CHAPTER 44
T he door creaked open. A shaft of light slipped across the floor and tickled the toe of my shoe. I pulled my foot back and waited in the darkness. The door creaked a bit farther. I saw a hand scrabble across the wall, find the light switch, and hit it. The hand’s owner was still outside the room talking to someone, backing his way into the office. Then Lawrence Randolph turned and saw me, sitting behind his desk, smiling.
“Hello, Mr. Randolph.”
“Kelly, what the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Waiting for you.”
Randolph reached for his phone. “I’m calling security.”
“There’s no need.”
Randolph followed my gaze. Behind him, at the door, stood Teen.
“What’s she doing here?”
“She’ll be right outside. If you feel you’re in danger, just give a holler and Teen will come running.”
“I’m calling security and having you escorted from the building.”
Randolph reached for the phone again. I pulled out the Sheehan’s and laid it on his desk. Then I opened it up and let him see the red number inside.
“That’s a number four, Randolph.”
The curator’s eyes feasted on the Sheehan’s as he waved Teen away. When we were alone, he held out his hands like one of the statues you’d see in the Queen of All Saints Basilica. Only this statue was real and ready to kill for his God.
“Mr. Kelly. Could I take a look?”
I pushed the book his way. He turned pages, pretended to examine the text. All the while long lengths of finger pried and poked at the book’s binding. Feeling for the document he knew was secreted within.
“It’s not there, Randolph.”
The curator’s fingers stopped probing. His eyes reached into mine. “Excuse me?”
“The Proclamation. It’s gone.” I threw a silver flash drive onto his desk.
“Believe it or not, that drive contains the entire contents of your laptop. We lifted it yesterday afternoon in the Starbucks down the street.”
Randolph was sitting now. Eyes moving from the flash drive to the book and back.
“You killed Allen Bryant. You got his name from Johnny Woods and went to his house. You wanted to get your hands on the number four edition before Johnny got there. Didn’t work out.”
Randolph’s eyes hollowed and the corners of his mouth squeezed up into a reluctant smile.
“The e-mails we pulled off your laptop go back more than a year,” I said. “You and a skinhead named Clarence Lester. Negotiating the sale of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.”
I pulled out a booking photo of Lester. Long, lean face. Chalk-white skin with three teardrops tattooed under one eye. Randolph pulled the shot close with a single finger, took a look, and pushed it back.
“How much were you going to get?” I said.
“You’ll never prove it.” Randolph nodded at the flash drive. “That’s illegal. Wiretapping. Invasion of privacy.”
“How much were you going to get?” I said.
“If you hijacked my laptop, then you already know.”
“Eight point five million,” I said.
The nostrils on Randolph’s face seemed to thin and quiver, anxiously scenting cash their owner would never get to spend.
“Close enough,” the curator said.
“Where does the Aryan Brotherhood get dollars like that?”
“Think I give a damn, Mr. Kelly? They planned a worldwide webcast. Going to burn the thing online. But that’s not the point. Your intercept and any information obtained from it are illegal.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
I leaned forward on my elbows, steepled my fingers under my chin, and looked carefully across the desk.
“At first, I thought, why wouldn’t you just try to obtain it legitimately? Aboveboard. Sell it at Sotheby’s. Probably bring in fifteen, twenty mil.”
“Good point,” Randolph said.
“Then I realized you couldn’t do that. Your great-granduncle was a thief. Never owned the Proclamation in the first place. If you came forward with it, the city, state, and half the world would have jumped in to claim ownership.”
I paused and took a look across the room. Josiah Randolph hung on the wall. Same weak chin. Same tight smile. Probably getting a big kick out of the whole thing.
“It had to be someone like the skinheads,” I said. “Only way for you to cash in. By the way, you know the Aryan Brotherhood is considered a terrorist organization now?”
I poked again at the silver drive. Randolph flinched as I pushed it his way.
“Lot of latitude today for intercepts like this. Warrantless wiretaps and all that.”
I saw the first bit of concern pick at the corners of the curator’s arrogance.
“Get the hell out of here,” he hissed.
“One thing I don’t understand. Why get me involved? Why not just confront Woods about the book? Kill him and take it for yourself?”
“You think murder’s that simple?”
“Allen Bryant might think so.”
“Mr. Bryant was a nobody. Mr. Woods had entanglements.”
“You mean the mayor’s office. Let me guess. You thought there was a chance they might actually investigate the death of one of their own?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kelly. Now get out. And take the bitch outside with you.”
“I don’t think so, Randolph.” I placed a final piece of paper on the curator’s desk.
“This is your letter of resignation. When you walk out of this office, there will be a team of federal marshals waiting to take you into custody for questioning with respect to Allen Bryant’s murder. They’ll also take possession of your desktop computer and personal items pursuant to search warrants executed this morning in federal court.”
Blood drained south from Randolph’s face as I spoke.
“Want a suggestion, Lawrence?”
He nodded.
“Sign this letter. Hand the position over temporarily to your trusted assistant, Teen. Get a good lawyer and hope for the best.”
“Why should I do that?”
“’Cause you’re in the system now. I might be able to do you a favor down the road and, believe me, you’re going to need every one of them you can get.”
Randolph took a look around his soon-to-be-former domain. Soft yellow lights and even softer carpet. A wall of diplomas in golden frames. Pictures of Randolph with the mayor, governor, and any other smiling politician who would grasp his overreaching hand. Books, groaning with pretension and stacked from floor to ceiling. Presiding over it all, Randolph’s scheming ancestor, the man who pilfered Lincoln’s Proclamation in the first place, a common crook named Josiah. The curator pulled his eyes back to the rather unappetizing present, sniffed once or twice, and did what any sensible man would do.
“I want to cut a deal.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can help.”
“Maybe. Tell me the rest.”
