T he door creaked open. A shaft of light slipped across the floor and tickled the toe of my shoe. I pulled my foot back and waited in the darkness. The door creaked a bit farther. I saw a hand scrabble across the wall, find the light switch, and hit it. The hand’s owner was still outside the room talking to someone, backing his way into the office. Then Lawrence Randolph turned and saw me, sitting behind his desk, smiling.
“Hello, Mr. Randolph.”
“Kelly, what the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Waiting for you.”
Randolph reached for his phone. “I’m calling security.”
“There’s no need.”
Randolph followed my gaze. Behind him, at the door, stood Teen.
“What’s she doing here?”
“She’ll be right outside. If you feel you’re in danger, just give a holler and Teen will come running.”
“I’m calling security and having you escorted from the building.”
Randolph reached for the phone again. I pulled out the Sheehan’s and laid it on his desk. Then I opened it up and let him see the red number inside.
“That’s a number four, Randolph.”
The curator’s eyes feasted on the Sheehan’s as he waved Teen away. When we were alone, he held out his hands like one of the statues you’d see in the Queen of All Saints Basilica. Only this statue was real and ready to kill for his God.
“Mr. Kelly. Could I take a look?”
I pushed the book his way. He turned pages, pretended to examine the text. All the while long lengths of finger pried and poked at the book’s binding. Feeling for the document he knew was secreted within.
“It’s not there, Randolph.”
The curator’s fingers stopped probing. His eyes reached into mine. “Excuse me?”
“The Proclamation. It’s gone.” I threw a silver flash drive onto his desk.
“Believe it or not, that drive contains the entire contents of your laptop. We lifted it yesterday afternoon in the Starbucks down the street.”
Randolph was sitting now. Eyes moving from the flash drive to the book and back.
“You killed Allen Bryant. You got his name from Johnny Woods and went to his house. You wanted to get your hands on the number four edition before Johnny got there. Didn’t work out.”
Randolph’s eyes hollowed and the corners of his mouth squeezed up into a reluctant smile.
“The e-mails we pulled off your laptop go back more than a year,” I said. “You and a skinhead named Clarence Lester. Negotiating the sale of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.”
I pulled out a booking photo of Lester. Long, lean face. Chalk-white skin with three teardrops tattooed under one eye. Randolph pulled the shot close with a single finger, took a look, and pushed it back.
“How much were you going to get?” I said.
“You’ll never prove it.” Randolph nodded at the flash drive. “That’s illegal. Wiretapping. Invasion of privacy.”
“How much were you going to get?” I said.
“If you hijacked my laptop, then you already know.”
“Eight point five million,” I said.
The nostrils on Randolph’s face seemed to thin and quiver, anxiously scenting cash their owner would never get to spend.
“Close enough,” the curator said.
“Where does the Aryan Brotherhood get dollars like that?”
“Think I give a damn, Mr. Kelly? They planned a worldwide webcast. Going to burn the thing online. But that’s not the point. Your intercept and any information obtained from it are illegal.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
I leaned forward on my elbows, steepled my fingers under my chin, and looked carefully across the desk.
“At first, I thought, why wouldn’t you just try to obtain it legitimately? Aboveboard. Sell it at Sotheby’s. Probably bring in fifteen, twenty mil.”
“Good point,” Randolph said.
“Then I realized you couldn’t do that. Your great-granduncle was a thief. Never owned the Proclamation in the first place. If you came forward with it, the city, state, and half the world would have jumped in to claim ownership.”
I paused and took a look across the room. Josiah Randolph hung on the wall. Same weak chin. Same tight smile. Probably getting a big kick out of the whole thing.
“It had to be someone like the skinheads,” I said. “Only way for you to cash in. By the way, you know the Aryan Brotherhood is considered a terrorist organization now?”
I poked again at the silver drive. Randolph flinched as I pushed it his way.
“Lot of latitude today for intercepts like this. Warrantless wiretaps and all that.”
I saw the first bit of concern pick at the corners of the curator’s arrogance.
“Get the hell out of here,” he hissed.
“One thing I don’t understand. Why get me involved? Why not just confront Woods about the book? Kill him and take it for yourself?”
