Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

She read one from the middle of the page. “GJ, nine-twelve-oh-five, twenty-two fifty.”

“His computer passwords,” Charles said. “Or his automobile mileage.”

“Why would he keep his mileage inside John Locke?”

“Why would he keep anything inside John Locke? I don’t know.” He opened another page. “A copy of four checks.” He looked at them closely. “Cashier’s checks. They are made out to… Karen Liu.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Dorothy said.

“Five hundred thousand in all.”

“I wonder who Karen Liu is.”

“I remember Derek mentioning her name.” He frowned. “She is a congressman. Congresswoman. Congressperson.”

Then they both were silent. It was a silence of confusion, where thoughts were almost audible.

“Why-?” they both said. Dorothy finished the question.

“Why would Derek have that paper?”

Charles answered, staring, but not at anything. “I don’t know.”

“And what would the checks be for?”

“I don’t know.”

Dorothy took the paper. “They’re dated eight years ago. When did you sell him that book?”

“Five years ago.”

“I wonder where he kept the papers before that.”

Charles broke from his reverie. “Oh, he must have had some other hiding place. Maybe he had a hole chiseled out of a Renaissance statue? Or a Ming vase? Or maybe thumbtacked to the back of a Van Gogh.”

“Did he have a Van Gogh?”

“I don’t think so. But I wonder why he had them hidden at all.” Then slowly, he opened a third paper. It was a newspaper article. Charles and Dorothy both read the headline.

Man Killed, Police Search County for Wife.

“We shouldn’t look at these,” Charles said.

“Maybe we should return them.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “That’s what we should do.” But he sounded doubtful.

“Will you call his wife?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know whose they should be. Legally, they’re mine.”

“I don’t think they were meant to be sold,” Dorothy said.

“I’m sure they weren’t. But sale at auction is absolute.”

“You don’t want to keep them, do you?”

“No. It just means that they are mine to figure out what to do with.”

Now Dorothy was doubtful. “What did he do at the Justice Department?”

Charles folded the papers and put them back in the box. Distastefully, he pushed the box back into its lair. “Derek was Chief of Staff to the Deputy Assistant Attorney General for Legislative Affairs.”

Dorothy frowned, and the solemnity that had watched over the room shifted its gaze elsewhere. “I had no idea such a position existed,” she said. Her tone was plain that she saw no need that it should.

“It did. It does still, I suppose.”

“Then those papers must have something to do with it. They don’t have anything to do with us.”

“It’s still a poor place to keep them,” Charles said.

Dorothy’s attention was pulled back to the object on the desk.

“What will you do with the book?”

He stared at the ruin of it. “That is the real difficulty. Oh my,” he sighed. “I’m so disappointed.”

“How much is it worth?”

“I was going to say four thousand,” Charles said. “It was the most valuable book he had.”

“How much did you sell it to him for?”

“Twenty-six hundred, five years ago. But it’s not the money anyway.”

“It’s what it says about Derek.”

Now they were back to the beginning. “Yes,” Charles said. “Exactly. If he needed to hide something, there must have been a hundred other places that didn’t require destroying something. I remember delivering that book myself, and we talked for an hour about just it. I even remember the chess game we had while we talked.”

“He must have had a reason for doing what he did.”

“I’d like to know the reason,” Charles said.

The clock’s seven slow chimes sounded. Charles sat at the counter. “Good night, Alice,” he said.

“Good night, Mr. Beale. Should I lock the door?”

“Yes, please. Alice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What was the last thing we sold today?”

“A Don Quixote.”

Then she was gone and he was alone. He breathed in the calm. “Another day older and wiser,” he said to the books. “Each of us.”

Feet appeared from above, and Morgan followed them on the stairs. Charles moved aside from the computer.

“I already closed out from upstairs,” Morgan said. “I just need to put together the deposit and balance the drawer.”

“Go ahead,” Charles said. “I’m just sitting.”

Morgan counted checks and cash and anything else there was and finally let himself out, taking the blue deposit bag with him, secure beneath his coat, and leaving the quiet behind. Charles watched over it protectively.

A gentler tread descended, music in his ears.

“Are you ready, dear Dulcinea?” Charles said.

Dorothy had on her jacket and gloves against the April evening.

“Yes, senor.”

As he stood, and as Dorothy came to the last step, the lock rattled in the front door, and the door opened.

“Hey, boss.”

“Sancho Panza,” Charles said.

“What do you say?” Angelo asked.

“Nothing. We’re just leaving. Everything went okay?”

“Everything is always okay.”

“Very good. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was across the room and on the stairs, mounting them in panther silence.

Charles set the alarm for the night. “And shall we go, Mrs. Beale?” he asked.

“Please, Mr. Beale,” she answered, and they stepped out to the twilit street. The sharp lights and sounds replaced the quiet of the books, but nothing dislodged the linen and forest smell; it was irreplaceable.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Charles asked as they dawdled along.

“No. I’m sure I could find something in the freezer.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“Hah!” They’d reached Prince Street. “Then the world is our oyster. Let’s find a pearl.”

“Wherever you lead, Charles, I will follow.”

He led from beside her, a knight errant with his fair maiden, zigzagging through busy lamp-lit sidewalks, beneath a salmon sky and still air the temperature of vichyssoise. At the door of a miniature black villa fit between townhouses, a large-nosed man bowed his jet-black hair to them.

“Madame Beale! Monsieur. So welcome!”

“Good evening, Henri,” Charles said.

“The chef has La croustade de veau braise au Madere tonight, very special.”

They were whisked to a corner table framed by vines decanted from a ceramic row of cabbages, beets and onions above them. The table was polished ebony, and the chairs were plush and pink. They sat in them side by side, and their candle was lit.

“Ah, Dorothy!” A woman in a black evening dress and henna red curls flew across the room. “What a night! Did Henri tell you? The veau braise au Madere is magnificent! I cried over it. It was so delicious.”

“Of course he told us, Antoinette.”

“Philippe! Come! Have a wonderful meal,” Antoinette said, already racing toward another table.

“The veal pastry, of course,” Charles told the waiter. And then they were alone.

“Oh! I was going to ask Angelo about something from the auction.”

“You said he didn’t go in.”

“Something outside. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

“Do you like La croustade de veau braise?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

In their corner, they were outside the mumble and buzz of the other diners and gymnastics of the waiters. Dorothy laid her hand on the table, free for the taking; and Charles took it, and held it. The candle flame danced.