“Smart friends.”

“Doris Bondurant and her husband.”

I smiled. “I love her.”

“Yeah, she’s great.”

My stomach growled again. “I’m starving. Do you want to talk while we walk to the Rose Room?”

“Sure.”

I ignored his amused look, grabbed my purse and walked out, locking the door behind us. Outside the main library entrance, we made a right turn and followed the wide path around the building, then wound our way through the camellia garden to the small Victorian building that housed the Covington’s elegant Rose Room, named for the famous terraced rose garden it overlooked.

I turned and stared at the view from here at the top of Pacific Heights. The wind was brisk and the sky was a shade of blue no paint could replicate. From here, we could turn in three directions and see most of the City and the bay. It was spectacular. For a moment I felt at peace. This was the best place in the world to be.

“I’m buying,” Ian said, snapping me back to reality as he held the door open.

I looked at him. “I’m just going to grab a sandwich.”

“No, let’s sit and talk.”

I checked my watch again. Almost noon. I had plenty of time, but sitting around doing nothing was the last thing I wanted to do. Still, he was the boss and there was eating involved, after all.

It was early so we got a table by the window overlooking the sea of colorful roses spread across several acres. A swath of coral, ribbons of white, rows and rows of perfect pink, glorious deep reds.

A waitress arrived with a pot of tea, took our orders and left. Ian poured tea for both of us.

“So the Winslows brought their collection here,” I said as I reached for my cup. “Why didn’t you bring Enrico along to finish the restoration work?”

“Are you kidding?” Ian said in a furious whisper. “The man is a hack. The last time he worked here, he took a priceless Shakespeare quarto and turned it into rags.”

“Why am I just hearing this? He’s supposed to be a genius.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t Abraham tell you stories?”

“Well, yeah. But I figured it was because they were rivals.”

“But once Abraham came to the Covington, he heard the full story. He still didn’t tell you anything?”

I squirmed. “We, you know, hadn’t talked in a while. I’d just moved to the loft, and business was booming. Then I flew to Paris for a week before starting the class at L’Institut in Lyon. I hadn’t seen him in six months.”

He nodded in understanding. “He was a difficult man.”

I wrapped my hands around my cup for warmth. “So I guess Enrico didn’t take it well when they took their collection away from him.”

“He was enraged. He warned the Winslows they’d lose money on the deal.”

I laughed. “Well, duh. They were donating their entire collection, right? Not much money in that. Unless you purchased it. Did you?”

“We weren’t in a position to purchase the collection,” he said discreetly. “But we might if it does well.”

Translation: if it brought in crowds. And it might, if they twisted the advertising toward the lurid. Focus on the Faust curse, the Hitler connection and all that good stuff.

“Okay, so Enrico’s right,” I said. “They won’t be cashing in on eBay.”

“Which was exactly what Enrico had in mind.”

“You’re kidding me. EBay?”

He shrugged. “A lot of dealers work through eBay.”

“I know, but a collection like theirs? They could’ve found a reputable dealer to work with.”

“Enrico assured them he could handle the whole business.”

“And they bought it.” I shook my head. “He probably used his cheesy Italian accent on them.”

Ian absentmindedly stirred his tea. “People don’t understand the book world.”

“Conrad Winslow did admit he was pretty clueless when it came to books.”

Ian just shook his head.

“I thought he was nice,” I said.

“Right.”

I laughed. “Ian, tell all.”

He grimaced. “He’s always bugging me about money. He wants to sell the collection and I don’t know what to tell him. Of course I know dealers, but I want to show the books here. And it’s important to keep the collection together. The show hasn’t even opened yet, but if I have to put up with his threats much longer…” He didn’t finish, just shook his head.

“It’s not like the Winslows need the money.”

“No, they don’t,” Ian said, staring into his teacup.

“But he’s got a bug up his butt about making money all the time. He doesn’t get the whole nonprofit thing.”

“Who does?”

He chuckled. “Isn’t that the truth.”

“Maybe you should start dealing with Sylvia,” I suggested. “She seems to be the more savvy of the two.”

He nodded. “Not a bad idea. But he’s the one who comes around.”

The waitress arranged our plates in front of us, checked the pot of tea, then left us. I’d ordered the curry chicken sandwich and they served it cut in four triangles around a delicate baby lettuce salad. I scooped up a triangle and devoured it.

After a few bites, I slowed down. “So essentially, your only beef with Enrico is over the quality of his work?”

“No.” Ian took a sip of tea before continuing. “I’ve heard from a few dealers about some deals they’ve come across recently on the Internet, for finely bound rare German books.”

I bit into another triangle and chewed as Ian spoke.

“One of the books is an extremely rare Rilke first edition, autographed. His Duino Elegies, I believe. The dealer paid an outrageous sum of money and when he received it, he found an ex libris with the Winslow insignia on the inside cover.”

An ex libris is an ornate label pasted inside the front cover of a book with the owner’s name or family crest.

“That was silly,” I said. “Why didn’t he remove the bookplate? He’s just asking to get caught.”

“To remove it would’ve devalued the book.”

“Maybe,” I allowed, but knew I could’ve finessed the label off without ruining the endpaper. “Maybe he just doesn’t care.”

“He certainly doesn’t worry about getting caught. I suppose he’s got a fake company name with a P.O. box, the whole deal. So far, six rare books have been traced back to the collection.”

I tried to do the math. “So we’re talking ten, twenty thousand dollars?”

“Try two hundred thousand,” he said, looking at me with pity. So I didn’t excel in math. Or market economics.

“Do the Winslows know?”

“I had to tell them.”

“Yikes. What did they do?”

“Meredith wanted to take out a contract on him, but Sylvia calmed her down by suggesting the police run a sting operation. I think that’s what the authorities have in mind.”

I took a bite of salad. “I’m sure Enrico figured nobody would miss a dozen or so books out of hundreds in the collection.”

“I’m sure,” Ian agreed. “But the world of rare books is small. He’ll get caught eventually.”

“Minka told me Enrico was working with a new collector now. She wouldn’t tell me the guy’s name but said he made them sign a confidentiality agreement. I wonder if-”

“Wait. Minka’s working with Enrico?”

“Apparently, but-”

“That’s a pile of crap. What does he need an assistant for?”

“I’ve never seen you so fired up,” I said. “He must’ve really burned your butt.”

“You have no idea.” He finished off his last triangle and wiped his hands on his linen napkin.

“But listen,” I said. “Maybe this confidentiality agreement guy is part of the government sting you’re talking about.”

“I can only hope,” he said. “But that’s another reason why I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep my distance.”

Starting sometime after two o’clock this afternoon.

It was one thirty by the time I took off for Enrico’s house in the exclusive neighborhood of Sea Cliff. This enclave overlooking China Beach was known primarily for its famous celebrity residents, but the area also had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the ocean side looking into the bay that was more breathtaking than any I’d ever seen.