According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “I should have known.” And up the stairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Beale,” Morgan said as he blew into the office.

  “Good morning. Contrary winds out there. It took me a while to get through them.”

  “Yes, sir. But less than ten years.”

  “Ten years to get through the winds? They weren’t that strong.”

  “Did you meet any monsters on the way?”

  “Not many,” Charles said. “Give me another clue what we’re talking about.”

  “Did you pass any police hurrying by?”

  “Police hurrying. With their sirens, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We got it? The Odyssey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good! Good for you, Morgan. Very good! . . . Well, maybe. How much was it?”

  “Seventeen hundred forty.”

  “So if I’d stayed at fifteen, we would have missed it. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Do you think it was really worth that much?”

  “Maybe not. But I always hope! When will we get it?”

  “I paid right away, and I asked the seller to send it overnight. We should have it tomorrow.”

  “Very good, Morgan! So that will take away a little of the sting of losing the Melville. I’ll go down and pack up Moby-Dick.”

  “Use a big box,” Morgan said.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Oh. Good morning, Angelo.” Charles looked at his watch. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I’m ready to take the book.”

  “I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Let me wrap it.”

  “What are you doing with that book, boss?”

  “I was reading it.”

  “What do you read all these books for?”

  “I like to, Angelo.”

  “For what in the dark?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It is less distracting. Or maybe I should say that it makes the book the only thing there is.”

  “What do you read in these books?”

  “Everything. Everything there is. And there is always something new.”

  “In these books that are old?”

  “Yes, especially. It is like being hungry and these are food. I am hungry to read these. And it is also like they are friends and I want to be with them and talk to them.”

  “That is what the people say about the drugs.”

  “It is a little like that. But these aren’t bad for you. And they’re legal.”

  “I will read one sometime.”

  “Yes, Angelo, please do. All right, here it is, all wrapped up. Do you have the receipt for them to sign?”

  “I have that.”

  “Angelo, be very nice to this man. This is a very special, very expensive book. I would go with you but I have another appointment. Try to make the man feel like it is a special book.”

  “How do I make a man feel a way?”

  “Treat the book very carefully. Hand it to him like you are handing him diamonds from that jewelry store. Act very grateful that he is buying it and say thank-you like you mean it. Look him right in the eye, but not to make him afraid. Make him feel that you are proud of him. Be proud and grateful that he is buying it. Do you feel like this book is precious?”

  “It is lots of money.”

  “Because it is worth it. It really is.”

  “Okay, boss, but the man will feel the way he wants.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  The wind was just as wild across the Potomac, and clouds had joined it. Charles paddled undaunted through the canyon streets and the whitewater breezes.

  He docked at the District of Columbia Police station’s grim landing and came ashore into its joyless lobby. But one smile greeted him.

  “Hi! Mr. Beale! Morning. How are you doing?”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Kelly.”

  “I already told them we were coming. I won’t even have to sneak you in.”

  In plain sight, the two passed the gauntlet of desks and halls; Frank Kelly showed his FBI badge twice at strategic moments. It was a very busy building and there were many policepersons.

  A criminal would not have felt welcome.

  On the third floor they came finally to a large room of desks and file cabinets, and once more the magic badge was shown.

  “Most of this stuff is online,” Mr. Kelly said. “But I don’t have a password. It’s easier to just drop in.”

  A file folder was retrieved and they chose a desk to take it to. Frank Kelly opened it and flipped pages, selecting a few to pull out. Charles sat and waited.

  “Okay. Here are the ones you want.”

  He pushed a dozen papers across the desk.

  “I may read them?” Charles said.

  “Go ahead. Those you’re allowed to see. And I took out the gory stuff.”

  “Thank you.”

  He started. It was a mash; everything about a murder scene and the people involved, circling out layer by layer to the outer reaches of Derek’s life. There were interviews, narratives, forms, lists and descriptions.

  Charles read for twenty minutes. Then he pushed the papers back across the desk.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  “Not real great reading,” Mr. Kelly said. “That answer your questions?”

  “I suppose. There were five burglaries in the neighborhood in three weeks and they were all the same. Someone broke a window and climbed in, moved through the house very quickly and took small, valuable objects, and was out in just a few minutes.”

  “Those houses, they had plenty of small valuable objects.”

  “And the power had been cut.”

  “Right,” Mr. Kelly said. “Which was not easy. It had to be done at the electric meter because all the lines are either underground or inside.”

  “Do most burglars know how to do that?”

  “I don’t think so. So that sure sets it off from a regular break-in. It must have been someone good. But most burglars aren’t after antiques anyway.

  “So usually the security company gets an alarm when the power goes out, but nothing happens at the house.” Frank was looking through the pages. “The company calls the owners, and the owner probably just tells them no problem, the power’s out. But the guy was gone in five minutes anyway, and it’s too late even if the police do get called.

