Tessa had loved the Ritz bar. Two or three times each summer she and Mercer dressed in their finest and drove to the Ritz, first for drinks and then dinner at the hotel’s noted restaurant. Tessa always started with a martini, just one, and until she was fifteen, Mercer ordered a diet soda. When she was fifteen, though, she arrived for the summer with a fake ID and they had martinis together.

By chance, Elaine was sitting at their favorite table, and as Mercer sat down she was hit hard with the memories of her grandmother. Nothing had changed. A guy at the piano was singing softly in the background.

“I got in this afternoon and thought you might enjoy a fine dinner,” Elaine said.

“I’ve been here many times,” Mercer said, looking around, soaking in the same smells of salt air and oak paneling. “My grandmother adored this place. It’s not for those on a tight budget, but she splurged occasionally.”

“So Tessa didn’t have money?”

“No. She was comfortable, but she was also frugal. Let’s talk about something else.”

A waiter stopped by and they ordered drinks.

Elaine said, “I’d say you’ve had a pretty good week.”

Their routine included the nightly e-mail as Mercer recapped things that might be relevant to their search. “I’m not sure I know much more than I did when I got here, but I have made contact with the enemy.”

“And?”

“And he’s as charming as advertised, very likeable. He stores the good stuff in the basement but did not mention a vault. I get the impression there’s quite an inventory down there. His wife is in town and he’s done nothing to indicate he has any interest in me, other than his usual attraction to writers.”

“You have to tell me about the dinner party with Myra and Leigh.”

Mercer smiled and said, “I wish there had been a hidden camera.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE FACILITATOR

1.

For over sixty years, the Old Boston Bookshop had occupied the same row house on West Street in the Ladder Blocks section of downtown. It was founded by Loyd Stein, a noted antiquarian dealer, and when he died in 1990 his son Oscar took over. Oscar grew up in the store and loved the business, though with time had grown weary of the trade. With the Internet, and with the general decline in all things related to books, he had found it more and more difficult to make a decent profit. His father had been content to peddle used books and hope for the occasional big score with a rare one, but Oscar was losing patience. At the age of fifty-eight, he was quietly looking for a way out.

At 4:00 on a Thursday afternoon, Denny entered the store for the third consecutive day and browsed nonchalantly through the racks and piles of used books. When the clerk, an elderly lady who had been there for decades, left the front and went upstairs, Denny selected an old paperback copy of The Great Gatsby and took it to the register. Oscar smiled and asked, “Find what you’re looking for?”