“But you still don’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“With a half mil payoff at stake? Hell no. Not without a full investigation. Which he says he welcomes. Send out the best investigator we’ve got, he said. But I thought of you anyway.”
I let that pass. “Did Pollexfen file a police report?”
“Right away. They haven’t found zip. Incompetents, Pollexfen called them. He’s probably right on that score. What do cops know about rare books?”
“He told you the books were stolen a week ago, but his claim came in last Friday. Why the delay?”
“Waiting to see what the police turned up.”
“All right. Assuming the books were stolen, does Pollexfen have any idea who did it or how it was done?”
“Nope. It’s impossible, he says, and yet it happened.” Another peppermint disappeared into the Rivera maw. “Hey, I just had a thought. Maybe it was the Invisible Man.”
I ignored that, too.
“Locked room, impossible crime-you got lucky with that kind of thing a couple of times, as I recall. That’s the second reason you’re here. If somebody besides Pollexfen did manage to five-finger eight valuable books from a locked library, you’re the only genius I know who can figure out how it was done.”
Genius. Sure. The needle again.
He sat there sucking on the peppermint, grinning at me-a grin with an edge of malice. The smug bastard had me hooked and he knew it. And he didn’t waste any time saying so.
“Irresistible, eh?”
“Depends. What’re you offering for the job?”
“Usual rates.”
“Ours have gone up in five years. We don’t come cheap anymore.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind inflation.”
“You’re one of the few who doesn’t.”
“Tell you what, old buddy. If you find those missing books and save us the half mil, I’ll authorize a bonus for you.”
“How much of a bonus?”
“Oh, say two thousand.”
I said without missing a beat, “Let’s make it five.”
“Man, you really have gotten greedy in your old age.”
“People change in five years. Some people.”
“Not me. Still the same old Barney.”
“Yeah.”
“So okay then. Five thousand.”
“Put it in writing and we’ve got a deal.”
No argument. He put it in writing, all cheerful and smiley.
Barney the Needle, Barney the Sly. He was so damn accommodating because he figured I’d never collect that five thousand bonus-he expected me to fail. That was the real reason he’d brought me in here after five years. To have the last laugh.
Barney the Shit.
T amara said, “Five K bonus? Sweet.”
“If I can find those first editions.”
“Anybody can, you the man.”
“Screwy case. I should’ve turned Rivera down, bonus or no bonus.”
“But you didn’t. Too much of a challenge, right?”
“There’s that. And the prospect of putting the needle right back into his tubby hide. I’d settle for that.”
“Want me to do a b.g. on Pollexfen?”
“If you have time. The Henderson case takes priority. You come up with anything there yet?”
“So far,” she said, “nothing that flies against what they told you about themselves and the brother. No criminal records of any kind, no juicy stuff. Just average folks, looks like.”
“Who are being systematically stalked. The attacks are too personal to be random. Has to be a motive of some kind.”
“Psychos don’t need much to get off on.”
“No, but they do need a trigger. Just about everybody has secrets, past problems of some kind. I doubt the Henderson family is an exception.”
In my office I went through the printouts Rivera had given me: copies of Gregory Pollexfen’s seven-million- dollar book collection policy and claim, information on his other policies, personal data. Pollexfen must be financially solid; he was putting five figures a year in premiums into the Great Western coffers. Age: two months shy of his sixty-eighth birthday. Health: subpar. Heart ailment, high blood pressure, other maladies that, combined with his age, had sent his life insurance premiums skyrocketing the past couple of years. His present wife, Angelina, number three after a pair of divorces, was thirty-two years his junior. Married to her nine years, no children by her or the other two wives. The interesting thing there was that she was no longer the named beneficiary of his life insurance policy; he’d crossed her out three years ago in favor of two major charities. And his was the only name on the general personal property and book collection policies.
Why? I wondered. If the marriage was rocky enough to cause him to change beneficiaries, then it was likely he’d written her out of his will, too, leaving her with no more than the standard spousal death benefits required by state law. But if that was the case, why were they still living together?
After I’d familiarized myself with everything, I put in a call to Pollexfen’s home. He was there; the woman who answered the phone went and got him for me.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Mr. Rivera called a little while ago, gave me your name.” Froggy baritone that cracked a little here and there. “He said you’re exactly the right investigator for this case.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He also told me,” Pollexfen said, “that you collect pulp magazines.”
“That’s right.”
“For how many years?”
“More than I care to remember.”
“How many do you own?”
“Around seven thousand.”
“Rarities? The Maltese Falcon issues of Black Mask?”
“All five, yes.”
“Excellent! I know I’m going to enjoy meeting you.”
“What would be a convenient time for me to come by?”
“I’m completely free this afternoon.”
“Three o’clock?”
“Excellent,” he said again. “You have the address, of course.”
“I have it.”
“I’ll expect you at three then.”
I put the phone down. “I know I’m going to enjoy talking to you,” he’d said. Odd choice of words under the circumstances. But then, collectors, honest or otherwise, are all a little cracked. Myself included.
3
JAKE RUNYON
He’d been to Los Alegres before, once on business, once on one of his periodic drives to familiarize himself with his new home territory, so he had no trouble finding his way around. It was a valley town, spread out between low foothills; former agricultural center founded in the 1850s, now a combination bedroom community, site for
