After shifting all the pillows and checking under the couch, he moved to the dining table and chairs and on to the coffee table. Finally, he approached the small Regency-style desk next to the wall of windows. He checked the drawers, pulling each one out completely and turning it over to see if anything was attached underneath. He ran his hands smoothly over the top surface, then squatted down and felt under the desk.
“Ah,” he whispered, and crouched on his hands and knees to get a good look at whatever it was he’d felt. After prying it from beneath the desk, he stood.
“Is it a bomb?” I asked, cowering closer to the wall of the entryway.
“No,” he said, bemused. “It’s a book.” He ripped duct tape off a Ziploc freezer-strength Baggie as he walked toward me. I ventured into the room and met him halfway, watching as he undid the plastic zipper and pulled a book out of the Baggie. He appeared lost in thought as he studied it. Then he looked up.
“I suppose this is your bailiwick,” he said, handing the book to me. “Any thoughts?”
I frowned. “My first thought is that this is really weird.”
The book was crimson morocco leather, in near perfect condition. The spine was elaborately gilded with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow written in gold between the raised bands. The paper was heavily gilded on all three edges. I opened it to check the date of publication: 1905.
On the inside flyleaf, facing the title page, was a full-color Arthur Rackham illustration of Ichabod Crane and a pretty woman dressed in pink frills, walking under a gnarly tree. Hiding among the branches of the tree were a band of evil-looking pixies, grinning maniacally.
“Oh, it’s charming,” I whispered, turning it over to check out the back joint along the spine. It was strong, in mint condition.
“Yes, it’s lovely, I suppose,” Derek said grudgingly. “Why it was left here, hidden, I have no idea.”
“No.” It was indeed lovely and extremely rare; of that, I had no doubt. I imagined a collector would be willing to pay twenty or thirty thousand dollars, if not more.
“What in the world was this doing in a Baggie under your desk?”
He bristled. “I didn’t put it there.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I said. “I’m just wondering who did. And why.”
I could feel the tension radiating off him. While I studied the book, he paced back and forth in front of me, visibly furious. It made me wonder how someone like him, with his legendary self-control and fervent belief in the order of law, could stand to be put in a position of having to defend himself to the police.
He probably felt upside down and discombobulated, although he might describe it in less whimsical terms. Whatever you called it, I knew the feeling. I felt his pain.
“If I knew who did it,” he said tersely, “they’d be in jail by now.”
Baffled, I shook my head. “What were they trying to prove?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He took the book from me and studied it for a few seconds, then handed it back. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s one of Layla’s books. Clearly, someone put it here to frame me.”
“How would they get in?” I waved away the question. “Never mind. Housekeeping.” I had intimate knowledge of the ease of slipping a key off the housekeeping trolley.
“Exactly.”
“But who? Naomi again?”
“I don’t know.” His fists clenched as he paced. “Is she smart enough to carry out such an elaborate scheme?”
“She’s smart enough, but this would take more than mere smarts. It’s so brazen, it’s almost . . . diabolical.”
“Yes, it is.” He gritted his teeth. “And I’m determined to find out who did it.”
“I’ll help,” I said immediately.
He tilted his head to study me.
“What?” I demanded finally. “I’m going to help. I don’t care what—”
“Yes, I can use your help.”
“—you think, I’m . . . what? I mean, it’s not like you can stop me, but . . . really?”
He flashed me a sexy, lopsided grin. I wondered if he could hear my little heart pitter-patter as I returned his smile.
“Yes, really.” His grin faded and he reached out to touch my cheek. “Because whoever tried to frame me has also hurt you, darling. And that is one thing I cannot forgive.”
Chapter 15
En route to BABA to confront Naomi, I called the police to report the break-in of Derek’s hotel suite. They transferred me to Inspector Lee’s voice mail, where I gave her the rundown on Derek’s hotel room, the book, and where we were headed now.
As Derek brought the Bentley to a stop directly in front of BABA’s doors, Inspector Lee returned my call. I put her on speaker.
“Don’t even think about walking inside until I get there,” Lee shouted. “I’m calling a unit to meet you. They should be there in two minutes. Two minutes. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said. “But I have a class to teach and Derek’s just hanging out here with me.”
“Do not walk inside that building,” she shouted.
“No need for hysterics, Inspector,” Derek said calmly. “We’ll wait right here for you.”
“Hysterics?” she said softly, venom dripping off the word. “You ain’t seen hysterics, pal. I’ll slap both your asses in jail if you’re not outside when I get there.”
“Harsh,” I said, meeting Derek’s amused glance.
“You ain’t seen harsh, either,” Lee groused.
“Now I’m intrigued,” Derek said.
She just growled, then hung up.
I stuck my cell in my jacket pocket. “I think she likes us.”
“What’s not to like?” He leaned over, unlocked the glove box, and pulled out a really scary-looking gun. “By the way, I think you should wait in the car.”
“No. Whoa. A gun?” I waved my hand at him. “There are people in there. My students. That’s not necessary, is it? It’s just Naomi. She’s hardly a . . .”
“A what?” he said. “A killer? We don’t know that, do we?”
“But—”
“Sweetheart, believe it or not, I’m a highly trained professional. I’m not going to shoot up the place.”
“I know, I know,” I said, as fear and nerves set up shop in my heart. “But that gun is really big.”
“Thank you, darling.”
I snorted a laugh, ladylike to the end.
He reached for the door handle and I grabbed his arm. “Let’s just give it a minute, please? I’d rather have the police confront her than us.”
“You’re about to get your way,” he said, as police lights flashed behind us. “They’re prompt anyway. I’ll give them that.”
“I’ll say.” I had a feeling Inspector Lee had threatened her fellow officers with the wrath of God if they didn’t get here before we went inside. Good to know she could pull strings like that.
We climbed out of the car. It was dusk and the air was chilling. I pulled my jacket tightly around me as we met the two officers on the sidewalk. One was a woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The other was Officer Ortiz.
“Hello, Officer,” I said, and smiled at him.
He looked at me with suspicion. That hurt. I hadn’t done anything to him. Yet.
“Officers,” Derek said jovially. “It’s good of you to join us. Shall we?” He swept his arm up as if we were about to enter a grand ballroom.
“You’re not going anywhere, Jack,” Ponytail said.
“And you are . . . ?” he asked in his most upper-crust snooty British butler accent.
“Norris. SFPD.”
He inclined his head and switched to his smooth-as-silk James Bond license-to-kill voice. “Derek Stone, at your service, Officer Norris.”
Ortiz ignored them both and jerked his chin toward me. “What’s going on here?”
“Naomi Fontaine,” I said. “We believe she planted evidence in Mr. Stone’s hotel suite. We want to ask her some questions so we called Inspector Lee to join us. Just wanted to keep everything aboveboard.”