  “So. At 2:15 in the morning something cut off the power at the Bastien residence, which set off an alarm back at the surveillance desk. We have that from the alarm company. Derek Bastien had instructed them to not immediately notify the police, which is a normal instruction. They were supposed to call his cell phone for further instructions, and if he didn’t answer, then they would call the police.

  “According to the alarm company, they did call and he answered. There was some kind of password he gave them to verify who he was. He told them to wait five minutes for him to call back and if he didn’t, to send the police. He didn’t call back.

  “Apparently, he started looking around. He went into the office. The burglar must have heard him coming. By the angles, it looks like he was hiding behind the door when Bastien came in. He hit Bastien on the head with the marble statue, and that killed him. He probably never knew what hit him.”

  “I hope not,” Charles said.

  “Yeah, that’s the part I never liked.” Frank Kelly looked appropriately sad. “There’s the victim, knowing he was about to get hit or killed. That must be a rotten feeling.”

  “It must be.”

  “At least it wouldn’t last very long. Lots of blood on the desk, and lab analysis said it was all his.”

  “Mr. Kelly, would they have taken the desk to a lab to do that analysis?”

  “Taken the desk?” Kelly scratched his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked through the papers still in the folder. “No. It was a pretty big desk. They just wiped samples of the blood. Crime scene techs would have done it. They didn’t take the whole desk.”

  �
�Whoever paid so much for it, I’d hate to think it had been banged around and damaged being moved.”

  “They didn’t take it. They only took the statue. ‘Early eighteenth century Florentine marble statuette of James the Second of England, fourteen inches, thirty-five pounds.’ No fingerprints. He would have been dead already, after he’d been in exile.”

  “In exile?” Charles was confused. “The burglar or Derek?”

  “James. The Second. After he got deposed.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “Louis the Fifteenth had dozens of those statues made and sent them everywhere. Little presents to all his friends, you know, to stick the needle in George the First whenever he could. Eight thousand dollars market value. Wasn’t sold at the auction. I guess they still have it here in evidence storage.”

  “Anyway,” Charles said, “I think it does answer my questions. It really was just a random burglary.”

  “Looks like it. Fifth house in three weeks. If he’d just stayed in bed, he’d still be alive. Yeah, with somebody like Bastien, I bet D.C. Homicide checked real close to see if there was any way it could have been a real murder, and they didn’t find anything.”

  “Have any of the things that were stolen appeared yet?”

  “No. Nothing from any of the five houses.”

  “You said it was fifty-fifty whether they would?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’d say. That many pieces, you can’t sell them all individually without someone catching on. ‘Someone’ being me. But they might put them in a basement for a few years. Being connected with a murder makes all that stuff real hot.”

  “Of course.”

  “But now, you tell me. Do you see anything in there that sticks out?”

  “Well, of course, the Kant wasn’t on the list of things stolen.”

  “Right. And I looked—it was on the main inventory, the one Bastien kept himself. So somehow it was missed when they were figuring out what was stolen. What else do you see?”

  “Not really anything else.”

  “Do you recognize many of the things on the list of stuff that was stolen?”

  “I think so. I think they were all from his office.”

  “Huh. All of them?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, so the guy started in the office and never got anywhere else. Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “And Derek was lying across the desk?”

  “He must have fallen onto it. There is a picture in here, but you don’t want to look at it.”

  “I don’t. The desk was several steps from the door. He would have gone well into the room to reach it.”

  “Yeah. That’s pretty obvious in the pictures. Does that mean anything?”

  “Just that he went to it. Had he turned the light on?”

  “The light was off. Remember, no power.”

  “Of course. Well, no, I can’t think of anything.”

  “Right—oh, hey, that’s Watts out there. He’s the detective. Hey, Harry!”

  A very plain black man came at the call. He was a little stout, and a little gray.

  “Hi, Frank. This your guy?”

  “Charles Beale,” Charles said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mr. Watts said.

  “I showed him some pages,” Mr. Kelly said. “Nothing jumped out.”

  “I appreciate being allowed,” Charles said.

  “It’s okay.” Mr. Watts seemed only politely interested. “Here’s my card, if you do think of something.”

  “Antiques, me,” Frank Kelly said, “murder, him. I’ll walk you back down to the lobby.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “After me, the deluge,” Frank Kelly said, watching the torrents of rain from the front door of the police station. “Speaking of Louis the Fifteenth.”

  “I think I’ll wait until it’s over.”

  “I’ll give you a ride. I’m in the garage.”

  “After you,” Charles said.

  “Après moi.”

  Charles followed again through more passages but this time going down, and then Mr. Kelly’s car had to circle back up through the maze of the garage.

  “Do you know anything about antique desks?” Charles asked.

  “Bastien’s desk? I asked a few people about it. Honaker four-drawer pedestal, 1875.”