“You think murder’s that simple?”
“Allen Bryant might think so.”
“Mr. Bryant was a nobody. Mr. Woods had entanglements.”
“You mean the mayor’s office. Let me guess. You thought there was a chance they might actually investigate the death of one of their own?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kelly. Now get out. And take the bitch outside with you.”
“I don’t think so, Randolph.” I placed a final piece of paper on the curator’s desk.
“This is your letter of resignation. When you walk out of this office, there will be a team of federal marshals waiting to take you into custody for questioning with respect to Allen Bryant’s murder. They’ll also take possession of your desktop computer and personal items pursuant to search warrants executed this morning in federal court.”
Blood drained south from Randolph’s face as I spoke.
“Want a suggestion, Lawrence?”
He nodded.
“Sign this letter. Hand the position over temporarily to your trusted assistant, Teen. Get a good lawyer and hope for the best.”
“Why should I do that?”
“’Cause you’re in the system now. I might be able to do you a favor down the road and, believe me, you’re going to need every one of them you can get.”
Randolph took a look around his soon-to-be-former domain. Soft yellow lights and even softer carpet. A wall of diplomas in golden frames. Pictures of Randolph with the mayor, governor, and any other smiling politician who would grasp his overreaching hand. Books, groaning with pretension and stacked from floor to ceiling. Presiding over it all, Randolph’s scheming ancestor, the man who pilfered Lincoln’s Proclamation in the first place, a common crook named Josiah. The curator pulled his eyes back to the rather unappetizing present, sniffed once or twice, and did what any sensible man would do.
“I want to cut a deal.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can help.”
“Maybe. Tell me the rest.”
Randolph stood up, moved toward the desk, and picked up his oosik.
“That thing help you think?” I said.
Randolph put the oosik down. “Just a toy. I know, you find it strange. You realize my family had the Proclamation in our possession for over a century?”
“Didn’t know that.”
“Neither did they. Josiah died suddenly from a stroke.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Josiah was brilliant. Created a cover story about the Proclamation for his official diary. Never told anyone he had actually saved it.”
“And eventually hid it in his Sheehan’s.”
“In 1974, a pig of an uncle sold the book.”
Randolph waved his hands in the air. At the vagaries of time and fate. At the idiocy of others. At the temptations handed down by history. Temptations that were his undoing.
“I found the rest of the diary among Josiah’s papers four years ago. The whole story was there. When I realized what Josiah had done, what my family had unwittingly sold-”
“You got greedy.”
“The Proclamation belongs to my family. It’s my legacy.”
“A legacy you wanted to turn around and sell.”
“It’s mine, Mr. Kelly.”
“How did the Sheehan’s wind up in Woods’ hands?”
Randolph wandered over to his wall of books and picked randomly at the volumes there.
“I suspected the number four was in the Chicago area but was never really sure.”
“You needed someone to do your legwork. Someone relentless enough to get the job done, but someone you could control.”
“Something like that.”
“And that’s when you decided to bring in the mayor’s office and Johnny Woods?”
Randolph turned back my way. “I thought they might bite on the fire story.”
“Let them do all the heavy lifting,” I said. “Lead you right to the number four.”
“That was the idea.”
“Didn’t quite work out that way,” I said.
“Woods lied to me.”
“Not a big surprise there.”
“No, probably not. He said he’d located the book. Told me Bryant had it at his house on Hudson.”
“In actuality, Woods himself had already taken the number four from Bryant,” I said.
Randolph nodded. “When we arrived at the house-”
“We?”
“Lester insisted on coming with me that morning. As it turned out, that was probably a mistake.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bryant was hostile. Told us he had given the book to Woods the previous evening, and why were we so interested, anyway.”
I could see the old professor, staring at the skinhead in his living room, a lethal mix of fear and outrage bubbling inside.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You didn’t believe Bryant.”
“I did. Lester wasn’t so sure.”
“So you killed him.”
“Lester wanted to waterboard the professor. Said the CIA did it all the time to get people talking. Are you familiar with the technique?”
“Sure. Stretch him out on a piece of wood and pour water over the guy’s face. Victim thinks he’s drowning.”
