According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  MORNING

  “Good morning, Alice. A new week.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beale! And a man called a few minutes ago for you. I told him you’d be in about now.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He didn’t say, but he was British.”

  The telephone on the counter rang.

  “Alexandria Rare Books,” Alice said, and then she nodded. “It’s him,” she said.

  “I’ll get it up in the office.”

  Dorothy was at her desk. Charles popped over to his own and blew her a kiss.

  “This is Charles Beale.”

  “Mr. Beale.” The voice was very British. “My name is Mr. Smith.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Smith. Or afternoon?”

  “Morning, and a very good morning to you.” It wasn’t clipped, nasal, competent British; it was unhurried, assured, very competent British. It wasn’t British at all; it was English. “Mr. Beale, I think you might have something of interest to me.”

  “I hope I do. What would that be?”

  “An Alexander Pope Homer.”

  Charles waved to get Dorothy’s attention.

  “The Odyssey?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  He had her attention.

  “I do have a Pope Odyssey. I hadn’t listed it for sale yet.”

  “All the better, Mr. Beale. Please don’t. I’d rather discuss a private purchase.”

  “Well, certainly, Mr. . . . Smith. We can discuss that. I expect you’d like to see it?”

  “I would very much.”

  “Do you know where we are in Alexandria?” Charles asked.

  “Please allow me to suggest a different location.”

  The grammar was of a very polite request, but the tone, while also very polite, was not a request.

  “Of course,” Charles said. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “I will be at Rusterman’s on Twenty-eighth Street in Manhattan on Wednesday evening at nine o’clock.”

  Charles wrote quickly on a notepad. “Nine o’clock. Rusterman’s. Yes, I’ll be there. Is there any way to reach you, Mr. Smith, if I need to?”

  “I’m sure there will be no need, Mr. Beale. I’m also sure there will be no need to mention this to anyone else.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Very good. Then, until Wednesday.”

  “I look forward to meeting you,” Charles said.

  “What is Rusterman’s?” Dorothy asked.

  “Apparently, a restaurant in New York.”

  “You’re going to New York?”

  “Apparently. On Wednesday. How interesting!”

  “Did he say how he heard we had the book?”

  “No. He was English, and said his name was Smith. Although he didn’t sound like a Smith.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Oh, a Hampton-Smythe, or a Bolingbroke or something like that. Or . . .” Charles stared back toward the telephone. “Or maybe a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.”

  “A what?”

  “Just a thought. Never mind. Anyway, did we ever finish the fall catalog?”

  “Yes, dear,” Dorothy said. “It is at the printer.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “And Angelo’s meeting starts in thirty minutes.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice was smiling in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “You have a telephone call. Mr. Edmund Cane.”

  “New York again!” Charles said. “I wonder if he’s still looking for the woman who bought Derek’s desk?”

  “Mr. Cane! Good morning! This is Charles Beale.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Beale.” The syllables were as distinct and unconnected as ever.

  “What can I do for you? Are you still looking for your desk?”

  “No, Mr. Beale. I am afraid the Honaker desk is rather a dead subject at this point.”

  “A dead subject—not literally, I hope?”

  Pause. “No. I didn’t mean that literally.”

  “Of course. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “I believe you purchased some books at that auction?”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “I did.”

  “I would like to purchase those from you.”

  “All of them?”

  “I believe it was thirteen volumes? Yes, I would want all of them.”

  “Mr. Cane—I’m sorry, but they aren’t for sale.”

  “I see. I hope they haven’t been purchased by someone else?”

  “No. I have them.”

  “Are they committed to someone else?” Mr. Cane said, inexorably.

  “No.”

  “I am prepared to offer above market price.”

  “You certainly did for the desk.”

  Another confused pause. “Is price important to you?”

  “No. Price is not the issue.”

  “Then may I ask what is?”

  “It is simply that they aren’t currently for sale,” Charles said.

  “I see. In that case, I hope you will let me know when they are. The offer would stand.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cane. May I ask what your interest in them is? I suppose you have a client?”

  “I won’t comment on that.”

  “Well, then, I think we’ve run out of things to say.”

  “I will try again later, Mr. Beale.”

  “Please do.”

  “What was that?” Dorothy asked.

  “Mr. Cane wants Derek’s books.”

  “Charles—what does that mean?”

  “It means too much to think about. However, it’s time for me to leave.”

  And on cue, Angelo was standing in the doorway.

  Charles checked his watch. Angelo stood beside him, patiently silent.

  “It’s time,” Charles said. He opened the heavy door, and they passed from the sunlight into the courthouse lobby. The guard eyed them.

  “Your knife?” Charles asked.

  “I do not have any knife here.”

  Charles emptied his pockets to go through the metal detector; keys, wallet, change, his magnifying glass. Angelo had nothing.

  Then corridors, up and down, left and right, back and forth, to and through the door that said Probation Services, into its small lobby, and sitting to wait.

  “Angelo Acevedo.”

  They stood and passed through the open door into the cheap, plain little office, and closed the door behind them.

  “Good morning, Angelo.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Conway.”

