The Sign of the Book Read online

  “What do you want me to do?” Parley said.

  “You come with me, if you will. That might make it easier for you to work with her after I’ve gone. All billable hours now, so keep track.”

  “Would it be out of line to ask who’s paying for this?”

  “Nothing’s out of line. Until she gets out and decides what to do, I’ll pay the bills. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  “Good. I think it’ll be best if just the two of us see her tomorrow. You understand that, Cliff… just the lawyers and the client this time around?”

  “Do I look like I’m getting my feelings hurt?”

  “In the afternoon, after I’m gone, Parley can bring you up on what was said.”

  “I could also put this time to good use. At some point I’ve got to spend a day with her books. Make a list of what’s really there. And we’ve got to get those books out of that house. I could rent us a U-Haul, go on up there, and spend the day packing ’em up, doing the donkey work while the brain trust does whatever it does down here.”

  “I don’t know. Somehow that strikes me wrong.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? What’s the downside in that?”

  “I don’t know. At the moment, we’re the only ones who know about those books.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily change just because we’ve moved them.”

  “It tells the other side something I might not want them to know yet. I don’t think we should move them without noticing-in the DA on what we know, and I’d like to at least ask our client about them first. I know you mentioned them to her, but let’s see what she says when we get more specific.”

  “Can I at least have the keys so I can go up and take another look?”

  “Can you make an inventory just by looking at the titles on a shelf?”

  “I can make a list. I can do that much, which is a helluva lot more than we’ve got right now.”

  “A list, then. If you need to take something off the shelf, fine, but then put it back where it was.”

  Parley handed me the keys.

  “Erin,” I said in my pleading voice, “we are going to feel mighty stupid if anything happens…”

  “I know… I know. Let me think about it, how to proceed. You go on up early tomorrow and make your list, then we’ll talk again.”

  “We could be fairly inconspicuous, if you want to move ’em,” Parley said. “Let Cliff inventory and box ’em up and then we go up there after dark and load up the truck.”

  “And put ’em where?” I said.

  “What’s wrong with right here? I’ve got a room that’s not being used.”

  We looked at each other for half a minute. Then Erin said, “I’m just not comfortable with us going in there at night and stripping the library. I know we can, that’s not the question: legally the house is back with us, we’ve got the keys, we can do what we want with it. But that kind of thing can come back to haunt us. If you’re right about the books and they’re worth real money, that becomes a potential motive.”

  “Against our client,” Parley said drily.

  “It could cut both ways. This could be a motive for anybody.”

  “So if this anybody killed Bobby, who and where is he and why hasn’t he made some attempt to get the books?”

  “That’s what we don’t know,” Erin said. “Maybe he’s afraid to go up there now. Maybe he’s afraid of a trap.”

  “You could almost make that feasible, if we had some other name to work with.”

  “Who else might benefit from the victim’s death?”

  “Well, I’ve been all through the DA’s file,” Parley said. “I’ve looked at every scrap of evidence they’ve got, and I don’t see anybody there who’d fill that bill. They’re going with a fairly simple and straightforward case. The blood was all over her dress, and most damning of all, she confessed. Never mind that she might’ve had second thoughts about the confession later, she still confessed. Where’s Mr. Anybody figure into all that?”

  “I don’t know. Look, the books have been there three weeks now and nobody’s touched them. It’s possible that they’ll only be in jeopardy if you call attention to them. That’s the wonderful thing about books, isn’t it? They never look valuable to an unwashed second-story man.”

  I sighed with exaggerated patience. “Erin, we’ve got to get them out of there. We might as well take out a STEAL THESE BOOKS ad in the newspaper.”

  “But what’s likely to happen when we do that? More to the point, what happens to the books as evidence in some future action we may take, based on facts we don’t yet know?”

  “Right now we don’t know what the hell’s in there. My opinion is based on a ten-minute walk-through. Do you have any idea how unprofessional that is?”

  “No, but I’ll bet you’ll tell us.” She smiled sweetly and made a short list of notes, structuring the next day. “I’ll bet Parley will tell us his opinion as well.”

  “Jerry shot Bobby, just like Miss Laura said.”

  “As theories go, that’s not bad. I’m certainly not above using it if we have to, even though it’ll make our defendant very unhappy.”

  Erin shuffled through her pad. “I guess we need to talk about a change of venue.”

  “I can’t see any downside to getting it out of here,” Parley said. “This county is way too small, not to mention small-minded.”

  “But if we move for a change of venue, that would delay the trial. Adamson’s almost certain to want to continue it, and I don’t think he would grant it anyway. We’d have to appeal the delay, waive our right to a speedy trial, and how will our defendant like being locked up an extra two to four months while all this is going on? She’s strung out as it is.”

  “I sure don’t like the idea of trying it here.”

  “Neither do I, but it may be the lesser of two evils. We need to get things moving, especially if we think they’ve got a weak case.”

  “I don’t know,” Parley said. “I’m glad you’re here to make that call.”