  “What is Honaker?”

  “Manufacturer. Honaker and Sons, Philadelphia.”

  “Could you find out who bought it at the auction?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. They’d probably just tell me if I asked, or else I’d get a warrant. But I don’t know if it’s hooked up with the art thefts. You’ve got to be careful.” The car came out into brilliant sunlight.

  “And now the rain is over,” Charles said. “You could just drop me off at a Metro station if you want. You don’t have to take me to Alexandria.”

  “No problem. I got a call to make in Leesburg next. That’ll take the rest of the day. Yeah, you’ve got to be careful asking some people questions. Somebody important might have bought that desk for some reason, and they find out I was asking about it with no good reason, that’ll be a mess. I’ll go anywhere I need to, but I watch the lines real careful.”

  “Do you think there is any chance it is connected with the burglaries?”

  “I don’t see it. How could it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But, sure, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve been poking around a little. But I don’t see enough connection yet to do any real investigating.”

  “Poking around?”

  “Right. I read up on it, called a few crooks who might know anything.”

  “Crooks?”

  “Shots in the dark. With crooks, you don’t have to worry as much about them blowing a whistle because you’re going outside the line.”

  “I see. Do you know a lot of crooks, Mr. Kelly?”

  “That’s my job. At least my guys are usually a little higher up the scale than muggers. And that makes me wonder what you’re doing with that friend of yours.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Your night watchman.”

  “Oh. Angelo. That’s a long story.”

  “I know the story. I looked it up.”

  “You look up a lot, Mr. Kelly. Why would you do that?”

  He shrugged. “Just following leads. That’s my job.”

  “What lead would that be?”

  “Nothing.” Frank Kelly pulled up in front of the bookstore. “Anyway, let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And thank you for the ride.”

  AFTERNOON

  “Have we sold anything?” Charles asked, walking through the door.

  “A Dostoevsky.”

  “Crime and Punishment?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alice’s smile was stretched at its ends. “And you had a call. Mr. Abercrombie.”

  “The man who bought Moby-Dick?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he has a complaint about Angelo.”

  “Is Angelo here?”

  “Up in his room.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Alice said Mr. Abercrombie called?”

  “He did,” Dorothy said. “I talked with him briefly, but he wanted you.”

  “Was there a problem?”

  “He said Angelo was touching things in his house.”

  “I’ll talk to Angelo.”

  “Angelo?”

  “Hey, boss.” He was already back in his un-business clothes.

  “How did it go?”

  “That delivery? It was okay.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Does that man say there was problems?”

  “I haven’t talked with him,” Charles said.

  “There was no problems, boss.”

  Charles looked into Angelo’s face for any reaction. There was none.

  “Mrs. Beale talked to him—he called here. He told her you were touching thi
ngs in his house.”

  Silence.

  “What kind of things did he have?”

  “I didn’t touch anything, boss.”

  “Did he have things by the door? How far in did you go?”

  “I went in the door two steps. I did what you said to be nice.”

  “Were there things close by?”

  Angelo shrugged. “He had those little statue things and glass and metal.”

  “Antiques. Or we could call them Art Objects.”

  “Yeah, he had those.”

  “Did you touch them?”

  “I don’t touch nothing ever, boss.”

  “Did he think you touched them?” Charles asked.

  “Hey, boss, I don’t know what people think.”

  “You really do know, though, don’t you? You could tell he was looking at you and you knew what was going through his mind, because you see it all the time. I’m sorry, Angelo, that Mr. Abercrombie was suspicious of you. If you say you didn’t touch anything, then I believe you.”

  “You think what you want.”

  “Maybe we could teach you to smile.”

  Angelo scowled.

  “What did he say?” Dorothy asked.

  “He said he didn’t, and I believe him.”

  “What about Mr. Abercrombie?”

  “I suppose he saw what he thought he would see.”

  “I hope Angelo isn’t scaring everyone.”

  “At least he didn’t actually grab any of Mr. Abercrombie’s objets d’art and run them down to Mario the Fence in the back of the Italian restaurant. Or he could have just taken Moby-Dick to Mario in the first place.”

  “He wouldn’t have.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, since Mario only does jewelry and iPods. He’d have to know someone like Norman Highberg instead. All right, let me find Mr. Abercrombie’s telephone number.”

  “I have it,” Dorothy said.

  “I’ll call him and smooth the ruffled feathers. Oh, Dorothy, I actually got an expression on Angelo’s face.”

  “What?”

  “I suggested he learn to smile.”

  Dorothy brightened. “And did he smile?”

  “Not exactly.”

  And did you have an interesting morning with Mr. Kelly?”

  “It might be worth another croustade de veau braisé.”

  EVENING

  “Something simple this evening, Philippe,” Charles said. “What would you suggest?”

  The waiter looked carefully around. “A hamburger, monsieur.”