“Jacob,” Charles said. “I need to go out for a while. If you could just watch and help them pack.”
“What are you doing, Charles?” Jacob looked at him suspiciously.
“Just some business.”
“What business?”
“Doing what I know I have to do.”
Jacob searched him with a single glance.
“Then I’ll take care of this.”
Charles returned to his quick pace. He took a smart left onto King Street and crossed to Market Square. The crowds were thicker than the day before, with brisk-moving suited office workers squeezing between slow tourists. Most of the benches were empty and Charles picked a solitary one. He took Morgan’s telephone from his pocket, and a business card, and pushed the little buttons.
“Frank Kelly.”
“Mr. Kelly. This is Charles Beale.”
“Oh, hey. What can I do for you?”
“I need your help.”
“Sure. What?”
“Mr. Kelly, this is about Derek Bastien, and it’s a very long story. I just have one question, though. When we talked about Derek’s desk, you called it a Honaker.”
“Um, yeah. I think that’s right.”
“Who told you that it was?”
“Somebody. Let me think. Why do you want to know?”
“It’s part of the long story.”
“Go ahead,” Frank Kelly said. “I like stories.”
“Do you remember the auction where it was sold? Two people tried to buy it. One of them hired a man from New York as an agent. I’ve spoken to Edmund Cane, that agent, and he called the desk a Honaker, too.” The little telephone was awkward to hold, and Charles switched it to his other ear. “No one else so far has known that detail about the desk. Whoever told you might be the person who also told Mr. Cane. I need to find that person.”
“Okay, just a minute. I’m looking at my notes. So is it something to do with the burglary?”
“It might be.”
“Should you be talking to Harry Watts over in D.C. Homicide?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not really sure.”
“Okay, here it is. Right after the burglary in November. Interview with Norman Highberg.”
“Norman,” Charles said. “You’re sure?”
“It’s right here. Okay, Mr. Beale, I feel like I need to know more about this long story.”
“Would you like to meet?” Charles said.
“I could come right over. Are you at your place?”
Charles sighed. “No. We had a fire last night.”
“A fire!? Oh, man, I hope it wasn’t bad. What happened?”
“It was very bad. The building was destroyed.”
The telephone gasped. “All the way? What? Everything?”
“The basement survived, where the rare books were. That was very fortunate.”
“So, wait. I mean…” Mr. Kelly struggled for words. “Was anybody hurt?”
“Yes. The man who set the fire was killed.”
“Oh, man! Oh, man. Right in the store? I don’t know what to say. Are you all right?”
“Yes, all of us are all right.”
“That’s such a great place! Oh, I’m really sorry.” And then Mr. Kelly’s investigative mind finally caught up. “Hey, what, is there something up? It doesn’t have anything to do with Bastien, does it?” A longer pause and a grimmer voice. “Where was your night guy?”
“He’s all right. He was there, but he’s all right.”
“Mr. Beale, we need to talk, and we need Watts in on this. Who’s covering it in Alexandria?”
“It’s a Detective Mondelli.”
“Okay, never heard of him, but we need him, too. Look, I’ve been getting some stuff up on your Acevedo guy, and I think I need to start moving.”
“Mr. Kelly,” Charles said. “There’s a lot more to say and many more questions. Could you meet me at Norman Highberg’s shop in Georgetown? I think we can find our answers there.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Give me a little while to get there,” Charles said.
Charles took his time. He walked the familiar length of King Street, looking in windows and watching people, but never stopping. He rode the escalator to the Metro platform with the usual dozens of other people and waited until the doors whooshed open. He chose a seat and watched Alexandria accelerate away.
The ride was uneventful. He took the Blue Line past the airport and under the Pentagon, through Arlington and finally under the river to Georgetown, a familiar and comfortable course, and very finally left the Metro behind beneath the Georgetown streets. And then he was on the streets, which were very busy and crowded. He walked the blocks he needed to, passing the storefronts and so many people. At one last door he paused, and walked in.
“Is Mr. Highberg here?”
“Charles.” Norman had his finger on his nose, pushing up his glasses. “You want to just move in here? You’ve been up here all the time. Don’t tell me you have more of your questions.”
“No, I don’t have questions.”
The little telephone in his pocket made a funny sound. When he looked, it showed his home telephone number. He closed it and it stopped ringing.
“So you’re just browsing?” Norman said. “Maybe now that you have that chess set, you might want to look at some other things.” When Charles didn’t answer, he said, “Are you waiting for something?”
“For someone.” But then they weren’t waiting, as Frank Kelly stood in the door. “Norman, you know Mr. Kelly, of the FBI?”
Norman squinted at the silhouette. “Yeah, sure. Hi. What do you want? Did something get stolen or did something get found? It’s always one of those, right?”
“Mr. Highberg,” Frank Kelly said. “Do you have a room we can talk in? Just us three.”
“I got all kinds of rooms. Come on up.”
He led them away from the light through the sparkling windows and all within that sparkled in the light, upstairs and through a dusty corridor and into a room. It was a stockroom with unpacked empty boxes and unopened full boxes and a bench and packing litter and chairs.
“So, what do you want?” Norman asked. “You don’t look happy, Charles. Usually you look a lot better.”
Charles looked at Mr. Kelly. “How shall we do this?”
“Okay, this isn’t very good,” Mr. Kelly said. “I’m not sure if I have jurisdiction or what, yet, or whether I need to get Harry Watts. Do this. I just won’t be here officially. You say what you know, and I’ll figure it out as we go along.”
“Well.” Charles rubbed his eyes; they were red and weary. “Mr. Kelly, I’ll tell you my story now, and you’ll see how the burglaries are part of it. I’m very tired and I’ll try to make it short.”
“What are you talking about?” Norman Highberg said.
“Just listen,” Frank Kelly answered.
“Derek Bastien was a blackmailer,” Charles said. “He kept papers on people he worked with. He manipulated these people with threats, and fooled them into thinking it was his boss, John Borchard, who was doing it.”
“Borchard?” Frank had his notebook out. “He’s the one-”
“Yes, he was the one this morning.”
“I read the police report after you called.”
Charles went on. “One of the people Derek was blackmailing was a judge, Patrick White.”
“White?” Frank put his notebook down. “He’s the one-”
“Yes, who died Tuesday. Do you know the rest of his story?”
