The Camel Club (12 page)

A noise sounded on his computer. He hit a key and started to read about Patrick Johnson with great interest.

CHAPTER
19

T
HE
R
ARE
B
OOKS
D
IVISION AT
the Library of Congress Jefferson Building holds more than 800,000 precious volumes. For many bibliophiles the crown jewel of this literary treasure was the Lessing J. Rosenwald collection of antique books and prints. Many of these were classified as “incunabula,” meaning they were created before 1501 and without benefit of the Gutenberg printing press technology. The Rosenwald collection, along with over a hundred others, is housed in numerous vaults next to the Rare Books reading room. It was in this sanctuary that patrons were allowed to read, and occasionally touch, volumes that were more works of art than simply books.

Although the reading room is open to the public, security is very tight. The entire area is monitored 24/7 by closed-circuit camera with time stamp. Clerks monitor the usage of all books in the room, and no volume is ever allowed out of the room except on loan to another institution or by order of the Librarian of Congress. The most rare publications are often not even taken out of the vault except under special circumstances. In many of these exceptional cases the staff handles the books while the visitor merely reads the exalted pages from a few inches safe distance.

No bags or notebooks that could be used to secrete the precious tomes are allowed; nor are pens, as they could smudge the ancient pages. Only pencils and loose-leaf paper are permitted in this sanctified place. And even then, some clerks will often draw nervous breaths when a lead pencil draws within a foot of one of their cherished “wards.”

Oliver Stone made his way to the reading room on the second floor and passed through the large leather and brass inner doors with porthole windows. Enormous bronze metal doors—which some claimed were symbolically stamped with three panels to show the importance of the history of printing—were open against the inner wall. When the reading room was closed, these doors were locked over the inner ones, creating a formidable barrier even if one could get past all the electronic security and armed guards. The room itself was one of the most beautiful in the whole of the Library of Congress. It had been fashioned after the Georgian simplicity of Independence Hall in Philadelphia with the intent of creating a soothing environment for scholarship and contemplation. This result had been achieved, because as soon as Stone entered the space, he felt a wondrous sense of calm.

Caleb Shaw was working at his desk at the far end of the room. As a reference specialist he was an expert in several antiquarian periods, and he also helped scholars with important research. When Caleb saw his friend, he came forward to meet him, buttoning up his cardigan as he did so. The room was very cool.

“Oliver, you’re right, I’m not sure I would have recognized you,” he said, gazing at his friend’s altered appearance.

“It actually feels good.” Stone eyed one of the security cameras. “This place seems very well guarded.”

“It has to be. The collection is priceless, the only one like it in the world. The safeguards they go through to make sure nothing is lost, you wouldn’t believe it. If a book gets misplaced, no one leaves until it’s found. The person who buys the books for the collection can’t access the database and alter the descriptions in the catalog, and the person who accesses the database can’t purchase books.”

“Because otherwise a person could buy a book for the collection and make it ‘disappear’ on the database, and then take the book and sell it and no one the wiser?”

“Exactly. My goodness, what a morning it’s been!” Caleb exclaimed. “A very elderly gentleman came in, not a scholar known to anyone here, just someone off the street. And he wanted to see a William Blake. A William Blake! ‘Any William Blake will do,’ he said. Well, that was a red flag right there. You might as well have asked to see our Mormon Bible, for all the sirens that set off. No one gets to see a Blake without senior-level approval, and that is not frequently given, I can tell you.”

“Blake is rare?” Stone said.

“Rare doesn’t even begin to describe the situation with Blake. Godlike perhaps.”

“So what did you do?”

“When we talked to him a little further, we discovered that he was quite probably descended from one of Blake’s siblings. So we brought out some of his illuminated works, his engravings, you know. He wasn’t allowed to touch them, of course, because very few people know how to handle old books. But this episode had a nice ending. The gentleman was quite overwhelmed by the entire experience. In fact, I thought he might start weeping. But many of our volumes
are
things of beauty. I think that’s why I love working here.”

All of this came thundering out in the fashion of a man passionately engaged with his work and eager to spread this enthusiasm to others.

Caleb and Stone took a staff elevator to the lower level, where they walked through the tunnels that connected the Jefferson, Adams and Madison Buildings of the Library of Congress complex, arriving at the cafeteria in the lower level of the Madison. They purchased lunch there and carried it outside, where they ate on a picnic table set up on the Madison’s raised frontage that looked out on Independence Avenue. The massive Jefferson Building was on the other side of the street, and just beyond that was the U.S. Capitol.

“Not a bad view,” Stone commented.

“I’m afraid it gets taken for granted by most.”

Stone finished his sandwich and then leaned toward his friend.

“Patrick Johnson?”

“I looked him up in the government database but found nothing. I don’t have the security clearances to make a really thorough probe. You thought he might be with the Secret Service because of that pin you found. If so, that’s out of my league. Law enforcement and librarians don’t share the same databases, I’m afraid.”

