Chapter 4: The Wrong Kind of Help

"Evan found payments he believed were fraudulent," Luca said. "He reported them. Then he disappeared."

Mara held the phone tighter. "And my store?"

"He came there before he vanished. I went to see whether he would come back."

She looked at the chess table through the office doorway. "Your first game was surveillance."

"The first night, yes."

"How many nights after that?"

"Mara."

"It's a number, Luca."

"After the second week, Tomas found another lead. I kept coming because I wanted to."

She had asked him for an honest answer and got one that made the previous three Thursdays worse. The draw on the chalkboard, the signed membership form, his apparent respect for her business: she could no longer tell which moments had belonged to her and which had served his search.

"Give me the plate," he said. "I'll have it checked."

"I'll send it to the police if the car returns."

"Someone entered your store."

"I didn't tell you that."

Silence.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Tomas spoke to a neighbor after the first night. He said your door was open."

"You've been asking my neighbors about me."

"About the store."

"That distinction helps you more than it helps me."

She ended the call. A minute later Luca sent one message:

I will not send anyone inside. Lock the back entrance. Please.

Mara checked the back entrance herself. Its latch was firm. She photographed the sedan's plate from her notes and sent the description to the local police nonemergency line, adding the earlier unauthorized entry. She was given an incident number and instructions to call if the car returned. The procedure steadied her more than Luca's concern had.

The next morning she kept her appointment with the bookbinder. Mrs. Alvarez ran her workshop in a narrow row house where shelves of drying leather rose almost to the ceiling. Mara showed her the inventory entry and an old photo of the missing manual.

"Your grandfather had me reback this," Mrs. Alvarez said. "He asked for the original endpapers to be kept. Unusual. Most customers don't care."

"Did Evan Ward come here?"

"A man brought that same book in last month. He asked if I could lift one endpaper without damaging it. I told him I'd need several days. He took it away."

"What was underneath?"

"I didn't look. He was frightened enough that I remember his hands shaking."

Mrs. Alvarez pulled out her work calendar. The visitor had written only E. Ward and a disconnected phone number. Mara photographed the entry with permission. On the next page, an order from Moretti Properties appeared two days later: a request to assess a set of old company registers. Mrs. Alvarez said a courier had canceled that appointment before the books arrived.

Mara left with the photograph and a heavier question. The book could be evidence. Someone at Luca's company had followed Evan to this workshop. She still didn't know whether Luca was asking her to trust the right side of the story.

At the bus stop she noticed the pale sedan halfway down the block. It pulled into traffic when her bus arrived. She stayed on the sidewalk and watched it turn at the light. Then she went back into the workshop, asked Mrs. Alvarez to preserve her entrance camera footage, and arranged for June to pick her up from the rear alley.

"If it was following you, why didn't you call him?" June asked as she drove.

"Because then he gets to decide where I go next."

"You can ask for help without handing him your keys."

Mara knew June was right. At the store she sent her incident number to the bookbinder and asked her to preserve the order book. She also texted her employees a description of the sedan, instructing them to call her rather than confront anyone. By the time she had finished, she had a plan that did not depend on Luca. She wished that made her less anxious.

Thursday came. She had asked Walter to run the main table. When Luca entered, the usual murmur dipped. Tomas stayed by the door. Luca came alone to the back room, where Mara was stacking tournament flyers.

"The building inquiry came from Adrian Voss's office," he said. "I ordered it stopped."

"You could have told me that yesterday."

"I wanted to know why he made it first."

"Another decision you made about what I needed to know."

He accepted the hit without defending himself. "Adrian is our financial adviser. He worked with my father. If he's involved, I need proof."

"And if someone breaks into my shop while you gather it?"

"I'd help."

"That's the problem. You still think help means I wait while you decide."

She showed him the photo of Mrs. Alvarez's calendar. Luca read both appointments and stiffened.

"You've gone to her already," he said.

"It's my grandfather's book."

"Evan may have been followed there."

"He was. So was I, apparently."

Luca lowered the phone. "Let me keep you out of this."

Mara took it back. "You don't get to bring an investigation into my store, hide it from me, and then call my absence a favor."

"Mara, I didn't know Adrian had asked about the building."

"I believe that. I don't know whether I believe anything else."

She opened the back room door. The players were setting their clocks. Her table was occupied by a pair of teenagers arguing cheerfully over who got white.

"No game tonight," she said. "And no more visits until I ask you to come."

Luca looked at the two teenagers, then at her. "All right."

He left without touching the chessboard. Mara returned to the counter and sold three memberships before closing. Each transaction required her attention; she was grateful for the work.

Walter wandered over after the last player left. "He didn't ask me to leave the table," he said.

"He wouldn't have had the right."

"That's never stopped men like him from asking."

Mara rubbed the edge of the tournament flyer. She was angry Luca had withheld the truth. She was also angry that, for a moment, she had wanted him to stay and explain it better. Walter tactfully took the flyer and began stacking chairs. She joined him. The table was hers to fill next Thursday, whoever happened to sit opposite her.

When she finally checked her phone, Mrs. Alvarez had sent a photograph of her canceled register order. The courier's signature was illegible, but the reference line wasn't:

A. Voss. Private collection.

Mara forwarded the image to herself, copied it to a second account, and looked toward her grandfather's empty place at the chess table. Luca could stay away. She still intended to find the book.