Al Spears was not happy to see us again and his face showed it, but our faces showed him that we were not happy with his bullshit story of a few hours earlier. That had told us nothing and sent us on our way knowing less than when we‘d first gotten there.
“Murder’s a serious charge, Mr. Spears,” I told him flatly, laying it out. “Your story doesn’t add up. Care to explain it?”
“Explain what?” he stammered, growing concerned now.
“You told us Andy Johns stole Brian’s best clients—Johns told us Brian stole his clients. Now which is it?”
Spears laughed mildly, the tension melting off his face. “Oh, that’s all you wanted to know? Look, detectives, everyone steals clients and contacts from each other in this business. We all buy and sell, and then resell, to each other all the time. This field is more incestuous than a hillbilly whorehouse.”
Grant shook his head in annoyance. I could see that he didn’t buy Spears explanation, but I was a collector and I knew collectors. What he said seemed valid to me. However, I had something else on my mind that I wanted to put to Spears but Grant spoke up before I could get it out.
“What about that Value Book?” Grant asked sharply, looking at Spears intently, daring him to lie. “You knew about that?”
“I never saw it, but I assume Brian had some type of book to keep records. We all do. I mean, we all have something; a book, a printout or a database on a computer, something to keep records of our stock and prices. Brian didn’t use a computer, so he didn’t even have a printout, so he had to have some kind of hand-written record book, but like I say, I never saw it,” he said simply.
I nodded, that seemed to fit. Even Grant seemed to acknowledge what Spears said, though reluctantly.
Now to the real reason we’d come back here to see Spears. I said, “Tell us, who gets McDonald’s books now? He’s dead, so who inherits them? You, or the widow?”
Spears looked mildly surprised by my question, “Why, the widow, she gets them all, of course. What would ever make you think otherwise?”
“Are you sure?” Grant asked acidly, suspicious as ever. “Maybe you and McDonald had some kind of secret business agreement or hidden contract, some letter of understanding? Maybe there is something in his will? Tell me now. We will check this out, Spears, and if you‘re lying to us....”
“Being honest with us now,” I added, “will go a long way to keeping you off the suspect list. It’s a list you do not want to be on, let me tell you. You can’t sell books from prison.”
Spears looked at me seriously. Shocked. He brushed away Edgar Allan Poe. The cat meowed and ran out of the room as if highly insulted.
“They won’t even let you have any books in prison. Well, maybe one or two paperbacks, but not a fine collection like this—and no cats either,” I added, sealing the deal.
Spears gulped nervously at that last remark, which really seemed to get his attention. “No, I’m telling you, Milly gets it all, I am sure. That’s why Brian and I had our books separate in our homes, instead of in one central location. That way no wife, no family, would get all our stock in the event of a death or the break-up of our business.”
“We’ll check that, Spears, so you better be telling us the truth,” Grant growled, giving the man a touch of his bad-cop routine, though he seemed mollified for now. He was probably already figuring another angle on the murder and making the wife for the killer.
“Detective, I am telling you the truth. I swear.”
I looked over at Spears: he was relaxing, he was calming down.
Now I was ready to get to the real reason for my visit and why I wanted to talk to him again.
“Where did Brian get all those quality, high-end books he sold for such big money?” I asked Spears.
“I don’t know. I assume he bought them on the market, like we all do. From other collectors, estate sales. Also probably from the Internet,” he said simply, but I could see he was uncomfortable talking about this and it was obvious he was hiding something.
“Really? You and Brian weren’t involved in any crooked dealings, selling stolen high-end books, maybe stolen from college or university libraries?” I asked more forcefully.
I could see Spears become uncomfortable, growing nervous.
“He’s holding back,” Grant said with a snarl. He could smell deception, even through the cat odor that permeated the house.
“Mr. Hollow….”
“Detective Hollow,” I corrected sharply.
“Detective Hollow,” Spears said nervously, careful now. “Do not link me with anything Brian may have done. Please. I did not know Brian’s intimate business, just some snippets of what he told me; the usual woman trouble with his wife, things like that, some rumors in the trade about other dealers or collectors. But you are right, he did seem to come across an unusual amount of quality books and ephemera that he sold for big money. It was really quite amazing. I have to admit I was jealous about his sources. They were good. Almost too good.”
