by James Ponti
She held up the other book, which was also in an evidence bag. This one was smaller and had a green cover.
“Let me guess, it has his fingerprints, too,” I said.
“Actually, no,” she replied. “It’s also from the Russian Imperial Collection, but it has been thoroughly wiped clean and has no fingerprints at all.”
“Then what connection does it have to Marcus?” I asked.
“It was found last night during the execution of a search warrant at the home of William and Anntionette Rivers.”
It took me a moment to place the names. “Marcus’s parents?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was on a bookcase in their basement.”
Margaret and I slumped in our chairs.
“Do you have any knowledge of either of these books?”
“No,” I said.
“Me neither,” offered Margaret.
“You’re both very smart. Can you think of any plausible explanation?”
“He’s obviously being set up by the real criminal,” said Margaret.
“I don’t suppose you have any proof that might back that up?”
“I don’t need any,” she replied. “I know it in my heart.”
The CIA agent smiled. “Unfortunately, we work in a world where evidence matters more than emotion.”
I instantly thought back to Marcus and his breakup with Lucia. He had said virtually the same thing to her. I also remembered how Marcus said she still came by his parents’ house sometimes. Maybe she had hidden the book in the basement the last time she visited.
“What are you thinking, Florian?” asked Dawkins.
I didn’t feel like it was fair to throw the blame on Lucia, so I didn’t bring it up. Instead, I said, “I’m confused about jurisdiction. You’re running a joint task force on counterintelligence, and Agent Moretti’s with organized crime. Even if Marcus did steal those books, which I’m certain he didn’t, it shouldn’t involve anyone in this room.”
“You’re right,” she said. “The theft of rare books should be handled by the Art Crime team. The only problem is that the agent in charge of the Art Crime team happens to be the prime suspect. But since a similar rare book was found with the government secrets, we think these books may be an element of our case. And because of Nicolae Nevrescu’s conversation with Andrei Morozov, organized crime is also involved. Like I said, Florian, we’ve got quite a tangled knot that needs to be untied.”
“So you think he may somehow be involved in espionage?” I said, looking at her. “And you think he’s been closing cases by getting help from the Romanian mafia?” I said to Moretti.
“We have to follow the evidence,” said Dawkins. “Which brings us to our final question.” She reached into a file and pulled out a pair of photographs of Marcus entering and exiting our house holding the cold case evidence box. “On Wednesday night, did Marcus bring a sealed evidence box to your house?”
I had worried at the time that he wasn’t supposed to do that. “Yes. It was evidence from a case involving a former Russian diplomat named Alexander Petrov.”
“And why did he bring it to your house?”
“So Margaret and I could look at it and try to help him solve the case.”
She shook her head. “He really shouldn’t have done that,” she replied.
“Well, the reason he did it was because he was worried about us coming here,” said Margaret. “Dan Napoli and who knows who else from organized crime had been following us around town. Just like Andrei Morozov.”
This caught Dawkins by surprise. “Is that true?” she asked Moretti.
“Of course not.”
“We lost him in the zoo,” Margaret said.
“And you saw him?” asked Dawkins.
“Well, no,” said Margaret. “We saw the car, and we went into the zoo to lose him, but only Marcus saw him. There is a picture, though. He texted it to Kayla—I mean Agent Cross.”
We might as well have said that it was all made up based on their reactions.
The questioning was over, and Dawkins thanked us for our help. I could tell that she felt bad about the situation. When I went into the waiting room and signed out, I looked up at her line on the visitor’s log and memorized her telephone number long enough so I could type it into my phone when we walked down the hall.
All of us were quiet as we rode the elevator back up to the main floor. Margaret looked like she was about to cry, and her mother placed a tender hand on her shoulder. She fought the emotion all the way until we walked out of the Hoover Building and were standing on Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s when tears started to stream down her cheeks. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her that upset.
“Why didn’t you tell me that Andrei Morozov was at the soccer game?” she said, shooting me an angry look. “Why didn’t you tell me that Nic the Knife threatened him?”
“I didn’t tell you because he was only there for a minute and I didn’t want you to worry,” I said. “And when Nic came back and told me that he’d taken care of it, I didn’t know what to think.”
“But why would he do that?” she asked, her voice rising. “Why would he do that for me?”
“I think he likes us,” I said. “He’s got this weird sense of right and wrong, and for whatever reason he wants to look out for us. He even gave me his cell number. He told me to call him if there were any more problems.”
She shook her head in total confusion. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but that’s what happened,” I said. “If you want to be mad at me, you can be mad at me later, but right now we have to focus on helping Marcus.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, how do we do that?”
“I need you to stop right there,” said Mrs. Campbell. “As an officer of the court and as cocounsel for Marcus, I cannot have any knowledge of what I think you’re about to do. You can’t have this discussion in front of me.”
