Bastien.”
“Tell you what,” Mr. Kelly said, his stare still unmoving on Charles. “You want to look at the report?”
“Look at it?”
“Sure. You can’t officially. But I could get you a look, if you wanted.”
“Well… I don’t know…”
Mr. Kelly leaned back, suddenly more relaxed. “Let me take you. It’s no problem.”
“I’m sure you’re too busy.”
“It’s part of my job. Look, you were in his house enough. You knew him. Maybe you might see something in the report. I’m not just doing it to be nice; I think it’s worth an hour because you might help me out.”
“Well. All right,” Charles said. “I would appreciate it.”
“I would, too. Uh…” he was looking through his notebook. “Tomorrow morning. That work for you?”
“I’m sure it would.”
“Hey, boss.”
Even Frank Kelly was startled by the silent appearance.
“Yes, Angelo?”
“You want me to go to somebody on your list this morning?”
“Yes. I’ll talk to you just as soon as I’m finished here.”
Angelo nodded and silently disappeared.
“He works for you?” Mr. Kelly asked.
“Yes. It’s a long story. He’s my courier and night watchman.”
“Courier, huh?”
“It’s not really a necessity. When someone local buys one of the rare books, I send Angelo out to deliver it.”
“Really?” Mr. Kelly was still staring at the empty door. “He ever go to Bastien’s house?”
“I did take him once. Back when I was first training him.”
“So he was at the house?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Actually inside?”
“Yes. I took him in for just a while. Does that mean anything?”
“Huh? Oh, no.” Mr. Kelly seemed distracted, but then he shook it off. “Anyway. So, tomorrow, ten o’clock? D.C. Police headquarters, front lobby.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Charles climbed to the third floor and knocked on the closed door.
Angelo opened it. His expression was a closed door.
“Let’s pick which agent you should visit this morning,” Charles said. He held up the list. “These two are close together.”
“You want me to go to those two?”
“Yes. Do those. You’ll have to take the Metro all the way to Maryland.
Can you get there?”
“I can get there. Hey, boss.”
“Yes?”
“That man,” Angelo said. “He came out the door.”
“Mr. Kelly? Where?”
“The auction door. He saw me waiting.”
“He was at the auction,” Charles said. “He’s trying to find who stole things from Derek Bastien’s house.”
“He’s police?”
“FBI. It’s like police.”
“They are all the same,” Angelo said. “What things were stolen?”
“Antiques. Little statues and things.”
“Oh. I remember. I see little things like that in people’s houses. Who wants those?”
“The people that have them.”
Apparently Angelo was feeling talkative. “To sell a thing like that, that’s not easy.”
“Exactly. It is Mr. Kelly’s special job to find them. Angelo, if you had stolen things like that, would you know how to sell them?”
“Who says I was stealing those things?”
“No one. I just wondered.”
“I don’t steal those things.”
“I know. Would you know how to sell them if you did?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“All right. I’m sorry. Never mind. I’ll be in the basement for the morning if you need me before you leave.”
AFTERNOON
Only the desk lamp was on. The computer was off. As still as the books, Charles leaned over the desk and just his eyes moved, and every few minutes his gloved hand as it turned a page with a silver spatula.
“There you are,” Dorothy said. “You’ve been down here for hours.”
“Time is much slower down here,” he said. “It’s like a horse pulling a cart. The books are so heavy they hold it back.”
“What are you reading?”
“Chekhov. And I think he must have been reading me.”
“There is someone here to see you.”
“Then the further study of human nature will have to wait.”
“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “It’s Patrick White.”
“Then let’s go up to say hello.”
“Mr. White.”
“Hello.”
There was nothing eerie about him in the noon sunlight. The fever brightness in the eyes was veiled and the voice calm.
“I’m so glad to see you again,” Charles said.
“You suggested lunch,” Mr. White said.
“Lunch? Oh, yes. Of course. I’d be glad to.”
“Let’s go.”
“Well-of course-I’ll be right with you. Just a moment.” He turned to Dorothy. “I’ll be out for lunch.”
“And perhaps we would do coffee afterwards?”
“Surely,” he said.
Charles moved to the door, but Mr. White was suddenly not in a hurry.
“Did you have any place in mind?” Charles asked. The man did not budge.
“No.”
Charles waited. “Is there anything you’d like to look at first?”
“No.” Whatever he was looking at, it was not in the room. But then he snapped into the moment. “You pick someplace.”
“Just down the street,” Charles said, and Patrick White passed through the door with him.
Ten minutes later Mr. White spoke again, his first words since they had left the bookshop.
“Ham sandwich and coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress answered, and departed.
“What did you really know about Derek Bastien?” Patrick White said to Charles, and the conversation lurched