“He ever tell you where he got any of these books?” I continued.
“No, and that in and of itself doesn’t mean much. All dealers guard their sources and contacts most jealously. They do not divulge them, especially not to another dealer. A competitor. Sources and contacts are the lifeblood of our business and of our success.”
I nodded, being a collector myself, I knew what Spears was saying was true. The collectible glassware field, especially with Depression Glass was very competitive and sources and contacts were guarded like gold.
“Okay, I’ll buy that now—up to a point,” I prompted, because I could see there was something on Spear’s mind. Something just wasn’t sitting well with him. “I see you’re holding back. What is it?”
“I don’t know, Detective Hollow,” Spears said carefully, “I don’t know. There’s something that I always wondered about regarding Brian’s business. Brian came across some incredible items—truly amazing—books and ephemera that are hardly ever seen on the open market these days. It was not anything that would draw attention from the news media, he wasn’t selling the Madrid Codex or Guttenberg Bibles wholesale, nothing like that, just items that you saw once every ten or twenty years. And there was just too much of it. I mean, it was like he had a secret vault somewhere or a time machine where he was able to get the stuff, or maybe he was buying it…on the Black Market.”
“A Black Market in books?” Grant asked surprised. He gave me a look like now he’d heard it all.
“A Black Market in rare books, yes…and in famous author letters, manuscripts, and other valuable ephemera, most definitely.” Spears explained simply. “Then there are illuminated manuscripts, rare Dark Age volumes hand copied by Irish monks in the twelfth century, papyrus scrolls—not the Dead Sea Scrolls, mind, but almost as old—ancient Roman and Greek texts…. You get it? Anyway, Brian seemed to find it all and sold it all. I believe his biggest buyers were not the type of collectors I and most of my brethren sell to at all. Brian sold to large institutional collections, mostly university and college libraries, museums and the like. Some rich foreign collectors, too.”
I looked at Spears and smiled, asking incredulously, “Are you telling me that the same institutions and libraries Brian sold to—were the same ones he was stealing from?”
Spears gulped nervously, grinned sheepishly, “I never thought of it that way. I don’t really know. It could be possible. Many of these large institutions have no idea of their holdings—other than the one or two privileged authors or popular collections they hold close and dear. Everything else is usually stored in cardboard boxes piled off in some corner of some basement building never even having been opened and examined since it was first given to the library. No one knows. No one cares. I hesitate to say this, but in some cases Brian might have even been doing the world a favor by making this material available to collectors again—to those who truly cherish these items. Rather than have them lay in a box in a room for years, or decades, in some cold, moldy basement, slowly being damaged by insects—or worse, destroyed by a fire or flood and lost to us forever. It happens, detectives, it happens all too often. I’m not approving of this, like I say, but I understand it. Regardless, I have no real evidence of just what Brian was up to, only a gut feeling that I did not want to think about. It is as simple as this. Something was not right in the way Brian was selling books.”
I digested all this before I spoke, looked over at Grant, who just looked bored. Well, there’d be no help from him.
“Would Brian’s lost Value Book have all this data in it? Including where he got the book originally and the cost?” I asked Spears.
“It may, it should, it could. Like I say, I’ve never seen this book, but perhaps,” Spears replied.
I looked at Grant and he shrugged, “Coulda, woulda, shoulda…,” was all he said.
“Am I a suspect, detective?” Spears asked me cautiously. Gone now was the frivolity of hours before exhibited by him upon our first visit. Now at the thought of being charged with his partner’s murder Spears was seriously concerned. Even afraid.
I wasn’t buying Spears as our killer, but I knew Grant had a hard-on for the fellow. Then there was also the wife. I guess Grant was putting two and two together and coming up with five, or seven, or whatever as usual, and figuring out which one of them would fit best to close the case. He never asked me nor cared what I thought, he just wanted the case closed so it would all go away.
“If you were being charged, Spears, we’d cuff you and bring your ass in right now,” Grant said with a twisted grimace. “What we want is information on the killer.”
“I want to know about how and where McDonald got those books. Who was he partnered with?” I asked Spears, who looked at me with alarm since he was McDonald’s partner and thought he would somehow be implicated in something nefarious. “I mean, who was he partnered with in these book thefts? Who was stealing the books for him?”