“No,” said my mom. “But I’m an art restorer who took no such oath. So why don’t we get in the car and see if we can fix this?”
Mrs. Campbell gave Margaret a hug and then walked toward her law office, which was just a few blocks away, while we headed for the car.
“What’s the plan?” asked my mom.
Margaret and I looked at each other for a moment.
“Whoever is setting Marcus up is also the spy,” said Margaret. “So we need to figure out who could’ve stolen the books after we were there on Monday and also been able to hide one of them in the basement at Marcus’s parents’ house.”
“So where do we go first?” asked Mom.
“His parents’ house,” I said. “That’s the scene of the most recent crime.”
“What about lunch?” she said.
“We can’t just stop and eat,” I said. “We have to solve the case.”
“But you missed lunch, and I know how you get when you don’t eat,” she said. “You might think better on a full stomach.”
“I am kind of hungry,” Margaret said.
We compromised and ended up grabbing burgers and eating in the car as we drove. Mr. and Mrs. Rivers lived in Northeast Washington in the same house where Marcus grew up. The neighborhood was quiet and peaceful looking, and they lived in a two-story town house with a big stoop on the front. We’d met Marcus’s parents a few times but had been to their house only once.
“Florian, Margaret, what are you doing here?” asked Mrs. Rivers when she answered the door.
“We’re here to help Marcus,” said Margaret.
She smiled. “Well then, I guess you better come right in.”
24.
Bella Donna
THE LIVING ROOM AT THE Riverses’ house was practically a shrine to Marcus and his sister. Just by looking at the pictures in the room, you could follow the arcs of their entire lives. There were baby photos, a picture of Marcus in a high school football uniform, and a collage from his sister’s wedding. The most prominent pictures, though, were of gradua
tions. Marcus once told me that he’d been the first person in his family to go to college, and he earned degrees at Harvard and Georgetown. His sister followed him by graduating from the University of Virginia and now worked as a researcher for the National Institutes of Health.
Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were proud of their children and had every reason to be. I could only imagine how upsetting it had been for them the night before when FBI agents scoured their home.
“My Marcus did nothing wrong,” said Mrs. Rivers as she brought out a tray of iced tea and little lemon cookies that had powdered sugar on them.
“We know that,” said Margaret. “That’s why we’re trying to figure out what happened.”
She told us that the previous night she and her husband had been watching television when there was a knock on the door. There were six agents with a warrant, and they instantly started searching the house.
“They began upstairs with the bedrooms and worked their way down,” she said. “I called Marcus, and he was over here in a flash, but they wouldn’t let him inside. He even got into an argument on the stoop with the agent in charge.”
“Did you get his name?” asked Margaret.
“Napoli,” she said. “Dan Napoli.”
Margaret and I shared a look.
“And when did they find the book?” I asked.
“About an hour after they arrived,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know how it got in there, but it wasn’t Marcus.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment while she composed herself.
“Can you tell us the last time that Lucia Miller came to visit?” I asked.
Mrs. Rivers shook her head. “Lucia has nothing to do with this. I don’t know why Marcus ever got that in his head in the first place, but it wasn’t her.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“She hasn’t been here for at least three months.”
I wanted to push some more but didn’t want to upset her so I let it go.
“Can we look in the basement?” asked Margaret.
“Yes,” she said. “My husband spent half the night cleaning up down there. I told him to wait, but he can’t sleep when he’s upset, so at least it gave him something to do.”
We followed a narrow set of stairs down into their basement, which had been turned into a large room with a couch, two comfy chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases on three walls.
“I love this room,” said my mom.
“Thank you,” replied Mrs. Rivers. “William knows carpentry, and he built all the bookcases for me because I love to read.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said.
“Where was the book the FBI found?” I asked.
“Right over here,” she said as she led me to the spot.
I reached up to touch it and accidentally got powdered sugar from the lemon cookies on some of the books.
“Florian,” my mom said. “Try not to make a mess in their house.”
“It comes right off,” said Mrs. Rivers, shooting me a wink. She reached up and brushed it off with the back of her hand.
I took a couple of pictures of the room and of the cellar door that led to the backyard.
“If someone broke in, this would be the way,” I said.
We unlocked the door and opened it. There were no signs of anyone trying to break in or pick the lock.
“Do you know how old this lock is?” I asked.
Mrs. Rivers laughed. “I imagine it’s as old as the house, Florian.”
“Just checking,” I said. “Can I see what the key looks like?”
“I’ll show it to you when we go back upstairs.”
I didn’t say anything about it, but I made a mental note that it meant if Lucia had had a key when she was engaged to Marcus, it would still work. We walked out into the backyard to see if there was anything noteworthy out there.
“Did the agents look around here?” asked Margaret.
“No, they didn’t go outside at all.”
“I wonder why?” asked Margaret.
