I started toward the tag sale grounds, but stopped as I approached the stacks of crates that were still segregated from the main area of the warehouse by waist-high, crisscrossed lines of yellow police tape. Seeing the tape reminded me that prudence is an important aspect of bravery. Since I didn’t know what was going on, it occurred to me that I ought to keep my research private.
I reentered the office, and blocking the monitor from Gretchen’s watchful eyes, I deleted the Web site URL I’d just added to my “favorite” listing. I also deleted all temporary Internet files for good measure. I hoped that the police wouldn’t impound the computer, since I suspected that an expert could easily track my Internet movements despite my attempts at subterfuge, but it was the best I could do, and I hoped that it would outwit a less experienced spy.
At the tag sale venue, I surveyed the rows of six-foot tables that stretched for just shy of a hundred and fifty feet. Every ten feet, a shorter table jutted out, forming a sea of U-shaped booths.
The weekly tag sales were my bread and butter, and it pleased me to see that the booths were well stocked. Since most items were relatively inexpensive, profitability depended on volume. I’d modified my father’s often-repeated admonition to buy cheap and sell high-I bought cheap and sold just a little higher. Tag sales were close to the bottom of the antiques-business food chain, and it was important to remember that fact when setting prices. About a month ago, I’d witnessed a middle-aged woman showing off a Sandwich glass salt cellar she’d just purchased for $21. She’d whispered to her friend, “I can’t believe the deal I just got! There must have been a mistake in the pricing.” With that one sale, a loyal customer was born.
About halfway down the back row I saw Paula Turner, a regular part-timer, carefully sorting boxes of art prints. Paula, a sophomore at the University of New Hampshire, had worked for me for two years on the tag sales. She was wearing low-cut jeans and a cropped white T-shirt that read There Are No Devils Left in Hell… They’re All in Rwanda. She was a serious young woman, earnest and hardworking. She wore no makeup; her ash blond hair hung straight to her shoulders; and she had surprisingly small feet. No way they were size nine narrow.
“Hey, Paula,” I said as I approached the table where she was working.
“Hey, Josie,” she said.
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty well.”
“Have you seen Eric around?”
“Yeah,” Paula said. She turned toward the parking lot. “There he is,” she said, pointing.
Spotting him standing just outside the wire mesh gate, smoking a cigarette, chatting to Wes Smith, I felt a flutter of anxiety. I was beginning to feel stalked.
“See you, Paula,” I said. I turned and walked at what I hoped appeared to be a casual pace.
“Hey, Eric,” I said as I approached. “Hey, Wes,” I added with a fake smile, “long time no see. Whatcha doing?”
“Eric and I were just getting acquainted,” he said.
“You got a sec, Eric?” I asked.
“Sure.” He stamped out his cigarette and picked up the extinguished butt, as promised. He could smoke on my property, I’d agreed, but only outside, and only if no trace remained.
We walked by two young women I didn’t recognize who were discussing how to position Chinese vases on a table. New temp workers.
“What did Wes want?” I asked without preamble.
He tossed his extinguished butt into a box half filled with trash. “I don’t know. He’d just introduced himself when you got there.”
I nodded. “I can’t tell you not to talk to him, or any reporter, for that matter. Do what you want. But I would ask that if you do talk to them, tell them the truth and tell me what you told them. Okay?”
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk to that guy-or any reporter.”
“Well, don’t, then.”
“It’s hard,” he said, seeming embarrassed. “I’ve seen them work. They keep asking things.”
His question made me realize how young he was, and how inexperienced. I nodded, and said, “Yeah. Persistence is part of a reporter’s job description. Say ‘No comment.’ Just repeat it over and over. Eventually they’ll go away. You don’t owe them cooperation.”
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I can do that.”
“And if you want, you can always tell them they need to talk to me.”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
“So how’s it going?” I asked, gesturing widely toward the entire area.
“Good. We still have a lot to do.”
“Okay. I’ll let you get back to it. If you want a break, there’s some pizza in Gretchen’s office.”
“In a little while, I might just.” I watched him head toward Paula.
Wes was still standing by the gate talking on his cell phone. There was a chance he could help, if he would, and if I could trust him. I stood and thought for a moment, looking for flaws in my thinking. Hell, I concluded, why not? I walked back and joined him at the fence.
He looked up as I approached, and smiled, pocketing his phone.
“I knew you’d see the light. Are you ready to talk?” he asked.
“May I ask you something?” I responded, all business.
“Sure. Shoot.”
“What does ‘off the record’ mean?”
“Why?”
I grinned. “Answering a question with a question, huh?”
He laughed, and said, “Mea culpa. ‘Off the record’ means I don’t quote you and don’t act on what you tell me until you tell me-if you ever do-that something is on the record. Why do you ask?”
“Are we off the record?”
He tilted his head to look into my eyes, squinting a little in the sun. It felt good to stand in the bright light. It was too early in the season for the sun to produce actual heat, but it created the illusion of warmth.
“Okay. I’ll bite,” he said. “Off the record.”
“I don’t know how to investigate something and I’m betting that you do. If you agree to help me-off the record-I’ll promise you an exclusive interview about the entire Grant situation after it’s all cleared up.”
“From what I hear, it’ll be cleared up with your arrest.”
I shook my head and paused, trying to judge if he was baiting me. I couldn’t tell, so I decided to play it straight. “No. I didn’t do it. But regardless, I’ll keep my word. An exclusive.”
“Who decides when it’s all cleared up?”
“We do. I’m not trying to split hairs. We’ll know when it’s cleared up.”
He thought about it for a long minute, his eyes fixed on mine. “What do you want to research?”
“Off the record?”
“You don’t have to keep asking. Everything we’re discussing is off the record until and unless you tell me otherwise, or unless I ask if something can be back on the record and you agree. Okay?”
“Promise?”
He look up, casting his eyes heavenward. “Yes. Jeez. What are you onto? Did Grant steal the Hope diamond?”
“Okay, then,” I said, ignoring his question, which, if he only knew, might be a whole lot closer to the truth than he’d believe possible. “Mr. and Mrs. Grant. I need to know everything about them. Where they were born. How they met. Schooling. Friends. Children. Everything. Starting way back when and continuing to now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have time to explain now. I will later. There’s more.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you access phone records?”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Grant’s.”
He made a whistlelike noise. “Maybe you’d better fill me in now after all.”
“Later. Can you? Do you have a contact who can get us the records?”
“Local or long distance?”
“Both.”
He didn’t answer but stayed still, looking at me, gauging I don’t know what.
“Can you do it?” I prodded.
“Maybe. I’ll try.”