CHAPTER 27
AS JERRY BAGGER was being driven through Washington he passed by the Justice Department building. On noticing this, he immediately gave the finger to the entire federal agency.
“Talk about a great place for a nuclear strike. And maybe they could take out the FBI at the same time. I mean lawyers and cops, who needs ’em? Not me.” He looked at one of his men. “Mike, you need ’em?”
“No, sir, Mr. Bagger.”
“Good thinking.”
Bagger had received a more detailed report from his PI after arriving in D.C.; that’s why he was now climbing out of the car and walking into a library. It wasn’t any library; it was, for many erudite folks, the library: the Library of Congress.
His men made some inquiries, and two minutes later Bagger and his entourage walked into the rare book reading room where the late Jonathan DeHaven, who was also Annabelle’s ex-husband, had once been director. It was also where Caleb Shaw currently worked. The man himself came out of the vaults as Bagger walked in.
To his credit Caleb did not start vomiting on recognizing Bagger from the picture Milton had shown him, although his gurgling stomach made that a clear possibility. Instead, he simply stood there as a smile spread across his face. He had no idea why he was smiling. With a sudden pang of horror he thought it might actually be a first step in his becoming hysterical. He had to do something and fast.
“Can I help you?” he said, walking over to the group of big young men in dark suits surrounding the very fit, sixty-six-year-old, broad-shouldered, white-haired and deeply tanned Bagger, with his broken nose and hideous scar running down one cheek.
He looked like a pirate, Caleb thought.
“I hope so,” Bagger began politely. “This is the rare book thing here?” He looked around.
“The rare book reading room, yes.”
“So how rare are the books in this place?”
“Very, and it’s not just books, we have codex manuscripts, incunabula, broadsheets, a Gutenberg Bible, a copy of the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson’s personal library and many other fine works. Some of them the only one of their kind in the world. Literally one of one.”
“Yeah?” Bagger said, clearly not impressed. “Well, I got something even rarer than that.”
“Really, what is it?” Caleb inquired.
“The book that I read,” Bagger said. “Because that’s zero of zero.” He laughed and so did his men. Caleb chuckled politely even as he clutched the back of a chair to steady himself.
Bagger put an arm around Caleb’s shoulders. “You look like a guy who can help me. What’s your name?”
Caleb desperately tried to think of an alias, but all that came out was, “Caleb Shaw.”
“Caleb? Whoa, you don’t hear that one every day. You Amish or something?”
“No, I’m a Republican,” Caleb said in a small voice as Bagger’s muscular arm cinched tighter around him. Is this the same arm that killed all those people?
“Okay, Mr. Republican, is there someplace we can talk in private? I mean, this is a big building. Must be someplace we can do a little mano a mano.”
Caleb had feared something like this. At least in the reading room there were potential witnesses around, if only to see him being hacked to death by the mobster.
“I, uh, I’m quite busy right now.” Bagger’s arm instantly tightened even more around him. “But I can certainly spare you a few minutes.”
Caleb led them to a small office down the hall from the reading room.
“Sit,” Bagger ordered Caleb, and he quickly sat in the only chair in the room. “Okay, now, I understand that the guy who used to run this place got whacked.”
“The director of the Rare Book and Special Collections Division was killed, that’s correct.”
“Jonathan DeHaven?”
“That’s right.” Caleb added in a low voice, “He was murdered. Right in this very building.”
“Wow,” Bagger said as he eyed his men. “In a freaking library. I mean, is this world we live in violent or what?” He turned back to Caleb. “Thing is, I got a friend who knew this DeHaven character. She was actually married to him at some point.”
“Really? I never knew Jonathan was married.” Caleb managed to tell this lie quite capably.
“Well he was. Kind of short-lived, though. I mean he was a book geek. No offense. And the woman, well, the woman wasn’t. She was sort of like a, how do you say-”
“A tornado and a hurricane all wrapped into one?” Caleb offered.
Bagger shot him a suspicious glance. “Yeah, what makes you say that?”
Realizing he had come dangerously close to giving Bagger adequate reason to torture him for further information, Caleb said smoothly, “I was married once too, and my wife left me after only four months. She was a hurricane and a tornado and, like you said, I’m a book geek.” It was stunning how easily lying came to him.
“Right, right, you get the picture. Anyway, I haven’t seen the woman in a long time and wanted to catch up with her. So it occurred to me that she might have heard about her ex’s death and come for the funeral.” He looked expectantly at Caleb.
“Well, I went to the service but I didn’t notice anyone I didn’t know. What does this woman look like and what’s her name?”
“Tall, nice curves, a real looker. Little scar under her right eye. Hair color and style depends on the day of the week, you know what I mean? Her name is Annabelle Conroy, but that also depends on the day of the week.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell at all.” The name clearly didn’t, since Caleb only knew Annabelle by the name Susan Hunter, but the physical description was certainly dead-on. “I’m sure I would have noticed someone like that. Most of the people at the funeral were pretty average-looking. You know, like me.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Bagger grumbled. He snapped his fingers and one of his men produced a card that Bagger handed to Caleb. “You remember something useful, call me. I pay well. I mean really well. Five figures.”
Caleb’s eyes widened as he clutched the card. “You must really want to find her.”
“Oh, you got no idea how bad, Mr. Republican.”
CHAPTER 28
HARRY FINN QUIETLY ENTERED the room, sat down in the chair and stared at her. The woman looked back at him, or through him, Finn was never sure. She had once spoken fluent English without a trace of any accent. But the multilingual lady had, perhaps out of growing paranoia, decided to mash four languages into one, creating a confusing amalgam of chaotic communication. He didn’t quite know how, but Finn managed to understand it. She would have accepted nothing less from him.
She muttered in his direction and he answered her blunt greeting in a few words. This seemed to please her, because she nodded appreciatively, a smile edging across her fallen cheeks. Actually she had known that he was here before Finn had even entered the room. She had explained this before as having felt his presence. He had a particular aura, she’d told him; a pleasant one, but distinctive. As a man who did not like to leave any trace of himself anywhere, this bothered Finn greatly. Yet how did one wipe away his aura?
As a child he remembered his mother’s tall, strong body with the hands of a pianist. Now she was shrunken, withered. He studied her face. It had once held a rare, fragile beauty, a loveliness that growing up he had always associated with the most beautiful of daylilies. This was because when he was a child, at night, the beauty receded and she became moody and sometimes violent; never against him, but against herself. And then Finn would have to step in and take charge. As early as age seven he had done this. The experience had made him grow up quickly, faster than he should have. Now the beauty was gone from her face, the body collapsed, the once lovely hands scarred and wrinkled in her lap. She was only in her early seventies and yet looked more than ready for the grave.