“It’s part of the training.”

“I think you live closer to the edge than you let on.”

He gave me an innocent smile before pulling the restaurant door open and pushing me inside.

“I need a drink,” I said, breaking away from him.

“Fat chance of finding alcohol in a vegetarian restaurant,” he complained.

“Hey, vegetarians drink wine,” I insisted, taking off my jacket as we passed through the foyer. “It’s like the staff of life or something.”

“Isn’t that bread?”

“Whatever.”

Despite the sunny day outside, the restaurant was as dark as a cave, its walls and ceiling lined in thick redwood panels. The darkness suited my mood.

“Ah, delightful,” he said, and led me to the fully stocked bar that ran the length of the room on the far side. We grabbed two stools and sat, the only two customers in the bar.

I studied the wine list and finally decided on a glass of the 2004 Concannon Petite Syrah. Derek ordered a very dry Belvedere martini with a lemon twist, shaken, not stirred. Why was I not surprised?

We didn’t speak until our drinks were served. As soon as the bartender walked away, I turned to Derek. “Maybe Minka already called the police. Don’t you think we should lie low for a while?”

“Lie low?” he said with a smirk. “Now who’s living on the edge?”

“It was just a thought.”

Derek took one sip of his martini, then said, “From everything I’ve heard about this Minka, we oughtn’t depend on her to do the right thing.”

“Good point.”

He pushed his barstool away and stood. “I’ll go make the call.”

I grabbed his arm. “No, I’ll make the call.”

“It’s no problem.” He tapped his head. “I know the number. Nine-one-one. See?”

“Very funny,” I said. “Don’t you think it should be an anonymous phone call?”

“It will be.”

“Not if you make it,” I said. “When Inspector Jaglow plays the dispatcher’s tape back and hears a distinguished British accent, he’ll know it’s you.”

Derek smiled crookedly and patted his chest. “I’m touched you think I’m distinguished.”

“I didn’t say you were… Oh, never mind.”

“I won’t be long.” He started to walk away.

“You stay right here.” I jumped off my stool. “All you need to do is open your mouth and they’ll know it’s you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of disguising my voice,” he said imperiously.

“Right, Double-O.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Shaken, not stirred. Give me a break.”

He pulled me back. “All right, listen. I’m not calling anonymously. I’m telling Jaglow I overheard your conversation with Baldacchio and went to see him before you got there. I found the body.”

“Oh.” That made sense. “But what about me?”

“What about you?”

“Are you going to tell him I was there?”

He pierced me with a look. “Are you going to do everything I tell you to do from now on?”

“Probably not.”

His lips twisted. “Then I’ll have to think about it.”

“That’s blackmail.”

He grinned. “Such an ugly word, but yes.”

“All right, all right. Just go.” As I watched him walk away, I realized I didn’t care whether the police knew I’d been there. The most important thing right now was that they took care of Enrico and tracked down Abraham’s killer.

As soon as Derek came back, he said, “It’s best if you go back to work this afternoon.”

I took a hearty gulp of wine. “As though nothing happened?”

“Exactly,” he said as he paid the bill.

“I’m not sure I can lie about this.”

“I’m well aware of your status as the world’s worst liar,” he said. “And I know you had nothing to do with his death. But if the police find your fingerprints, it could make things difficult. Are you prepared to deal with it?”

As I pushed the barstool back I thought about it. “I know I’m innocent so I’ll deal with it. I just want the police to find this killer before he strikes again.”

I made it back to the Covington in less than twenty minutes. Ian was nowhere to be found and I was just as happy not to have to confront him this afternoon. I’d give him a day to calm down. Not to mention I could use a day to calm down, myself. Of course, there was a strong chance Ian would grow more frantic once he realized the police would be going through Enrico’s house looking for clues-like a five-thousand-dollar check with Ian’s name on it, for example-with a magnifying glass and tweezers.

I left him a voice mail message, telling him I had some good news for him. I didn’t mention the check, but I hoped my exuberant tone would keep him from jumping off a ledge somewhere.

I tried to carry on my normal activities, but it wasn’t easy. People were dying around me. Two of the City’s most prominent bookbinders had been brutally murdered. I’d seen their dead bodies with my own eyes. I hadn’t been close to Enrico, hadn’t even liked him. But I’d known him. I’d seen him curled up on his antique rug, shot through the head by some insane killer. I couldn’t get the sight out of my head.

“Enough!” I protested aloud. I pushed away from the table. I needed to move around, shake myself up, do something to distract myself from the pictures of blood and dead bodies that kept playing over and over in my brain like some broken movie reel.

I stretched my arms and rotated my wrists and did a few jumping jacks and deep knee bends-which really hurt so I only did two.

I pushed my hair back into a ponytail and sat down again. I didn’t have time for any more distractions. I had to finish this book, and this last process of repairing the tears I’d found would be time-consuming and problematic.

It wasn’t the repair itself, which involved ripping a small piece of thin, fibrous Japanese tissue paper and gluing it over the tear. The problem came when you introduced moisture, in the form of glue, to paper. If your timing was off or you used too much glue or you didn’t dry the page properly, your page could ripple and buck.

To dry each page flat, I’d place it between two pieces of glass with a sheet of blotter paper to soak up any excess moisture.

I could use the drying time to clean and polish the rubies from the front cover.

Ian wanted the book finished in time for the official public opening of the exhibition this Saturday. I knew I could make it-if good-looking security experts and various dead bodies would stop interrupting me.

I’d just stirred up my first batch of wheat paste glue and was about to apply it to the repair tissue when I heard the sound of high heels tapping madly down the hall.

My door swung open and Minka pointed at me.

“Killer!” she screamed. “Murderer! She killed him! I saw her car at Enrico’s house. Arrest her.”

I was relieved to see Inspector Lee step closer to Minka and clutch her upper arm. “Ms. La Beef, keep it down.”

“Check her hands for gunshot residue,” Minka added shrilly as she yanked her arm away. “Do your damn job right so she won’t kill somebody else!”

“Now, look, Ms.-”

“And for the last time, my name is LaBoeuf, not La Beef!”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Minka charged in, Inspector Lee hot on her heels. I stood and braced myself for whatever else she was about to spew, but nothing could’ve prepared me for her vicious slap across my face.

“Ohhhh.” I fell back against the counter from the force of the blow.

“Wait a damn second!” Inspector Lee grabbed Minka from behind.

I leaned one elbow heavily on the counter, clutching my jaw, breathing deeply, staring sideways at the two of them as they grappled for power.

Had I thought the presence of a cop would keep Minka in line? Big mistake.

I looked beyond Minka at Inspector Lee. I could tell she’d been taken aback as well, but she still managed to subdue her. Physically, anyway.

“Killer!” Minka shrieked again.

“Shut up,” Lee shouted, then looked intently at me.