“There’s a new development. That Secret Service agent I’m friendly with, Alex Ford? He came by to visit me last night at my tent.”

“Last night! Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t see how there can be, since he came by before the murder even happened. But it is troubling.”

There was a buzzing sound, and Caleb pulled out his cell phone and answered it. His features became very animated as he listened. When he clicked off, he said, “That was Milton. He was able to hack into the Secret Service’s database.”

Stone’s eyes widened. “He was able to do that! Already?”

“Milton can do anything with a computer, Oliver. He could make a fortune doing illegal things on the Internet. Three years ago he hacked into the Pentagon because he said he wanted to make sure they weren’t planning on nuking one of our own cities and blaming it on terrorists as an excuse for an all-out war against Islam.”

“That certainly sounds like something Milton would think of. What did he find?”

“Johnson worked as a data management supervisor at NIC.”

“NIC? Carter Gray.”

“Exactly.”

Stone rose. “I want you to call Reuben and Milton and tell them to be ready to go out tonight. And we’ll need your car. You can pick me up at the usual spot. We’ll meet Reuben at Milton’s house. It’s closest to where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“Bethesda. To the late Patrick Johnson’s home.”

“But, Oliver, the police will be there. It’s a murder investigation.”

“No,” Stone corrected. “It’s a
homicide
investigation right now with the police no doubt leaning toward suicide. But if the police are there, we might be able to pick up some valuable information. Oh, and, Caleb, bring Goff.”

As his friend walked off, a puzzled Caleb stared after him. Goff was Caleb’s
dog
! However, Caleb was well acquainted with his friend’s odd requests. He threw his trash away in a garbage can and headed back to his world of rare books.

CHAPTER
20

A
S SOON AS
T
YLER
R
EINKE AND
Warren Peters left Roosevelt Island, they headed directly back to NIC. They dropped the “suicide” note off to have it compared against samples of Patrick Johnson’s handwriting
and
to have it checked for fingerprints. They instructed the labs that there might be useful latent fingerprints on the paper that would rule out suicide. That’s what they said, but not, of course, what the NIC men intended. If any of the witnesses last night had touched the note and they were on a database somewhere, Peters and Reinke would have a golden opportunity to tie up the loose ends.

After that, they drove to Georgetown, parked their car and began walking toward the riverbank.

“They haven’t come forward,” Peters said. “We’d know if they had.”

“Which might give us some breathing room,” Reinke replied.

“How much do you think they saw?”

“Let’s just go with worst-case scenario and assume they saw enough to pick us out of a police lineup.”

Peters thought for a bit. “All right, let’s also go with the theory that they haven’t told the police what they saw because they were on the island doing something illegal, or else they’re scared to for some other reason.”

“You were in the bow of the inflatable; how good a look did you get?”

“It was so damn foggy I didn’t see much of them. If I had, they wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Boat they were in?”

“Old and wooden and long enough to accommodate at least four.”

“Is that how many you saw?”

“Only two, maybe three. I’m not really certain. I might have winged one of them. I thought I heard somebody cry out. One was an old guy. I remember seeing a whitish beard. Pretty crappy clothes.”

“Homeless?”

“Maybe. Yeah, that could be it.”

“Now we’ve got the police, FBI and Secret Service to worry about.”

“We knew that going in,” Peters replied. “A homicide gets investigated.”

“But the original plan didn’t take into account eyewitnesses. What’s your take on this Ford character?”

“He’s no kid, so he probably knows how to hedge with the best of them. We’ll find out more on him and his partner later. I’m more worried about the Bureau.”

When they reached the riverbank, Reinke said, “We know they were headed this way. I made a preliminary recon of the riverbank earlier this morning and didn’t find it, but the boat has to be here. I’ll go north, you go south. Call if you spot anything.”

The two men headed off in opposite directions.

Patrick Johnson’s fiancée had finally stopped sobbing long enough to answer a few standard questions posed to her by Alex and Simpson, who sat across from the devastated woman in her living room. The FBI had already been by to interrogate her, and Alex doubted that Agent Lloyd had exhibited the greatest bedside manner. He decided to try a gentler approach.

Anne Jeffries lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Springfield, Virginia, where eighteen hundred a month in rent bought you considerably less than a thousand square feet, a single bedroom and one toilet. She was medium height and a little on the plump side, with a puffy face engraved with small features. She wore her brunet hair long, and her teeth had been bleached to a startling white.

“Our wedding was to be on May first of next year,” Jeffries said. She sat dressed in a rumpled sweat suit with her hair unkempt, her face unmade and a pile of used Kleenex next to her feet.

“And there were no problems that you were aware of?” Alex asked.

“None,” she answered. “We were very happy together. My job was going great.” However, she made each of these statements as though they were questions.

“What is it that you do?” Simpson asked.

“I’m director of development for a nonprofit health care group based in Old Town Alexandria. I’ve been there about two years. It’s a great position. And Pat loved his job.”