Spears though about that for a moment and eventually shook his head in consternation. “There’s not many book people—dealers or collectors—who would ever consider such a thing. In the book world, it’s looked upon as…a kind of….”
“Blasphemy?” I supplied the term Spears had been looking for, which I remembered Andy Johns using with us earlier.
“Yes, correct…it is book blasphemy…it is blasphemy against books, against knowledge, which is what we all prize most,” Spears said dead serious now.
Grant laughed at that, insultingly nasty.
Spears just sighed, adding, “I admit there is the odd crook here and there when it comes to stretching the rules of selling, or taking advantage of a client, but out and out burglary? And of a library?”—he said the word ‘library’ like it was absolutely sacred.—“No, detective, I know of no one, nor could I think of anyone, who would ever do such a thing.”
“Yeah, well, what about that collector freak, Alfred Smith, that we heard about?” Grant asked quickly. “He seems like a greedy fuck?”
Spears gave us a mild laugh, “Alfred is a dear friend, but a murderer? Never! However, you are right about him being a greedy fuck, he’s greedy for books, or at least greedy for the books he wants. But he would never do anything to put his collection in jeopardy, or do anything that might separate him from it. Like something that could get him jail time. You have to understand him, like I do. He loves his books—better than he does people. Yes, he would buy a stolen item—no one ever asks any questions about that, and I’m sure he has some stolen items in his collection—either known or unknown. But would he go into a university library, pretend to be doing specialized research, sign in under his own ID—or even worse, a fake ID—to access a special collection with the thought of theft? Never. Would he kill Brian McDonald? Impossible!”
I sighed, Grant just hit his fist upon the table. I knew he felt like his best bet had just busted out. I looked at Grant and he had a blank look on his face. This was getting to him. Well, screw him, I thought.
“I’ve had enough of books and book people,” Grant growled finally, ending his sentence with a curse, which could have been at Spears, or me, or books in general. I figured it was at me, because he was looking at me when he said it. “So what now, Hollow?”
I shrugged. What now, indeed.
I looked back to Spears. “Look, if Brian was stealing rare books and other stuff from university libraries and special collections, it would have to be through someone who knew rare books. Someone who knew what to look for, what to take, right?”
“Of course,” he said simply, but then he explained, “Your average criminal, any B&E guy, even a top cat burglar—remember I specialize in selling crime fiction and true crime—would never even consider mere ‘books.’ They want money, or gold coins or jewelry, stuff they can turn into cash right away. Certainly not books! No, if Brian was stealing books for resale, he was doing it all by himself. Remember, these are prized books in special collections, locked cases, locked rooms even, and you have to sign-in to view them and handle them. You must show identification and have legitimate credentials as a scholar, journalist or collector doing serious research.”
I nodded, Spears had a point. It wasn’t any conspiracy or gang of book thieves. Brian McDonald was doing the thefts all by himself and it should be easy enough to find out for sure how he did it. On our way out I told Spears to make a list of places for us to contact. I told him I’d call him first thing tomorrow morning for the list.
* * * * * * *
When we left Spears’ residence I told Charlie Grant my plan. He wasn’t happy about it. It would mean a lot of phone work tomorrow morning, which he hated, but he admitted he didn’t have any better ideas and that it might yield some results.
“Look, today’s shot. Early tomorrow I’ll call Spears and get that list from him of ten local libraries that have the kind of stuff McDonald was selling. Then we’ll check their records to see if McDonald had ever signed-in to access any of their collections. Then we’ll have him!”
Grant looked at me with a scrunched up face. “Look, Hollow, I’ll go along with this but I can’t see how it gets us any closer to finding McDonald’s murderer. So he was stealing rare books? So what?”
“Maybe someone found out about it?” I proposed, trying to whet his interest.
Grant just looked at me and laughed. He laughed at me and maybe he was right. It was a long shot. It wasn’t like Brian McDonald had a partner doing the stealing with him—or for him. And I didn’t buy the notion that Spears was involved. Even Grant seemed to have dropped that idea now and seemed to be concentrating on the wife, Milly.
“So where does that leave us?” I asked him.
“In the shit,” Grant shot back quickly.
I nodded. “I’ll see you in the squad room tomorrow morning.”
“Whatever.”