Monument to the Dead (15 page)

Over a quick and decidedly non-romantic dinner, I
briefed James on what I had found, or rather,
not
found, at the Society, in the way of Edwin Forrest documents, and Marty’s equal lack
of success among Edith Oakes’s records. That some documents at the Society were misplaced
would not surprise anyone who has worked with large paper-based collections, but
all
of one set, scattered throughout the building? Not likely, which meant that somebody
was probably “disappearing” them. Worse, it had to be somebody with access to our
stacks, and with the knowledge to bypass the usual library protocols; it almost had
to be an insider. I did not want to contemplate that possibility.

“It makes no sense to me,” I complained. “What should I do? Call a staff meeting and
ask everybody if they’ve seen any Edwin Forrest papers wandering around the building?”

“If this person was as thorough as you say, he—or she—has probably already got everything,
so all you would accomplish would be to alert the perp.”

“So your advice is to do nothing?”

“More or less. Does anyone else know what you’ve been looking for?”

“I don’t think so. The only person I’ve said anything to is Felicity, because she’s
the keeper of the tracking records. We know she’s discreet.”

“What about Shelby?”

“She’s only looked for the Society records pertaining to the trust, not for original
Forrest documents. So she’s clear.”

James said carefully, “Is there anyone you suspect?”

“No! I mean, I don’t even know why anybody who works at the Society would be that
interested in Edwin Forrest or the trust. But once you slip outside of rationality,
anything’s possible. Right?”

He was watching me, his expression troubled. “Nell, be careful, will you? You’re right—the
logic behind these killings may make sense only to the perp. Which means anyone and
everyone could be at risk.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I don’t want anything
to happen to you.”

For a by-the-book FBI agent in a public place, that was positively romantic, and it
warmed me just a bit. “By the way, Marty said that Harby told her that Edith had received
a couple of phone calls from a young man, at times when Harby wouldn’t usually be
there. Could those be related? Can you look into them?”

“I’ll talk to Harby again. You’re thinking that Harby will let me get access to those
phone records?” When I nodded, he went on, “It may turn out to be nothing.”

“James, what would be enough? I’m sorry if I sound selfish, but so far we think we
have six victims, and some of those are people I knew, or Marty did, or even you.
If we’re right, we can guess who the next victims might be, and I’ve just met two
of them. I know you can’t personally babysit all of them, but surely there must be
something you can do.”

James sighed. “Nell, I’ve told you, I’m doing the best I can. I’ve asked you and Marty
for help, which will not make the FBI happy, but it’s probably the most effective
way of getting to the bottom of this, believe it or not. Look how much you’ve uncovered,
after only a few days.”

“Thank you, I guess. But we still don’t have a suspect.”

“We have a profile that is getting more clear by the day. Young male, educated, knowledgeable
about collections. And apparently lacking in any sort of conscience. Do you know anyone
who fits?”

I thought about our staff roster. Eliminating the women and the older men, of which
there were few anyway, who was left? Eric, Rich, and Nicholas—all no older than thirty,
all educated. Eric’s mild southern accent didn’t necessarily exclude him. But I was
reluctant to label any one of them a murderer. Whatever James’s FBI serial killer
handbook said, I kept coming back to motive, and none of these three had one, that
I could see.

I sensed that James was watching, waiting for an answer. “I’m not ready to point a
finger at anyone. Yes, we have some young men on the staff who fit the general description,
but it’s pretty vague. I want to think this over before I say anything. Believe me,
if I had anything solid I’d tell you.”

“Fair enough,” James said. “Just watch yourself.”

“I will. And we don’t know for sure that it’s someone on my staff. It could just as
easily be a board member”—although none of them was young—“or a researcher or a trusted
member. There are other people who have that kind of access.”

After some small talk, James walked me back to where I’d parked earlier in the day.
I was glad for his company: the outdoor lot was poorly lit, and I wasn’t sure the
parking attendant would be any use if there was trouble. Having an FBI agent at my
side was reassuring. We’d grabbed a good-night kiss, then James stayed long enough
to watch me pull away before heading off for his own car. I drove home in the June
dusk, thinking hard about the young males on our staff. I had known Rich the longest,
since he’d been working in his grant-funded position for almost two years. In that
time I had found him pleasant, responsible, and competent. Eric I had hired quickly
out of a desperate need for an assistant, but he had worked out well. He was a sweet
southern boy, with a few minor blots on his record, but he’d been an exemplary employee
since he had started working for me. For the life of me, I could see no reason why
he would want to murder anybody. Nicholas had been with the Society for only a few
months, but he had come highly recommended by his former employer, and he had done
a great job so far in creating order out of the chaos of not only our collections
but also in the massive load of FBI materials, and I was grateful for that. On a personal
level, I knew very little about any of them: Nicholas was civil and courteous, but
did not go out of his way to cultivate friendships among the staff; Eric seemed to
know everyone, and something about his innocent face led a surprising number of them
to confide in him, but he had no roots here in Philadelphia. All I really knew about
Rich’s personal life was that he was dating another staff member. They all seemed
like nice, ordinary young men. How could I suspect any one of them of being a murderer?

I gave myself a mental slap: I had forgotten to call Courtney Gould at Morgan, Hamilton
and Fox yesterday, to ask about the Forrest trust. If I requested a meeting, the Society
would probably have to pay for it, but we had a legitimate stake in the disposition
of the Forrest materials, not to mention the endowment that had come with it, so I
had a perfect excuse to talk to her. I put that call on my mental to-do list for the
next day.

