Then she saw it: a shelf spaced more widely than the others, enclosed by glass doors. The lock securing the doors was all too modern. She adjusted the reading lamp so the light shone through the milky glass. Inside rested several large, coffee-brown ledgers stacked one on the other, similar in size and style to the census ledgers she had consulted at the Hall of Records.
Jenny hiked up her dress and wrapped her right hand in the thick muslin cloth. Stepping close to the bookshelf, she thrust her fist through the glass, shattering it. The noise was muted, a few wayward shards tinkling onto the floor. She turned her head toward the door, waiting, praying no one would come. Reaching inside, she freed first one volume, then another. Six remained. She carried the two volumes to a chair and sat down. With care, she opened the cover. The pages were brittle and yellow with age. Tea stains darkened the paper. The records. She was sure she had found them.
The first page was blank.
The second as well.
Jenny’s heart beat faster.
On the third page were photographs. Four wallet-size black-and-white prints affixed to the page by corner holders. The pictures were wrinkled with age. In each, a smiling blond child dressed in a sailor’s suit held a sailboat to his chest. The writing beneath each picture was hard to read in the dim light. Lifting the scrapbook closer, she read, “J. J. 1935.”
She turned the page and found more pictures. Jacklin with his mother and father. With the housekeeper. With his sister. Closing the cover, she rose and checked the other books inside the glass cabinet. The Jacklin family photo albums and nothing else.
Frustrated and anxious, she put the books back, then returned to the Long Room. She swept her eyes from one wall to the other, but saw no place where you could hide any books. She’d already checked the cabinets. She was growing frantic. They had met here. The club. She was sure of it. Jacklin’s smug tone had all but confirmed it. The horny old lech. Jenny shuddered, thinking of his hand kneading her bottom. What did he think she was made of? Cookie dough?
She thought back to her visit to the Hall of Records. The directory of New York City published in 1796 had been in remarkably good condition. Why? Because it had been stored in a cool place, away from sunlight. She poked her head back into the library. The bookshelves were exposed to direct sunlight at least half the day. The heat was roaring, the air dry as tinder. In the summer, it would be the air-conditioning’s turn. No one would store precious journals there.
A cool place shielded from sunlight.
A constant temperature of sixty-five degrees.
Just the right degree of humidity.
Her eyes fell on the humidor. It was built as part of the burled wood cabinet, but after looking at it a moment, she saw that the cabinet had no doors. She crossed the room and flipped open the top. The rich, muscular scent of tobacco assailed her. Kneeling, she looked more closely at the cabinet, running her hands along the front and sides. A faint crack was visible at the right rear corner. Jenny slipped her fingernail into it and tried to pry it open, but the damn thing didn’t give. She stood and closed the humidor’s lid. Placing a hand halfway down either side, she lifted.
The humidor opened like a music box.
She peered inside.
A leather journal peered back. It was no larger than the standard hardcover novel. She picked it up and noticed there was another under it, and another beneath that. The books were in impeccable condition. With care, she opened the cover. There, written in immaculate looping script, were the words:
The Patriots Club
June 1, 1843-July 31, 1878
Minutes
62
“J. J… a word?”
“Yes, what is it?” replied Jacklin. “Has the President arrived?”
“Not yet,” replied Guilfoyle, crouching at his side. “He’s due in eight minutes. His motorcade just crossed Key Bridge.”
Jacklin smiled obligingly at his guests. Dinner had been served. The dance floor was packed to bursting. The plates had been cleared; a digestif offered. He raised the snifter of Armagnac to his mouth and took a sip. “What is it, then?”
“Bolden’s woman is in D.C.”
“I thought she was laid up in the hospital.”
“Hoover just contacted me from the operations center. Cerberus spat out some credit-card activity indicating she purchased a ticket on the US Airways shuttle and rented a car at Reagan National Airport.”
“Why are you telling me this now? Cerberus is a real-time program. It should have given us the information hours ago.”
“The boys in the op center thought she was in the hospital, too. No one inputted her vitals until a couple of hours ago.”
Jacklin checked his temper. He had half a mind to cuff this unfeeling robot right then and there. “And you think she’s headed here?”
“She also purchased evening wear from a boutique on Madison Avenue.”
Jacklin excused himself from the table and led Guilfoyle outside. A freshening breeze snapped at their cheeks. “Look at that,” he said, scanning the leaden sky. “We’re going to have one hell of an inauguration.”
Guilfoyle looked up at the sky, but said nothing.
“And the cop?” Jacklin asked. “You getting what you need?”
“In time.”
Jacklin turned suddenly and grabbed Guilfoyle by the lapels. “We don’t have time. Can’t you get that through your head? I ask for results and you bring me more problems. For all your supposed intuition, you’ve shown all the foresight of a chimpanzee. First you screw up with Bolden, then you can’t make this cop give us what we need. Now you’re telling me that Bolden’s girlfriend might be trying to mess things up. Thank God, it’s just a woman.” He released the lapels, breathing through his teeth. “What does she look like, anyway?”
“No picture, yet. She’s thirty, tall and blond with wavy hair down to her shoulders. Reasonably attractive.”
“What’s her name?”
“Dance. Jennifer Dance.”
Jacklin leaned closer. “Jennifer?”
This was the rough stuff. The stuff that happened when you got too close to the cartels, or hounded the Mob a little too much. This was the stuff you read about and shook your head, and when you went to sleep that night, you prayed it would never happen to you. When they beat you up before they start asking questions, when they hit you so hard that suddenly you can’t remember the last five minutes, or where you are even, you know it’s the rough stuff. And you know how it’s going to end.
“I’m a cop,” Franciscus said through his broken teeth, though it sounded like “Thime a thop.” “I don’t take evidence with me.”
“Did you leave it in New York?”
Franciscus tried to lift his head, but his neck seemed locked in a downward position. They had taken their time beating him. They’d started on his face, then worked down to his gut, going methodically step by step, like the local train stopping at every station. He was fairly certain that his cheekbone was fractured. He could still feel the punch that had done that. Contractors, he had told Bolden. The best his government could train.
Someone hit him again in the face, directly on the busted cheek. He heard the impact from afar, the bone shattering like a china plate. His eyes remained open, but he saw nothing, just sparks from a flare exploding in the center of his brain. He passed out for a minute or two. He had no idea how long, really, except that the same goons were still there when he came to. Both had removed their jackets. Their shoulder holsters cradled 9 millimeter pistols.
Lying on the concrete floor, he saw his thumb a few inches away. He willed it to budge, and a second later, it did, jittering as if juiced with a thousand volts. The sound of his breathing filled his ear. It was a thin, wheezing rasp, and he thought, Christ, whoever sounds like that is gonna check out pronto.