Janklow’s face had turned so red that Caleb had been certain the old man was going to keel over from a coronary. That was the first and only time that Caleb could ever remember having to separate two patrons of the Rare Books reading room, both of them well into their seventies. It really very nearly had come to blows, and Caleb had snatched up the rare books each had at their tables to prevent them from being used as weapons. He’d admonished them both about proper library etiquette and even threatened to suspend their reading room privileges if they didn’t back the hell off. Janklow looked like he wanted to take a swing at Caleb, but he’d held firm. He could’ve taken the old shriveled man, easy.
Caleb kept looking up from his work to ensure that nothing like that altercation happened again. But Janklow was happily going through his book, his big pencil strolling lazily over the notepaper, only stopping on occasion while he cleaned his thick glasses with a wipe. For her part Jewell English’s face was glued to her book. She looked up, saw him eyeing her, closed her book and motioned him over.
As he sat down next to her, she whispered, “That Beadle I was telling you about?”
“Yes, the number one?”
“I got it. I got it.” She clapped her hands silently.
“Congratulations, that’s wonderful. So it was in good condition?”
“Oh, yes, otherwise I would’ve called you in. I mean, you are an expert.”
“Well,” Caleb said modestly. She took hold of his hand in her gnarled one. The strength of her grip was surprising.
“Would you like to come and see it sometime?”
He tried to delicately extricate himself from her clawlike hand, but she wouldn’t budge. “Oh, um, I’ll have to check my calendar. I tell you what, next time you’re in, give me some dates and I’ll see what I have available.”
She said coquettishly, “Oh, Caleb, I’m always available.” She actually batted her false lashes at him.
“Isn’t that nice?” He again tried to wrench his hand free, but the elderly woman held firm.
“So let’s pick a date right now,” she said sweetly.
In desperation Caleb glanced over at Janklow, who was eyeing them suspiciously. He and Jewell typically fought over Caleb’s time like two wolves over a side of beef. He would have to spend a few minutes with Janklow before he left, to balance things out, or the man would complain about it for weeks. And yet as Caleb stared at the old gentleman, he had a sudden thought.
“Jewell, I bet if you asked him to, Norman would love to see your new Beadle. I’m sure he regrets his previous outburst terribly.”
She immediately released his hand. “I don’t talk shop with Neanderthals,” she said testily. She opened her bag for him to inspect and then stalked out of the room.
A smiling Caleb rubbed his hand and spent some time with Janklow, silently thanking the man for giving him the ability to ditch English. Then he returned to his work.
Yet his mind continued to jump from the mysterious Psalm Book to the dead Jonathan DeHaven to the equally dead Speaker of the House, Bob Bradley, and finally to Cornelius Behan, a rich, adulterous defense contractor who’d apparently murdered his neighbor.
And to think he became a librarian partly because he hated pressure. Maybe he should apply for a job at the CIA, just to catch a little downtime.
CHAPTER 41
ANNABELLE HAD A ROOM service dinner, showered, wrapped herself in a towel and started combing out her hair. As she sat in front of the vanity mirror, she started mulling things over. The fourth day had arrived, and Jerry Bagger was now aware that he was $40 million poorer. She should’ve been at least six thousand miles away from the man, but in fact was barely a short plane hop south. She had never failed to follow the exit plan before, but then again, she’d never had an ex-husband murdered before either.
She was intrigued by Oliver and Milton, though Caleb was a little “special” and Reuben was more than a little amusing with his puppy-dog crush. And Annabelle had to admit she kind of liked hanging around with the odd bunch. Despite having a loner personality, Annabelle had always been part of a team, and a side of her still needed that. It had started with her parents and had continued into adulthood when she began running her own crews. Oliver and the others were filling this need in her life, albeit in a different way. But she still shouldn’t be here.
She stopped combing her hair, slipped off the towel and pulled a long T-shirt on. She crossed to the window and looked out at the busy street below. In the swirl of traffic and fast-walking pedestrians, she mentally retraced what she’d done so far: Impersonated a magazine editor, knowingly aided Oliver in breaking into the Library of Congress, committed a felony by impersonating an FBI agent, and she was now supposed to come up with a way for Caleb to look at the security tapes to try and figure out what had happened to Jonathan. And if Oliver was right, some people who might be even more dangerous than Jerry Bagger could be aligned against them.
She turned back from the window, sat on the bed and started putting lotion on her legs. “This is crazy, Annabelle,” she told herself. “Bagger will move the ends of the earth to kill you, and here you are, not even out of the damn country.” And yet she had promised the others to help them. Actually, she reminded herself, she’d insisted on being part of it. “Should I stick it out and take a chance that Jerry’s radar doesn’t hit D.C.?” she said out loud. Someone had killed Jonathan. And she wanted revenge if for no other reason than she was furious that someone had made the decision to end his life long before it should have been over.
