When all forty-eight were stacked on the table, the safe was empty, but for the two MacDonald manuscripts in the top drawer. Bradshaw stepped closer to the safe, as if looking for secret compartments, but it was obvious there was no room for one. He scratched his jaw and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

Vanno asked, “What about these?” and waved at the bookshelves against the walls.

Bruce said, “They’re rare first editions, books published a long time ago. It’s a collection I’ve spent twenty years putting together. Again, they’re novels, not manuscripts. I suppose you want to see them too.”

“Oh why not?” Vanno said.

Bruce pulled out keys and unlocked the bookshelves. The agents spread out and began lifting the glass doors to the shelves, inspecting the rows of books, finding nothing even remotely resembling a bulky manuscript. Bruce watched them carefully, eager to step in if a book were removed. But they were careful, and very professional, and after an hour in the vault the search was over and had yielded nothing. Every inch of it had been examined. As they filed out, Bruce pulled the door shut but didn’t lock it.

Bradshaw looked around the basement and took in the shelves stuffed with old books, magazines, galleys, and advance reading copies. “Mind if we take a look?” he asked in one last, desperate attempt to find something.

Bruce said, “Well, according to the warrant, the search is limited to the vault, but what the hell. Have a look. You’re not going to find anything.”

“So you consent.”

“Sure. Why not? Let’s waste some more time.”

They fanned out through the junk room, and peeked and poked for half an hour, as if trying to delay the inevitable. Admitting defeat was unthinkable, but they finally gave up. Bruce followed them up the stairs and to the front door. Bradshaw offered a hand and said, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Bruce shook hands and asked, “So, is this it for me, or am I still a suspect?”

Bradshaw pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Bruce. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and answer that question.”

“Great. Better still, I’ll get my lawyer to call you.”

“Do that.”

When they were gone, Bruce turned and noticed two clerks behind the front counter, staring.

“DEA,” he said. “Looking for a meth lab. Now get back to work.”

3.

The oldest bar on the island was the Pirate’s Saloon, three blocks east of the bookstore. After dark, Bruce met his lawyer, Mike Wood, there for a drink. They huddled in a corner, and over bourbon Bruce described the search. Mike was too experienced to inquire as to whether Bruce knew anything about the stolen manuscripts.

Bruce asked, “Is it possible to find out if I’m still their target?”

“Maybe. I’ll call the guy tomorrow, but I assume the answer is yes.”

“I’d like to know if I’m going to be followed for the next six months. Look, Mike, I’m going to the South of France next week to hang out with Noelle. If these guys are going to track me all over the place, I’d like to know it. Hell, I’ll give them my flight numbers and call them when I get home. I have nothing to hide.”