Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I do want to.”

At first, annoyance was winning. But not for long.

“All right.”

Blond Jane had only watched so far, but now she stood to lead the way to the hall and back, past locked metal doors in whitewashed walls to a door like all the others.

John Borchard unlocked it.

“Go ahead.”

Jane retreated. Charles entered with the quiet shadow of Angelo close. John came in last.

The room was large, cinder block, cement, gray and empty, almost. Only the desk was in it, in the center, its rich dark wood and ornament in blunt tension with its prison. Its back panels had been roughly removed and leaned against it.

An intricate mechanism enclosed the exposed back of the drawers on one side.

Charles moved to the front of the desk and respectfully pushed the two left drawers in an inch, then pulled the lower drawer out. John Borchard watched. The box, no longer hidden, obeyed and came out with the drawer.

“That would have been helpful to know,” John Borchard said. Annoyance was back, with real anger just beside it. “I suppose Derek showed you how it worked?” And then threat, a new expression not yet seen, appeared. “There is a great deal you need to explain to me, Charles.”

But Charles was looking at the wooden box. It matched the desk perfectly. The stain was the same, the wood was the same, and even the joints were the same grooves and slots as the antique drawer. The only difference was that it wasn’t as worn as the antique.

“It’s beautiful work,” Charles said. The box was empty.

“Yes, it is all very unfortunate.”

“Yes, very. Do you know who made it?”

“The drawer? No.”

“The desk itself,” Charles said.

“No.”

Charles moved slowly around it, stooping and peering. “It doesn’t say.” He felt the smoothness of the wood and the tight joining of the panels. Then he stood. “Now I’d like to see the papers.”

“I won’t allow that, Charles. Absolutely not.”

“You’ll need to, John. We’re going to talk through this, all of it. You have as much to explain as I do.”

His lower lip was quivering, and whatever emotion he was trying to show was incomplete without that part under control.

“They’re at my house.”

“Then let’s go.”

John Borchard held the door for Charles, and then locked it. Angelo barely got out before it closed; John had ignored him completely.

Charles twisted through the tangles of suburban roads, John Borchard’s heavy silver Cadillac guiding him.

“You are making that man mad,” Angelo said.

“Yes. It’s unavoidable.”

“That man, you should be careful with him. Does he have friends?”

“You mean his gang? No, there won’t be anyone at his house. I know you wouldn’t follow someone into his base like this, but I think he is a man who works on his own.”

Angelo nodded. “I think he is. You are going into his house?”

“I expect so.”

“I will not go in.”

“That’s probably best. He’ll be more willing to talk with just me alone. He’s in a difficult position and he needs my help, Angelo. I want to get information from him, but even more, I want to help him.”

Finally they came to a driveway on a very new street of very large houses. Where Derek’s house had been a painting, these were billboards. The landscaping was machined and the architecture generated.

John Borchard stood waiting in the driveway.

“Here we are,” he said as Charles stepped from his car. “My wife is away for the morning.”

“It’s a very nice neighborhood, John.”

“Please come in.”

Angelo stayed in the front seat. John led Charles through the garage, not the front door, into an extensive kitchen of hard, polished surfaces, and through a dining room of designed colors and shapes, and a hallway of nothing comfortable, and to an office of deep and rich pretense, with nothing anywhere softened or wizened by any age.

“Please sit down.”

Charles sat in a chair as plush as those in the Justice Department office. A clock ticked. Charles folded his hands.

“I am very disturbed,” John Borchard said from behind his desk. Whether he wasn’t trying, or the novelty had worn off, his face seemed less expressive. It was merely stern. “Charles, I accepted you for who you said you were and what you said you were doing. You gave no indication that you were anything but a friend of Derek’s, simply looking at his life. But now it is obvious that you were misleading me.”

“I apologize,” Charles said. “However. Caution has been necessary, and John, I don’t believe you were simply accepting me as Derek’s friend. You assumed much more than that.”

“And so I was correct. Then let’s start over.” John forced a forced smile. “And let’s start with Derek’s desk. How did you know about it?”

“I really didn’t know anything about it at the time of the auction two weeks ago. Of course, everyone saw the bidding. The desk was worth over a hundred thousand dollars to two different people.”

“But Derek had showed you the drawer?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know about it?”

“That came later, and I’m under an obligation to not discuss it. But I did find out about the drawer, and about what it might have contained.”

“And what do you think it might have contained?” John asked.

“I think caution is still in order,” Charles said. “Instead, I’ll mention Patrick White.”

“I’ve warned you already to not listen to him.”

“I know that he is mistaken about you, John. But someone threatened him and then carried out their threat. Someone.”

“Apparently,” John said.

“I believe it was Derek Bastien.”

“Why?”

“I’ll just say I’ve gotten to know Derek very well since he died. But that is what I think Derek kept in his desk.”

“Evidence against Patrick White?”

“More than just Mr. White. And, John, I think you must have known what he was doing.”

“What makes you think that, Charles?”

“Because you paid a hundred and five thousand dollars to get his desk.”

John Borchard’s face was out of control for a moment with a bewildering array of worries, angers and even bewilderments.

“But how did you know that I did? You’re talking in circles.”

“I guessed. At least two people knew about the drawer, to bid so high for it. Who else would it have been? You, or Karen Liu, or Patrick White. Possibly others. Mr. White didn’t suspect Derek at all, and I don’t believe Karen Liu did either. But Derek worked for you, and his interests in blackmail coincided very closely with yours. It seemed reasonable that you would know what he was doing. And not many people would have been close enough to him to specifically know about the drawer.”

“But you were still guessing.”

“I was guessing. I guessed that someone would get a list of agents from the auction house, which turned out to be true. Was that how you found Jane?”

“That isn’t important.”

“It seemed in character, though. So when I found her, I had a chance to try out my guess. If you hadn’t responded the way you did, I would have tried Karen Liu next. Besides that, your questions about Derek’s books were rather transparent.”

“Yes, his books.” John was back on firmer ground. “My questions were transparent. You could have answered me plainly.”

“Why were you interested in his books?” Charles said.

This time, the expressions progressed through concentration, indecision, calculation, and finally firm resolution. John settled deep into his chair’s padding. The final display of eyebrows, chin and lips was camaraderie and confiding.