The Collectors (28 page)
S
TONE PUT ON THE GLASSES AND
flipped through the book. He ran his finger across one of the letters he knew had been highlighted earlier. It was as dull and lifeless as the others now. He closed the book, took off the glasses and sighed. “The highlighting chemical wash they used had a time limit built in. Then it evaporates.”
“Like vanishing ink?” Milton said.
“Somewhat more sophisticated than that,” Stone said. He added in anger, “I should have thought of that.”
“Do you know about this sort of chemical, Oliver?” Caleb asked.
“Not this process, no. But it would make sense. If you’re a spy and it’s possible that the glasses might fall into the wrong hands, the book will reveal nothing if enough time passes.” He looked at Caleb. “Whoever put the chemical wash on had to know that Jewell English would have access to the book before the effect wore off. How could that be accomplished?”
Caleb thought for a moment. “Someone would have to go into the vault and doctor the book there. Then contact her somehow and tell her which one to ask for. She comes to the library right away and asks to see it.”
Stone studied the cover of the book. “It seems that it would be quite a tedious process to mark each appropriate letter. If nothing else, it would take some time.”
“Well, people are in and out of the vaults fairly frequently. But some of the interior vaults don’t see a lot of use. However, if one of the library staff were in there for hours on end, it would be noticed, certainly.”
Reuben said, “Maybe whoever did it is really good, can do it quickly, maybe using some sort of template.”
“What about after hours?” Stone asked.
Caleb looked uncertain. “In the vault? That would be limited to a very few. The director and the Librarian of Congress are the only two I can think of. The computer is programmed to deny access to other people after hours unless special arrangements have been made. It certainly wouldn’t be an everyday thing.”
“So DeHaven would’ve had access to the vault after hours?” Stone said.
Caleb nodded slowly. “Yes, he would. Do you think he was part of the spy ring? And that’s why he was killed?”
Annabelle started to protest, then seemed to think better of it.
“I don’t know, Caleb.” Stone rose. “What we need to do now is act. Caleb, call Jewell English and tell her you’ve found her glasses where she dropped them in the reading room. Tell her you’ll bring them by to her.”
“Tonight? It’s already nine o’clock,” Caleb said.
“You have to try! It’s clear to me that we’re operating on a very tight time frame now. And if she’s made a run for it, we need to know.”
Annabelle said, “Oliver, that might be dangerous. What if she’s still around and suspects something’s up?”
“Caleb will wear a listening device. I know that Milton has some of those gadgets at his home.” Milton nodded. Stone continued, “Milton will go with him to English’s but remain hidden outside. If something happens, he can call the police.”
“What if the something that happens is bodily harm to
me
?” Caleb whined.
“You described her as an elderly lady, Caleb,” Stone reminded him. “I think you should be able to handle the situation. However, I believe the more likely scenario is that you’ll find she’s gone. If so, try to get into her house and discover what you can.”
Caleb was squeezing his hands nervously. “But what if she hasn’t left? And what if she has some big thug around who attacks me when I go to see her?”
Stone shrugged. “Well, of course, that would be unfortunate.”
The librarian turned crimson. “
Unfortunate?
That’s easy for you to say. Pray tell what will
you
be doing while I’m risking
my
life?”
“Breaking into Albert Trent’s home.” He glanced at Annabelle. “Are you game?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Annabelle said, smiling broadly.
“What about me, Oliver?” Reuben said pitifully. “I thought
I
was your Tonto.”
Stone shook his head. “You’ve been arrested once and you’re still a suspect, Reuben. We can’t risk it. You’ll have to sit this one out, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Reuben grumbled, slapping his thigh in frustration. “Some people get all the fun.”
Caleb looked ready to strangle the big man.
C
ALEB PULLED HIS
N
OVA WITH
the rattling tailpipe to the end of the quiet cul-de-sac and shut off the motor, glancing at Milton nervously. His friend was dressed all in black with his long hair bunched under a knit ski cap; he’d also darkened his face.
“My God, Milton, you look like a poster boy for Criminals Are Us.”
“It’s just standard-issue surveillance dress. How’s the wire?”
Caleb rubbed his arm under his jacket where Milton had attached the listening device. He also had a power pack stuck in the back of his waistband. “It’s itching the crap out of me, and the power pack’s making my pants so tight, I can barely breathe.”
“It’s actually probably just nerves,” Milton commented.
Caleb glared at him. “You
think
?” He slid out of the car. “Just make sure 911 is on your speed dial,
burglar boy.
”
“Roger that,” Milton replied as he took out a pair of night binoculars and scanned the area. He’d also brought a high-speed camera and a Taser gun.
Jewell English had answered Caleb’s phone call and seemed delighted that he’d found her glasses. Tonight would be fine regardless of the late hour, she’d said. “I don’t sleep much,” she confided to Caleb on the phone. “But I might be in my nightgown,” she added in a girlish voice.
“That’s nice,” he’d answered dully.
