by Jan Burke
I felt restless and decided to get some fresh air. Let the chronicling of cruelty be left to others for a while. I put on my coat and stepped outside.
Holiday decorations lined the street, as they had since Thanksgiving. I walked aimlessly, listening to the sounds of the downtown streets—the rumble of passing traffic, snippets of pedestrians’ conversations, horns echoing off tall buildings, the sharp staccato of a jackhammer at work in the shell of an old building. I heard a street musician playing “Fever” on a flute. The same guy played this same song every day, so that by now “Fever” seemed to be the anthem of this block on Broadway. He was getting better at it. Some days I noticed the improvement, heard the notes one by one; some days the flute’s song was nothing more to me than all the other sounds of the street. As I walked that afternoon, whenever I thought of Rosie Thayer, I tried to listen for the flute again. It worked for a little while. I turned up the collar of my coat against the chilly air and kept moving.
I walked east a couple of short blocks to Las Piernas Boulevard, and then south a couple more, past the old post office and bank buildings and found myself standing in front of Austin Woods & Grandson Books, a used bookstore not far from the paper. I know a remedy when I see one, so I pushed the front door open and stepped inside.
The bookstore occupies a huge brick building that has withstood both earthquakes and city redevelopment plans over the last century. I’ve been told that it was once home to a market, then a car dealership, and later a machinery warehouse, but I’ve only known it in its present incarnation.
Once inside, I stood still for a moment, letting the store’s warmth and cathedral quiet welcome me. Skylights in the high, arching ceilings overhead brought softened sunlight into the cavernous rooms. Around me, wooden crates were nailed together to form walls of bookcases. Ten feet high or higher they stretched, holding row upon towering row of musty tomes. Each cover and spine seemed to long to be held again, the way a widower might long for his late wife’s embrace.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the distinctive old-book fragrance of yellowed paper and aged binding glue. Images of dark basements and bloodstained offices faded. I walked down the aisles, reading titles, and eventually began smiling to myself. You can find just about any book in this store, provided you aren’t really looking for it.
The shelving system was designed by Austin Woods, who has a mind that apparently views the universe of printed matter in a unique way. Books should not be subjected to silly things like alphabetical order or genres; even a division between fiction and nonfiction was unnecessary, since the latter might have less to do with the truth than the former. This whimsical approach was not to his only son’s liking; Louis Woods refused to work in the store and went on to start one of Las Piernas’s oldest accounting firms.
In one of those twists of fate that have long caused parents to go gray and balding, Louis’ own son, Bill, rebelled against the accountant’s orderliness. Bill spent most of his childhood helping his grandfather; Austin rewarded this loyalty by giving him half-ownership and adding the “& Grandson” to the name of the store.
O’Connor had introduced me to the place, and taught me that the best strategy was to relax and browse and let something intrigue you on its own; if you really wanted a specific title, just ask one of the Woods and they’d miraculously make a beeline for it. O’Connor sometimes asked for a certain title just to watch Austin or Bill do this; he figured the entertainment value was worth the price of a book.
Austin is a dried apple of a man, with a face that can hardly be found among his wrinkles. At ninety-six, he spends most of his time sleeping at an old desk in a cluttered back office, glasses atop his head and buried in wisps of thin white hair, some favorite tome opened and serving as a pillow beneath him. Bill, his wife Linda, and his daughter Katy carry on the business, which has attracted a faithful clientele over the years.
I browsed for a while, then made my way over to the counter, where the fourth generation was at work. Katy Woods looked up from a beautifully bound volume of The Master of Ballantrae. She’s about nineteen, very pretty, but shy. “Hi, Irene,” she greeted me. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Christmas Eve. Are you doing some early Christmas shopping?”
I laughed. “I suppose I should, Katy. In fact, you’ve just given me an inspiration. I’d like to purchase one of Stevenson’s other works to give to my former brother-in-law.”
“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“You know me too well.”
She called to her mother, who took over at the register while Katy unerringly steered me directly to the book, which was next to a 1948 high school science textbook. All the other works on the shelf appeared to be science fiction or relatives of science fiction.
“I give up,” I said. “Why’s the textbook here?”
“This science book has a few pages in it that espouse some pretty silly ideas about radiation. Austin says this shelf is where we should have works about what happens when scientists don’t fully understand the impact of their discoveries.”
With Katy’s help, I found an old edition of Jane Austen’s Emma, and decided to buy it for Barbara, quite sure that she would never get the hint it might offer about sticking one’s nose in where it doesn’t belong.
Katy found a few books on mythology for me as well. Hermes, or Mercury, was pictured on the cover of one of them. It sparked a memory, and I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the message slip I had taken from E.J. Blaylock’s office. Hobson Devoe.
“Could I use your phone for a local call, Katy?”
She nodded, and I followed her back to the front counter. The phone was made of black metal and had a rotary dial. “I’ll bet it really rings, too,” I said.
She smiled. “Yes. I like it better than an electronic chirping.”
