Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [29]
Jack did not answer.
The detective stood up straighter, pushed his chin out a little and carefully adjusted his tie. ‘Do you have a safe?’
‘No.’
‘Cash box?’
Jack laughed and then grimaced because it hurt. ‘Shoe box,’ he said.
‘Ah, I see. And how’s trade been?’ Peterson’s tone was cool, conversational, but full of pins, like a cheap business shirt.
‘Fine.’ Jack noticed the uniformed officer had put his notebook away.
Peterson nodded. ‘What days do you bank?’
‘Whenever I get a hundred bucks together,’ said Jack. ‘Usually the autumn solstice.’
‘That’s pretty funny,’ said Peterson. He did not laugh. His voice wore steel-capped boots and stepped all over Jack. He slipped his hands into his pockets again and leaned back against the counter.
Jack had to turn a little to keep his eyes on him. The slash across his stomach burnt.
‘So what I want to know is why somebody would break into a second-hand bookshop in the first place?’ The detective looked up at the ceiling as he spoke, as though he was thinking out loud. Then he looked at the police officer there beside him. ‘I mean, really, what could you want? Obviously there’s no money. Just old books.’
‘Rare books?’ said the officer, as if he had struggled to think of the answer.
Peterson flashed a grin and looked quickly at Jack. ‘Doesn’t look particularly antique in here though, does it?’ He checked out his shoes and then brushed something off his pants. ‘Any rare books, Mr Susko?’ he said, still smiling. ‘Anything worth more than half-a-dozen dollars in here?’
Jack shifted his weight onto his left buttock. His nose throbbed. ‘Not today.’
‘So why would our friend take the risk? If you’re going to smash a door and have no qualms about pulling a knife, why not a jewellery store? A bottleshop or a newsagency? Even a café would give you a better return.’
Jack had started to dislike Detective Geoff Peterson about five minutes ago. The feeling was now taking root like a noxious weed. He put the cold pack down and reached over the counter for his cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then struck a match against the box. Before lighting it, he paused. ‘Maybe if you catch him,’ he said, ‘you could ask him.’
Peterson shot a look at Jack. If it had been a bullet, it might have grazed his ear.
Jack lit the cigarette and tossed the spent match onto the counter. He drew back and then exhaled slowly, watching the detective through the smoke.
‘But I was wondering if you had any ideas, Mr Susko,’ said Peterson, smoothly, flattery lining his voice like artificial sweetener. ‘Think about it. There’s nothing to steal, but he brings a knife and attacks you.’ Peterson looked at the officer again. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘About what?’ said Jack. He was starting to feel like he needed a lawyer.
Peterson grinned. ‘You say you recognised the man?’
Jack tapped ash into the palm of his hand. He could see where Peterson was going with his questions. It was starting to annoy him. ‘Could you pass me the ashtray over there?’ he said, pointing.
The uniformed police officer slid it across so that Jack could reach. Jack brushed the ash from his palm into it and then smoothed the tip of his cigarette against the aluminium side of the ashtray. ‘Yes, I’ve already told you. He was in earlier today.’
‘And a week or so ago, too, you said?’
‘I think so.’
‘What for?’ asked Peterson, sternly.
Jack kept his voice calm. ‘He was trying to sell me stolen books.’
‘Was this the first time or had you used him before?’ Detective Peterson was getting a little nasty.
Jack closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could feel the Panadeine Forte the ambulance guys had given him finally beginning to work. The day was catching up with him, lapping at his body in long, foamy waves. It was not an unpleasant sensation. ‘He’s my main supplier.’
‘I wouldn’t joke, Mr Susko.