“So he spoke about it to you?” Alex asked.

Jeffries lowered her tissue. “No, not really. I mean I knew he worked for the Secret Service, or something like that. I knew he wasn’t an agent, like you two. But he never spoke about what he did or even where he did it. It used to be that old joke between us, you know, the ‘if he told me, he’d have to kill me’ thing. God, what a stupid line.” The tissue went back up, and the eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Yeah, it is a stupid line,” Alex agreed. “As I’m sure you know, your fiancé was found on Roosevelt Island.”

Jeffries took a deep breath. “That was where we had our first date. It was a picnic. I still remember exactly the food that I brought and the wine we had.”

“So he maybe committed suicide at the site of your first date?” Simpson asked. “That might be symbolic.” She and Alex exchanged glances.

“We weren’t having problems!” exclaimed the woman, who’d sensed their suspicion.

“Maybe from your perspective you weren’t,” Simpson said in a blunt tone. “Sometimes the people we think we know best we don’t really know at all. But the fact is a bottle of Scotch and a gun were found with his prints on them.”

Jeffries stood and paced the small room. “Look, it’s not like Pat was leading some secret double life.”

“Everyone has secrets,” Simpson persisted. “And killing himself at the place where you had your first date, well . . . ? It may not be a coincidence.”

Jeffries whirled around to look at Simpson. “Not Pat. He didn’t have secrets that would cause him to take his own life.”

“If you knew about them, they wouldn’t be secrets, would they?” Simpson said.

“His suicide note said that he was sorry,” Alex interjected, shooting Simpson an angry look. “Any idea what he was sorry about?”

Jeffries dropped back onto her chair. “The FBI didn’t tell me about that.”

“They were under no obligation to tell you, but I thought you would want to know. Any idea what he might have meant?”

“No.”

“Was he depressed about anything? Any change in emotions?” Alex asked.

“Nothing like that.”

“The gun he used was a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver. It was registered to him. You ever see it around?”

“No, but I knew he’d purchased a gun. There’d been a couple of break-ins in his neighborhood. He got it for protection. I hate guns personally. After we were married, I was going to make him get rid of it.”

“When was the last time you spoke with him?” Alex asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. He said he’d call me later if he got the chance. But he never did.”

She looked like she might start bawling again, so Alex spoke quickly. “No idea what he was working on lately? Anything he might have mentioned, even just in passing?”

“I told you, he didn’t talk about work to me.”

“No money problems, ex-girlfriend, things like that?”

She shook her head.

“And what were you doing last night between the hours of eleven and two?” Simpson asked.

Jeffries looked stonily at her. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I think the question is pretty straightforward.”

“You said Pat killed himself, so why does it matter where
I
was?”

Alex cut in. He was finding his partner’s interrogation technique very annoying. “Technically, it’s a homicide, which can include anything from suicide to murder. We’re just trying to establish the whereabouts of everyone involved. We’ll be asking lots of people that same question. Don’t read anything more than that into it.”

Slowly, Anne Jeffries’ defiant look dissolved. “Well, I left work around six-thirty. Traffic, as usual, was a bitch. It took me an hour and ten minutes to crawl a few miles. I made some phone calls, had a bite to eat and went back down to Old Town to meet with the woman who’s making my wedding dress.” Here she paused and let out a sob. Alex handed her a fresh tissue and nudged the glass of water she’d earlier poured for herself closer to the woman. She gulped from it and continued. “I finished with her around nine-thirty. That’s when I got a call from a girlfriend who lives in Old Town, and we met for a drink at Union Street Pub. We were there for about an hour or so, just chitchatting. Then I drove home. I was in bed by midnight.”

“Your friend’s name?” Simpson asked, and wrote it down.

The two agents rose to leave, but Jeffries stopped them.

“His . . . his body. They didn’t tell me where it is.”

“I would imagine it’s at the D.C. morgue now,” Alex said quietly.

“Can I . . . I mean would it be possible for me to see him?”

“You don’t have to do that. They’ve already positively identified him,” Simpson added.

“That’s not what I meant. I . . . I just want to see him.” She paused and said, “Is he, is he terribly disfigured?”

Alex answered, “No. I’ll see what I can do. By the way, is his family nearby?”

“They live in California. I’ve spoken with them; they’re flying in with Pat’s brother.” She gazed up at him. “We were really very happy together.”

“I’m sure you were,” Alex said as he walked out the door with Simpson.

Outside, he faced off with his partner. “Is that what the hell you call effective interrogation techniques?”

Simpson shrugged. “I was the bad cop and you were the good cop. It worked pretty well. She’s probably telling the truth. And she doesn’t know zip.”

Alex was about to respond when his phone rang.

He listened for a minute and then turned to Simpson. “Let’s go.” He started walking off fast.

“Where to?” she asked, hustling after him.

“That was Lloyd from the FBI. They think they just found out what Patrick Johnson was sorry about.”