“Get me the book. It will take us both to the letter.”
“And, presumably, Allen Bryant’s killer.”
“That’s your business. I just want the letter.”
“And to get that, you need the book.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“I don’t have it, Randolph. So I don’t have to think about cutting deals with you.”
I got up to go. The curator remained seated. “Not yet,” he said. “If you get your hands on the Sheehan’s, however, you’ll be back.”
“You think so?”
“If you suspect it might help solve your murder, you’ll work with me.”
Randolph was probably right. That bothered me.
“Whoever has the book,” Randolph said, “doesn’t know how to use it. Otherwise, we would have heard about it by now, don’t you think?”
“Probably.”
“Precisely. I’m guessing the Sheehan’s is still out there. Maybe Mr. Bryant hid it somewhere. Who knows?”
“And if it’s out there, I’ll track it down. Right?”
“That’s what I’m betting on, Mr. Kelly.” Randolph shifted comfortably in his seat. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”
CHAPTER 30
I pushed out of the historical society just after five p.m. and drove north on Stockton Drive. Randolph was proving to be a hard guy to get a handle on, which surprised as much as bothered me. I flipped open my cell and punched in Fred Jacobs’ number. It took four rings, but the reporter finally picked up.
“Kelly, not in jail yet? I guess there’s something to be said for that.”
“Thanks, Fred. I got another favor to ask.”
Lightning flickered silently over the lake. I rolled down the window. There was a high wind moving through the trees and it smelled like a cold rain.
“Where’s my story?” Jacobs said.
“It’s there, Fred. Just needs a little push.”
“What kind of push?”
“Hardly nothing. If you’re any good, shouldn’t take you more than a half hour. And you don’t even have to leave your office.”
Something I had seen on TV at Janet Woods’ house was scratching at the back of my mind. Something I needed to nail down. I told Jacobs what I wanted. When I finished, the reporter sat on the other end of the line and breathed. It didn’t sound like anything close to healthy, and I wondered how many cigarettes the man smoked every day.
“Where the fuck you headed, Kelly?”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“High profile, Fred, high profile. So you want that third Pulitzer or what?”
I knew he’d agree to do it. It was easy enough for a guy like him and too damn tempting not to. I went over the specifics twice and hung up. Then I held my breath and dialed up a friend.
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Hey, Rachel.”
“Hello, Mr. Kelly. I hope you’re not inviting me for another overnight.” Her tone was amused. A detached “had a fling with this guy once” sort of amused. I didn’t especially like it.
“I thought we might get together tonight,” I said. “Grab a beer.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I just want to see you.”
“Maybe not. Last time I was with you, I got shot.”
“I know, Rachel. That was messed up and I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” A pause. “Listen, Michael, tonight doesn’t really work. I already made plans.”
Convenient word, plans. Great weapon. Women use it especially well. Tells the poor bastard at the other end of plans she’s on a date without ever actually saying it. Twists the knife and preserves the veneer of deniability. Also rife with the possibility of sex-again, something the poor bastard hearing about her plans is not going to be any part of.
“Plans, huh?”
“Yes, Michael. Plans. No breaking and entering. No guns. No possibility of cardiac arrest. Just dinner. Plain old boring dinner. Really, it’s all my heart can take.”
I smiled at my windshield, but it didn’t seem to do much good. “Fair enough, Rachel. Maybe we can do this over the phone.”
“Do what over the phone?”
“You remember the guy who broke into my apartment?”
“Could I forget?”
“I got a hunch as to who it might be.”
“Okay.”
“Gonna run the guy’s prints against the lift Rodriguez pulled off my windowsill.”
“That was only a partial. Not going to get you very far.”
“There was blood as well.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she said.
“If this hunch pans out, I might need your help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Mitchell Kincaid.”
There was nothing for a beat. Then her voice came back, brittle to the point of angry.
“What would Mitchell Kincaid have to do with any of this?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It usually is. Let me guess. The mayor is involved.”
“Could be.”
“Mitchell’s not going to grab at a rumor about your break-in and try to smear Wilson with it. That’s not how he works.”
“I know, Rachel. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I can’t tell you right now. I just need to know. If I wanted you to take a message to Kincaid, would you do it?”
More silence collected at the end of the line.
“What’s the message?”
“I don’t know yet.”
My soon-to-be-distant memory of a romance that never was had heard enough.
“You want me to get involved, Michael, tell me what’s going on. Otherwise pick up the phone and dial the man yourself.”
“Can’t do that. Not until I run these prints against the partial.”
“Then we have nothing to talk about. I gotta go.”
Rachel gave me half a goodbye and hung up, off to her plans, which undoubtedly included a lot of wonderful sex without yours truly.
I flipped my phone shut and cursed on behalf of clueless men everywhere. Then I drove until I found a