She had a sudden thought and checked her watch. She had no idea what time zone he was in, but she needed to know. She ran to the desk against one corner and snatched up her cell phone. She punched in the numbers and waited impatiently while it rang. She’d given him this number and an international phone so they could keep in contact for a while after the con. If one heard anything about Jerry, he or she was supposed to call the other.
Leo finally answered. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. I didn’t think you were going to pick up.”
“I was in the pool.”
“In the pool, nice. Where in the pool?”
“The deep end.”
“No, I meant where in the world?”
“No can answer. What if Bagger’s standing right there?”
“I see your point. Heard from anybody else?”
“Not a peep.”
“How about Bagger?”
“No, I took old Jerry off my Rolodex,” he said dryly.
“I meant, have you heard any of the fallout?”
“Just some scuttlebutt. Didn’t want to get too close, you know. You can bet the dude’s homicidal.”
“You know he’ll never stop looking for us as long as he’s breathing.”
“Then let’s pray for a massive heart attack. I don’t want the guy to suffer.” Leo paused and said, “Something I should’ve told you before, Annabelle. Now, don’t get pissed.”
She sat up straighter. “What did you do?”
“I sort of let it slip to Freddy a little about your history.”
She stood. “How much of my history?”
“Your last name, your stuff with Paddy.”
She screamed into the phone, “Are you out of your damn mind?”
“I know, I know, it was stupid. It just came up. I just wanted him to know that you weren’t like your old man. But I didn’t tell Tony. I’m not that dumb.”
“Thanks, Leo, thanks a hell of a lot.”
She clicked off and stood in the middle of the room. Freddy knew her last name and also that her father was Paddy Conroy, Jerry Bagger’s mortal enemy. If Jerry got to him, he’d make Freddy talk. And then the man would come for her, and she could predict her fate with reasonable accuracy. Jerry would feed her into a wood chipper body part by body part.
Annabelle started packing her bag. Sorry, Jonathan.
When Caleb returned to his condo later that night, he found someone waiting for him out in
the parking lot.
“Mr. Pearl, what are you doing here?”
Vincent Pearl didn’t look like Professor Dumbledore this evening, principally because he wasn’t wearing a long lavender robe. He had on a two-piece suit, open-collared shirt, shiny shoes, and his long thick hair and beard were carefully combed. He looked thinner in the suit than he had in the robe. The chubby Caleb made a mental note never to start dressing in robes. Pearl’s spectacles were halfway down his nose as he silently studied Caleb with such a condescending look that the librarian started getting a little perturbed.
“Well?” Caleb finally asked.
In a deep, offended voice Pearl said, “You haven’t returned my calls. I thought a personal appearance would help remind you of my interest in the Psalm Book.”
“Right, I see.”
Pearl looked around. “A parking lot seems hardly appropriate to engage in conversation about one of the world’s most important books.”
Caleb sighed. “Very well, come on up.”
They rode the elevator to Caleb’s floor. The two men sat across from each other in the small living room.
“I was afraid that you’d decided to go straight to Sotheby’s or Christie’s with the Psalm Book.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I haven’t even been back to the house after you were there. I didn’t call you because I’m still thinking.”
Pearl looked very relieved by this statement. “At the very least it would behoove us to obtain definitive tests on the Psalm Book. I know several firms with impeccable reputations that can do this. And I see no need to wait.”
“Well,” Caleb said hesitantly.
“The longer you procrastinate, the less control you have over the public learning about the existence of a twelfth Psalm Book.”
“What do you mean by that?” Caleb said sharply as he sat forward.
“I’m not sure you adequately realize the significance of this discovery, Shaw.”
“On the contrary, I realize very clearly the enormity of it.”
“I mean that there might be leaks.”
“How? I’ve certainly told no one.”
“Your friends?”
“They’re completely trustworthy.”
“I see. Well, pardon me if I don’t share your confidence. But if there is a leak, people might start making accusations. Jonathan’s reputation may suffer considerably.”
“What sort of accusations?”
“Oh, for heaven sakes, man, let me just spell it out for you: accusations that the book was stolen.”
Caleb’s thoughts leaped to his own theory about the library’s Psalm Book being a forgery. Yet he said as earnestly as he could, “Stolen? Who would believe such a thing?”
Pearl took a deep breath. “No other owner of one of those treasures in the long and celebrated history of book collecting has ever kept it a secret. Until now.”
“And you think it’s because Jonathan stole it? Preposterous. He’s as much a thief as I am.” Please, please, let that be true.
“But he might have purchased it from someone who had stolen it, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps not. At least he might have had a suspicion, which would explain the secrecy he kept about owning the book.”
“And where exactly would the book have been stolen from? You said you checked with the other places that own one.”
