Bruce laughed at the question. “Of course not. This is my world, Mercer, and I’ve been playing this game for twenty years. These books disappeared decades ago and no one will suspect anything. I’ll place them privately with my clients and everyone will be happy.”

“There are no records?”

“Where? Who could keep up with all the first editions in the country? Books don’t leave trails, Mercer. A lot of them are passed down like jewelry—not always accounted for, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Outside of probate.”

“Oh, I get it. Are they ever stolen and resold?”

“It happens. I’ll turn down a book if its provenance is too shaky, but it’s impossible to look at a book and say it’s stolen. Take The Convict. Its first printing was small. Over time most have disappeared, and as this happens the remaining ones, those in fine condition, become more valuable. But that’s still a lot of copies out there in the market and they’re identical, or at least they were when they came off the press. Many are passed from one collector to the next. I suppose a few get stolen.”

“Can I be downright nosy and ask what’s your most valuable first edition?”

Bruce smiled and paused for a second. “You’re not being nosy, but let’s be discreet. A few years ago I bought a pristine copy of The Catcher in the Rye for fifty thousand. Salinger rarely autographed his masterpiece, but he gave this one to his editor, who kept it in his family for years, virtually untouched. Perfect condition.”

“How’d you find it? I’m sorry, but this is fascinating.”

“For years there were rumors about the book, rumors probably stoked by the editor’s family, who smelled a big score. I tracked down a nephew, flew to Cleveland, stalked the guy, and pestered him until he sold me the book. It was never on the market, and as far as I know, no one knows I have it.”

“And what will you do with it?”

“Nothing. Just own it.”

“Who’s seen it?”

“Noelle, a couple of friends. I’ll be happy to show it to you, along with the rest of the collection.”

“I’d like that. Back to business. Let’s talk about Cormac.”

Bruce smiled and picked up Blood Meridian. “Do you read him?”

“I’ve tried. He’s too violent.”

“I find it somewhat unusual that a person like Tessa would be a fan of Cormac McCarthy.”

“She read all the time, as long as the books came from the library.”

He examined the dust jacket and said, “A couple of chips here on the spine, probably due to aging, with a bit of fading. Overall, the jacket is in good condition.” He opened the book, examined the endpapers, turned to the half-title page and the copyright page, and read it carefully. He turned more pages, almost slowly enough to read the text. Softly, he said, as he flipped through, “I love this book. It’s McCarthy’s fifth one and his first novel set in the West.”