FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
Authors: Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
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rounded wooden bowl filled with yet more office detritus, then beside it a heavily gilded female figurine whose curves were definitely more robust than D.D.’s own, not to mention multiple haphazard piles of obviously old and dusty books.
“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.
“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”
D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Security system?”
“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here . . . they are large and heavy, as you can see.”
“But all the jade figurines—”
“His private collection. Not for sale.”
Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”
“I would assume.”
“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.
“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”
D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”
“No, his—”
“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se—”
D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather-bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.
“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.
“What?”
“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid-jade Buddha. From the eighth-century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”
“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.
“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”
“Value?” D.D. asked.
“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size . . . yes, it is valuable.”
D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry fortheir murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.
“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.
Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.
“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”
“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”
“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”
D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”
He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?
“What is it?” D.D. asked.
“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”
· · ·
D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved-top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.
Of course, she
“I don’t see a computer,” she ventured at last.
“He worked by hand. Thought best that way. When he needed to look something up, he used the computer in the front of the store.”
D.D. went about this another way. “Was the store locked this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Security system?”
“No. We had been talking about one, but Mr. Wen always argued, what kind of thieves stole antique furniture? The truly valuable pieces here . . . they are large and heavy, as you can see.”
“But all the jade figurines—”
“His private collection. Not for sale.”
Phil picked up the thought. “But the door was locked. So whoever entered, Mr. Wen let him or her in.”
“I would assume.”
“Would he meet people in his office?” D.D. asked, gesturing to a space that was clearly standing room only.
“No,” the assistant filled in. “Generally, he met with them in the showroom. Sitting at one of the tables, that sort of thing. He believed in the power of history not just to survive, but to retain its usefulness. Don’t just buy an antique, he liked to say. Live with it.”
D.D.’s gaze zeroed in once more on the book still resting on Mr. Wen’s open hand. “Did he have books in the showroom?”
“No, his—”
“Personal collection. I get it. So, if he was meeting someone who was interested in a volume, per se—”
D.D. knelt back down, trying to get a better look at the leather-bound novel. The gilded titling was faded, hard to read. Then she realized it wasn’t even in English, but in a language she couldn’t recognize.
“The Buddha,” Judy suddenly gasped.
“What?”
“The Buddha. That’s what’s missing. Here, the left corner of Mr. Wen’s desk. He had a solid-jade Buddha. From the eighth-century Tang Dynasty. The Buddha always sat here. Mr. Wen got the piece just after his wife died. It was very special to him.”
“Size?” Phil already had his notebook out.
“Ummm, the Buddha himself eight inches tall. Very round, solid, the sitting Buddha, you know, with his round belly and laughing face. The statue was placed on a square wooden base with gold seams and inlaid abalone. A substantial piece.”
“Value?” D.D. asked.
“I’m not sure. I would need to do more research. But given that ounce for ounce, fine jade is currently more valuable than gold, a piece of that size . . . yes, it is valuable.”
D.D. pursed her lips, liking the idea of the theft gone awry fortheir murder motive except, of course, for the number of remaining jade pieces that still littered the victim’s bookshelves.
“Why the Buddha statue?” she murmured out loud, more to herself than anyone.
Judy, the beautiful assistant, shook her head, clearly at a loss for an explanation.
“One piece. That’s all you think is gone?”
“I will keep looking, but for now, yes, that one piece.”
“So Buddha, something about Buddha.”
D.D. was still thinking, as Neil said, “Hello. Got something.”
He had lifted the book from Mr. Wen’s outstretched fingers. Now, they all watched as something fluttered to the floor. Obviously not old, but a recent addition to the office. Something worth clutching in a dead man’s hand?
“What is it?” D.D. asked.
“Business card.” Neil flipped it over. “From the Phoenix Foundation. For one Malachai Samuels.”
· · ·
D.D. parked her rental car on New York’s Upper West Side, then turned her attention to the mansion across the street. She wasn’t a huge architecture buff but had lived in a historic city long enough to recognize the Queen Anne style of the villa, including the glass sunburst below the curved-top window. Personally, she liked the gargoyles peeking out from under the eaves.
Of course, she
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