The Collectors

“I’ll tell you when you need to know. And right now you don’t need to know.”

Leo sat down on the bed. “I’m not the CIA. I’m a con. I don’t trust anybody.” He eyed her bag. “And if you don’t want to tell me, then I’m not going wherever the hell it is you’re going.”

“You knew the deal going in, Leo. You quit now, you get zip. Two shorts and a long. That was the arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, part of the deal wasn’t babysitting some punk who almost landed us in prison either, so maybe we need to renegotiate the deal, lady.”

She stared at him contemptuously. “What, you’re shaking me down after all these years? I gave you the best action you’ve ever had.”

“I don’t want more money. I want the long con. Or I’m not going!”

Annabelle stopped packing while she considered this. “If I tell you where we’re going, will that be good enough?”

“Depends on where it is.”

“Atlantic City.”

All the blood seemed to drain from Leo’s face. “Are you out of your damn mind? What, the last time wasn’t bad enough?”

“That was a long time ago, Leo.”

He snapped, “It’ll never be long ago enough for me! Why don’t we do something easier like hitting the mob?”

“At-lan-tic Ci-ty,” she hissed, forming five words out of two.

“Why, because of your old man?”

She didn’t answer him.

Leo stood and pointed a finger at her. “You’re certifiable, Annabelle. If you think I’m walking into that hellhole with you again because you got something to prove, you don’t know Leo Richter.”

“The plane leaves at seven a.m.”

Leo stood there nervously, watching her pack, for a couple more minutes.

“Are we at least flying first-class?” he finally said.

“Yes. Why?”

“Because if it’s my last flight, I’d like to go out in style.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Leo.”

He walked out the door while Annabelle kept right on packing.

CHAPTER 12

CALEB SHAW WAS IN THE RARE Books reading room working. There were several patron requests to see some material from the Rosenwald Vault; that required a supervisor’s approval. Then he spent a good deal of time on the phone consulting with a university professor writing a book on Jefferson’s private library, which he sold to the nation after the British had burned the city during the War of 1812, forming the basis for the present-day Library of Congress. After that, Jewell English, an elderly woman and a regular in the reading room, asked to see an issue of Beadle’s Dime Novels. She was very interested in the Beadles series and had a nice collection, she’d told Caleb. A slender woman with powdery white hair and a ready smile, Caleb assumed she was also lonely. Her husband had died ten years ago, she’d confided in Caleb, and her family was scattered around the country. It was for this reason he engaged her in conversation whenever she came in.

“You’re fortunate indeed, Jewell,” Caleb said. “It just came back from the conservation department. It needed some TLC.” He retrieved the book, chatted with her for a few minutes over the untimely death of Jonathan DeHaven and then returned to his desk. He watched for a few moments as the elderly woman slowly put on her thick glasses and looked through the old volume, copying down notes on a few pieces of paper she’d brought with her. For obvious reasons only pencils and loose-leaf paper were allowed in here, and patrons had to allow their bags to be checked before they left the room.

As the door of the reading room opened, Caleb glanced over at the woman entering. She was from the administrative department. He rose to greet her.

“Hi, Caleb, I’ve got a note here for you from Kevin.”

Kevin Philips was the acting director, having taken DeHaven’s place after his death.

“Kevin? Why didn’t he just call or e-mail?”

“I think he tried, but either the line was busy or you didn’t answer. And for some reason he didn’t want to e- mail.”

“Well, I have been pretty busy today.”

“I think it’s fairly urgent.” She handed him the envelope and left. Caleb carried it back to his desk and promptly tripped over the bent-up edge of his chair mat, knocked his glasses off his desk and then accidentally stepped on them, crunching the lenses.

“Oh, good grief, how clumsy can I get.” He looked down at the envelope as he picked up his destroyed spectacles. Well, he couldn’t read it now. Without his glasses he couldn’t read a damn thing. And it was urgent, the woman had said.

“You’ve tripped over that mat several times before, Caleb,” Jewell reminded him helpfully.

“Thanks for the observation,” he said between clenched teeth. He suddenly looked over at her. “Jewell, can I borrow your glasses for a minute so I can read this note?”