn't.”

“This boy thinks a lot of himself, Judge,” Lennie said. “He's a real piss-ripper.”

“Where the hell did you come from, Deputy? Don't you know better than to walk up behind me like that?”

“Heard your voices. Sounded like you might need me for one thing or another.”

“I need you for anything, I'll call you. Goddammit, make yourself useful. Go tell Miss Bailey this Janeway fellow's finally out here.”

“Yessir.”

A moment later the young prosecutor came out. She was sharp-looking in her own dark suit with amusement showing around the corners of her mouth. “Well, if it isn't the elusive Mr. Janeway,” she said. “Ann Bailey.”

We shook hands. “Okay if I take him in, Your Honor?”

Inside, I spoke to her in a whisper. “What the hell's the judge doing up here?”

She took a moment to answer. “Maybe he's just unorthodox.”

“How does he think he can preside over a case if he gets involved in it?”

“That would be his problem. And maybe yours.”

“Maybe yours in the long run.”

“We'll see. I guess His Honor felt an irresistible impulse.” She took a deep breath. “This is a very big deal you dumped on us, Mr. Janeway.”

“Makes you want to rush right back to town and dismiss the charges, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, right. I was thinking more along the lines of, it gives her a great motive we didn't even know about.”

“I see. She killed him for his books, is that what we're thinking now?”

“People have been killed for less than that. How solid are your notions of the values of these things?”

“I didn't know I had given out any solid values.”

“They might be quite valuable: Wasn't that how McNamara put it?”

“I don't know, I wasn't there when he said it. Anything could be quite valuable.”

“You're cute, aren't you? Nimble too. Have you ever done any fencing?”

“You mean for real?”

“Sure, for real. It's a great sport.”

“I'll take your word for that. I usually confine myself to verbal jousts.”

“I was on a fencing team in college. We even got to the national finals. I bet I could stick you just full of holes.”

We had reached the door to the book room. She stopped and turned: she must've been looking straight up at me but I couldn't see her face in the darkness. “I am told you were a Denver cop,” she said.

“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”

“You are much too modest, Mr. Janeway. You're not that old and it wasn't that long ago. You left some deep tracks when you stomped out of the department.”

“Easy to find, if all you care about are the newspaper accounts.”

“So shoot me at sunrise. I did have a colleague in Denver dig them out and fax them to me. But I always knew you'd have your own version of it, which I would be only too delighted to hear. I might even buy you a cup of coffee for the privilege.”

“By the way,” I said, rather obviously changing the subject, “what's the judge really doing up here?”

“Whatever I said, it would just be an opinion, and just between us girls.”

“I'm all ears.”

“He's bored, he's got a gap in his schedule, maybe he just finds the idea of all these valuable books in a house on a remote mountaintop fascinating. As we all do, Janeway, as we all do. But, hey, I agree with you. You could move to have him recuse himself from the case, you'd certainly have grounds. If you wanted to go that route.”

“I don't make those decisions.”

“Whatever you do, please remember: nothing I've said here is to be repeated.”

I heard Parley's voice from the other room. Miss Bailey said, “Don't do anything without telling us first. Don't pick up anything, don't move stuff around—you know the routine. I know you were in here the other day, but it's different now. We're treating this room like a whole fresh crime scene. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then let's go in.”

The room indeed looked different today. They had set strobe lights along the perimeter and the scene was harsh-looking, the ceiling garishly white. The bookshelves still looked full of books: on second look I could see that the top shelf had partially been cleared, but at that rate we'd all be here till next Easter.

Parley came over and said, “Am I glad to see you. We're gettin' nowhere fast.” Another man was kneeling near the fireplace, looking at something. “Leonard Gill, the DA,” Parley said in a whisper. “He's going over everything with a fine-tooth comb. He's trying to establish some kind of rough value for these things, and none of us has a clue. So far he's only allowed two boxes of books to be loaded in the truck. Maybe you can speed things up.”

