by E. Z. Rinsky
“We guessed the same,” I say. “Anything else jump out at you? Any library lingo we might have missed?”
“What’s Soph,” she asks.
“Our illiterate friend,” I say. “It’s sort of a cruel joke. So where wouldn’t an illiterate person go?”
She shrugs.
“Dunno.”
I can feel my heart actively sinking in my breast.
“So, nada?” I ask.
“Why did he say ya at the end?” she said. “Did you ask him a question before that he’s saying ‘yes’ to?”
“We thought it might mean yaki—” Courtney starts.
“We’re not sure,” I say. “Does that mean anything to you? Ya?”
She shrugs.
“Could mean the book is in the Young Adult section,” she says.
Courtney’s hand grabs my shoulder from behind and squeezes wicked hard. I turn to him. His eyes are blazing. I grin.
“Thanks so much,” I say, turning back to the butchy librarian.
“Just doing my job,” she says dispassionately. “Young Adult is on the third floor.”
We must make it to the Young Adult section in under twenty seconds, scrambling up the stairs on all fours like hungry wolves.
There are kids in here. Kids around thirteen reading graphic novels while reclining in bean bags, playing some card game on a circular table, most on their laptops . . . We get a judgmental glare from the bow-tie-clad male librarian behind the info desk in here, ignore it. Scan the area.
“Okay, okay . . .” I say. Off to the right are traditional stacks of books, nine shelves high, at least ten feet tall. Computer booths . . . only place to stash them would be under the desks, but they’d be found almost instantly. Then there are the shelves meant for younger kids. These only go up to neck level and are stuffed with brightly colored volumes.
“You’re Rico . . .” I mutter to myself. “You rush into this library, looking for someplace to stash these.”
I look around again. The guy in the bow tie is still staring intently at us. I can’t say I really blame him—I wouldn’t want my kids hanging around us either. Especially Courtney. I always thought he could have had a killer acting career being typecast as a pedophile.
The guy straightens his bow tie and coughs a little conspicuously.
“You go look around those tall stacks,” I whisper to Courtney. “I’ll see if this guy saw anything on Tuesday.”
I pad across the carpet to him. Try my best to smile. He’s in his thirties—way too young to make a red bow tie acceptable. But, I do begrudgingly admit, it displays his status as an employee as surely as any name tag would.
I put my elbows on the desk and grin.
“Hi, I’m wondering if you can help me.”
The guy smiles in a way I find singularly unpleasant.
“Sure. What are you looking for?”
“Were you by any chance working here last Tuesday? Late afternoon?”
He furrows his brow.
“I’m sorry, are you looking for a book?”
I flash my phony FBI badge.
“I don’t want to alarm you.” I lower my voice. “But we think someone may have left a bag in this section of library this past Tuesday.”
He doesn’t even bother looking at the badge.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see anything.”
“So you were working on Tuesday afternoon?”
He smiles again, too widely. And suddenly I get it:
He thinks I’m a paranoid vagrant. This is a public library after all . . .
“I don’t work then,” he says kindly. “Feel free to look around, the library is for everyone. But maybe this area isn’t the best choice. This is exclusively for children, or their legal guardians.”
“We’re just going to have a quick look around.” I smile at him and retreat from the desk. He smiles back, but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Shit.
I join Courtney in the Young Adult stacks.
“Hurry. The librarian thinks we’re deviants.”
Courtney throws up his hands.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We should have worn the suits, and shaved. Just hurry. You look through the stacks. I’m going to see if there’s anywhere around here he could have just thrown the whole bag.”
The YA/kids section is extensive. I weave past computer stations, kids sitting at tables reading magazines and laughing. There are other adults: parents and babysitters trying to instill in their wards a love of the written word. I glance under all the tables, behind a few bookcases that have a few inches between them and the wall.
Anybody seen a bag of books bound in human skin?
I look over at the bow-tied librarian. His eyes are locked on me from across the room. I pretend I don’t notice.
The far end of this section opens into an area which an arched sign over the entrance proclaims to be the reading garden. A sign being held by a plastic gnome adorably insists no shoes! And then, double underlined, as if there’s been problems enforcing this in the past, that this area is kids only!
The reading garden is half low-impact jungle gym, half reading nook. The floor is covered in carpeting thick enough to protect kids from themselves, like a psych ward. There are indentations in the walls where kids can cuddle up with a good book, tables covered with Legos, and something called the monkey house, which is a double-decker structure made of wood which kids can climb around in. And to my left, just inside the entrance, there’s a closet where kids can kick off their shoes, hang up their coats, and drop off their backpacks. It’s too dark for me to tell if it’s there, but there’s certainly room for a duffel bag in the bottom of that closet.
That’s where I’d leave it. 100%.
I again peer back at the librarian. He’s observing me with something that might be longing, like he’s just daring me to make his day.
I gotta check that closet.
I cross under the threshold, into the reading garden. The librarian immediately picks up his phone and covers the mouthpiece, staring intently at me all the time.
I’m guessing this isn’t because I’m wearing shoes.
