“We need a set of eyes inside the store, specifically inside his First Editions Room. Once you get to know him and start hanging around the store, buying books, showing up at author events, and so on, you will gradually develop a curiosity about his rare stuff. You’ll have some old books that Tessa left behind and these will be your entrée. How much are they worth? Does he want to buy them? We have no idea where these conversations might go, but at least we’ll have someone on the inside, someone he does not suspect. At some point, you’ll hear something. Who knows what, when, and where. The Fitzgerald heist might be dinner conversation. As I said, he drinks a lot and alcohol causes loose lips. Things slip out.”

“It’s hard to believe he’d let that slip.”

“True, but the slip might come from someone else. What’s crucial now is to have eyes and ears on the inside.”

They stopped at the South Pier and turned around and headed north. Elaine said, “Follow me,” and they walked to a boardwalk. She opened the gate and they climbed the steps to a small landing. She pointed to a two-story triplex at the far end and said, “The one on the right belongs to us, for now anyway. That’s where I’m staying. In a couple of days someone else will be there. I’ll text you their number.”

“Will I be watched?”

“No. You’re on your own, but you’ll always have a friend just in case. And I’d like an e-mail every night, regardless of what’s going on. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’m leaving now.” She held out her right hand and Mercer shook it. “Good luck, Mercer, and try to think of this as a vacation at the beach. Once you get to know Cable and Noelle, you might actually enjoy them and have some fun.”

Mercer shrugged and said, “We’ll see.”

10.

The Dumbarton Gallery was a block off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. It was a small gallery on the ground floor of an old redbrick town house, one in need of a good paint job and perhaps a new roof. Despite the heavy foot traffic only a block away, the gallery was usually deserted, its walls practically bare. It specialized in minimalist modern stuff that, evidently, wasn’t too popular, at least not in Georgetown. Its owner didn’t really care. His name was Joel Ribikoff, fifty-two years old and a convicted felon, busted twice for dealing in stolen valuables.

His art gallery on the first floor was a front, a ruse designed to convince anyone who might be watching, and after two convictions and eight years in the slammer Joel believed that someone was always watching, that he had gone straight and was now just another struggling gallery owner in Washington. He played the game, had some shows, knew a few artists and even fewer clients, and halfheartedly maintained a website, again for the benefit of watchful eyes.

He lived on the third floor of the town house. On the second he had his office where he tended to his serious business, that of brokering deals for stolen paintings, prints, photographs, books, manuscripts, maps, sculpture, and even forged letters allegedly written by famous dead people. Even with the horrors of two convictions and life in prison, Joel Ribikoff simply could not stick to the rules. For him, living in the underworld was far more exciting, and profitable, than minding a small gallery and pushing art few people wanted. He loved the thrill of connecting thieves to their victims, or thieves to intermediaries, and structuring deals that involved multiple layers and parties with the valuables moving in the dark as money was wired to offshore accounts. He rarely took possession of the loot, but preferred to be the savvy middleman who kept his hands clean.