  Erin pondered what we had said. “Look, their case starts with that stupid deputy. I’ve only had the briefest pleasure of his company but I think he’ll be a weak link right out of the gate. From what I’ve seen so far, the investigation is pathetic.”

  “The DA thinks it’s in the bag.”

  “Let him think that. I’d like to hold his feet to the fire and see what evidence he’s actually got; we may find out he’s not as well prepared as he thinks he is. We know they have no written confession. Their investigating officer is a certified wild hare, and he did everything during that first critical hour by himself. I’d like you to file a boilerplate motion to suppress everything he did and found up there. Let’s push for an early trial date, hold their feet to the fire before they realize there are all kinds of holes in their case; before they have a chance to prepare.”

  She studied her notes. “Cliff, it would help if you can find out anything new about our friend Lennie—what his movements were that day, what he did, who he talked to and what was said, where he was when he got the call, whether he took a leak at the scene and where—you know the routine. Make a chart showing all that. Give us anything that shows him as a wild man. And you’ll need to interview him as well.”

  “That’ll be fun.”

  “Parley, you could set up the interview, then take Cliff with you when you go.”

  “Ambush the bastard.”

  Again the room went suddenly quiet. Then Erin said, “I don’t know how you work, Parley, but I like to start with my own theory of what really happened. Even if it’s early, even though this’ll all change as new facts come to light. Puts the onus on us and gives me a focal point to carry into the next day’s work.”

  “So what’s your current theory for this one, as if I didn’t know.”

  “The victim was killed by an unknown assailant. The alternate suspect theory. That gives us an excellent place to dig around.”

  �
�Some third party did it. Great defense if we can sell it.”

  “You know how the alternate suspect idea works. I don’t have to name names or prove it, but if I can get it planted that Bobby had enemies and that someone else might have been at or near the house that day, they’ll have to deal with it.” She looked at me. “Let’s see if we can find who might have done this, who might have had a reason to shoot Bobby. That would be a fine use of your spare time. And if you actually find such a creature, I will swoon into your arms with delight.”

  “Now you know why I work so cheap,” I said to Parley.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ve got diddly-squat along those lines.”

  “Not yet,” Erin said. “But we do need to find out if anyone had a motive and opportunity, and who that might be.”

  She wrote some notes. “Maybe a jealous husband, someone who lost his shirt in a business deal with Bobby, maybe some real estate venture that went sour.” And at last she said, “And the books could be a motive.”

  “Wow, the books could be a motive,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re too busy being a wise guy.”

  “So if the books are a potential motive, we need to find out where Bobby got them,” I said. “Who’d he buy them from? Why? Was he buying them to resell? If so, where was his market?”

  “Whatever you can find that backs up the alternate suspect theory. If we can do that, we’ve got something to work with.”

  “And if we can’t,” Parley said, “then we’re back to Jerry.”

  “But for today let’s believe somebody else was in that room before Jerry came in and picked up the gun.”

  “Jerry and Laura… they’re both innocent.”

  “They’re both innocent.”

  “Lots of luck.”

  BOOK II THE PREACHER

  AND THE MUTE

  13

  It was a long/short night: long on worry, short on sleep. I thought about those books almost constantly and I fell asleep sometime after midnight. I awoke three hours later dreaming of a vast library, all signed and inscribed books stretching in neat rows for miles, as far as the eye could see. For another half hour I lay in bed hoping for sleep, which I slowly realized would not return. Eventually I managed to get out of bed without disturbing Erin, dressed, and sat in Parley’s big front room. I stared into the black nothing until, driven by some inner demon, I got on my coat and went out.

  I didn’t know where I was going: at that time of night I’d have to drive at least sixty miles to find even a trace of life. I cruised through the town, hoping for an all-night coffee shop, knowing there could be no such animal on this far-flung planet. Not a light shone anywhere at four o’clock in the morning—not a movement, not a hope, not a living soul.

  Understanding comes slowly at that time of day, but as I drove along the abandoned streets, I recalled the dream of the endlessly inscribed books. I passed the courthouse for the third time, turned around abruptly, and headed out of town. A few minutes later I reached the dirt road heading up into the hills.

  I was halfway up the mountain when I finally realized that I was going up to the house. At that early hour I had no plan or reason, beyond what we had discussed the night before. I sure didn’t expect the real killers to be hard at work stealing Mrs. Marshall’s books at the exact moment when I happened to show up: it was only profound restlessness that drove me on. Friday’s snow had melted away, but I remembered the terrain fairly well and my headlights picked out some landmarks that were vaguely familiar. I was pretty sure that just ahead was where Lennie and his car had disappeared into the swirling snow. I slowed to a crawl and alternated my headlights between dims and brights, stopping wherever I saw a nook or a break. Occasionally I got out and walked along the road, staring at nothing across the deep black infinity until I ran out of light and had to pick my way back to the car.

  I had driven all the way over the crest when I found a rocky-looking trail on my left. It meandered precariously down into the void, one of those places that looks bad anytime but just reeks of peril to a stranger on a black morning. Maybe this was it, maybe not: I wasn’t about to drive in there in the hope I’d be able to turn around: I’d have to walk down. I found a place where I could hide my car off the road. Then I put on my heavy coat and hood, got out my flashlight, fixed my beam on dim, and started along the trail.

