“It’s just-okay, you know about what happened yesterday?”
“At the hospital,” I said. “Yes.”
“And he’s on leave while the shooting is investigated?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m sure that will go in his favor.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re both hoping. The thing is, he’s sort of working today.”
“What do you mean, working?”
“He kind of had an idea-actually, it was my idea, and I wasn’t even sure there was anything to it-but he had this thing he wanted to check out.”
“About what?”
“About the water being poisoned.”
“What was he checking out?”
“Okay, he’s going to be mad if I tell you this, but I think I should do it anyway.”
“Gale, please.”
“You know that used bookstore? Naman’s?”
“Yes. Someone torched it the other night.”
“That’s the one,” she said. “So, I dropped by there yesterday, and I didn’t even know that had happened, and the owner, Naman-he’s Muslim or something like that, you know-he was cleaning the place up, and I saw a book there that got me thinking.”
“A book.”
“A book all about poisons. How to make them.”
“Really?”
“And I thought, it’s probably nothing. But I told Angus, and he thought it might mean something, so he decided to look into it.”
“He’s gone to the bookstore?”
“That’s what he said. I guess he thought if he found out who poisoned the water, that’d look really good on him when this hearing into the shooting comes up.”
“Thanks, Gale,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
There were plenty of available parking spaces out front of Naman’s Books. I was thinking I’d look for Angus’s car, then realized I didn’t know what he drove. The shop was boarded up with plywood sheets, but I could hear noises inside. I tried the door and found it open.
“Hello?” I said, poking my head in.
“Who is it?” someone called out from the back of the shop.
“Police.”
Footsteps approached. A man with coffee-colored skin opened the door wide.
“Naman?” I said.
He nodded. “Mr. Safar, yes. I am Naman.”
I showed him my ID. “May I come in?”
“What is this about? I am very busy. I’m still trying to clean this place up.”
“Sorry to bother you. May I come in?” I asked again.
He shrugged. It was as close to an invitation as I was going to get. I didn’t know how bad the shop had looked initially, but there was clearly more work to be done. Swollen, water-damaged books remained scattered on the floor, and the smell of smoke was powerful. I could see through to the back of the shop, where light streamed through an open door. The edge of a Dumpster was visible.
A couple of floor lamps had been set up inside the store, powered by extension cords that led out the back door.
“Have you people found out who did this yet?” he asked me as he gathered damaged books into a blue Rubbermaid container.
“I can’t say what progress is being made,” I said. “I haven’t been involved in the investigation. But I can look into it for you.”
“Never mind,” he said.
Halfway down the shop was another open door. I glanced in as I walked by it, saw that it led to a basement.
“Lots of damage down here, too?” I asked.
“Water had to be pumped out,” Naman said. “Now it has to dry. That’ll take weeks.”
Hours earlier, I was fairly certain we had our poisoner. There was still plenty of work to do, but Victor Rooney was looking like our guy. There hadn’t been anything to point to Naman Safar. One damaged book about poison didn’t make him a terrorist. And during my brief call to Angus to ask him about George Lydecker’s habit of breaking into garages, I’d told him we might have our guy.
So maybe Angus wasn’t convinced. If Angus thought there was something to what Gale had seen, had he already been here? Had he already talked to Naman?
“Did another Promise Falls detective come to see you today?” I asked.
“What? No. No one. I keep thinking someone will come and tell me what is going on, but you are the first today.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
Naman looked at me like I was the stupidest member of the Promise Falls police he had ever encountered, and maybe he was right. “I think I would know if a police officer had been here.”
“Of course you would,” I said. “Forgive me.” I peered farther into the doorway to the basement. “Mind if I look down here?”
“What for?”
“Just wanted to see how bad the damage is.”
“I told you. Everything down there is still wet.”
“Let me just have a look. Is there a light?”
“They have still not turned the electric back on.”
“That’s okay,” I said, took out my phone, and turned on the flashlight app. “This isn’t great, but it’ll do.”
Naman stared at me.
I descended a set of open-back wood steps. It wasn’t a deep basement. When I reached the bottom, the ceiling was just brushing the top of my head. I held up the phone, casting light around the room.
I glanced back up the stairs. Naman was silhouetted in the doorway, watching me.
“There was an inch of water down there after the fire,” he said.
The water was gone, but the concrete floor still looked damp, and the air was musty and rank.
The room was pretty much empty, save for a few wooden skids on the floor, and a furnace off in the corner. If I’d been thinking, in the back of my mind, that Angus had been here, and Naman had knocked him out and thrown him down the stairs, then that thinking had been wrong.
Except I’d yet to look behind the furnace.
“What are you doing down there?” Naman asked. “I had to haul boxes and boxes of books from down there and throw them out. It is cleaned out.”
“One second,” I said.
I held the phone with my arm extended as I moved toward the furnace. That was when I heard steps behind me. I turned, saw Naman was halfway down the stairs.
“Please stay there, sir,” I said.
“What are you looking for?” he said, taking another step down. “Sir, I won’t ask you again. Please stay there.”
Naman stayed.
I reached the furnace, crouched under some ductwork, and looked behind it.
There was nothing-and nobody-there.
I crossed the room and said, “Let’s go back upstairs, Mr. Safar.”
“Fine,” he said, and trudged his way up the steps. Once we were both back in the shop, I said, “What’s upstairs?”
“Apartment,” he said.
I realized I knew that. “Mr. Weaver,” I said.
“That’s right. He had to move out because of the smoke and everything. So now, in addition to everything else, I have lost a tenant.”
I walked through the store, out the back door, and into the light. I peered over the lip of the Dumpster, which was filled with destroyed books and cardboard and other refuse.
I gave the man one of my business cards. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. If a Detective Carlson comes by, please call me.”
He looked scornfully at the card and said, “Whatever.”
I drove to the Carlson house. On the way, I tried Angus’s cell phone once more, but he did not pick up. I was hoping that maybe, in the time I’d gone to the used bookstore, he’d returned home.
Gale came to the door and said, “Detective Duckworth.”
I nodded, extended a hand. “Hello, Gale.”
“Did you find him?”
“No,” I said. “May I come in?”
“Yes, sure. Can I get you something? A coffee?”
“That’s okay.”
“He wasn’t at the bookstore?”
“No. And I don’t think he’d been there, either.”
“That’s weird,” she said. “That’s where he said he was going. After you left, I tried calling him, but he didn’t answer.” Gale, suddenly worried, said, “What do you think’s happened to him?”