“Yes. Dad also told Tucker some kind of book club owns it.”
“Was your father in the book club?”
He shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know yet.”
“If your father was a member of the book club, it sounds to me as if he had a secret life.”
He nodded grimly. “Just like your husband’s.”
She leaned forward. “You want to find out what your father was doing and who’s behind his death.”
“Damn right I do.” Anger flashed across his face.
“Why didn’t Tucker tell me any of this?”
“You didn’t have need-to-know, and we thought your assignment would be simple.”
“Both of us have personal reasons to find the library, but this is on a whole different level. So much bigger.”
“It is personal for both of us.” He set down his glass, put his hand into his jacket pocket, and slid her gold wedding band and necklace across the table. “I thought you might want these back.”
Staring at them, she moved her hands away from her cup and dropped them into her lap. “I don’t need them anymore. That was another life. Another person.”
He studied her. Then he scooped up the jewelry and returned it to his pocket. “Tell me about Charles and the car crash.”
“He was driving us home on Mulholland after a dinner party, and-” She stopped. In her mind she went back over the trip-Charles’s carefree laughter, his playful weaving of the car back and forth across the deserted road… She told Ryder about it. Then: “A car shot out from a driveway ahead, and Charles slammed on the brakes. Our car careened. I was nauseated and dizzy. And I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a gurney.” She hesitated. “Charles must’ve given me some kind of drug. Later the coroner found his wedding ring on the corpse, and the corpse’s teeth matched Charles’s dental records.”
“That shows a lot of planning, money, and dirty resources. Could Charles have pulled it off alone?”
“No way. He was an academic. Someone had to have helped him.”
“Who?”
She mulled. “I don’t know anyone who could have.”
“Where do you think he’s been?”
“God knows. He’s got a good tan, so it’s someplace sunny.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“Dedicated. Our world’s small. Only a few thousand people are well-educated about illuminated manuscripts. Maybe a hundred are true experts. Most of us know one another in varying degrees. I suppose to outsiders we seem peculiar. We play card games from Greek and Roman times, and we have our own trivia contests. Our conversations can seem funny-we use Latin and Greek, for instance. Charles was considered by some to be the top authority on the Library of Gold. He was immersed in it, lived it, ached for it, and that’s why he was so knowledgeable. It would’ve been hard for him to live with anyone who couldn’t appreciate that in him.”
“And you did?”
“Yes. It made sense to me.”
He nodded. “Could his disappearance have been related to the library?”
“He was working awfully long hours before the car crash. He might’ve had some insight or uncovered something and felt he needed to disappear so no one would be tipped off while he closed in.”
She followed Ryder’s gaze as he surveyed the old pub. The polished brass fixtures glinted. A few customers had left; a few more had entered.
“I shot about an hour of video of the people around The Book of Spies,” he told her. “If there’s a cyber café open at this hour, we can look at it together.”
She pulled her satchel to her. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I have my laptop with me.”
They moved around the U-shaped banquette so they were sitting next to each other. As she put her computer on the table and turned it on, he produced a palm-size video camera, USB cord, and software disk from his jacket pockets.
Within minutes they were viewing the exhibition. Ryder fast-forwarded until Charles appeared. She pointed out Charles’s striking walk, described the changes he had made in his appearance, and identified the other people she recognized. But Charles spoke to no one, and no one spoke to Charles. And at no time did she see Charles make eye contact with anyone.
“That’s interesting,” Ryder murmured. He stopped the film and replayed it in several places. Although earlier he had been recording from a distance, he now was shooting close to the exhibit. “Look at how Charles is inching around the display case. Check out his right hand.”
She focused on the hand. Charles was holding it near his waist, cupped casually. The hand rose and fell as he moved, and his thumb twitched.
She stared. “Is he secretly photographing The Book of Spies?”
“Appears to be. But why? The addiction of a wacko bibliomaniac?”
“Or it could have something to do with the Library of Gold-but what?”
“My question, too.” He checked his watch. “It’s late. We should go. You’re staying with your friend Peggy Doty.” He frowned. “Would Charles know that?”
Her throat went dry. She grabbed her cell and dialed.
At last there was a sleepy answer. “Hello?”
“Peggy, it’s Eva again. You’ve got to get out of there. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw Charles tonight at the museum.”
Peggy’s voice was suddenly alert. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw Charles at the show. He’s as alive as you or me.”
“That’s crazy. Charles is dead, dear. Remember, you thought you saw him before. He’s dead. Come home. We’ll talk about it.”
Eva tightened her grip on the cell phone. “Charles tried to kill me. He knows I stay with you. You could be in danger. You’ve got to leave. Go to a hotel, and I’ll meet you. Even if you don’t believe me, just do this for me, Peggy.”
When they decided on the Chelsea Arms, Peggy volunteered, “I’ll make the room reservation for us.”
Suddenly exhausted, Eva agreed and ended the connection.
Ryder drained his glass. “I’ll have Tucker check into the identity of the man in Charles’s grave and give you a status report in the morning.” He related his mobile number and where he was staying.
They stood. As she slung her valise over her shoulder, he dropped his camera equipment into his jacket pockets and shoved his arms into his peacoat. Heading for the door, they skirted the drinkers at the bar and stepped out into the night. Glistening drops of rain floated in the lamplight.
“Will you be all right?” He hailed a taxi for her.
“I’ll be a lot better once we’ve found Charles.”
As a cab stopped at the curb, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Get a good night’s sleep.” Then to the taximan: “The Chelsea Arms.”
She climbed in. As the cab cruised off, she turned in her seat to watch what Ryder would do. He was walking in the opposite direction. Pulling out his electronic reader, he seemed to be studying it. Finally he lifted his head and caught a taxi for himself. Glancing at the bug reader again, he climbed inside.
Suspicion flooded her. She leaned forward. “I’ve changed my mind. Turn around. Take me to the Méridien hotel on Piccadilly.”
13
CHARLES SHERBACK knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped off the Citroën at the car rental agency and caught a taxi, his mind in tumult. Ovid was right: Res est ingeniosa dare. “Giving requires good sense.” And he had not simply ‘given’; he had sacrificed for Eva. In fact, he had risked a great deal for her.
As the windshield wiper slashed across the glass, he stared out unseeing at the rainy London night. She was supposed to be in prison. How could she have been at the British Museum show? And now he had failed to eliminate her.
“We’re here, guv’nor.” The taxi driver peered into his rearview mirror. He had white hair, a sagging face, and tired eyes that thankfully remained bored.