"Because I'd given it to a man named Valdi Berzins," I said. "Mr. Grisek, I believe you may have known him."

The Latvian nodded, looking unhappy. "A good man," he said. "A fine man. A patriotist."

"It was he to whom the Lyles had promised the Kukarov photos, wasn't it?"

"He did not tell me the detailings," Grisek said. His English was unaccented, but also unorthodox. "And always he looked on the side where the sun was. 'The photos have been thieved,' he told me, 'so I will make my deal with the thief. And perhaps he is less of a thief than the man he took them from.' You know this book, The Power to Think Positive?"

"That's The Power of Positive Thinking," I said, "by Norman Vincent Peale. A great bestseller in its day. I've got two or three copies in the store, and I suppose I ought to put them on the bargain table, but I somehow feel I owe it to the author to think that someone'll come along and pay full price for it."

"Valdi Berzins was positively thinking, Mr. Rhodenbarr. He went to your bookstore with money to pay for the book. And instead he was killed."

I said I saw it happen, and one of the women said it must have been awful for me, and I said it was worse for Berzins. "He came into the shop and said I must have something for him. And I didn't know what he was talking about, and then I remembered Colby Riddle's phone call, although I still didn't know who'd been on the other end of the phone. I knew it wasn't Berzins, the voice was wrong, but he seemed so confident I would know what he wanted, and that was all I could think of. I said the book's title, and that seemed to make him happy, and he sure didn't argue about the price. He paid me a hundred times what I asked him for, evidently assuming that I was leaving off the word hundred to save time. I realized this just in time to run outside after him and watch him get killed. If there hadn't been a parked car in the way, I might have been killed along with him."

"Who killed him?" Grisek demanded. "Who killed my friend Berzins?"

"That's a good question. Here's another. Why did he assume I'd know what book he wanted? And, when I mentioned the book by name, why did it make him happy?"

"You said The Secret Agent, " Carolyn said, "and that was him. He thought you were recognizing him for what he was."

"That's what I thought at first, but it doesn't add up. It still doesn't explain why he thought I'd have a book for him, or why he was happy with the one I handed him. He didn't flip through it looking for pictures. He just paid for it and left. Colby, what made you ask for that particular book?"

"I'd been looking for a copy. It's a book, and you're a bookseller, and so-"

"You don't much care for Conrad."

"I don't like his sea stories. I'm told The Secret Agent is the sort of book the man might have written if he'd never gone to sea. I thought it worth a try."

"And worth a phone call."

"Why not?"

"But I think you already got a phone call," I said. "From a plastic surgeon."

"Bernie," he said, "you can't be serious. I may look like a candidate for plastic surgery, but I'm afraid I lack the requisite vanity. Am I to assume the plastic surgeon in question is our host, Dr. Mapes? Why would you think I even know the man? How would we have met?"

"At school," I said, "or on a bus, or in an Internet chat room, with both of you pretending to be lesbians. But if I had to guess, I'd say your dermatologist referred you. Maybe you had a suspicious mole on your face, in a spot that was sufficiently visible to warrant a plastic surgeon's doing the work."

"How could you possibly know something like that?"

"Just a wild guess. What I can't figure out is how you knew Valdi Berzins."

"I didn't."

"You must have. The two of you probably had a friend in common, some professor teaching a course called Latvian as a Second Language. One way or another, you knew both of them. And you called Mapes, or Mapes called you, and he let you know about these photos, and that he had a few hundred thousand dollars in a wall safe in his bedroom, and-"

"Hold it right there," said one of the government men. They were both on their feet. One of them was holding a gun, while the other brandished a piece of paper. "I was wondering when you'd get around to the reason we're here. A couple of hundred thousand dollars in undeclared cash, that sounds about right." He whirled on Mapes. "Crandall Rountree Mapes? I'm from Internal Revenue, and I have here a court order authorizing my partner and I-"

My partner and me, I thought, you federal dimwit.

"-to search said Devonshire Close premises. Sir, I'd like you to escort us upstairs and open the safe for us."

Mapes had weathered everything up to this point. Now it was as if the hand of fate had come at him with a scalpel and savaged all the fine work some colleague had done for him. He aged ten years just like that, and his color faded even as the perspiration poured out of him.

He was sputtering, something about an attorney, and the IRS man told him he could get one later, but in the meantime they were damn well going to have a look at that safe. Wally Hemphill scanned the piece of paper and told Mapes yes, they had the authority, and there was nothing he could do but keep his mouth shut.

"The rest of you wait down here," the other IRS agent said.

And off they went.

Forty

They weren't gone long, and when they came back, well, as Carolyn has been known to say, the worm was on the other foot. The IRS robots looked thoroughly disgruntled, so much so that it was hard to believe they had ever been gruntled to begin with, while Mapes had somehow reclaimed the face someone had constructed for him.

"Well, I told you," he said. "And now you can tell the rest of these ladies and gentlemen. Was there any money in that safe?"

They glared at him.

"I'll take that as a no," he said. "Insurance policies, stock certificates. A few pieces of jewelry, none of them terribly costly, and all of them purchased for my wife with after-tax dollars. That's what you found, and what I'd said you would find. But you found not a drop of this mysterious cash."

"Don't think you're getting off that easy," one of them said. "You can expect to be audited for the rest of your life."

Mapes drew himself up to his full height and glared down at them. "That's enough," he said. "You've exercised your warrant and exhausted my patience. I want you to leave."

And I guess they didn't care about the missing photos, or who killed Valdi Berzins, or any of the rest of it. If the cash was gone, so were they, and that was the last we saw of them.

By walking upstairs and coming down five minutes later and a quarter of a million dollars poorer, Mapes had suddenly blossomed as a folk hero, a little man who had taken a stand against the machine. Michael Quattrone was telling him that the Feds pulled shit like that all the time, and that he could recommend a lawyer who would run rings around them. Wally Hemphill told him there was a limit to how much they could harass a person, and they might have crossed it; he told Mapes he should talk to Quattrone's lawyer.

I wasn't much surprised that the safe in the bedroom was empty-after all, as you'll recall, I was the one who had emptied it. But what relieved me enormously was the extent to which Mapes was relieved. He was so happy to be off the federal hook that he hadn't yet had a chance to wonder where his money had gone. That meant this was the first time he'd opened the safe since my visit, and that meant the rest of the plan had a chance of working.

First, though, he tried to throw us out. "I want to thank you all," he said, "for your support just now. But I don't need to keep you any longer. I think you should go."