They walked to Ariston’s, only minutes from Mr. Pearce’s apartment, the perfect commute for a Manhattan businessman. Mike assumed the vast majority of Pearce’s life was carried out in the few square blocks between his store and his apartment.
Nestled between a boutique clothing store and a high-end jewelry shop, Ariston’s was in an older, handsome building, tall and narrow, the brick paled over the decades. The windows were dark, a hand-lettered CLOSED sign draped inside.
East 57th was busy, people hurrying to lunch, to work, to their lives. Mike had her hand on Sophie’s arm, holding her back. They watched carefully for signs of anyone paying special attention to the store. They saw no one out of place.
Mike was on her cell with the Facial Recognition guys who’d spotted the man lingering around the store. “Anything?”
Nicholas glanced over. She shook her head and clicked off. “It’s a guy, young, that’s all they could tell us, that and he seems to have left for now. They’ll call the minute they see him again. We’re clear to go in.”
Sophie unlocked the front door, opened it slowly, and disarmed the alarm. So this was Ariston’s. It was a comforting smell, Nicholas thought, familiar—it immediately shot him back to his family’s home in England, Old Farrow Hall, and his grandfather’s extensive library of rare books, the smell of old vellum, the warmth from the fireplace.
Ariston’s was a bibliophile’s dream: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, some behind glass and many under lock and key. There was row upon row of shelves, all clearly labeled according to genre, sub-labeled according to century.
There was a small register area up front, and a larger seated space midway back, with two well-worn oversized brown leather chairs edged in nail heads. A gooseneck reading lamp hovered over each chair, and every other inch of space was filled with books.
Nicholas realized Sophie had stopped just inside the door. He heard her swallowing. He knew this was difficult for her. He couldn’t imagine hearing that his own father was dead, hearing that someone had killed him. He prayed she’d keep it together, maybe even tell them what she knew.
He watched her square her shoulders and turn on the lights. He heard the pain in her voice when she said, “Dad spent most of his time here in the store. It was his whole world. The entire time I was growing up, he had me in here every spare minute, dusting, curating, answering the phones. When I got old enough, I started handling the orders. We have a worldwide clientele, especially for military titles.”
Mike ran her fingers along the spines of the shelf nearest her. “How exactly does all this work? Do people come in off the street to buy rare books?”
“More than you’d expect, actually. But the bulk of the sales are online. The Internet was the best, and worst, thing that happened to our industry. It used to be all the work was done by letter, then by phone, but both had a distinctly human touch. Once people could buy the books without any direct interaction with Dad, well, it wasn’t nearly as fun for him. He loved meeting new people. He lived for the auctions.”
“Auctions?” Mike asked. “Like Sotheby’s and Christie’s do with furniture and artwork?”
“Similar, yes. He could pay the rent for a year on this place with a single rare-book sale.”
Nicholas thought back to the books he’d seen under glass at Pearce’s apartment. “Did your father keep the rarest books at his place?”
“Some, yes, but for the most part, those are the ones he really loves—loved.”
Her face went blank, then she gestu
red for them to follow her, and went to the back of the store. She unlocked a door, and they saw a small office with a desk and ledger books, and a brand-new twenty-seven-inch iMac computer on the desk. Sophie didn’t hesitate, walked to the back of the room, pressed a series of buttons on a rectangular steel lock, and the door swung open with a pneumatic hiss. Behind it was a circular stairway.
“This leads to the basement where he keeps—kept—the really valuable books.” Her voice hitched. They watched her gain control. She flipped a switch inside the door and the basement was lit with the soft red glow from a single light, like a small fire on the wall. They walked down the narrow stairs into a space that didn’t run the full length of the store but took up at least four hundred square feet, all bookshelves behind tempered glass.
Mike whispered, “I feel like I’m in the Vatican vaults.”
Nicholas felt his chest tighten. “Low-oxygen environment?”
Sophie shot him a surprised look. “Exactly. Plus humidity and temperature regulation. Sixty-four degrees, with an ambient humidity of forty-five percent. It’s the only way to keep the books from crumbling into dust. We had to reroute all the water pipes, too, and the fire retardant is a special chemical mix that’s safe for books and papers.”
She stepped to a case and pointed at a book with thick-edged gilt lettering. “This was his favorite. He’s had so many offers over the years, but I never could convince him to sell.”
It didn’t look remarkable, but when Nicholas read the spine, a chill washed through him. “William Blake’s The Book of Urizen? That must be worth millions.”
Sophie smiled. “Only eight copies in existence. One went at auction for two and a half million in 1999.”
Nicholas said, “I wouldn’t give it up, either. I love Blake.”
Nicholas looked like he might begin to quote Blake’s poetry, so Mike quickly said, “We’re looking at some incredibly valuable books here. Is there anything in this store, a book, some papers, some secret archives he’s been getting offers on and refused to sell, like this Blake?”
Not an instant’s hesitation. “Not that I know of.”
“Is there anything someone might want badly enough to kill your father?”
She shook her head. “I’m telling you, the antiquities world has its fair share of cutthroats, but none that would be capable of killing my father. He was a great man, and had the respect of a lot of people.”