I called the number on the message slip. I got a recording. A woman’s silky voice, saying, “Thank you for calling the Mercury Aerospace Museum. The museum will be closed for the holidays from Monday, December 17 through Tuesday, January 1. The museum will reopen on Wednesday, January 2. Museum hours are ten A.M. to three P.M. on weekdays; other hours by appointment. To make an appointment, please press the pound sign, located below the number nine on your Touch-Tone phone. If you are calling from a rotary dial telephone, or wish to speak to an operator, please stay on the line.”
I waited. And waited. I feared my call was a captive in that strange electronic dimension where transferred calls wander without direction until the end of time. I finally heard a voice say, “Mercury Aircraft. How may I direct your call?”
“I’m trying to reach Hobson Devoe—”I began.
“One moment,” she interrupted, and transferred me right back to the recording about the museum.
I hung up, muttering to myself, but softly enough to hear Katy clear her throat.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “You want to talk to Hobson Devoe?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I’m assuming there aren’t too many Hobson Devoes in Las Piernas. But if he’s the one who works at Mercury, he’s one of my great-grandfather’s friends.”
“Austin knows Hobson Devoe?”
She nodded. “Austin’s taking a nap now, but when he wakes up, I could tell him you need to talk to Mr. Devoe. I’m sure he’d be happy to pass a message along.”
I took out a card and wrote my home number on it. “Please ask him to tell Mr. Devoe that it’s urgent that I speak to him. I’d consider it a great favor.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Remember that column you and Mr. O’Connor wrote about the store? Back when the city wanted to tear down this building?”
“It made more sense for the city planners to put the convention center where it is now, anyway,” I said. “They probably wouldn’t have stayed with the plan to close the store down.”
“Well, that’s not how we see it. You kept us from being closed down while they made up their mind
s. Austin will be happy to do a favor for you. Mr. Devoe is in here quite often. Austin talks to him about Las Piernas in the good old days. I like to listen to them—I love history. I’m thinking of majoring in it.”
“Are you dating anybody special these days, Katy?” I asked, thinking of Steven Kincaid. She blushed, then, as she rang up my purchases on the antique cash register, proceeded to describe her boyfriend. I had to admit that he sounded like a perfect match for her.
She paused and looked at me over the top of the register. “He knows how to find the books,” she said, pushing down the keys that made the bell ring, the cash drawer open, and the total-with-tax appear behind dusty glass.
Well, that settled that.
I went along to other downtown shops and picked up gifts for almost everyone else on my list. I bought a couple of pairs of sweatpants for Frank from Nobody Out, a sporting goods store. Helen, my favorite salesperson there, was working that afternoon, and I briefly considered introducing her to Steven. She’s a college student, very bright, and gorgeous. Closer to Steven’s age than Katy. She’s not stuck on herself, and I can’t understand why.
Then I thought about the book I had just bought for Barbara and decided to stay out of the matchmaking business. I wished her happy holidays and left without mentioning available males.
I lugged all of my purchases back to the Express and piled them into the Karmann Ghia. I drove home, then walked next door to talk to Jack. I needed his help with my plans for a gift I had in mind for Frank, and he was willing to lend a hand. As we drove off together toward the animal shelter, he asked me if I was sure Frank wanted a dog, given all the work Frank did on the yard.
“Oh, sure. We had a long talk about dogs the other night. I know he wants one, or I wouldn’t do this.”
“Don’t you think it would be better to let him pick out the one he wants?”
“Well, I did wonder about that, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what kinds of dogs he likes best.”
“Hope you’re right.”
“If he doesn’t like the dog I pick out, I’ll just tell him it’s my dog.”
For some reason, Jack found this funny.
There were lots of people touring the pound that day, the last day the city animal shelter was open before Christmas. After Jack and I went through all of the kennels, and he had finally convinced me that owning eighty-seven dogs would not be practical, we found a huskie-shepherd mix that won my heart. I paid the fees and bought a leash. Fortunately, the dog was already neutered, so we didn’t have to wait three days to take him. He was not quite done with being a puppy; the shelter said he was about a year old. He had a long, creamy coat, a dark muzzle, and big feet. He was very affectionate.
“I’ll tell you what, Irene,” Jack said as we tried to get the dog to crawl in behind the seats. “If Frank won’t let you keep him, bring him over and I’ll adopt him.”
That made me feel much more at ease, and I thanked Jack. I was mortified when the dog showed his gratitude by getting carsick on Jack’s right shoulder on the way home, but Jack graciously took it in stride.
“What are you going to name him?” Jack asked when we finally pulled up in front of the house.
“Frank gets to name him. His family has a knack for naming pets.”
If Jack thought that was an odd compliment to give to the Harrimans, he didn’t say so. I gave the pooch a good-bye scratch on the ears and let Jack take him home. Knowing Frank’s schedule, I figured the ever-observant detective could be kept from discovering the new dog in Jack’s backyard for a day or two at the most. And not wanting to abuse Jack’s generous offer to temporarily stable the mutt, I wasn’t willing to leave the dog at his house much longer than that. So we arranged that Jack would keep an eye on the dog until late the next night, when Frank and I got home from the party. Jack’s a night owl, so he was likely to be awake no matter when we got home.