“Unless he actually is drowning, which, in the case of Mr. Bryant, was exactly what happened. Terrible accident. For the record, all Lester’s doing.”
“Spoken like a true rat. They’re gonna love you inside, Randolph.”
Randolph blinked behind his glasses. “What about our deal?”
“I told you, I’ll do what I can. Tell me about the murder. Why all the fuss?”
“Excuse me?”
“The sand in Bryant’s mouth. If he was already dead, what was the point?”
The curator puffed himself up as only an academic, even a wannabe homicidal academic, can do. “I thought we needed to add a bit of complexity to the crime scene.”
“Keep the focus on the fire as a possible motive. And maybe turn up the heat a little on Johnny Woods?”
Randolph smiled and walked back to his wall of books. “You’ve sampled a little history on the Great Fire. You might appreciate this.”
The volume was large, dusty, and old. Randolph laid it flat on the desk, open to an onionskin map of 1871 Chicago.
“The fire devoured Chicago in chunks,” the curator said. “Block by block. Thousands of people streamed into the streets-streets made of wood and often already aflame. Anyway, where were they to go?”
I turned a page and looked at the illustrations. A dark and boiling river of people, drawn in faded ink, terror on their faces as they ran through a rain of fire and ash. Swarming toward the water. The apparent safety of Lake Michigan.
“According to most accounts,” Randolph said, “thousands flocked to the lakefront. Some ran into the water, but found it to be alive with pieces of flaming timber and burning pitch. The air itself, however, was no better. So hot, it peeled the skin off people’s bones. To draw a breath was to risk cooking, literally, from the inside out.”
Randolph reached over and turned the page for me. To a fresh set of drawings.
“Others coming to the lakefront buried themselves up to their necks in sand. It should have been a prudent move. The earth underneath was wet and cool. There was only one problem.”
“The wind.”
“Excellent, Mr. Kelly. Columns of superheated air and flames had risen into the sky and tore along the lakefront. Those who survived called them fire devils. They turned the beaches into sandstorms-and then into graves. Some, it seems, were buried alive.”
I closed the book on faces from long ago. Eyes looking up at a sky filled with death. Mouths half covered in sand. Faces drowning in earth.
“So you fashioned the same fate for Allen Bryant.”
“As I said, it was Lester who insisted upon killing the man. I simply provided the proper historical context. May I?”
I stood up. Randolph moved back behind his desk and booted up his computer.
“Now, Mr. Kelly. There is only one more thing I want to show you.”
I walked across the room and replaced the volume of history Randolph had given me. Then I sat on a couch along the wall and waited. Rodriguez was already outside with the feds and their warrants. I could give the curator a final minute.
“Your computer play, Mr. Kelly. Clever. As I said, I assume you won’t use any of that material officially. Of course, investigators will know exactly where to look in my desktop computer and find it, anyway. Isn’t that the notion?”
“That’s how it works, Randolph.”
The curator finished typing and pushed away from the screen. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
“What did you want to show me?”
“Actually, nothing. Or rather, soon-to-be nothing.”
Randolph flipped his screen around so I could get a look. File names were appearing and reappearing in a manic game of hide-and-seek.
“I have a few computer tricks of my own. One is known as a bomb.”
I jumped at the computer and hit some buttons. File names kept slipping across the screen.
“What did you do?”
“It can’t be stopped, Mr. Kelly.”
There was a beep and the file names disappeared altogether. Replaced by a blinking cursor.
“In fact, it’s done.” Randolph smiled. “All my files and e-mails are erased, on my computer and any computer that received them. Incapable of being reconstructed even with the most sophisticated of programs. A very effective and very lethal bomb.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t have to. Doesn’t make it any less real.”
Randolph picked up the flash drive I had given him off his desk. “Kind of renders this irrelevant.”
He dropped the drive into a wastebasket by his feet and stood up. “Don’t feel bad, Mr. Kelly. You’re Irish and I’m not. As Charles Hume knew so well, breeding will always tell.”
Then Randolph walked out of his office and into the arms of the police. Two hours after that, he walked out of the society with his lawyer. No charges filed and apologies all around. Lawrence Randolph was a killer. And a free man.