Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“Please let us know as soon as you hear something,” Paul said.

Gamay signed an agreement and wrote out a check for the large finder’s fee. They shook hands all around.

HARVEY BRIMMER WATCHED through the window of his shop until the Trouts were out of sight, then he hung a CLOSED sign on the door and went to his office behind the showroom. The documents and maps in his shop were actually overpriced prints of originals or low-end antiques for the tourist trade.

Brimmer picked up the phone and dialed a number from his Rolodex.

“Harvey Brimmer,” he said to the person at the other end of the line. “We talked a few days ago about a rare book. I’ve got some buyers interested in the same property. The price may go up. Yes, I can wait for your call. Don’t be too long.”

He hung up and sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. He remembered the first time someone had asked about the Princess logbook of 1848. The call had come in years before from a young woman at Harvard. He told her he would put out the word, but she said she would have to wait because she was going home to China. He hadn’t thought about the inquiry again until a few weeks ago when an Asian man dropped by the shop looking for the same item. The man was an unlikely customer, young and tough-looking, and he didn’t hide his irritation when he was told the book was not available.

Brimmer could not have known that the visit from the young man had been instigated when Song Lee called Dr. Huang from Bonefish Key and mentioned the story of the New Bedford anomaly. She told her mentor that she was convinced that the medical curiosity had a bearing on her work and she was thinking of going to New Bedford to see an antique book dealer named Brimmer when she had time.

As instructed, Dr. Huang had passed along the details of every conversation he had with the young epidemiologist. Within minutes, a call had gone out to a social club in Boston’s Chinatown with orders to visit Brimmer’s shop. Soon after that, the leader of the local Ghost Dragons chapter walked into Brimmer’s shop and said he was looking for the 1848 logbook of the Princess.

Now the couple from NUMA.

Brimmer didn’t know what was going on, but there was nothing a dealer liked better than to have collectors bidding against one another. He would go through the motions and make a few calls. He would keep the finder’s fees from all three parties and offer them something else. He was a master of bait and switch. Business had been off lately, and this promised to be a profitable day.

What he didn’t know was that it would be his last day.

THE TROUTS STEPPED FROM the dim shop into the afternoon sunshine and walked up Johnny Cake Hill to the Seamen’s Bethel. They tossed a few bills in the donation box and went inside the old whaling men’s church. The pulpit had been rebuilt in recent years to resemble a ship’s prow, as it had in Herman Melville’s time.

Paul waited for a couple of tourists to leave and then turned to Gamay.

“What did you think of Brimmer?” he asked.

“I think he’s a slippery old eel,” she said. “My advice is not to hold our breath waiting for him to come through. He’ll dig out the first logbook he can get his hands on, forge a new date, and try to sell it to us.”

“Did you see his expression change when we mentioned Captain Dobbs’s 1848 logbook?” he said.

“Couldn’t miss it!” she said. “Brimmer forgot his Mr. Friendly impersonation.”

Paul let his eye wander to the marble tablets hung on the wall that were inscribed with the names of captains and crews lost in the far corners of the world.

“Those old whalers were tough as nails,” he said.

“Some were tougher than others,” she said, “if you can believe Song Lee’s story about the New Bedford pod.”

Paul pursed his lips.

“That medical phenomenon is a link between the past and the present. I’d love to read the paper that Lee wrote at Harvard.”

Gamay slipped her BlackBerry out of her handbag. “Do you remember the name of Lee’s professor?”

“How could I forget?” Paul said with a smile. “His name was Codman.”

“Trout . . . Cod . . . Why are practically all you New Englanders named after fish?”

“Because we didn’t have wine connoisseurs for fathers.”

“Touche,” she said.

She called up the Harvard Medical School on her BlackBerry, thumb-typed Codman’s name into a person finder, and called the number shown on the screen. A man who identified himself as Lysander Codman answered the call.

“Hello, Dr. Codman? My name is Dr. Gamay Morgan-Trout. I’m a friend of Dr. Song Lee. I’m hoping that you remember her.”

“Dr. Lee? How could I forget that brilliant young woman? How is she these days?”