I made a quick trip to the local market and bought dog food, bowls for food and water, and a rawhide chewbone. Jack had changed shirts and was playing with the dog by the time I brought all of this by his place.
“By the way, Jack, did Frank ask you if you had seen anyone around our place late last night?”
“Yes, he did. But no, I’m sorry, Irene. Your sister called me and we went out to grab something to eat at Bernie’s last night. I guess it was right around the time the jerk broke into your house. I feel bad about it.”
“Forget it. It’s not as if you’re supposed to be our guard service.”
With effort, I held back any comment on the dinner with Barbara. The only time I ever wished Barbara would marry Kenny again was when I wanted Jack to be safe from her. She had met Jack on one of her visits to our house, and I knew she was attracted to him. Jack didn’t seem to be able to figure out that she had the red hots for him, and never seemed to treat her as anything more than a friend. Still, these late-night dinners . . .
“Well, I’m glad you’re getting a dog,” he was saying. “I know it doesn’t make you perfectly safe, but it can’t hurt. And I think this fellow will be good company.”
I thanked Jack again for dog-sitting and went home. Cody sniffed curiously at my clothes, but was easily distracted when I fed him.
* * *
FRANK CAME HOME about an hour later, and we had a quiet dinner together. We share silences fairly easily, but I noticed that this one had an edge to it. He wasn’t eating much, but he was looking at his plate more than he was looking at me. I wondered if he had reconsidered our truce.
“Did you learn anything more about Thanatos?” I asked.
He shrugged, then said, “Is this for publication?”
“Does it really matter?”
He sat back and pushed his plate away. “Yeah, I guess it does. Carlson is hot under the collar. John Walters really ticked him off today, so if I tell you something and it ends up in the paper, I’m in trouble. He threatened to take me off the case at least once an hour this afternoon.”
“He’s mad at John and he’s taking it out on you?”
“Right now, anything or anyone that reminds him of the Express can send him into a fit. Needless to say, I remind him of the Express. And it’s not just John. It’s Wrigley as well—the lieutenant is convinced that a wiretap would lead us to Thanatos.”
“I wasn’t involved in that discussion, but I understand why the paper said no.”
“Other papers have said yes under similar circumstances.”
“Not without a lot of soul-searching. In the only case I now of, the reporter’s life was being threatened.”
“Oh, I see. And in this case, it’s just a few unfortunate members of the public that are in danger. The paper would protect you, but not E.J. Blaylock or Rosie Thayer—or whoever is next.”
“That’s not the problem and you know it. I get calls from sources on that phone, people who would clam up on me for good if they ever thought the police could trace or record their calls. And I don’t like the idea of the cops listening in on my calls all day long.”
“You could set up an outgoing, separate phone line—a secure line without a tap—and tell your callers you’ll call them right back.”
“Because the call they’ve just made is being recorded and traced? I’m sure they’d be in a real hurry to thank me for that. I don’t find myself on Wrigley’s side very often, but this time I agree with him. A police wiretap would have a chilling effect on our sources, and in turn, on our ability to report the news.”
He sighed, looked like he would say more, then stood up and started clearing the table.
“Frank—talk to me.”
He hesitated, then sat down again. After a moment, he said, “I had to listen to arguments about this all damned afternoon, and I guess I’m just tired of hearing about it. The funny thing is, I’m arguing with you, and taking a position directly opposite the one I took with Carlson.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t as hot as he was on the idea of
a tap—although for different reasons than yours. From what you’ve told me, Thanatos doesn’t stay on the line long enough to trap it. And from what we’ve seen of the guy’s methods, I can’t believe he’d be careless enough to call from his home or office. He’s a man who makes plans. He’s probably calling from pay phones or using an electronic device to hide the origin of the call. Even if he’s not, I knew what the paper would say when Carlson started talking about a tap, and hassling the Express won’t help us with this case. I figured the request for that kind of surveillance would only create a greater strain in the department’s relations with the paper.”
“You were right. I heard a rumor that the lieutenant is going for a warrant.”
“He’s already tried it. Judge wouldn’t give it to him. That didn’t improve his humor any.”
“I’m sorry you’re having to take flak off him on my account. Is there anything you can do to avoid his temper?”
“Just ride this out. And try not to give him grounds for any complaints. I know I can trust you not to report our private conversations, but Carlson doesn’t know you as well as I do. So he’s going to assume that anything that’s in the paper came straight from me to you. I’ll talk to you, but you’ve got to keep it out of the paper for now.”
“That’s not going to solve your problem. What if Mark Baker or one of the other reporters hears something from another cop?”
“Look, that could happen whether I say anything to you or not. I just want to have a clear conscience.”
Assured that I’d keep quiet for the time being, he told me what he had spent his day on whenever Carlson wasn’t bitching at him. Frank and Pete had talked to neighbors, to the realtors who were selling the house, and made phone calls to the people who owned the house. There was no sign of forcible entry at the house. They were tracking down anyone who might have had a key. They were talking to anyone who might have had any excuse to go near the house.