“Because they assumed Marcus was guilty,” I said. “And he wouldn’t have had to break in.”
We looked around for a few more minutes, and when we went upstairs, Mrs. Rivers showed me the key to the basement door, and I took a picture of it. The last thing I saw as we walked out the door was the FBI Director’s Award that Admiral Douglas had presented to Marcus the week before.
His parents had put it on a table in the entryway.
When we got into the car, my mom turned to me and said, “I don’t care how you do it, Florian. But you solve this. We’re not helping Marcus anymore. Now we’re helping that woman’s baby boy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“And I’m not just a driver,” she said. “I’ve got many hidden talents. Put me to use. What would Marcus or Kayla be doing if they were with you?”
I thought about it for a moment and said, “You know, you might be able to help some more.”
“Great,” she replied. “What are we looking for?”
“A deep-cover spy,” I said. “Someone who probably came to this country when he or she was only a teenager and then, when they grew up, started spying for Russia.”
“Unless it’s Lucia,” Margaret said reluctantly. “We know that she grew up in the United States, but she lived in Moscow during high school.”
“Got it,” said Mom. “I know just what to do.”
She started driving the car.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “You don’t know where any of the suspects are.”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” she said. “Because first I have to go home and change.”
“Mom,” I said with a touch of whine in my voice. “We don’t have time.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m driving faster than usual.”
“I mean, we don’t have time to go home and change.”
She flashed me a smile. “Sure we do. Now tell me everything about the four suspects.”
Margaret and I filled her in on everything that we’d discovered during the week and offered her our different theories and suspicions.
“If you had to put one suspect at the top of your list, who would it be?” she asked.
“I’m leaning toward either Rose or Lucia,” I said.
Margaret laughed. “That’s funny because I’m thinking Alistair or Brooke.”
“So you’re telling me you really don’t know,” she said.
“I guess so,” I admitted.
“Then it’s good that you have me along to break the tie.”
She pulled into our driveway, and we hurried up the steps to the house.
“Mom, we really don’t have time,” I said.
“This will only take a moment,” she said. “And it’s necessary.”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with what you’re wearing,” I said.
Mom smiled and said, “And you call yourself Italian.” She gestured to the suit she’d worn. “This is what you wear when your son is being questioned by the FBI. It’s not what you wear when you’re going undercover.”
She bounded up the steps, and I shook my head.
“I think we’ve created a monster.”
When my mother was in her early twenties, she lived in Milan, where she developed a strong sense of pride when it came to Italian fashion and style. Of all the things she missed about living in Italy, I think clothes were at the top of the list.
Five minutes after heading upstairs, she came back down and looked like a totally different woman. Her style was always simple and elegant. She wore a long gray skirt with a large black belt and black turtleneck. She also wore black leather boots.
“Wow, Mrs. Bates!” said Margaret. “You look amazing.”
“Grazie mille,” she said, using the Italian expression for “thank you very much.” “Now we are ready.”
“Seriously, Mom,” I complained. “What are you dressing for? A spy movie?”
�
��No,” she said. “I’m dressing for a spy.”
“What do you mean?” asked Margaret.
“If you want to identify which of these people grew up in Europe, then you need to throw a little Europe their way,” she said. “This necklace and these earrings are Russian. When they see them, they’ll recognize them, and I’ll be able to tell.”
“Except a deep-cover spy will have spent almost all their life in America,” I countered. “They’re not European anymore.”
My mother laughed and said, “Puoi portare lat donna fuori dall’Europa, ma no puoi portare Europafuori dalla donna.”
Then she put on a pair of oversized sunglasses and walked out of the house with dramatic flair.
“What did she say?” asked Margaret.
“ ‘You can take the girl out of Europe, but you can’t take Europe out of the girl.’ ”
25.
Library Games
OUR FIRST STOP WAS THE Folger Shakespeare Library. On the drive over we told Mom all about Rose Brock, with her ever-changing hair color and the Romeo and Juliet tattoo on the inside of her arm.
“Why do we suspect her?” asked Mom.
“Well, she says that she grew up in Baltimore, but she has a European vaccine scar,” I said.
“And she made frequent trips back to Europe including at least three to Russia,” said Margaret. “She’s also worked on a project with the NSA, which as far as we know is the only connection any of the suspects have to an intelligence organization.”
“Got it,” she said. “And what are we looking for?”
“We don’t know if she has any access to the Library of Congress,” I said. “She used to work there, but she got forced out. And if she doesn’t have a way to get back in there, then she couldn’t have stolen the books from the Russian Imperial Collection.”
Mom smiled as she took it all in. “This is fun,” she said. “I see why you like it so much.”
“It’s not a game,” I said to her. “We’re not actors playing parts. You need to just be yourself.”
“I understand,” she said. “Why don’t you trust your mother just this once.”