“Maybe later,” Mercer managed to say casually. In fact, she was wonderfully indifferent. “Any idea what these two might be worth, you know, just ballpark figures?”

“Sure,” he said quickly, as if anticipating the question. He swung around to a desktop computer, hit a few keys, and studied the screen. “I bought the first copy of The Convict in 1998 for twenty-five hundred bucks, so it’s probably more than doubled in value. It all depends on the condition, which of course I won’t know until I actually take a look. I bought another copy in 2003 for thirty-five hundred.” He continued scrolling. Mercer couldn’t see the screen but it appeared to be loaded with an extensive collection. “I have one copy of Blood Meridian, bought it from a dealer pal in San Francisco about ten years ago. Nine to be exact, paid, let’s see, two thousand for it but it had a slight chip on the jacket and some aging. Not in great shape.”

Well, just buy a forged jacket, Mercer thought, now that she knew so much about the business. Instead, she managed to seem pleasantly surprised. “Are you serious? They’re that valuable?”

“Don’t doubt me, Mercer, this is my favorite part of the business. I make more money trading rare books than selling new ones. Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but I love this stuff. If you’d like to sell the books I’ll be happy to help.”

“They have the library’s bar codes on the dust jacket. Wouldn’t that hurt their value?”

“Not really. They can be removed and I know every restorer in the business.”

And probably every forger. “How would I show them to you?” she asked.

“Put ’em in a bag and bring ’em in.” He paused and swiveled back to face her. “Or better yet, I’ll stop by the cottage. I’d like to see the place. I’ve driven by it for years and always thought it was one of the prettiest on the beach.”

“I really don’t want to haul them around.”

9.

The afternoon dragged on, and at one point Mercer could not resist the temptation to call Elaine for an update. Their plan was progressing faster than they had imagined, and now Bruce was ready to pounce on the books. The fact that he was stopping by the cottage was almost too good to be true, at least for Elaine.

“Where’s Noelle?” she asked.

“Gone to France, I guess. Her store is closed indefinitely while she’s off shopping.”

“Perfect,” Elaine said. She knew that the day before Noelle had flown from Jacksonville to Atlanta, where she boarded an Air France flight at 6:10 p.m. for a nonstop to Paris. She had arrived at Orly at 7:20, on schedule, and caught a 10:40 a.m. flight to Avignon. Their man on the ground there followed her to her apartment on Rue d’Alger in the old section of the city.

When Bruce arrived at the cottage a few minutes after six, Noelle was having a late dinner with a handsome French gentleman at La Fourchette, a famous little restaurant on Rue Racine.