The Knight of Pages

by Alexie Aaron

  “Books my wife has recommended. She’s a voracious reader.”

  “Reading is an excellent way to unwind. I’ve been reading all my life.”

  “Mrs. Baumbach, I’m involved in a homicide case, and through my investigations, your name was dropped as an expert on unusual books.”

  “Homicide?” Catherine questioned.

  “We found two women dead. It’s looking like a murder-suicide, and one of the decedents is a member of your son’s book club.”

  Catherine put her hand to her face. “Can I ask who?”

  Jones thought a while, threw caution to the wind, and said, “Monica Voorhees.”

  “Oh no! She’s been a member for years. Wendell will be so upset.”

  “The reason I’m here is to ask you if there is a history of death and memory loss involving a book or books.”

  “Well, you will have to elaborate so I can whittle down the list a little. You see, books have driven people to suicide, to marry the wrong person, to misery, and sometimes, I have seen books change people’s lives for the better.”

  “I’m trying to be as vague as possible,” Jones said, scratching his head.

  “Come on, trust me.”

  “Are there books out there that a collector would kill for?”

  “Yes, there are. But I haven’t heard about any in this area. When an unusual book is available, I get a call from a few old contacts. I’ve heard nothing.”

  “I understand your husband…”

  “Let me stop you there. I have not been in contact with Horace for forty-five years.”

  “I see,” Jones said, writing down a note. “Is he still alive?”

  “I haven’t heard otherwise.”

  “The same contacts?”

  “Yes, if he died, they would report it to ease my mind. You see, Horace was influenced by a very bad book. He became dangerous to me and my son. The church stepped in, and no more Horace to be frightened of.”

  “Was he abusive?”

  “Yes. He would have killed me eventually. Wendell can’t be around a man like him.”

  “Would your… Would Horace Baumbach be capable of convincing people to hurt themselves and each other in order to extract information about a rare book?”

  Catherine lifted an eyebrow. Evidently, this policeman wasn’t versed in the properties of life-snatching books. He was looking for a person. “There are people who are so charismatic that they can convince anyone to do anything. Hitler, Manson…”

  Jones held up his hand. He didn’t need the list. He already knew it. “Is Horace capable…”

  “I don’t know. He couldn’t convince me, but I’m a hard sell. What are these people doing?” she asked.

  “Self-harming, rough sex, murdering a best friend and mummifying her before taking a bath in her blood.”

  Catherine’s face paled, and she raised her hand when the detective rose in concern.

  “I’m sorry, I should have watched my words.”

  “Just let me digest what you have told me,” Catherine said. She took a few breaths and accessed the calm she used when her students’ lack of respect started to get to her.

  “I’m sorry to upset you. Father Saul was determined that I speak with you.”

  “For what I have to tell you, you’ll need to accept that, in my world, what I tell you are facts. Scientific, maybe not, but I’m telling you the truth,” Catherine prefaced.

  “Go on. I promise you, I’ll listen first with an open mind and then determine the validity of the data later.”

  “Let me tell you a tale of a slam book…” Catherine said and continued with the story as she got up and opened her file. She drew out one of the last two copies of the newspaper page. When she had finished, she handed it to Jones. “This may be what you’re looking for. Whether you believe it’s the object of torture or the instigator is of no importance. What is important, is that this book is dangerous. It killed and then disappeared. But the boy it killed was only brain dead. His healthy heart resides inside the body of a certain bookseller. I fear the book is headed for Nash Greene, heaven help him. A friend of ours has warned him.”

  Jones started to connect the dots in his mind. “This is why he was so forthcoming when I talked to him. It’s to his advantage that I catch this killer.”

  “Yes, it is. As far as Horace being involved… There is a possibility, but how, I don’t know. The Brothers of St. Michael took him away. Seek them out. Horace isn’t the only one who could be capable of such horror, but I also don’t believe in coincidences. That was my school the book first showed up in.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kalaraja was sitting facing the window when the Queen of Books arrived with the Knight of Text, Lee Joon-ki. The knight carried with him a backpack he almost seemed wired into. Joon-ki was the youngest son of the Chicago Lee family. His Korean pop idol looks masked a dangerous knowledge of Hwa Rang Do that he learned from his distant cousins in South Korea. Joon-ki also navigated all digital text, in every form. He was the youngest of the knights and the queen’s favorite.

  Kalaraja allowed them to get settled before he waved Natalie over. She strolled slowly, taking in the views the high-rise had to offer before she sat down next to him.

  “Still watching the city, I see.”

  “It’s a habit I’ve not been able to break.”

  “Tell me what you see?” Natalie asked.

  “Directly below, I see love blooming. Blooming for two people who absolutely need each other,” Kalaraja said, moving his hand before him. “Your Knight of Pages strengthens with every moment he is with Clara. Clara benefits too by her association with Nash. She now sees herself as we all have seen her. But I have to admit, she got here under her own power. Her refusal to be anything less than everything to the man she would give her heart to, had set her on a course to find Nash.”

