The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(60)

Max adjusted his already-perfect tie and watched Liesl in silence as the memory of Francis receded from the space. When she said nothing, Max raised his eyebrows at her; she was standing with her arms crossed.

“So you believe me then?” Max said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to, Liesl. You behaved like it.”

“No,” she said, looking off in the direction where Francis had disappeared. “I spoke in defense of Miriam.”

“Right, Liesl. But if Miriam isn’t the thief, then someone else is.”

“Someone. Not Francis.”

Max gave her a steady look, then spun the chair around and faced the computer screen. After a few moments of silence, he gave a slight shake of the head.

“Right,” he said. “You two are close, so this is hard for you.”

Liesl refused to accept that. She changed direction.

“You’ve offered no evidence.”

“Haven’t I?”

“He was against the police, Max. That’s all.”

Liesl was surprised that Max seemed so fixed on the idea of Francis as the culprit. The men had a long relationship, no history of coldness between them that she knew.

“It might be all,” Max said. “Or it might be the first piece of something bigger.”

Max waved a hand as to if signal the conversation was over, but Liesl felt determined to continue. She pulled a chair over directly next to Max and sat herself in it. Refused to accept his back to her any longer. This time she took the accusing tone.

“You sound paranoid,” Liesl said. “Francis is your colleague.”

“I know,” he said. This time he was the one who glanced over to make sure Francis was not returning. “But we won’t find who did it without asking questions.”

“Christopher would know,” Liesl said, thinking of the confident Christopher holding court in his office, the one who didn’t exist anymore, not the near-corpse in the ICU. “I’m sure he would just know.”

“He’s as good with people as he is with books,” Max said.

“That’s why he’s so good at this job.”

“It’s hard,” Max said, “to think of someone replacing him.”

“Not satisfied with my performance?” Liesl said.

“That’s not fair. You’re only interim.”

“It’s all right. My feelings aren’t hurt,” Liesl said. “I’m good with books, not people.”

With Liesl sitting next to him, Max struggled to hide his unease, but didn’t conceal his meaning. Some other man might have paid her a compliment, thought of ways in which she was appropriate for the leadership position. Max was not that man.

“The fundraising is an awfully important part of the job,” he said.

“Yes. I’m learning that it’s difficult to be successful without a membership to the right golf club or wine club or cigar club. I don’t even know the right kind of club.”

The phone rang again. Max was waiting for Liesl to say that he could be the one. That he had the talent for books and the talent for people. She wouldn’t offer him that kindness.

The call was rerouted, and it went quiet again.

“You should call Percy first,” Liesl said.

“Yes. He’ll be waiting.”

“When you do, make sure he knows you’re calling him first.”

“Bit late to be sucking up.”

“Not with Percy. Let’s do what we can to keep him feeling important.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They both stood up. Liesl waited for him to realize that he had to stay at the reference desk, that it was his shift. He didn’t.

“The desk,” Liesl said.

“There’s no one else?”

“You were scheduled.”

“Well, yes,” Max said. “But I thought that with everything going on…”

“If staffing weren’t so tight. The absences. You understand.”

“I’ll call Percy from here.”

She nodded, prepared to leave, and then stopped herself, catching on something that he had said earlier. She tapped a finger on the desk, wondering if her question was out of line and finally deciding they were past the point of niceties.

“What happened with your father,” she said, “in the end?”

“How do you mean?”

“Your father. You said he was a depressive, that he suffered from it throughout his life. Did he ever get better?”

“Are you asking if my father killed himself?”

“Not at all. I’m sorry. None of my business.”

“It’s fine. It’s been a long time.”

“So he did, then?”

“Alas, no. He drank himself to death. His liver killed him before his hand could.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Yes. I’m going to get to these calls.”

“Thank you.”

Faint and frail, Liesl began to make phone calls, and after a prolonged explanation to the first call recipient, she learned that rich people love gossip more than rich people love old books and that she shouldn’t have been worried at all. She had sat in the cigar stink of Christopher’s office and prepared a script about open communication and about the police investigation and about the expected recovery of the books. None of the old wankers cared a lick. They wanted color for their upcoming cocktail parties. They asked about how the theft had been discovered, they asked if the investigating detective was handsome, they asked if there was a ransom note for the books, and when she said there was not, they said there must be and she just had not discovered it yet. Rich people loved gossip almost as much as they loved money.