“Please, just call me CB.” They shook hands. Behan looked around the room. “I didn’t even know this place existed. You should advertise better.”
“We could do a better job of public awareness,” Caleb conceded. “But with shrinking budgets it’s hard to find the money.”
“Trust me, I know all about government pecuniary shortfalls.”
“Well, you’ve done very well dealing with Washington,” Caleb commented, and then instantly regretted having said it as Behan looked at him with heightened scrutiny.
“It was a nice funeral,” Behan said, abruptly changing the subject. “As far as funerals can be nice, of course.”
“Yes, it was. It was good meeting your wife.”
“Right. Anyway, I was downtown meeting with some folks on the Hill and thought I’d drop by. All this time I was Jonathan’s neighbor, and never once have I seen where he worked.”
“Well, better late than never.”
“I guess Jonathan really loved his work here?”
“He did. Always the first one in.”
“Lots of friends here. I’m sure everyone liked him.” He looked at Caleb questioningly.
“I think Jonathan got along well with everyone here.”
“I understand you were at Jonathan’s house last night with a woman?”
Caleb took this second abrupt change in subject in stride. “You should’ve come by if you saw us.”
“I was busy.”
“But some of my people saw you, they keep a tight lookout. So, this woman?”
“She’s an expert in rare books. I had her come by to take a look at some of Jonathan’s holdings as part of the appraisal process.” Caleb was very proud of himself for coming up with that lie so quickly.
“So what’ll happen to Jonathan’s house?”
“I’m assuming it’ll be sold. I’m not really involved in that part at all.”
“I was thinking about buying the place and turning it into a guesthouse.”
“Yours isn’t big enough?” Caleb blurted out without really thinking.
Thankfully, Behan laughed. “Yeah, I know. You’d think it would be, but we have lots of guests. I thought you might have an inside track on what they’re going to do with it. Maybe you’ve looked all through the place,” he added in a casual tone.
“No. I’ve just confined myself to the vault.”
Behan studied Caleb closely for a long moment. “I’ll just call the lawyers then, let them earn their money.” He hesitated and added, “So can you give me a tour of the place while I’m here? You keep really rare books here, I understand.”
“Hence the name Rare Books reading room.” Caleb had a sudden thought. It was against certain library protocols, but what the hell, it could be important in finding out who killed Jonathan. He said, “Would you like to go into the vaults?”
“Yes,” Behan said almost too quickly.
Caleb gave him the standard tour, which he ended near the spot where Jonathan DeHaven had been killed. Was it Caleb’s imagination, or did Behan’s gaze linger just a beat too long on the fire suppressant gas nozzle sticking out of the wall. His suspicion was confirmed when Behan pointed at it.
“What’s that?”
Caleb explained about the system. “We’re actually going to replace the gas we use with another one that’s more ozone-friendly.”
Behan nodded. “Well, thanks for the tour.”
After Behan had left, Caleb called Stone and told him about this encounter.
Stone remarked, “His roundabout way of asking if Jonathan had any enemies is very curious unless he’s looking into the possibility of pinning the murder on someone else. And the fact that he wanted to know if you’ve looked
After he had hung up with Stone, Caleb picked up the book he’d brought from DeHaven’s vault and walked through a series of underground tunnels to the Madison Building where the Conservation and Preservation Division was located. The division was split into two large rooms, one for books and the other for everything else. Here almost one hundred conservators labored at restoring rare and not-so-rare items to better condition. Caleb went into the book room and headed to a table where a thin man wearing a green apron was carefully turning the pages of an incunabulum work from Germany. Around him was an assortment of tools, ranging from ultrasonic welders and Teflon spatulas to old-fashioned manual screw presses and X-acto knives.
“Hello, Monty,” Caleb said.
Monty Chambers looked up from behind thick black glasses and rubbed his bald head with a gloved hand. He was clean-shaven and had a weak chin that seemed to melt into his face. He didn’t speak but merely nodded at Caleb. Well into his sixties now, Monty had been the library’s top book conservator for decades. He was given all the toughest assignments and had never failed to get the job done. It was said that he could coax even the most damaged and neglected books back to life. He was prized for the dexterity and sensitivity of his hands, his