There are only three kids in here, all playing quietly at the Lego table. I dash to the closet and my heart sinks as I see it’s basically empty. No jackets, because it’s summer. And no bags. It’s early in the day.
And they might clear it out every night anyways . . . put everything in lost and found.
As long as I’m here, I scope out the whole perimeter of the area. The bag isn’t small, and the books are a pretty distinct color. It takes one lap for me to be pretty sure they’re not here. I stick my head in the window on the second floor of the monkey house. It’s a room of dark wood, just high enough for a kid to crouch in. There are some stuffed monkeys in one corner, but not enough to conceal a whole bag.
“Hi.”
I nearly jump out of my pants. Swivel to the left to see a young girl—probably eight—sitting against the wall. She has a big book open in her lap. My heart shoots to my throat.
It’s bound in yellow leather.
Where are the rest of them?
“Hi,” I say, and a high-pitched ringing whines in my right ear. “What are you reading?”
I jerk my head out quickly to check the status of the book Nazi. He’s been joined at the desk by another colleague, a woman, and there’s little doubt that they’re discussing me. Plunge my head back into the darkness.
“What?” she says.
“I said, what are you reading there?”
“A cool book,” she says.
“Looks like a picture book,” I say.
She shakes her head adamantly.
“No. It’s a grown-up book.”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
“Where did you find it?”
“Secret place. I found it yesterday.”
“Could you show me?” I ask. “Please?”
“Why?”
<
br /> “Because I want to read those books too.”
“What’s your name?”
“Frank.”
“I’m Lina.”
“Hi Lina.” I try to smile. “Where are your parents?”
“My mom leaves me here when she works.”
“Please, can you show me where you found that book? It’s very important.”
“You won’t like this book. You won’t understand.”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
“Do you understand?”
She nods wordlessly.
“What do you understand?” I say. “What’s it about?”
“It’s not about anything, she says. “It’s just pretty and fun. Like Legos,” she says, pointing through the wall to the Lego table behind me.
“Please.” I try not to sound too desperate. “Please show me where you found that.”
“If you promise,” she says.
“Of course,” I say. “Promise what?”
“Not to take them.”
“I promise not to take them,” I lie.
She nods, satisfied, then closes the book and crawls down the ladder to the first floor of the monkey house. Comes out to join me, clutching the yellow book to her chest. As soon as he sees the girl, the librarian’s eyebrows shoot to the ceiling and he’s back on the phone.
This time he must be calling security.
“Here,” she says, leading me to one of the indents in the wall, a ledge where someone under four feet could lie down and read. She lifts up the bench to reveal a storage space underneath. I look inside and there’s the green duffel bag, unzipped.
I pull it out and quickly count the books.
Please, please, please let them all be here.
They are. Twenty-three. Two of them are unbound, just held together by twine. She’s holding the twenty-fourth.
I sling the bag over my shoulder, then kneel to look her in the eyes. Over her shoulder I see a rotund security guard making his way over.
“Listen, Lina,” I say. “I’m very sorry, but I misled you. I have to take these books or else people are going to get hurt. Including the one you’re holding.”
She stares straight into my eyes, still hugging the book to her chest.
“Sir?” The security guard is at the entrance to the reading garden. “Sir, please come over here. This area is for children only.”
“Please, Lina,” I whisper. “If I don’t have that I’m in big trouble.”
She considers this for a second.
“Okay,” she says, reluctantly handing me the book. “But you shouldn’t read them before you sleep. They gave me weird dreams.”
I throw it in the bag, zip it up and rush out to the security guard.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “Sorry.”
“That area is for children only,” he says. I can tell he’s trying to figure out whether he should let me go, or hold onto me and call the real cops. In other words, whether I’m a threat, or just a bit nutty.
“I’m a child,” I say, and grin. “How do you know I’m not a child?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave the library,” he says. “Come on, I’ll escort you out.”
“Alright,” I say, and follow him out of the young adult section. The bow-tied librarian is so relieved to have us gone that he doesn’t inquire about the green duffel bag tucked under my arm.
I suck down my second refill of black coffee at a veggie restaurant a few blocks from the library. We ordered a red pepper hummus and chickpea fries to share, both taking tentative turns forcing some food down. I was chummy with a few murder detectives back when I was a cop. Best I could tell, there were only two types: Those who lost weight during nasty cases, and those who stress-ate and gained it. I’m glad Courtney is also in my camp—I have a grotesque memory of a colleague stuffing his face in the HQ break room while examining full-glossies of a double homicide.
The duffel bag holding the books is beside me in the booth. I thought maybe I’d feel relieved to have them in hand. But instead I feel only dread at what’s yet to come today, one way or another. It’s a few minutes after noon. I call Sampson on speakerphone. It takes him several rings to pick up.
“Hi,” he says. I raise an eyebrow. Sampson sounds tired or resigned. Courtney dunks a chickpea fry in some kind of vegan sauce, and then takes a tiny mouselike nibble.