  “Ah, but if the universe would only give us love stories, we could let down our guard.”

  “True. There is a darkness not blessed by the shadow of my tower. Tragedy is prowling around them. It wants to sink its teeth into our Knight of Pages. It wants to defeat the heart of the boy who dreamed too much.”

  “It was a smart move at the time to contain Santiago’s heart in the body of one of our knights. Ron’s sacrifice will not be in vain.”

  “But it wasn’t me, Natalie. I didn’t know until Catherine showed me the article that Ron was a victim of Horace’s abomination.”

  “So, you’re saying that Nash being given Ron’s heart was just by chance?”

  “Genetically, no. If Nash didn’t carry a similar genetic code, then it would have never happened. All I did was make sure Nash listened to my counsel and remained insured.”

  “Didn’t you also set in motion Rita’s Hollywood career?”

  Kalaraja didn’t say anything.

  “Wasn’t it you who asked me to offer her the job in the improv group?”

  “He was dying. I had to have him close in order to save him.”

  “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “No, and he never will. You needed another knight. I found you one,” Kalaraja said in a tone one would use to describe a successful grocery shopping trip.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” Joon-ki said.

  “Yes?”

  “You asked me for any news surrounding the members of the book club Turning Pages,” Joon-ki said, adjusting the monitor function in his eyewear.

  “Please,” Natalie said.

  “The Chicago PD are keeping quiet a murder-suicide involving Monica Voorhees. The principal people involved in the investigation are Detective Robert Jones, Sergeant Dahlberg, Officer Ria Molina, and Officer Brenda Blunt. I accessed their files before activating the camera function on Sergeant Dahlberg’s smart phone. I have a visual of the whiteboard.”

  “Can you project it?” Natalie asked.

  Joon-ki turned, faced an inside wall, and touched the left stem of
his glasses.

  Kalaraja groaned when he saw Nash’s name there.

  Natalie studied the information. She hummed before speaking. “Nash and Wendell are persons of interest. Nash will be interviewed today. Should we warn him?”

  “No. Let’s not interfere unless he is brought in for questioning,” Kalaraja answered. “What’s more important is to find out what Wendell is up to. He has many hours unaccounted for.”

  “You don’t think he has been in contact with Horace, do you?” Natalie asked.

  “It would break Catherine’s heart if we find out that her son, whom she risked her life protecting, has gone rogue.”

  ~

  Officer Ria Molina waited outside the shop for Jones to show up. She had Dahlberg look into Nash’s social media presence. “He’s a bit of a grump according to a lot of the posters, with the exception of theplatestopshere. Customers love the shop and found him very knowledgeable but a bit pompous.”

  “That’s it? No Facebook page?”

  “Aside from the store, no.”

  “Well, most guys don’t have…”

  “I have a Facebook page,” Dahlberg said. “You think I’m not like most guys?”

  “Yikes, how do I exit gracefully?”

  “Open the window and jump,” Dahlberg told her.

  She raised her hands in surrender and left by elevator.

  Jones was mentally editing how he was going to interrogate Nash Greene and almost walked into Molina. To give him credit, she was a petite person. She must have just made the height requirement at the academy.

  “Lot’s on your mind, Detective?” Molina asked from where she had flattened herself against the wall to avoid the collision.

  “Yes. I’ve had a very interesting but disturbing interview with Catherine Baumbach.” He went on to give Molina the bullet points of the conversation, omitting the supernatural stuff.

  “So we have a person who has had a heart transplant who may be being targeted by the sadist who convinced his donor to huff poison?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll try not to rough him up.”

  “You do that.”

  Jones’s watch dinged. “Two thirty, time to go in,” he said, opening the door.

  Molina noticed the old-fashioned bells over the door. She thought the place would smell musty, but instead, she caught a spicy floral scent. The wearer of that scent was approaching them. The tall redhead was wearing a store T-shirt and blue jeans. Her walk was purposeful, and her eyes were sharp. Molina got the impression that this woman would take no prisoners if provoked.

  “Welcome to One More Time,” she said to Molina and looked at Jones and said, “It’s good to see you again, Detective. Nash is in the workroom. Let me lock up, and I’ll bring you two back.”

  “Thank you,” Jones said and watched as the woman pulled the outer gate closed and locked the inner door. “You didn’t have to close.”

  “Nash thought you’d want his total attention. He does have another appointment. I hope this won’t take long.”

  Molina wanted to sass it’ll take what it takes but refrained when Jones seemed fine with the comment.

  “Follow me,” Clara said.

  Nash was just finishing restringing a book when Clara escorted the police in. She offered them a beverage. The female officer accepted a Coke.

  Nash extended his hand towards the woman. “I’m Nash Greene, and you are?”

  “Officer Ria Molina.” Molina grabbed the bookseller’s hand, trying to gauge its size in relation to the print left on Voorhees’s back door.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Jones said. He turned and looked at Clara, expecting her to leave.

  Nash, as if reading his mind, replied, “I’d like Clara to stay during the interview.”