“What the hell would you expect them to say?” Pearl snapped. “Do you think they would admit it to me if their Psalm Book had been stolen? And maybe they don’t even know. What if a very clever forgery was left in its place? It’s not like these places check their literary treasures daily to assure their authenticity.” He added, “Did you find any paperwork relating to the book? A bill of sale? Anything to show where it came from?”
“No,” Caleb admitted, his heart sinking. “But I haven’t looked through Jonathan’s personal papers. My work was limited to the book collection.”
“No, your work extends to all evidence of ownership of his books. Do you really think that Christie’s or Sotheby’s will put a Psalm Book up for auction without being absolutely certain of both its authenticity and the legal authority under which Jonathan DeHaven’s estate will be selling the book?”
“Of course, I was aware that they would need to know that.”
“Well, Shaw, if I were you, I would set about immediately to find that evidence. But if you can’t, the clear impression will be that Jonathan came by it through means that are not verifiable. And in the rare book field that is tantamount to saying that he stole it himself or knowingly purchased it from someone who did.”
“I suppose I could ask his attorneys if I could search through his papers. Or perhaps they could do it if I told them what to look for.”
“If you go that route, they will want to know why. And when you tell them, you will have most certainly lost control of the situation.”
“Do you expect me to look all by myself?”
“Yes! You’re his literary executor, start acting like it.”
“I don’t care to be talked to in that manner,” Caleb said angrily.
“Are you paid a percentage of the sale price of auction?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” Caleb retorted.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, if you try to auction this Psalm Book off without finding ironclad proof that DeHaven came by it honestly and it’s later found that he didn’t, it won’t only be his reputation down the toilet, will it? When a great deal of money is involved, people always assume the worst.”
Caleb didn’t say anything as this slowly sank in. As repugnant as he found Pearl’s remarks, the man had a point. It was devastating to think that his deceased friend’s reputation would suffer a shipwreck, but Caleb certainly didn’t want to sink to the bottom along with it.
“I suppose I could go through Jonathan’s things at his house.” He knew that Oliver and the others had already searched the house, but they hadn’t been looking for ownership documents for the book collection.
“Will you go tonight?”
“It’s late already.” And he’d given the key to Reuben.
“Well, tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Very well. Please let me know what you find. Or don’t find.”
After Pearl had left, Caleb poured himself a glass of sherry and drank it while eating a bowl of greasy potato chips, one of his favorite snacks. He was under too much pressure to adhere to any sort of diet now. As he sat drinking, he ran his gaze over his own small collection of books he kept on a set of shelves in his den.
Who would’ve thought book collecting could get so damn complicated?
CHAPTER 42
VERY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Reuben reported to Stone that nothing had happened the previous night at DeHaven’s; this was a repeat of the report he’d given the night before.
“Nothing?” Stone said skeptically.
“No action in the bedroom, if that’s what you’re implying. I saw Behan and his wife come home around midnight. But apparently, they don’t use that bedroom, because the light never came on. Maybe that venue’s reserved for the strippers.”
“Did you see anything else? The white van, for instance?”
“No, and I think I got in and out of the place without anyone seeing me the last two nights. A ten-foot hedge runs all the way around the rear area. There’s an alarm pad right inside the back door, so that was easy enough.”
“Are you sure you didn’t notice anything that could help us?”
Reuben looked uncertain. “Well, it might be nothing, but around one in the morning I thought I saw a glint of something in a window of the house across the street.”
“Maybe the owners were up and about.”
“That’s the thing. It doesn’t look like anybody’s living there. No car and no trash cans out front. And today’s trash day because all the other houses had them out on the curb last night.”
Stone stared at him curiously. “That is interest
ing. Could the glint have been an optics signature?”
“Not from a gun, I don’t think. But maybe a pair of binoculars.”
“Keep an eye on that place as well. What about the call to the police?”
“I did it from a pay phone like you said. I took it as a bad sign when the woman told me to stop making crank calls to the police.”
“Okay, call me with your next report tomorrow morning.”
“Great, but when exactly am I supposed to sleep, Oliver? I’m leaving for the loading dock right now, and I’ve been up all night.”
“When do you get off work?”
“Two.”
“Sleep then. You won’t have to be at DeHaven’s until ten or so.”
“Thanks a lot. Can I at least eat the man’s food?”
“Yes, so long as you replace it.”
Reuben snorted. “Man, living in a mansion ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“See, you haven’t missed anything.”
“And while I’m out here busting my ass, what’s Your Highness doing?”
“Your Highness is still thinking.”
“Have you heard from Susan?” Reuben added hopefully.
“Not a word.”
A half hour later Stone was out working in the graveyard when a taxi pulled up by the gates and Milton climbed out. Stone rose, dusted off his hands, and the two went in the cottage together. While Stone poured out some lemonade, Milton opened his laptop and a paper file he’d brought with him.
“I’ve found out a lot about Cornelius Behan and Robert Bradley,” he said. “I just don’t know how helpful it’ll be.”
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