  Mr. Conway wasn’t old, but he was shiny bald with a fringe of black. “And, Mr. Beale.”

  “Yes, good morning,” Charles said.

  Mr. Conway had an open folder on his desk. He read with his finger, which moved across the paper in front of him, line by line, inching down to the bottom. “How is everything?”

  “It is good,” Angelo said.

  “Good. Mr. Beale?”

  “Everything is going quite well, Mr. Conway.”

  “Did anything happen this month?”

  Charles answered. “Angelo has been conscientious at his job, as usual. This last week I’ve had him out on business calls by himself and I believe he’s been doing very well at that.”

  “Have there been any problems? Contacts with previous associates?”

  “I really don’t think so,” Charles said.

  “Okay.” Mr. Conway closed the folder; his finger got out just in time. He looked up at them with a bureaucratic smile. “Then I think—”

  And the door opened.

  Everything plain and routine about the meeting collapsed. Mr. Conway’s mouth dropped open and Angelo hardened into pure rock.

  Charles blinked, and partly smiled, and said, “Congresswoman Liu! What a surprise!”

  Karen Liu took in the room in a deliberate glance and planted herself directly behind Angelo.

  “Good morning, Mr. Beale,” she said.

  “Mr. Conway,” Charles said, almost up to normal
conversational speed. “Allow me to introduce Congresswoman Karen Liu. This is Mr. Conway, our probation officer.”

  “Congresswoman . . . ?” Mr. Conway said.

  “Every bit,” Charles said.

  “Good morning,” Karen Liu said. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Conway, and please excuse my interruption. I am here on behalf of Mr. Acevedo.”

  “I’m honored, ma’am,” Mr. Conway said, very calmly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have taken an interest in this case,” she said. “Please let me make it perfectly clear that I am not using my position in the Congress of the United States, and as the Chairwoman of the Subcommittee on Judicial Policy, to influence the due procedures of your office. I am here only as an advocate for Mr. Acevedo, to be sure that he is being treated fairly and according to the law.”

  “I can assure you he is,” Charles said. “Mr. Conway has been extremely helpful and supportive.”

  “Ms. Liu,” Mr. Conway said, “are you here as a character witness for Angelo?”

  “I am here as a witness for Mr. Acevedo.” The intensity of her stare had reached searchlight proportions. “I am also here as witness of the system. I am here on behalf of every person in this country who is struggling with a judicial system and an economic system that is too often set against them. Mr. Conway, I had my office review the public records of this case. I have interviewed Mr. Beale.”

  The spotlight beam dimmed dramatically to a quiet glow.

  “I believe,” she said, passionately, pleadingly, patiently, “that the terms of this probation should be reviewed immediately. There has been no violation of any of his probationary conditions. Mr. Acevedo has been a model employee and citizen, and I believe that an additional two years of probation is unnecessary.” With a hint more firmness she added, “And excessive.”

  “The judge set the terms,” Mr. Conway said, still very calm. “He would have to make any decision to change them. I only administer the court’s orders.”

  “I am quite familiar with judicial procedures,” she said. “So I would like your office to request an immediate hearing to reconsider whether the original terms are still in the best interest of Mr. Acevedo and of this state.”

  “Actually, Virginia is a Commonwealth,” Mr. Conway said.

  She rewarded his comment with a tight smile. “And I will be taking a personal interest in this case.”

  “I’ll have my secretary call the clerk of the court right away. Judge Woody usually has a few open spots in his schedule.”

  “Thank you, and please inform my office of the time. It has been a sincere pleasure meeting you, Mr. Conway.”

  The door closed and the room shrank back to its normal size.

  Charles jumped to his feet. “Mr. Conway—I am so sorry—I had no idea she would do such a thing.”

  “It’s fine.” Mr. Conway shrugged, still staring thoughtfully at the door.

  “I’ll talk to her.” He had the door open again.

  “I’m just going to toss this whole thing to the judge. I’m not going to tangle with someone like that.”

  “I’ll be right back, Angelo,” Charles said, and hurried out after Karen Liu.

  “Congresswoman!”

  In the front lobby, he caught her.

  “Mr. Beale? Yes?”

  “Just a moment. I’m sorry,” he said, “I have to catch my breath.”

  He caught it.

  “I needed to say,” he said with his breath, “we’re doing fine with Angelo. You really don’t need to trouble yourself.”

  “It isn’t any trouble.”

  “Then I’ll be a little more direct. I think it’s best for him to keep things the way they are.”

  “I understand. I’ll be very direct.” Her eyes, as always, were. “It might be best, or it might not.” Her tone was friendlier than her words, somewhat. “But I have reasons of my own to take the trouble.”

  “Could you tell me what they are?”

  “Not at this time, Mr. Beale. I have an important meeting I’m already late for. I’ll repeat, though, that I have a very good reason for doing this. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Charles watched her push through the door and jump into a waiting car.

  “I’d like to know the reason,” he said.

  “ ‘I am not using my position in the Congress of the United States and as the Chairwoman of the Subcommittee on Judicial Policy to influence you.’ ” Charles shook his head wearily.