  “Detective, here is the inventory of the box of books you requested.” Clara handed him a list.

  “I’m at a loss…”

  “When you were in last, you asked about the books that I found in my inventory that I didn’t purchase,” Nash reminded him.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, with all that is going on, I forgot.” He handed the paper to Molina. “Today, I’m here with my officer because our inquiry into the lost time of Kabir Patel and Marc Davis has turned into a homicide investigation.”

  “Did something happen to Kabir or Mr. Davis?” Nash asked.

  “No. Monica Voorhees.”

  “Monica?”

  “She’s another member of Page Turners,” Jones reminded him.

  “Her name is familiar,” Nash said. He frowned, but the memory was just out of range.

  Molina opened her file and extracted a copy of the wedding photo. “She’s the third from the bride.”

  Nash nodded. “I think she came in once with Marianne Irving. I don’t believe she spoke to me. What happened to her?”

  Jones shifted uncomfortably.

  “I take it you can’t tell me.”

  “You got that in one,” Molina said. “We would like to know where you were Sunday the twelfth?”

  “In the bookshop. I have two employees, Cameron and Mary Richards, who can vouch for me. After hours, I was playing gin rummy with Eleanor Aldrich until nine. Eleanor is a senior citizen in my building. After, I went up to my apartment alone.”

  “Monday?” Molina asked.

  “Here. I met with a dealer at the Starbucks on the corner at three, Candance Moore. I have her card up front if you want her number. Then back here until closing. I stopped at the market and went home. Oh, Eleanor’s cat got out, and I and her neighbor Harlan chased the fool thing up and down the stairs. I’m not sure of the time.”

  “Tuesday,” Molina continued.

  “Here, home by myself.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Here. Clara took me to the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. It wasn’t open, so we hung around in the basement talking and drinking coffee. That was about three until five?” he said, looking at Clara.

  She nodded.

  “Then here until closing. I went grocery shopping. I think I still have the receipt. I saw that there were police cars at the condo on my way home. Eleanor was concerned and opened the door to speak to me. Butterball got out, but this time I caught the rascal. After a few minutes, I continued home alone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask why I’m a person of interest in whatever happened to Marianne’s friend?” Nash asked.

  “You or your bookshop have been mentioned by other persons of interest,” Jones said. “You have supplied me with information. I’m just trying to rule you out.”

  “Trying? Have you succeeded?” Nash asked.

  “If Eleanor Aldrich and Candace Moore confirm your alibi, then all you have to do is come up with some market receipts, and I can clear you of the homicide we’re investigating.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” Nash asked, bristling.

  “No. If I ask you to come in, then yes,” Jones said honestly. “Molina, why don’t you go look for a book.”

  Nash glanced at Clara.

  “Come on, I’ll show you around,” Clara said. “Being in a bookshop when no one is here is a reader’s paradise.”

  Molina scrunched up her face but obediently followed Clara.

  “Off the record,” Jones prefaced. “I’ve just come from speaking with Catherine Baumbach. She told me a story that I’d rather not share with my officer.”

  “Sure. As long as my answers are also off the record.”

  “Deal,” Jones said. “She mentioned Ron Santiago.”

  Nash put his hand over his chest and rubbed it. “Sorry, it’s an automatic reaction.”

  “Do you feel you’re personally being targeted by whomever has control over the person who has this book?”

  “I don’t pretend to understand the mind of a sadist who creates something that destroys lives. There are many instances in history about the influences some books have had on the popu
lace. Books themselves are the containers of an author’s imagination. Some authors think of their books as their children. I think that, once the final edit is finished, the author lets go so the reader can find whatever truths that relate to them. There are exceptions, but I try to not stock the banal if I can get away with it.”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “I’m aware of the concern others have for my safety. Clara has taken time off work to be with me and watch my back. Imagine my dilemma, being in a bookstore all day when it’s a book that is supposed to cause people to lose their minds.”

  “No better hiding place for a book to be.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Greene?” Molina asked, still in cop mode.

  “About a year.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Temper wise?”

  “A very slow burn and then just the briefest flare. His weapon is always words selected to put the verbal combatants in their place.”

  “I understand he’s not well.”

  “He has had a heart transplant. He’s presently in good health, but he does have some limits. Heavy boxes are moved by his employee Cameron Richards. The Richardses have known him longer than I. They helped him through his convalescence by manning the shop.”

  “Where did you two meet?”

  “Here. No, there.” Clara pointed to the door. “I was waiting for the shop to open. I was infatuated the moment he directed me to Barnes & Noble. What kind of book are you looking for?”

  “It’s an excuse so Jones can talk to Greene alone,” Molina said. “I’m supposed to vet you.”

  “Go ahead, I’m an open book.”

  There was a fluttering of pages as if the second-floor denizens were laughing.

  “What was that?”

  “It may be a bird. Don’t tell Nash, but I left the window open. I assumed it had a screen. I was wrong,” Clara lied.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. I’m the head chef.”

  “No kidding. I’ve eaten there. Great food.”