  I found a place no more than forty yards down: a wide spot where his car could have been parked and easily turned around. A footpath went on from there, around the gulch and along the face of the hill. Instinctively I knew Lennie had been here. I sensed it, I smelled him as I got closer. I couldn’t see a damn thing, only what was straight ahead in the beam of my light and no more than three feet of that. The path was okay: not many rocks or sudden dips to send a silly hiker careening off to break a leg or worse, and I kept at it slowly. In recent years I had made a startling discovery, that when you’re going nowhere anyway, there’s no real hurry to get there.

  And I knew something else. If this was where Lennie had been, he had probably left me a few clues. I moved ahead with my light on the ground, and ten minutes later I saw a small rocky recess, protected from the weather and just big enough for a man to stand in. There was the inevitable pile of cigarette butts, soggy from snow runoff, but a clear enough sign that I had arrived.

  Good old reliable Lennie, the son of a bitch.

  I stopped and sat on the ground to wait for the new day.

  Dawn doesn’t even think of cracking in the Colorado mountains before six at that time of year. Six couldn’t be too far away, but as I sat and the dawn didn’t break, I lost track of the time. Soon I slipped easily into my own personal brand of Zen. The minutes passed… it might’ve been an hour, might’ve been two weeks, it didn’t matter because I wasn’t thinking about it now. I had no goal beyond the number ten, staring at the black wall and counting to ten, starting over, doing it again and again with only an empty mind to keep me company. This is how a moment passed, then an eternity, and the dawn finally cracked. November in the Rockies: I was aware of it without ever seeing the crack, which would be somewhere slightly aft and off to port. I didn’t turn my head but there was some suggestive thing, just the slightest hint of firmament across the way, though I couldn’t really see it yet. I counted to ten and counted again, and at one point I wished I’d known about this Zen tool years ago when I had been a cop on stakeouts.

  So that’s what this was then, a stakeout. I hadn’t thought of it that way until this moment, but, yes, I had come here to watch the house with only a hunch that if nothing had happened by now, something might just be overdue. Slowly the day brightened, gradually I saw the road on the opposite hillside, and suddenly the house took shape in the trees across the gulch. I made a small adjustment and burrowed deeper into the underbrush, drawing my coat up around my face so seeing me would be difficult and maybe impossible from there. I imagined all kinds of evil afoot, I pictured someone standing just inside the Marshall living room scanning my hill with binoculars. But I sat still, staring at the house. I counted to ten a hundred times, I stared and I counted, and in this way the time passed.

  At some point I came fully alert and looked around. For the first time I took note of the day. The dawn never did have any real crack to it; the sky was gray and snow was swirling over my head, blowing down the gulch and around the house and over the mountaintop. I thought of all the stakeouts I had done and how Jesus-Christ-boring they had all been. I had been here now five hours—I looked at my watch—but the day was still early and at that point I didn’t even allow myself the luxury of feeling like a fool. I counted to ten and cleared my mind.

  I counted to ten and the snow piled up on my hood, on my shoulders, and settled in a deepening mound around my ass. Trickles of water ran down from my head and across my cheeks from my eyes.

  I counted to ten.

  Much later I thought of Erin.

  Looked at my watch. It was
half past eleven.

  She’d be finished interviewing Laura Marshall by now; she and Parley would have seen the mute boy. She had taken the case, I had no doubt, and she’d be getting ready to fly back to Denver. She’d be pretty well pissed: this I knew. Briefly I wished I had written her a note of some kind, but how could I know at four o’clock in the morning that I would lose my mind and disappear? What would I have said? Don’t worry if I lose my mind. Don’t fret if I disappear for a while. I’m on the case, love, Janeway.

  Yeah, right. What does “for a while” mean? All day? All week?

  How long would this madness continue? How long before I packed it in?

  Not yet, came the quick answer. At some point, obviously, but not yet.

  I counted to ten and the hours passed.

  I had been there more than ten hours. Ten hours of counting to ten. My watch told me so, but it didn’t seem to matter. If I left now and something happened to the books, what kind of idiot would that make me? I was becoming a captive to my own mad fears.

  Did this mean I was prepared to sit through the night? The snow had fallen throughout the day and I knew I must look like some stupid abominable snowman sitting here alone. Erin would be back in Denver by now. She knew me well enough not to worry, I hoped. She would know I was off somewhere on the case, she’d know I would never do anything to screw it up. But that knowledge might be starting to pale by now.

  Oh, yeah, Erin would be pissed.

  Too bad for her. She should’ve taken me more seriously about the books.

  I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. I’d had nothing to eat since last night, and only the snow for water. Strangely, it seemed like enough. My hunch was stronger now than it had been this morning, and that’s what kept me here. I sucked on a snowball and laughed as that silly bumper sticker DON’T EAT YELLOW SNOW wafted through my head. I made sure to pee downhill so as not to foul up the water supply.