As he walked toward her home, he took note of the other houses. They were all aged tiny brick ranches with cookie-cutter yards and darkened interiors. A cat snuck across one lawn, startling him. He took several deep breaths and muttered, “She’s just an old lady who lost her glasses. Just an old lady who lost her glasses. Just an old lady who could be a spy with henchmen waiting to slit my throat.” He glanced back at the car. He couldn’t see Milton but assumed his sidekick was busily snapping photos of a suspicious-looking robin lurking on a tree branch.
The lights were on in Jewell’s home. He could see lace curtains in the windows and through the big living room glass, knickknacks and bric-a-brac positioned on the painted fireplace mantel. There was no car in the rusty carport. He assumed she’d either quit driving or her ride was in the repair shop. Her lawn was neatly cut, and two columns of rosebushes guarded the front of her house. He rang the bell and waited. No one came. He rang it again. No footsteps reached his ears. He glanced around. The street was empty, quiet.
Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies; right before you’re shot, stabbed or eaten.
He’d called her a little over an hour ago. What could have happened in the interim? He’d heard the bell buzz, but maybe she couldn’t hear it. He knocked on the door, hard. “Jewell?” He said her name again, louder. From somewhere a dog started barking, and he jumped. It wasn’t from inside the house, though, probably a neighbor’s mutt. He knocked again, harder, and the door swung open.
He turned, poised to run. You never ever went into a house when the door just opened like that. The next sound nearly pushed his heart into defib.
“Caleb?”
He shrieked and grabbed the handrail on the front stoop to avoid pitching over into the bushes in his fright.
“Caleb!” the voice said again urgently.
“What? Who? Dear God!” He spun frantically around trying to see who was calling his name, his feet slipping and sliding on the damp concrete. He became so dizzy, he was almost sick to his stomach.
“It’s me, Milton.”
Caleb froze in a half-squat, his hands clamped to his thighs as he desperately tried to keep from heaving his dinner into the fragrant roses. “Milton?”
“Yes!”
“Where are you?” he hissed.
“I’m still in the car. I’m speaking to you through the wire. It has communication capability as well as being a surveillance device.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”
“I did. I guess you forgot. I know you’re under pressure.”
“You can hear me clearly?” Caleb said between gritted teeth.
“Oh, yes, very clear.”
The language that erupted from the staid librarian would have caused the filthiest rap singer in the world to concede his lewd speech title to Mr. Caleb Shaw.
There was a long pause after this explosion. Finally, a stunned Milton said, “I can tell you’re a little upset.”
“Yep!” Caleb took a deep breath and willed his food to remain in his belly. He slowly stood erect and stretched out his back even as his poor heart continued to race. If he keeled over with a coronary right now, Caleb swore he’d come back and haunt the little techno-geek every second of every day.
“Okay, she’s not answering. I just knocked on the door, and it swung open. What would you suggest I do?”
“I’d leave right now,” Milton answered automatically.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Caleb started to back down the steps, afraid to turn around lest something leap out at him from the house. Then he stopped. What if she was lying on the bathroom floor with a broken hip or had suffered a heart attack? The thing was, despite the evidence, part of Caleb could not believe that the same sweet lady who was such an enthusiastic lover of books could be wrapped up in the spy business. Or if she was, maybe she was simply an innocent dupe.
“Caleb? Have you left yet?”
“No,” he snapped. “I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About whether I should go in and check on her.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
He hesitated. Milton
did
have a Taser gun. If Jewell
were
a spy and came at them with a meat cleaver, they could take the old crone down,
hard.
“No, Milton, just stay put. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Caleb pushed open the door and went in. The living room was empty, as was the small kitchen. There was a frying pan on the stove with bits of onion and what looked like ground beef; this matched the aroma in the air. There was one plate, a cup and a fork in the sink, all dirty. On the way back through the living room he picked up a heavy brass candleholder as a weapon and moved slowly down the hallway. He reached the bathroom first and looked in. The toilet seat was down, the shower curtain open, and no bloody body was lying in the tub. He didn’t check the medicine cabinet primarily because he didn’t want to see how absolutely terrified he looked in the mirror.
The first bedroom was empty, the small closet full of towels and bedsheets.
There was only one room left. He hoisted the candleholder above his head and nudged the door open with his foot. It was dark inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. His breath left him in a rush. There was a lump under the bedcover.
He whispered, “There’s someone in the bed. The covers are over her face.”
“Is she dead?” Milton asked.
“I don’t know, but why would she be asleep with the covers over her face?”
“Should I call the police?”
“Just hang on a sec.”
There was a small closet in the room, its door partially open. Caleb stood to one side, his candleholder at the ready. He again used his foot to push the door open and then jumped back. A short rack of clothes hung there without a murderer in sight.
He turned back to the bed, his heart beating so fast, he wondered if he should have Milton call an ambulance for
him.
He looked down at his shaky hands. “Okay, okay, a dead body can’t hurt you.” Still, he didn’t want to see her, not like that. He suddenly realized something. If they
had
killed her, he was partly responsible, for taking her glasses and exposing the old woman. This somber thought depressed but also calmed him somewhat.
“I’m sorry, Jewell, even if you were a spy,” he mumbled solemnly.
He gripped the top of the bedcover and jerked it down.