  “Was she overbearing?” Dorothy asked.

  “Only in the friendliest and most cooperative way.”

  “What will the judge do?”

  “We will have our hearing Wednesday morning.”

  “So soon?”

  “So soon. People don’t like to keep a congressperson waiting. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  “Will Judge Woody be offended by Karen Liu trying to browbeat him?”

  “I hope not. Or I hope he is, and tells her to mind her own business.”

  “I hope he doesn’t throw Angelo into prison just to show that he’s not intimidated,” Dorothy said.

  “I don’t know what he’ll do. He might just do what she wants and let Angelo off completely.”

  “Charles, he wouldn’t! What would happen to Angelo?”

  “He’d be free. We don’t want him to be our prisoner forever, do we?”

  “He’s not our prisoner,” Dorothy said.

  “You should be thinking about what we do want. The judge would like a written statement from us by tomorrow morning.”

  “What are we supposed to say?”

  “Whatever we want.”

  Dorothy sounded plenty weary herself. “Why did Karen Liu do this?”

  “She has a reason. She didn’t have time to discuss it with me.”

  “I thought I liked her!”

  Charles was very weary. “Then let’s pull that copy of her checks out of the basement and send them to the Washington Post. That will stop her.”

  “That’s not very funny, dear.”

  “Today I’m doing irony.”

  “Did Angelo say anything?”

  “No, he’s doing granite. Why would Karen Liu take such an interest in Angelo?”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice was never weary. “There’s someone downstairs to see you. Mr. Frank Kelly.”

  “Mr. Kelly. Good morning.”

  “And you, too. Just stopping in. I was down in Mount Vernon.”

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Thanks.” He lowered his voice. “And I’ve got a question.”

  Charles edged closer. “Go ahead.”

  “Your man, Angelo Acevedo. You said he was in the Bastien house?”

  “Once, last fall. It was the first delivery I took him on.”

  “Okay. Look, um . . .” Mr. Kelly paused. “We got a couple of the stolen pieces back.”

  “Oh my! You did? How?”

  “I won’t say, for now. But yeah, it was that ivory dolphin and a couple other things.”

  “That’s excellent, Mr. Kelly. Can that lead you to the burglar?”

  “Maybe. It wasn’t on eBay, it was somewhere else. So anyway, I need to ask you something. Your man, Acevedo. You think maybe he touched anything when he was in the house?”

  “Touched anything?”

  Mr. Kelly was speaking very quietly. “We’ve got some DNA off the ivory and his name came up on the computer.”

  “Angelo!”

  “Right. I was just looking through the list of all the matches. Most of them were no match, and there was a match with Highberg.”

  “Norman? Did he sell that to Derek?”

  “He did. And then one good match of your night guard.”

  “That would have been six months ago!”

  “Right, but Highberg’s would be that far back, too. Usually that’s way out of range, so either it got touched recently or somehow it lasted longer than usual.”

  “How does DNA work?” Charles asked.

>   “It’s great. The new equipment we’ve got, all you have to do is touch something and you leave behind enough trace cells that we can match you. We did it with Acevedo.”

  “He must have picked it up when we were there,” Charles said. “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t think I’ll rock that boat. But you think he could have picked it up or something. Then let’s just say that’s what it is. That’s what I’ll put in my report. So,” he said, suddenly louder, “what do you think? Raymond Chandler?” His eyes darted toward the stairs, then back. “Would that be a good place to start if I wanted to get a few of these?”

  “Chandler?” Charles was distracted. “Oh, of course. Or anything on the shelf there. Some of them are less expensive.”

  “Right. I’ll think about it. Maybe next time.” Mr. Kelly tipped his hat to Alice and turned his broad shoulders toward the door.

  “Hey, boss.” The front door had just closed. Angelo was on the stairs.

  “Oh! Yes, Angelo?”

  “I am going out to a place.”

  “All right. Yes, go ahead. When you get back, we need to talk.”

  “What did Mr. Kelly want?” Dorothy asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just stopping in. He’s still interested in mysteries.”

  “Did Angelo leave?”

  “He left. I told him we’d talk when he got back,” Charles said. “Did you see him? How long after I went down did he go by?”

  “He was right behind you when you went downstairs. There was a message from Vivian at Dupont Travel. She said she had the names of the guides you were asking about.”

  “Oh. Of course. Was she sure they had John Borchard on their tour?”

  “She had a long story about how they needed to get a special helmet for him. His head was too big.”

  “So he really was gone when Derek was killed. Well, I need to think things through. I think I’ll go down to the basement for a little peace.”

  “Mr. Beale?” More of Alice was almost more than he could take. “You have a telephone call. It’s Mr. Leatherman. From California.”

  Charles paused. “That might be just what I need. I’ll take it in the basement.”

  “Good morning, Jacob,” Charles said.

  “Too early to tell.”

  “That’s the advantage to time zones. Ours is almost over. To tell the truth, it hasn’t been the best.”

  “The afternoon will probably be worse.”

  “By all indications, it will be. What can I do for you, Jacob? Are you wanting the benefit of my immense experience and wisdom?”