When I arrived at my office in the morning, Eric was already there. I looked at his
open, cheerful face and couldn’t begin to see a serial killer lurking behind it. “Eric,
when you think the offices are open, can you call Courtney Gould at Morgan, Hamilton
and Fox and set up an appointment for me, as soon as possible?”

“Trouble?” Eric asked anxiously. I could sympathize with his apprehension. I liked
some lawyers as individuals, but somehow involving them always seemed to create more
problems than it solved, and we ended up paying for it.

“No, this is Society business. She’s the Society’s attorney, and I have a couple of
questions for her, that’s all. Tell her it should be a short appointment—I think that
firm bills by the minute.”

“Will do,” he said. No more than a half hour later, he called out, “Ms. Gould can
see you at eleven—does that work for you?”

“Tell her that’s fine,” I called back. Lucky break—sometimes it took weeks to find
a time to get together. I immersed myself in paperwork until it was time to walk over.

Morgan, Hamilton occupied one of those big glass buildings on Market Street, an easy
walk from the Society. I arrived on time, conscious of the ticking clock, and was
promptly ushered into Courtney Gould’s office. Courtney, a slender woman only a few
years older than I am, rose from behind her desk and came around to greet me warmly.

“Nell, it’s been a while. I hope there’s no trouble?”

“You mean like the last few times I’ve talked to you? No, no thefts or fires this
time around. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Please, sit down.” Courtney gestured graciously at the two
chairs in front of her desk. “Coffee?”

I sat. “No, I’m fine, and I know you must be busy.” And I didn’t want to spend three
figures of the Society’s money drinking a cup of coffee. “I’ll come to the point.
I have heard rumors that the Forrest Trust, which I understand your firm also represents,
is thinking of liquidating. I don’t know if you remember, but we hold a number of
items that they’ve loaned to us, as well as segregated funds to maintain them, and
I wondered what our legal standing was if they do go ahead and dissolve.”

“Hmm. I’m not aware of any discussions about that, but then, that’s not my area of
expertise. Let me see who’s handling the trust.” She stood up again and went out into
the corridor to talk to her legal assistant, returning two minutes later. “That would
be Jacob Miller, an associate. He’s coming right over.”

I was pleasantly surprised. “Thanks. Jacob stopped by the Society a few days ago to
introduce himself. How long has he been handling the Forrest Trust’s interests? And
the Society’s? I didn’t know he was involved with both, but it certainly makes it
easier for us.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Courtney didn’t seem the least surprised by my question. “We
hired him last year, right out of law school. I think the Forrest Trust was one of
his first responsibilities—it was small and not particularly complex. I asked him
to help me out with some of my other clients a couple of months ago. Everything else
going well?”

“All things considered, yes.” We chatted a bit about the Society’s next planned exhibition,
a small display of early Philadelphia maps, until Jacob Miller arrived.

Seen in this august setting, Jacob looked even younger to me than he had at the Society,
barely old enough to have graduated from college, much less have earned a law degree.
But this was a fairly prestigious firm, so he must have some solid credentials. On
the other hand, I knew that major firms hired scads of eager young associates—then
spit out the majority of them after a year or two. It was a cutthroat arena for young
lawyers. I wonder how he thought he was going to distinguish himself.

“Hello, Ms. Pratt,” he said. “What can I do for you, Courtney?”

“Come on in. Or since there are three of us, maybe we should move to the small conference
room?”

Jacob promptly went out to the hall and retrieved a third chair. “This’ll do for me.”
He sat and looked back and forth at us like an eager puppy.

“You already know Nell, I understand. She came to us with a question about the Forrest
Trust.”

“Of course. What do you need to know?”

“As you are probably aware,” I began, “the Society has some items that belong to the
trust on long-term loan. I’ve heard that the board is thinking of dissolving and divesting
itself of its physical collections, and I wondered if we had any standing if that
occurs.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

I evaded the question by saying, “There is some overlap between our boards. One of
those members, Adeline Harrison, died recently, and that prompted me to look into
the matter. I’d rather know where we stood now than have to deal with the situation
when and if it comes up later.”

“Good thinking. But I have to tell you, the matter has barely gone beyond the preliminary
discussion stage.”

“Who have you talked to?”

Jacob looked startled, then wary, at my direct question. “I’m not at liberty to say.
More than one member of the trust.”

Courtney interrupted, “Jacob, I think you can tell Nell. I’m sure she’ll be discreet.”

Did I see a flash of something in Jacob’s eyes? Anger? Did he think I was challenging
him? “I think Rodney Lippincott and Louisa Babcock brought it up, one or the other—they’re
fairly senior members of the board.” He paused for a moment. “That’s rather obscure
information for you to have.”

“Not really. I’ve been reading up on Forrest, and his will is published on the web.
Besides, since the Society benefits from the terms of his will, however indirectly,
I was interested.”

Courtney seemed bewildered by my exchange with Jacob. “You’ve looked at Forrest’s
will?”

“I have. It’s short and to the point—and it’s still valid, isn’t it, Jacob?”

“Nobody’s challenged it in the past century,” he agreed. “Look, it’s a restricted
trust with maybe a million in total assets. Without looking at the original documents,
I’d guess that the holding of the trust—property, artifacts such as yours, and, of
course, funds—would be liquidated and pooled, and the trustees would determine how
to disburse the proceeds. I could approach them on your behalf if you like. Or if
you want me to do some more research, I’ll be happy to get back to you later. How’s
that sound?”

“That would be fine, and what you said is what I more or less suspected. Oh, one more
question. Who’s the auditor for the trust? I want to make sure our numbers add up,
if this dissolution goes forward.”