“I wouldn’t trust McBride with my laundry ticket. Really now, Detective, we must have the fingerprints.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t have ’em with me.”
“Mind if we search you?”
“Be my guest,” said Franciscus, raising his arms to either side and turning a circle. “But the lottery ticket’s mine. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“Take off your jacket and trousers.”
“It’s not going to help you.”
“Just do it,” said Guilfoyle.
Franciscus handed Guilfoyle his jacket and trousers, and watched as he went through them, turning out the pockets, patting the lapels, feeling the seams. Guilfoyle was doing all the work, but it was Franciscus who felt the energy seeping out of him. A few times, he’d fought off nausea spells, noticed his vision getting fuzzy at the periphery. Guilfoyle picked his wallet up from a milking stool and looked through it. He took out the money, then the credit cards, then the scraps of this and that that Franciscus had at one time or another deemed important enough to hold on to. Finished, Guilfoyle replaced the wallet on the stool, beside his credit cards, his badge, and his police ID. “I need the fingerprints, Detective. Now.”
“That I can imagine,” said Franciscus. “Those prints were all over the gun that killed Officers Shepherd and O’Neill, and David Bernstein.”
Guilfoyle ran a hand over his chin. Suddenly, he turned his attention back to the stool where Franciscus had set his wallet and his badge. Knocking both aside, he snatched up Franciscus’s ID holder, flipped it open, and wedged his thumb behind the photograph. He sighed, then dropped the case on the floor.
“Detective Franciscus… you know what you’ve stumbled into. Mr. Jacklin’s an important man. I confess that I have an interest in those prints, too. There’s no reason we can’t release you if you simply hand them over. We live in a world of evidence, not hearsay. I know your kind. You don’t go tilting at windmills. You’re like me. A realist. Give me those prints and you’re a free man. I’ll have one of my associates give you a ride to the airport. You have my word.”
Franciscus stared at him with disgust. “Too bad you left the force. You’re very persuasive. Very smooth.”
“The prints, Detective. You may either give them to me, or tell me where they can be found.”
Franciscus shook his head. “I don’t make deals with scumbags. You killed Theo Kovacs. Maybe you had a hand in taking care of Shepherd and O’Neill, too. You tried to knock off Bolden and ended up shooting his girlfriend instead. You made a mess on my turf, and I’m going to see to it that you do some time for it.”
That was it. Franciscus had spoken his piece. He’d expected it to resonate more. But in the cold, barren stable, his words ended up sounding flat and powerless. Standing there barefoot, bare-chested, and shivering, he felt stupid. Worse, he felt defeated.
“I’ve got a dinner to go to,” said Guilfoyle, after he’d summoned his security men back into the shack. “Boys, do your best to make the detective a little more talkative.”
Dinner was served inside a large tent erected on the tennis court. White trellises laced with live bougainvillea decorated the walls. A parquet floor had been laid. Tall space heaters stood rooted like trees between the tables. A stage rose at the far side of the tent. The orchestra played an upbeat number with verve and brio.
The first course had been cleared. Jacklin wandered between tables, making the rounds. He spotted Guy de Valmont at the bar and went to speak with him.
“Well, J. J., are you happy?” asked de Valmont. “Full house despite the lousy weather. I’d say it’s a home run.”
Jacklin surveyed his assembled guests. “Never seen ’em so relaxed. Remind me to have all our fund-raisers at my home.”
“They’re all here. Every last one of them showed up.” De Valmont looked around the room, calling the names as he saw them. “The boys from Armonk, Jerry Gilbert from Grosse Pointe, the Brahmins from Harvard Endowment…”
“Even that shrew from Calpers made it,” whispered Jacklin. “You know it’s a hot ticket if the liberals from California start showing up.”
“I’ve already got a commitment for another two hundred million from GM,” de Valmont reported. “It’s going to be a good night.”
Jacklin beamed. “The President’s agreed to introduce Frances Tavistock. That should net us another half a billion.”
“Have you made it official with President Ramser about coming aboard?”
“Decorum, Guy. Decorum. It’ll look a little nicer if he waits a year, does the lecture circuit. Remember, it doesn’t do to hurry.” Jacklin clapped an arm around de Valmont and squeezed his shoulders. The defeats of that afternoon were as fleeting as gunsmoke. “Ten billion. We’re almost there.”
The music faded as Jenny made her way upstairs. A Secret Service agent stood next to the banister at the top of the stairs. The President was due any minute. Jenny motioned toward the ladies’ room. A nod of the head granted her free passage.
The hall was narrow and brightly lit, a runner of sky blue carpeting over a wood plank floor. Jenny passed the bathroom and opened the door next to it. The Long Room was dark, shadows from the rustling branches flitting across the floor. She closed the door behind her and waited a moment. Ghosts. She could feel them hiding in the corners, watching. There was Lincoln’s Bible and Hamilton’s hair and a splinter from Washington’s coffin. The relics of saints.
They met at midnight. A prayer was said first…
Jenny turned on the overhead light. The similarity to the real Long Room was eerie. But why copy it? she asked herself as she crept across the floor. Was it a history buff’s nostalgia fix? Or was there another reason? Besides the table that ran down the center of the room, the furniture consisted of a low dresser, a desk, and a glass-fronted armoire. She opened every drawer, tried every cabinet. She found nothing.
They kept a record, Simon Bonny had said. They were all so worried about how posterity would treat them.
The door to the adjoining room was locked. The keyhole was fitted for a church key, one too large to fit into someone’s pocket. James Jacklin had been faithful in his reproduction of that, too. Jenny ran her hand along the door frame, then looked inside the top drawer of the cabinet standing nearby. The key lay inside. The lock turned readily, a single tumbler. Authentic to the last detail. She freed the key and the door glided open, beckoning her inside.
Books.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, a sash window overlooking the Jacklin estate’s front lawn occupying the fourth. She closed the door and turned on an antique reading lamp with a green-glass shade. Books filled every inch of every shelf. Old books bound in leather, gold-leaf titles worn and all but impossible to read. She ran her hand over the leather spines. The room smelled musty and dank, as if a window hadn’t been opened in years. She looked behind her. In the dim light, the books seemed to close in on her, intent on imprisoning her along with the past. She pulled out one volume: Francis Parkman’s France and England in North America. Next to it, she found a first edition of Ulysses S. Grant’s autobiography. The flyleaf was autographed by the author with a note: “To Edmond Jacklin, citizen patriot, with esteem for your years of service.” Jenny returned the book to its place, feeling the floor reverberate in time to the orchestra’s tune. She checked her watch. She’d been absent six minutes. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened for any sounds in the hallway. All was silent.
Where to start? Jenny stood in the center of the library and turned a circle. There were hundred of books, if not thousands. All were bound like the classics offered on the back page of the Sunday book section. None looked remotely like a personal journal.