A dead
man
stared up at him. It was Norman Janklow, the Hemingway lover and Jewell English’s nemesis in the Rare Books reading room.
A
LBERT
T
RENT LIVED IN AN OLD
house with a broad front porch set far back from a rural road in western Fairfax County.
“Must be a hike for him to get into D.C. every day from here,” Stone noted as he eyeballed the place with a pair of binoculars from behind a copse of towering river birch. Annabelle, dressed in black jeans, dark tennis shoes and a black hooded jacket, crouched next to him. Stone carried a small knapsack.
“Does it look occupied?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No lights that I can see from here, but the garage is closed, so we can’t tell if there’s a car in there.”
“A guy in the intelligence field probably has an alarm system.”
Stone nodded. “I would be stunned if he didn’t. We’ll disable that first, before we go inside.”
“You know how to do that?”
“As I once told Reuben when he asked me that, the library is open to everyone.”
There wasn’t another house within their line of sight, but they still approached the rear of the house to avoid being seen. This required crawling on their bellies, then their knees, and finally crab-walking down a gentle slope twenty yards from the house. They halted here and Stone took another reconnoiter. The home had a walk-out basement with a pressure-treated deck on one end. The back was as dark as the front. With no streetlights and just a dash of ambient light, Stone’s night binoculars were working optimally. Through the green haze of the coated optics he could see everything he needed to.
“I’m not spotting any movement, but make the call anyway,” he told Annabelle.
Milton had gotten Trent’s home phone number off the Internet, a far more dangerous threat to America’s privacy than the poor National Security Agency ever thought of being. Annabelle used her cell phone to call. After four rings the voice mail kicked in, and they listened to a man’s voice instructing them to leave a message.
“Our spy seems to be out in the cold tonight,” she said. “Are you armed?”
“I don’t own a gun. You?”
She shook her head. “I’m not into that. I go for brains over bullets.”
“Good, guns aren’t great things to be into.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“Now is not the time to swap life stories.”
“I know, I’m just foreshadowing for when will be a good time.”
“I didn’t think you’d be sticking around after this.”
“I didn’t think I’d be sticking around
for
this. So you never know.”
“Okay, the phone box is hanging on a foundation wall underneath the deck. Let’s move, keep it nice and slow.”
As they crawled forward, a horse whinnied somewhere in the distance. There were small family farms scattered around here, though they were being rapidly ground under by northern Virginia’s colossal residential housing machine that randomly spit out condos, town houses, modest single-family homes and mansions with numbing speed. They’d passed several such farms on the way to Trent’s place, all of which had stalls, hay bales, paddocks and large critters nibbling grass. Fat piles of horse manure left on the streets had served as an exclamation point for the equines’ presence. Stone had almost stepped in some getting out of Annabelle’s rental car.
They reached the phone box, and Stone spent five minutes evaluating the security system hardwired into it, and took another five minutes to disable it. After he’d rerouted the last wire, he said, “Let’s try the window right here. The doors probably have dead bolts. I brought a tool to force them, but let’s take the point of least resistance first.”
That point was not the window, which was nailed shut.
They moved down the rear of the house and finally found one window that was secured with window pins. Stone cut a circle of glass out, reached in, pulled out the pins and popped the lock. A minute later they were roaming down the hallway toward what looked to be the kitchen, with Stone in the lead holding a flashlight.
“Nice place, but he appears to be a minimalist,” Annabelle noted. Trent’s taste in interior decoration did tend toward the spartan: a chair here, a table there. The kitchen was barren.
Stone said, “He’s a bachelor. He probably eats out a lot.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Let’s see if he has an office of some kind here. Most D.C. bureaucrats tend to bring their work home.”
They found the office, but it was nearly as bare as the rest of the house, no papers or files. There were some photos on the credenza behind the desk. Stone pointed to one. A big, bearish man with a bluff, honest face, white hair and thick gray eyebrows was standing next to a smaller, flabby man with a bad comb-over but who possessed a pair of cagey brown eyes and a furtive expression.
Stone said, “The big man is Bob Bradley. Trent’s next to him.”
“Trent
looks
like a little weasel.” She stiffened. “What’s that vibrating sound?”
“Damn, that’s my phone.” Stone unclipped his cell and looked at the screen. “It’s Caleb. I wonder what they found.”
He never got a chance to hear.
The heavy blow from behind knocked Stone unconscious.
Annabelle let out a scream an instant before a wet cloth held by a very strong hand covered her mouth and nose. As she breathed in the chemical fumes and started to collapse, her gaze fell on a mirror hanging on a wall across the room. In the reflection she could see two men wearing black masks. One had her, and the other was standing over Stone. And behind them she saw a third man. It was the man in the picture, Albert Trent. He smiled, not realizing she had seen his reflection. Within a few moments her eyelids started fluttering, then closed, and she became limp.
In accordance with Roger Seagraves’ instructions, one of the men removed the watch from Annabelle’s wrist. Seagraves already had a shirt of Stone’s. Although he was not killing them himself, Seagraves
was
orchestrating their deaths, which satisfied his collection criteria. He would especially covet the addition of a Triple Six, a first for his collection. Seagraves intended on giving it a particularly special place of honor.