Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

The fifth. The page was titled at the top, Court Order, Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas, then a typewritten list of names and numbers, Howard Elias Finney, 2445993, plus seven others, and below them, To be released immediately, then signed by Quentin Osley, Judge, and dated. The date was nearly twenty years old. There were several other case numbers and designations on the page.

The sixth paper, and last. It was a cover page of a report. University of Virginia Honor Court Proceedings, 1974. Beneath was a handwritten Page 65.

This last page, the emptiest, he stared at the longest.

Then he wrote a few notes in a small notebook and replaced the papers in the box, and the box in the book, and the book on the shelf.

“Morgan.”

“Yes, Mr. Beale?”

“I have a couple little jobs for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The pale face beneath the sandy red hair looked up at him through dense glasses.

“Do you need more sunlight, Morgan?”

“I get sunburn.”

“Do you even get enough air?”

“I’m still breathing, sir.”

“I suppose you are. First, here is an article about some drug arrests. Can you find out when it’s from?” He put the handwritten copy in Morgan’s long, thin fingers.

“Let’s see.” He entered a sentence from the article. “Looks like the Washington Post, March 20th, 2002.”

“Thank you! That was easy.”

“That one was.”

“Hey, boss.”

Charles turned. Angelo stood in the door, ragged and menacing.

“Yes?”

“You want us to go out now?”

“Yes, I’ll be a few minutes. You’ll need to look nice.”

“What is that for drugs and arrests you are doing?”

“It’s not me,” Charles said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, boss.”

Charles looked back to Morgan. “Here is another article.”

Morgan read the words. “I hope these aren’t anyone you know,” he said.

“No. It’s complicated. I’m trying to find out about a book.”

“Yes, sir. I know how that can go off in all different directions. Let’s see.” He typed, then typed again, then a few other times. “That one isn’t coming up.”

“It isn’t there?” Charles asked.

“I can’t find it. It might be too old, or from some newspaper that doesn’t have their back issues online, or they’re hidden.”

“Never mind, then. Next-this is the number and date of a court order from the Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas. Can you find anything about it?”

“That’s probably online. Let me see.”

There was more typing and clicking and passing of minutes, but finally Morgan nodded. “Right. It’s some grand jury thing about, um, prosecutorial misconduct. Eight prisoners were released. Their trials had been overturned because the prosecutor had, um, whatever… I think it means he’d suppressed evidence… overzealous… jury tampering… Wow.” His nose got closer and closer to the screen. “Hardcore ruthless. This guy would prosecute his own mother.” He looked up at Charles. “Sir.”

“That’s good enough,” Charles said. “Does it say who the prosecutor was?”

“No. Not here. But it does say no charges would be brought against him, apparently because of some technicality.”

“All right, then, one more. There is a man in the news recently, Patrick Henry White. He was a judge, but he had to resign when someone told the newspaper that he’d cheated on some tests back in law school. I wonder if you can tell me where and when he was in school.”

“Let’s see.” Morgan’s fingers spoke with the computer and soon it answered. “It was in a Washington Post article six months ago. University of Virginia, 1972 to 1976.”

“Thank you.” He sighed. “I think that’s all.” He took the papers back. “And where is Odysseus?”

“Still sailing.”

“Very well.”

Charles walked slowly back to his own office. He took a porcelain soap dish from the bathroom, set his handwritten notes on it, lit them with a match, and slid the ashes into the wastebasket.

“Alice?”

“Yes, Mr. Beale?”

“Here is a list of books I would like you to pull for me.”

“Did someone order them?”

“No, I’m just borrowing them. I’ll need them in a couple hours and I’ll have them back tomorrow.”

“Hey, boss.”

Charles regained his composure. “You must learn to make some sound when you come into a room, Angelo.”

“I said, ‘Hey, boss.’ Are you ready for us to go?”

“Yes you did, and yes I am, and you look quite presentable. And have we sold anything else, Alice?”

“A volume of George Bernard Shaw’s plays.”

“ Pygmalion. Well, Professor Higgins is taking Miss Doolittle to the ball.”

“This is a jeweler,” Charles said. “Very fancy. I doubt we’ll find our lady here, so it will just be practice.”

“People here don’t talk to me,” Angelo said.

“You look completely respectable,” Charles said. “Come on.” He pushed open the door.

Angelo stopped on the threshold. Even he was overwhelmed, his eyes wide open until he regained his blank, narrow stare.

Four pedestals interrupted the expansive royal blueness of the carpet, magnificent dark wood stands smothered in glittering sparkling dazzling flashing spot-lit jewels. Around the three walls facing them ran a blinding necklace of other crystalline displays.

Charles gave him time.

A velvet voice floated toward them. “May I help you?” The source, a crystalline young woman, had come from a side office door.

“I hope so,” Charles said. “My name is Charles Beale, and I’m here with Mr. Acevedo.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beale and Mr. Acevedo.”

“Hey,” Angelo said, still slightly blinded.

“We were given your name by Capital Auction.”

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Mr. Acevedo is interested in acquiring some pieces that will be up for auction, but he would prefer to have someone more familiar with jewelry, and with bidding at auction, to represent him.”

Angelo stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes shifting side to side.

“I see.” The woman smiled. “You would want to speak with Mr. Needham.”

“Does he usually attend the auction himself, or does someone else?”

“That depends on the type of pieces, but he would work with you personally to begin with.”

“I see. Is he in?”

“I believe he is engaged at the moment.”

Charles smiled. “Perhaps we’ll stop in later.”

“Yes, sir. It would be good to call ahead of time.”

“We will. Thank you.”

“What do you think?” Charles asked.

“Hey, boss, that is the way you do it.”

“What would you do?”

“You got another place to try?”

“Let’s see… there is an office on the list that’s close.” He looked at the paper. “About three blocks.”

“I will do that one.”

“All right. Let’s try it.”

Three blocks was not far at Angelo’s pace. Charles was the one gasping as they reached the solid gray stone slab within sight of Union Station.

“This is an office, not a retail store,” he said. “You don’t just wander in.”

They rode an elevator to the third floor. When he wasn’t moving, Angelo was very still, but when the doors opened he was moving before Charles had a chance to speak.

The door said Gallwood Imports. “You stay here,” Angelo said.

He opened the door without knocking. Charles watched from the hall.

It was a small, crowded, untidy room with one occupied desk and two unoccupied. The occupant was a very thin man with dark hair and a beaklike nose.

“Yes?” he said.

Angelo waited.