Booked to Die by John Dunning

even start believing it.”
    I looked at him.
    He shuffled and said, “For one thing, she didn’t always have money. Didn’t always have books. She’s got a lot of both now. I know plenty of rich book dealers, but very few who started with no money. It’s hard to work your way up in this business without a bankroll to start with. There are damn few ways, inside the law, to get that much money and that many good books in that short a time… divine intervention excluded.”
    “Where do people think she got ‘em?”
    “Oh, everybody knows where she got ‘em. There wasn’t any mystery about that—it was all wrapped up in a big AB spread a few years ago. What nobody knows is the circumstances of that deal. That’s what the mystery is. What I remember about it is this. She had been dating a book collector. She moved in with him. He died, and when he went he left her everything… books, estate, money… the whole works.”
    “Was this man old?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Do you know anything about when and where he died?”
    He shook his head. “I can’t remember. You could write to the AB, I’m sure they’d send you the article. There was another piece about Rita McKinley when she moved her stuff here and opened her business. I remember reading it. It wasn’t much of a piece, just a little one-column job saying she had come here and was open for business… about three, four years ago. The guy’s name escapes me just now… I ought to remember it, he was a good enough collector that the AB devoted two pages to his death.”
    “Did the article say how he died?”
    “Sure. That’s the part that keeps the tongues wagging. He killed himself.”

10
    Ruby’s visit to Bobby Westfall’s apartment bothered me, and on second thought I decided to take the good books along with me when I left. Carol was sitting by the bed reading Faulkner when I came in. I put Bobby’s books on the floor and pushed the bag containing her birthday present behind the stack.
    “Hi,” she said. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
    “Just some stuff for the evidence room. I didn’t want to leave it in that empty apartment.”
    She came over and looked. “These are valuable?”
    “Yeah, but this is all of it. The rest is like total junk.” I looked at my watch: it was one-fifteen. “What’re you still doing up?”
    “Couldn’t sleep. What’s your excuse?”
    “Liftin‘ that barge. Totin’ that bale… payin‘ my debt to the company store.”
    “So how was your day?”
    “Ducky.”
    “Did I ever tell you, Clifford, that the thing I love best about you is your communications skill? Did you go out to see Newton?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    She sighed and rolled her eyes. “
And
?”
    “He’s gonna be my date at the policeman’s ball.”
    “Wonderful. You girls will look great together.”
    “Look, I’m sorry. I’d really rather talk about the cockroach problem some other time. Right now I’m gonna grab a shower and mount a major assault with heavy artillery on your body.”
    Later, in bed, she lay in the crook of my arm. She was a great lover, good for what ailed me after a twenty-four-hour shift. Now, I thought, I could sleep. But again I found myself thinking about us, our situation, permanence, and me., I was in the middle of a vast sea change. I wondered what she would think of me if I suddenly wasn’t a cop anymore. She had been a tomboy: being a cop was all she’d ever wanted. She had never mentioned children: we had simply never talked of it. In my mind I could hear her saying, I’ve got to tell you. Cliff, I don’t want kids—I’m just not cut out for the motherhood bit. I could see her staring in disbelief when I told her I’d rather be a bookman, I think, than a cop, and not thirty years from now. Maybe she wouldn’t do any of those things. She had been in the department long enough now—almost eight years—to be building up her own case of burnout. Maybe she was getting ready to hear what I