“I don’t think I will,” Charles said. “But I will look at them now myself.”
“Give me a brief description of yesterday,” she said.
“Of course. It keeps getting put off, doesn’t it? I visited Lucy.” The last shreds of his own happiness withered. “Did I say the auction was bad? This was much worse.”
“Seeing the house.”
“Wiped clean. I will never go back. Everything of Derek was purged, burnt with fire, consumed. Except that instead of black, it’s all yellow, the one color he didn’t like.”
“And her?”
“She gave every appearance of cynical enjoyment at her new freedom and money. I wasn’t there long enough to dig very deeply, but I don’t think I would have found different emotions below that surface. This is her second widowhood. She didn’t say what happened to her first husband. Anyway, then I met Galen Jones.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Between Norman Highberg and Jacob Leatherman, I have pieced together that he is a maker of replica antiques, that he did some work for Derek, and that he tried to buy Derek’s desk at the auction. I asked him if Derek’s desk was actually a fake, and he declined to answer.”
Dorothy was confused. “Where did you get that idea?”
“It was just a guess, and I won’t even begin to work out what it might imply.”
“As I have said,” Dorothy said, “I think the police should be involved. However, as you have declined, I will admit that I am curious what it all means.”
“Then I will find out and tell you. And, I have a project for Angelo, which I also need to tell you about. Will you be busy again this afternoon with the banquet?”
“I am afraid so. I will be putting out centerpieces and dealing with a catering crisis.”
“What crisis?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m just assuming there will be one.”
“Then, until we meet again,” he said. “Will you be finished by this evening?”
“I should be.”
“Good. Perhaps we could spend it together.”
“Alice? Have we sold anything this morning?
“A Jules Verne. Journey to the Center of the Earth. ”
Charles paused at the basement steps. “It is,” he said. And down he went.
He stopped at the basement door to adjust to a proper attitude.
He crossed the threshold and locked the door behind him.
Without hesitation he went to the specific shelf, the specific, worn, unremarkable spine.
He set it on the desk and pulled on the white gloves. They weren’t necessary-but it wasn’t the book’s fault what had been done to it.
Then he did hesitate.
And finally, when he did open the book, the crimes had not been erased. The book was still murdered and the box was still thrust deep into its ribs.
He pulled the box out.
He opened it again for this the second time. The papers hadn’t dissolved or escaped. They were still there, and he removed them, and smoothed them open on the desk.
Six pages.
The first. The list of codes and dates. GJ, 9/12/05, 2250; EF, 2/5/2003 1800; RM, 4/11/06, 750. There was no order. The page was full, and half the back, with more than fifty entries.
The second. The four checks payable to Karen Liu, dated to her first campaign for Congress. The total was five hundred thousand dollars. They were cashier’s checks with no indication of where the money had come from.
The third. The newspaper article. Man Killed, Police Search County for Wife. It was terrible, but at least brief, written in a small-town style. A grisly scene met police yesterday morning when they were called to a house on Washington Street. A man had been stabbed repeatedly by a large kitchen knife. Police are not yet releasing the name of the victim, but neighbors say it was the owner of the house. Neighbors described a history of arguments and violence at the house, and said there had been many visits from the police during the year and a half the couple had lived in the neighborhood. A neighbor across the street from the house described the couple to this reporter: “They were so in love when they came,” she said. “They were such nice newlyweds. Then over a few months it changed. There was screaming and fighting at all hours.” The wife has not been seen since last night. Police have said the investigation is only getting started. They said they will make a statement after they finish their search of the house.
The fourth paper. This was another article, very short. Drug Bust in Fairfax – Fairfax County police arrested more than a dozen members of an alleged drug importing ring. The early morning raids on five residences were the result of a three-month investigation. Drug-sniffing dogs uncovered over seventy pounds of cocaine hidden in furniture in one apartment.
The fifth. The page was titled at the top, Court Order, Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas, then a typewritten list of names and numbers, Howard Elias Finney, 2445993, plus seven others, and below them, To be released immediately, then signed by Quentin Osley, Judge, and dated. The date was nearly twenty years old. There were several other case numbers and designations on the page.
The sixth paper, and last. It was a cover page of a report. University of Virginia Honor Court Proceedings, 1974. Beneath was a handwritten Page 65.
This last page, the emptiest, he stared at the longest.
Then he wrote a few notes in a small notebook and replaced the papers in the box, and the box in the book, and the book on the shelf.
AFTERNOON
“Morgan.”
“Yes, Mr. Beale?”
“I have a couple little jobs for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The pale face beneath the sandy red hair looked up at him through dense glasses.
“Do you need more sunlight, Morgan?”
“I get sunburn.”
“Do you even get enough air?”
“I’m still breathing, sir.”
“I suppose you are. First, here is an article about some drug arrests. Can you find out when it’s from?” He put the handwritten copy in Morgan’s long, thin fingers.
“Let’s see.” He entered a sentence from the article. “Looks like the Washington Post, March 20th, 2002.”
“Thank you! That was easy.”
“That one was.”
“Hey, boss.”
Charles turned. Angelo stood in the door, ragged and menacing.
“Yes?”
“You want us to go out now?”
“Yes, I’ll be a few minutes. You’ll need to look nice.”
“What is that for drugs and arrests you are doing?”
“It’s not me,” Charles said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down soon.”
“Okay, boss.”
Charles looked back to Morgan. “Here is another article.”
