Booked to die

destroy them, you can be prosecuted.”

“I don’t care,” she said, but she did care. The key to Mumsy was simple: hit her where she lives.

“You could go to jail, Mrs. Bonnema.”

“I don’t care. My life is over anyway. Everyone I loved has left me. I hope Dadsy punishes that boy.”

I walked around and looked in her face. What the hell, I thought.

“Mrs. Bonnema,” I said. “I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

“You dare talk to me like that. Take them. Take the dirty things and get them out of my house. I never wanted them anyway.”

“Where are the books?”

“In the garage, where do you think?”

I started through the house toward the back door.

“It’s all junk,” she cried. “I’m telling you that right now, there’s nothing there but junk.” I heard her footsteps: she was following me through the dark house. “Petesey was always off chasing silly dreams,” she said. “Always scavenging, pawing through what other people threw out. It was shameful, my son picking through people’s trash. I cringe when I think of it, how that must’ve reflected on me’t He looked all his life and never found anything but junk. The world called it junk, but—oh no!—not him! He knew it all! Everybody else was wrong and he was right, that’s the way he saw it. Everything he found was worth its weight in gold. Hah! He goes all the way to Denver, and what does he send me back? More junk! Can you beat that, Mr. Policeman? Can you beat that? Are you listening to me?”

I groped through the kitchen. The dog growled, very near, and I skirted the sound and felt for the door. I could still hear her yelling: her voice followed me through the yard and into the underbrush. She had turned into a book expert. “A book’s gotta be old to be worth anything, everybody knows that. Gotta be old, but does he find old books? No, he picks up junk that anyone could find and then tries to tell me it’s valuable. Same silly thing he’s said all his life… ” At last she faded: her screeching blended with the crickets and the breeze and maybe she finally gave up. I saw the garage: it was forty yards from the house along a dark path. I pushed open the door and blundered along the wall in search of a light. The light I found was dim, but it was enough. Stacked against the far wall were eight cartons of books, most unopened, all with Denver postmarks. I cut open the tops and looked inside. There were twenty books, give or take, in each box. I took a quick inventory.

One hundred sixty-four titles. Flawless first editions from the period 1927 to 1955.

Retail value? My guess was as good as any.

I called it twenty grand, and started putting the boxes together again.

36

The earliest flight I could get back to Denver was the 6:47. I checked in an hour early and fought the ticket people at the Portland airport. There was a luggage limit and I was over it: even by paying excess freight charges, I couldn’t get more than five boxes on board without special permission. I battled my way up the bureaucratic chain, telling them I was a Denver detective working undercover on a case involving a major book theft ring. I didn’t have any identification, I said, because undercover cops never carry any, but my story could be verified by Detective Hennessey at DPD. Of course, before they could reach Hennessey, my plane would be gone, I said with the proper degree of helplessness. The man in charge at five-thirty in the morning was a suspicious bird: damned if he didn’t call Denver.

“They do verify that a Detective Hennessey is employed with the Denver police,” he said to the ticket people. He looked at me severely. “What did you say your name was?”

“Cameron.”

He looked at my ticket. “It says Janeway here.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m traveling undercover,” I said with just the right edge of strained patience.

“Is there a Detective Cameron on the Denver police force?” he asked the telephone. He nodded and hung up. “Let him through,” he said to the ticket people.

God bless United Air Lines.

I slept all the way home.

At Stapleton, the chores of the day arranged themselves in my mind. The first order of business was to secure the books.

I drove to a storage locker I knew, rented a small unit, stacked the boxes two high on pallets off the floor, locked the unit, and went home.

I took a shower, shaved, and ate breakfast. A pot of coffee, double strength, brought me almost back to life, and I sat at the phone and lined up the day’s work.

Hennessey. The Ballards. Rita McKinley.