One scenario, suggested by Rick but with little enthusiasm, called for the diversion of arson. Start a small fire after midnight on the ground floor of the bookstore, and as alarms wailed and security monitors erupted, enter the basement through Noelle’s side and do a smash and grab. The risks were abundant, not the least of which was the commission of several crimes. And what if Gatsby wasn’t there? What if Gatsby and friends were being hidden elsewhere, on the island or somewhere else in the country? Cable would be so unnerved he would scatter them across the globe, if he hadn’t already done so.

Elaine nixed the plan not long after Rick mentioned it. The clock was ticking but they still had time, and their girl was doing magnificent work. In less than four weeks she had endeared herself to Cable and infiltrated his circle. She had earned his trust and brought them this—forty minutes of valuable footage and hundreds of still shots. They were closing in, or at least they believed so. They would continue to be patient and wait for whatever happened next.

One significant question had been answered. They had debated why a small-town book dealer working in an old building could be such a fanatic about security. And since he was their prime suspect, everything he did was viewed with even more suspicion. The little fortress in his basement was being used to protect the ill-gotten loot of his trade, right? Not necessarily. They now knew that there was a lot of valuable stuff down there. After lunch, Mercer had reported that along with the four copies of The Catcher in the Rye and the one of A Room of One’s Own there were about fifty other books in protective clamshells lined neatly on the shelves of the safe. The vault itself held several hundred books.

Elaine had been in the business for over twenty years and was amazed at Cable’s inventory. She had dealt with the established rare book houses and knew them well. Their business was buying and selling and they used catalogs and websites and all manner of marketing to enhance their trade. Their collections were vast and well advertised. She and her team had often wondered if a small-time player like Cable could round up a million dollars for the Fitzgerald manuscripts. Now, though, that question too had been answered. He had the means.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WEEKEND GIRL

1.

The invitation was for dinner, a dry one. Dry because Andy Adam was also invited and Bruce was insisting that the night be alcohol-free. Dry also because the touring writer, one Sally Aranca, had kicked the booze a few years back and preferred not to be around the stuff.

Bruce told Mercer on the phone that Andy was about to go away for another detox and was trying desperately to stay sober until he went into lockdown. Mercer was eager to help and happily agreed to the rules.

At the signing, Ms. Aranca charmed her audience of about fifty as she discussed her work and read a brief scene from her latest novel. She was making a name for herself in crime fiction with a series based on a female private investigator in San Francisco, her home. Mercer had skimmed the book during the afternoon, and as she watched and listened to Sally perform she realized that her protagonist was much like Sally herself: early forties, recovering alcoholic, divorced with no kids, quick and witty, savvy and tough, and, of course, quite attractive. She published once a year and toured extensively, always stopping at Bay Books and usually when Noelle was out of town.