“I remember now. Her name, the woman who came looking for Lloyd. Jenny. I’m sure that’s what it was.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t believe she gave it. Jenny, that was all.”
T amara was skeptical at first. “Lloyd Henderson’s bastard son? I dunno, Jake. Why would he just show up all of a sudden, after twenty years, and start throwing acid at his half brothers?”
“Say he only recently learned Henderson was his father and went to Los Alegres to confront him-money, payback. Say he’s mentally unstable. Finding out Henderson’s been dead for five years throws him into a rage. He takes it out on the old man’s grave, but that doesn’t satisfy him. So he goes after the two legitimate sons.”
“Stalking them with acid just because Pop’s been underground for five years? Sounds far-fetched.”
“Depends on the details. What happened with Henderson and his mother, what his life was like, how he found out the truth. Kids can build up a lot of hate for a parent they think abandoned them.” He thought but didn’t say: I ought to know.
“So what do you want to do? Go up to Mendocino?”
“Worth the trip,” Runyon said. “It’s the only lead I’ve got.”
“When?”
“Right away. I can make the drive in a couple of hours. Spend the night, start checking first thing in the morning.”
“All right, go for it. You tell the clients about any of this yet?”
“No. Not until I see if the lead goes anywhere. The hunting camp is near a village called Harmony. Can you get me the exact location?”
“County tax records and MapQuest-no problem.”
“I’ve got my laptop. E-mail the info and I’ll pick it up when I get to a motel.”
12
Julian Iverson lived in Pacific Heights not far from my old apartment, but three streets higher-a much more rarified atmosphere. My place had been four rooms in a venerable, rent-controlled building with a snippet of a view from one bay window; Iverson’s condo was on the fourth floor of a newly renovated low-rise, had seven rooms and unobstructed views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, and had probably cost him a couple of million dollars.
Three of the interior rooms were partially walled with books, less than half as many as Pollexfen had accumulated, but they weren’t Iverson’s only interest. He also had a taste for antique furniture, paintings, etchings, and other artwork, and Oriental carpets-rare Sarouks, a fact I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t made a point of saying so. More proud of the carpets, it seemed, than his books. All he said about the collection, with a casual sweeping gesture as we entered, was, “Children’s literature and fine bindings. My specialty.”
He was seventy, but he could have passed for fifty-five or so. Lean, fit, his face smooth, his hair still thick and dark except for threads of gray. He’d been accommodating on the phone: “Greg told me to expect a call from you. Come by any time.” He was just as accommodating in person, soft-spoken and cordial. We did our talking in a room dominated by fine bindings and half a dozen tasteful paintings of nudes in bucolic settings.
“How long have you known Gregory Pollexfen, Mr. Iverson?”
“Nearly thirty years. We met at an ABAA book fair.”
“Close friends, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that. We’re both avid bibliophiles-that’s the basis for our friendship. We have little else in common.”
“So you don’t socialize?”
“No. He comes here and I visit him at his home, to talk books. I’m a widower, you see.”
A fact I already knew from Tamara’s research. I nodded and said, “Your collecting interests are quite a bit different.”
“True, but our passion for first editions is what drew us together and keeps the friendship alive. Greg may collect nothing but crime fiction, but his knowledge and interest exceed his specialty. As do mine.”
“How would you characterize the man?”
Iverson smiled. “Passionate, as I said. Intense. Competitive. Generous when it suits him.”
“His wife considers him manipulative.”
“Does she? Well, she’s probably right. I’ve known him to be devious and scheming when he lusted after a particular book.”
“Would you say he’s honest?”
“Are you asking if I think it’s possible he filed a false theft report and a false insurance claim?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
“Anything is possible,” Iverson said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. Let me put it this way. If Greg had a compelling reason for pretending some of his most valuable collectibles had been stolen in order to bilk half a million dollars from his insurance company, then the honest answer is yes, he might well be capable of it.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case.”
“No, I don’t. He doesn’t need the money, God knows. And I can’t think of any other reason why he would fake the theft. He cares too much about his books to want to jeopardize prize items like the Hammetts and Doyle in any way.”
“If they were stolen, then, who would you say is the most likely candidate?”
“I wouldn’t. Other than it would have to be someone with access to both his house and library. And to the library key.”
“Even though he keeps the key close to him day and night.”
“I’ve been in that room several times. There’s simply no way anyone could get in and out without one.”
“His wife or his brother-in-law, then.”
“That would seem to be the case.”
“What can you tell me about Mrs. Pollexfen?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. We don’t socialize, as I told you. I’ve only spoken to the woman a few times.”
“Your impression of her?”
His smile, this time, was slightly bent. “I wouldn’t care to say.”
“What about Jeremy Cullrane?”
“The same. I barely know the man.”
“Mr. Pollexfen considers him the prime suspect.”
“Well, Greg is in a position to make that judgment.”
“I understand Cullrane lost a large amount of money in a promotional scheme that backfired a few years ago. Music show at the San Jose Auditorium. Would you happen to know if Pollexfen was involved in that?”
“No, I wouldn’t. We don’t discuss business or personal matters, his or mine.”
“Only books?”
“Only books.”
“Assuming the eight volumes were stolen by someone other than Pollexfen, how likely is it that they’ll turn up on the collectors’ market?”
“Not very, I’m afraid,” Iverson said. “Rare first editions in dust wrapper, in fine or near fine condition, are seldom offered for sale these days. Personal inscriptions are, of course, unique-especially those of an associational nature.”
“By associational you mean books inscribed to fellow writers.”
“Correct. Greg has notified all the reputable dealers and collectors in his field. If any of the missing items were to be brought to them, they would be instantly recognizable and the thief easily caught. Anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of first editions would understand this.”
