The Collectors

Technologies, the country’s third largest defense contractor.”

Behan smiled. “Soon to be number one if I get my way, and I usually do.”

“Well, Mr. Behan,” Caleb began.

“Call me CB, everybody does.” He took a step forward and glanced around the room. “So this is DeHaven’s book collection.”

“You knew Jonathan?” Caleb asked.

“I wouldn’t call us friends, really. I had him over for one or two holiday parties. I knew he worked at the library and that he collected books. We’d occasionally pass each other on the street and chitchat. I was very stunned to hear of his death.”

“As we all were,” Caleb added somberly.

“So you’re his literary executor, you said,” Behan noted. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve been given the task of cataloging and appraising the collection and then selling it.”

“Anything good in here?” Behan asked.

“Are you a collector?” Stone inquired.

“Oh, I’ve been known to collect a good many things,” he answered vaguely.

“Well, it is a very good collection. It will be put up for auction,” Caleb explained. “At least the most prominent parts of it will be.”

“Right,” Behan said absently. “Any new developments on Jonathan’s death?”

Caleb shook his head. “So far it appears to be a heart attack.”

“And he seemed so healthy. I guess that’s a good reason to give it all we’ve got every day, because tomorrow . . . ?” He wheeled around and marched out, his men scurrying along in his wake.

As the sounds of the footsteps faded, Stone turned to Caleb. “Very considerate of him to come and check on the house of a man he occasionally chitchatted with.”

“He was his neighbor, Oliver,” Caleb pointed out. “He’s naturally concerned.”

“I didn’t like him,” Milton said. “He builds things that kill people.”

“Lots of people,” Reuben added. “In my book old CB’s a shifty little peckerhead.”

They spent hours going over the books and other articles until Caleb had a fairly complete list. Milton inputted these onto his laptop computer.

“Now what?” Milton asked as they closed the last book.

“Ordinarily, you’d bring in an appraiser from Sotheby’s or Christie’s,” Caleb answered. “But I have someone else in mind. And in my opinion he’s the best there is in the rare book field. And I want to find out if he knew that Jonathan had the Psalm Book.”

“Is he in New York?” Stone asked.

“No, right here in D.C. Maybe twenty minutes by car.”

“Who is it?” Reuben asked.

“Vincent Pearl.”

Stone checked his watch. “We’ll have to see him tomorrow, then. It’s already eleven o’clock.”

Caleb shook his head. “Oh, no, now is perfect. Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop is only open at night.”

CHAPTER 14

AS THE CAMEL CLUB LEFT DEHaven’s home, two pairs of binoculars were trained on them. One was from an upper window of a house across from DeHaven’s and another held by a man in the back of a van parked down the street that had stenciled on its side “D.C. Public Works.”

When the motorcycle and Nova drove off, the van followed.

After the vehicles had disappeared, the pair of binoculars in the upper window of the house on Good Fellow Street continued to scan the area.

As Caleb predicted, it took twenty minutes to get to Vincent Pearl’s rare book shop. There was no name on the storefront, only a sign that read “Hours 8 PM to Midnight, Monday to Saturday.” Caleb marched up to the door and rang the bell.

Reuben looked around at the stout door and barred window. “I take it he’s not into advertising.”

“Anyone serious about book collecting knows exactly where to find Vincent Pearl,” Caleb replied matter-of- factly.

“You know him well?” Stone asked.

“Oh, no. I hardly operate at the level of a Vincent Pearl. In fact, in the last ten years I’ve only met him personally twice, both times here at his shop. I’ve heard him lecture before, though. He’s quite unforgettable.”

The lighted dome of the Capitol was visible to the west. The neighborhood they were in was lined with ancient moss-covered brick and stone row houses and other dwellings that had once been a focal point of the burgeoning capital city.

“You sure he’s here?” Milton asked just as a deep voice said in a demanding tone, “Who is it?”

Milton jumped, but Caleb spoke into a small loudspeaker barely visible under a strand of twisted ivy next to the