“I don't think so. Let 'em get their own expert, if that's how the wind's going to blow. I didn't come up here to make their case for them.”

“God, we'll be here all week.”

“He'll get tired after a while.”

“You don't know this boy. Come on, I'll introduce you.”

We approached the fireplace. The DA was looking at a book. I craned my neck and saw the distinct handwriting on the title page:
Martin Luther King.

“Hey, Leonard,” Parley said. “This is Cliff Janeway.”

His handshake was abrupt, like everything else about him. On balance, I knew I was going to like dealing with Miss Bailey a lot better.

“This book worth any money?” he said as if the world owed him a living.

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means maybe it is, maybe it isn't. This is some circus you've got going here.”

“I thought you were supposed to help us move things along.”

“What do you want from me, a signed affidavit? This isn't an exact science; you don't just prop up a signature and put an ironclad price on it. That's not how it works.”

“Then how does it work?”

“It takes research. It takes time. You can't do it here.”

“Then where can you do it?”

“If I were doing it, I'd have to bring a ton of reference books out from Denver.”

“Then let's get 'em out here.”

I laughed; couldn't help myself. “Mr. Gill, I don't work for you. Whatever values I might eventually put on these books is between me, Mr. McNamara, Ms. D'Angelo, and our client.”

This snapped him back to reality. “I'm going to have to hire somebody, is that what you're saying?”

“I would think so, yes.”

“Under the circumstances, then, maybe you should leave. You're doing nothing but cluttering up the process.”

“And what'll you do after I'm gone? Assign some whimsical values based on your own vast knowledge?”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“It's you who's wasting the time. You can be up here for a month of Sundays and you won't have any better idea than you've got right now. Our idea was simply to get the books secured. Get 'em inventoried, get 'em down to the evidence locker, and get a lock on that door. Worry later about what you've got. And by the way, you shouldn't stack books in the box edges-up like that, they'll get cocked.”

“Which means what?”

“The spines will get bent out of shape. To put it in basic terms, you're damaging the hell out of Mrs. Marshall's books. I'd advise you to lay 'em flat instead.”

He motioned to Miss Bailey and they moved away for a confab. Parley and I walked discreetly out into the hall and talked in low voices.

“Has everything you've seen been signed?”

“So far.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Martin Luther King.”

“Is that worth some money?”

“Hell,
yes.
” I laughed. “Try fifteen hundred and you won't be too far off on the high end. But it's a tricky signature. King is like Kennedy, other people signed for him and left no way for an untrained eye to tell the difference. Secretaries got very good at signing his name.”

“Why would he let 'em do that?”

“Because people like King were pestered to death by autograph hounds and book collectors. They allowed their secretaries to sign without worrying about the havoc they might be causing. Evelyn Lincoln signed for Kennedy all the time. Somebody from the campaign brings in a book, it disappears into a back room and comes out signed. Compare it to a facsimile and most times it takes an expert to know the difference.”

“Man, that doesn't seem right somehow.”

“It isn't right, but it happened anyway. Depended on the nature of the guy in office. Lyndon Johnson signed almost nothing himself; unless it was shoved right under his face, it's all secretarial and autopen stuff. But anything with Harry Truman's name on it is probably real.”

I told him about the burning of Jerry's clothes in the back-room grate. “Erin wants to keep that quiet for now.” He nodded and we waited some more. In a while Miss Bailey came out and said, “Look, we're willing to cooperate if you will. Let's get the books out of here. Make a list and if you're willing to give us a copy, maybe we can do this reasonably quickly.”

Parley looked at me.

“Sure, we'll share the list,” I said.

Ten minutes later we were moving books off the shelves as fast as I could check them off against what I had written in my notebook. The money began adding up in my head, a ballpark figure, to be sure. There'd be some surprises, there always are. But at least now the books were safe. At least now I'd have a starting point.