“We’re in Denver,” I say. “Heading up soon. Should be there in an hour and a half with the books. Okay?”
A long pause.
“Okay,” he says. He sounds like a sad little boy. “’Bye.”
I place the phone back on the table, look at Courtney in confusion.
“What the hell?”
Courtney frowns at the phone, like he doesn’t trust it after that exchange.
“Worrisome,” he says. “Very worrisome.”
“Finish eating and let’s get up there ASAP.”
“Okay,” he says, then takes the phone and starts dialing.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
“Mindy again. I’m going to tell her we have them. Don’t worry, we’re going straight to Sampson with them.”
He eyes me warily, like waiting to see if I oppose the idea. Instead I swallow a spoonful of dry hummus. “Send my regards.”
Courtney dials Mindy. Surreptitiously takes it off speakerphone. He holds his breath for a moment, then sets the phone back down and exhales despondently.
“Her phone is still off,” he says. “It didn’t even ring.”
“Mmm,” I say. “Maybe she decided to go to London.”
“You’d think she’d want to stay in touch with us.”
“Maybe the battery just died, Court,” I say. “Or she was hit by a car. One of the two.”
Courtney’s face distends and I quickly add: “I’m kidding. I’m sure she has her charger with her. Listen, let’s go get paid, get my passport, and take it from there.”
I wave my hand in the air to get the check for our processed plants. Pay with my dwindling bankroll, and head out into the sun-drenched afternoon, my personal duffel on one shoulder, forty-eight million dollars’ worth of books tucked into my sweaty armpit. At the first intersection we come to I hail a cab and poke my head into the passenger side window.
“Can you take us somewhere in Aspen?” I lean in and ask the cabbie. He laughs.
“You serious?”
I nod.
“That’s three hours at least,” he says. “Will cost you five hundred.”
“We’ll give you a thousand,” I say.
He shrugs. “Fine by me. Pay up front though.”
I wince.
“We’re going to see Senator James Sampson,” I say. “He’ll write you a check when we get there.”
The cabbie chortles. “Sure, pal.” He starts rolling up the window. “Find another sucker.”
“Wait,” I say. Show him Sampson’s credit card, then my phony Ben Donovan FBI ID. “I’m telling the truth. And we’re federal agents—it’s against the law to refuse us service.”
He looks at the documents, confused, then finally buys the lie. We hop in the back of the taxi.
“You shaft me on this, I’m gonna tell whoever you work for. The gas alone—”
“We’ll take care of you,” I promise the cabbie.
Beside me, Courtney has formed a nervous steeple with his long fingers.
“I’m sure she’s fine, champ,” I say, putting a hand on his flannel-clad scapula.
He looks at me.
“You think I’m worried about Mindy?” he says. “I’m worried about what happens now.”
“Huh?”
“We have to follow Sampson to the swap point, and bring in Oliver Vicks. If we don’t find him first, he’ll find us. He’s not going to let us just walk away, not after seeing what he did to Rico in the red house.”
I hiss. I kind of forgot that we’d discussed that. My face must betray me.
“You don’t have to come, F
rank,” he says. “I’m the one who got you into this. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll go myself.”
I step out of the taxi and press the gate buzzer for at least ten minutes before Sampson’s weary voice crackles through.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Frank and Courtney.”
A pause.
“Door’s unlocked. In my office.”
Then a buzz and the gate retreats.
“This really where Senator Sampson lives?” the driver asks, taking in the nude statues, manicured grass and of course, the glass monstrosity that seems to be swallowing the harsh afternoon sun and spitting it back out violently in our faces.
“It is,” I respond.
“Always knew he was a weirdo.” He looks back over his shoulder at us as he pulls into the driveway. “You two are feds . . . is he in trouble?”
I don’t respond. Courtney says: “We’re all in trouble.”
I tell the cabbie to keep the car running while I dash in to get Sampson and his checkbook. Courtney stays back. Hairs standing up on the back of my neck as I step in through the unlocked door. Three days ago, Sampson would have chopped off the baby-maker all over again to get those books back. And now he can’t even be bothered to meet us on the front porch?
Something is very wrong.
The transparent rooms induce a wave of nausea . . . evoke that night I saw Sampson whipping himself. I make my way as fast as I can to his office, in the Spine. Big wooden door is ajar, as is the one leading into his office. Takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, realize Sampson is sitting hunched on his brown leather couch in a bathrobe.
“Senator,” I say, stepping in.
“Hi,” he says, without even looking in my direction.
“We need you to write a check. We took a cab here.”
Soft exhale.
“Checkbook is on my desk. Sign it yourself.”
I steal a glance at him as I rush to his desk. He doesn’t even notice. This is the first time I’ve seen him without his hair perfectly combed. The skin on his face is pinched and pale. At his feet are perhaps forty empty Diet Pepsi cans.
The phones on his desk are dark, and I see that their cords have been ripped from the wall.
I wonder how long a Senator can call in sick, before the press gets wind . . .
“Are you alright?” I ask, the answer already pretty damn self-evident.
