Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“Yes,” Behan said almost too quickly.

Caleb gave him the standard tour, which he ended near the spot where Jonathan DeHaven had been killed. Was it Caleb’s imagination, or did Behan’s gaze linger just a beat too long on the fire suppressant gas nozzle sticking out of the wall. His suspicion was confirmed when Behan pointed at it.

“What’s that?”

Caleb explained about the system. “We’re actually going to replace the gas we use with another one that’s more ozone-friendly.”

Behan nodded. “Well, thanks for the tour.”

After Behan had left, Caleb called Stone and told him about this encounter.

Stone remarked, “His roundabout way of asking if Jonathan had any enemies is very curious unless he’s looking into the possibility of pinning the murder on someone else. And the fact that he wanted to know if you’ve looked all through Jonathan’s house is very telling. I wonder if he knew about his neighbor’s voyeuristic tendencies?”

After he had hung up with Stone, Caleb picked up the book he’d brought from DeHaven’s vault and walked through a series of underground tunnels to the Madison Building where the Conservation and Preservation Division was located. The division was split into two large rooms, one for books and the other for everything else. Here almost one hundred conservators labored at restoring rare and not-so-rare items to better condition. Caleb went into the book room and headed to a table where a thin man wearing a green apron was carefully turning the pages of an incunabulum work from Germany. Around him was an assortment of tools, ranging from ultrasonic welders and Teflon spatulas to old-fashioned manual screw presses and X-acto knives.

“Hello, Monty,” Caleb said.

Monty Chambers looked up from behind thick black glasses and rubbed his bald head with a gloved hand. He was clean-shaven and had a weak chin that seemed to melt into his face. He didn’t speak but merely nodded at Caleb. Well into his sixties now, Monty had been the library’s top book conservator for decades. He was given all the toughest assignments and had never failed to get the job done. It was said that he could coax even the most damaged and neglected books back to life. He was prized for the dexterity and sensitivity of his hands, his cleverness and creativity in restoring old works and his vast knowledge of book conservation and preservation techniques.

“Got a freelance job for you, Monty, if you have time.” Caleb held up the book. “ The Sound and the Fury. It has some water damage to the boards. It belonged to Jonathan DeHaven. I’m handling the sale of his collection.”

Monty examined the novel and said in a high-pitched voice, “How soon?”

“Oh, you have plenty of time. We’re in the early stages yet.”

Conservators at Monty’s level often worked on several major and smaller projects at a time. They worked late and also came in over some weekends when they wouldn’t be interrupted as much. Caleb also knew that Monty had a fully equipped workshop at his home in D.C. where he did outside jobs on occasion.

“Reversible?” Monty asked.

Standard protocols in the field now demanded that every repair on a book be “reversible.” In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries book conservationists were in a decided “gussy-up” phase. Unfortunately, that had led to many old books being totally rebuilt, with their original covers discarded and the pages rebound in bright, tooled leather and sometimes fancy custom latches. It looked nice but completely destroyed the historical integrity of the article with no way to reverse the damage.

“Yes,” Caleb answered. “And would you please write up what work you propose to do? We’ll provide that documentation with the book when it’s sold.”

Monty nodded and returned to his current project.

Caleb headed back to the reading room. In the tunnels he found himself chuckling. “Miltie,” he said under his breath. “And his new hairdo.” It would be the last good laugh he would have in a long time.

“Reginacollins,” Annabelle said in a brisk manner, handing the woman her card. “I called ahead for an appointment with Mr. Keller.” She and Milton were standing in the reception area of Keller & Mahoney, Architects, located in a towering brownstone near the White House. She was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that beautifully offset her now red-highlighted hair. Milton stood behind her, alternating between self-consciously adjusting his orange tie and fingering the chic ponytail that Annabelle had styled his long hair in.

A minute later a tall man in his fifties with wavy gray hair strode out to meet them. He wore a monogrammed striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and green braces held up his trousers. “Ms. Collins?” he said. They shook hands, and she handed him one of her business cards.

“Mr. Keller, what a pleasure. Thank you for taking the time to see us on such short notice. My assistant was supposed to call you before we left France. Suffice it to say, I’m getting a new assistant.” She indicated Milton. “My associate, Leslie Haynes.”

Milton managed to say both hello and shake the man’s hand, though he didn’t look very comfortable doing either.

“Forgive the jet lag,” Annabelle said quickly, noting his awkwardness. “We usually take the afternoon flight here, but it was booked. We had to get up before dawn Paris time. A real killer.”

“Not to worry, I can relate. Please, come on back,” Keller said amiably.

In his office they all sat at a small conference table.

“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. As I said in my call, I’m the managing director with a start-up architectural magazine for the trade in Europe.”

Keller glanced at the business card that Annabelle had just had run off that morning. “ La Balustrade. Clever name.”

“Thanks. The ad agency spent a lot of time and our money developing it. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Keller laughed. “Oh, yes. We went that route initially and then decided to just name the company after ourselves.”

“I wish we’d had that option.”

“But you’re not French?”

“An old story. I’m a transplanted American who fell in love with Paris while I was in college on an exchange program. I can speak the language just well enough to order dinner, a nice bottle of wine, and get into trouble on occasion.” She said a few words in French.

Keller laughed embarrassingly. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.

She opened a leather briefcase she’d brought with her and pulled out a notebook. “Well, for the inaugural issue we wanted to do a story on the renovation of the Jefferson Building that was undertaken by your firm in partnership with the Architect of the Capitol.”

Keller nodded. “That was a great honor for us.”

“And a long job. From 1984 until 1995, correct?”

“You’ve done your homework. That also included redoing the Adams Building across the street as well as cleaning and conservation of the murals in the Jefferson Building. I can tell you it dominated my life for ten years.”

“And you did a brilliant job. From what I understand it was a Herculean task simply to rework the main reading area. There were a lot of structural integrity issues, load-bearing column problems, particularly with the challenge of the dome, and I heard that the original truss work left a lot to be desired?” These were items Milton had pulled off the Internet for her just that morning. She’d distilled a hundred pages of information down so smoothly, and spun it out so glibly, that Milton looked at her in amazement.

“It did have its challenges, although you’re looking at a building that was constructed over a hundred years ago. Given that, they did a helluva job back then.”