Serial

26

New York, the present

Quinn and Pearl had lunch in Quinn’s brownstone over on West Seventy-fifth Street, only a short walk from the office. They often did that, stopping at a deli to pick up carryout food.

In the brownstone, they could relax and talk freely, and not always about whatever the agency was working on. Sometimes the talk was about converting closets to bathrooms, about wainscoting or crown molding, or what kind of tile should be in the entry hall. Quinn could catch the news on TV if he felt like it. Pearl could kick off her shoes and stretch out on the couch for an afternoon nap. The kinds of things you couldn’t do in a restaurant.

Sometimes after lunch they would climb the narrow stairs leading up from the vestibule and visit the construction crew to see how the renovations were going.

Pearl was becoming more and more interested in the renovations. Quinn hoped that meant she was becoming increasingly interested in the brownstone, and maybe in moving in with him. He thought that in a lot of ways it made sense. He didn’t know for sure what she thought.

They didn’t stay long in the brownstone today. Even through the thick walls and floors, they could hear the tympani of hammering and the angry whine of power tools. It sounded as if this was the day the workmen had decided to tear down a wall.

Not an ideal place to hang out.

Back in the office, it didn’t take Quinn and Pearl long to fall again into the rhythm of work. Quinn was at his desk, Pearl at her computer, when Vitali and Mishkin entered. Both were in shirtsleeves and with loosened ties, Vitali short and decisive in his movements, Mishkin slightly taller and languid, looking like Mr. Milquetoast with his soup-strainer mustache.

“Finished searching the victims’ apartments?” Quinn asked.

Both men nodded. Mishkin walked over to the small refrigerator and got a bottled water. Vitali poured himself a cup of coffee and left it black.

“Show them what we found, Sal,” Mishkin said.

Vitali drew a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Quinn. Pearl got up from her desk and crossed the room to peer over Quinn’s shoulder.

“We found nothing previously overlooked indicating either victim played around with S and M or had any connection to anything called Socrates’s Cavern,” Vitali said. “But we did find this.”

Quinn looked at what appeared to be a page torn from a small spiral notebook. It had the name Andy Drubb scrawled on it in dark blue ink, along with a phone number.

“It was in one of Noon’s dresser drawers,” Mishkin said, “along with some thong underwear and a peculiar brassiere.”

Pearl looked at him. “Peculiar how?”

“Not all that peculiar,” Sal said. “It was for holding up boobs without straps. Harold was unfamiliar with that model.”

“Sort of propped them up,” Mishkin said. “Cantilevered.”

Pearl rolled her eyes.

“Did you cross-directory this guy Drubb and get his address?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah,” Vitali said. “He lives down in the Village. We called the number but got no answer, and no answering machine. Drubb won’t know who called. We used a public phone in case he had caller ID.”

“Go see him,” Quinn said, “but don’t call first. See how he takes to being surprised.”

“That’s what we were on our way to do,” Sal said. “Wanted to check it with you first.”

“Maybe Drubb was in a red hot S-and-M relationship with Nora Noon,” Mishkin said. “I mean, with the thong underwear and all. And that bra thing.” He glanced at Pearl, his gaze lingering on her large breasts.

Pearl glared at him. “Are you for real, Harold?”

“Funny you should ask. What I was wondering-”

“Never mind, Harold!” Quinn and Vitali said in unison. Nobody wanted to see Pearl erupt.

“We’ve got a printout of the Socrates’s Cavern membership list,” Pearl said. “I’ll check it and see if Drubb’s on it.” She went over to her desk and pulled some stapled sheets of paper from a drawer. “It’s alphabetical, so this’ll only take a few seconds.”

“He’d probably be too young,” Sal said.

“Then maybe his father,” Pearl said

“That’s an ugly thought,” Mishkin said.

“And wouldn’t mean much if it turned out to be true,” Sal told him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Pearl said. “Drubb’s not on the list.”

“If you don’t find Andy Drubb at home,” Quinn said, “ask around the neighborhood and see what you can learn about him. It won’t hurt if he hears about it and gets nervous.” He glanced at his watch. “Stop and grab some lunch on the way downtown.”

“Wanna join us?” Vitali asked.

“We already had lunch at my place,” Quinn said.

“In the middle of the day?” Mishkin said.

“That’s when people eat lunch, Harold,” Vitali said.

Mishkin was staring at Pearl’s breasts again. Pearl was sure she wouldn’t like the reason why.

The Albert A. Aal Library looked like a miniature court building. Though it wasn’t all that wide, it had shallow concrete steps leading to half a dozen columns framing five tall wooden doors outfitted with brass kick and push plates. One of the doors had a sign warning that it was automatic, as if anyone getting too close to it might be flipped back down the steps. Fedderman chose that one. The others looked too heavy to move.

The library was surprisingly spacious inside, and well lighted. While it might be narrow, it was long, with rows of steel shelves laden with books. Off to the side was an arrangement of armchairs and wooden racks of magazines and newspapers. A blond boy who looked too young not to be in school was slumped in one of the chairs, reading a car magazine. Fedderman could see only a few people browsing the stacks.

A gray-haired woman, long and narrow like the library, sat behind the wooden counter where books were checked out and returned. She had on round metal-framed glasses trailing a thin braided loop that was buttoned to her blouse. There was no way she could misplace the glasses, Fedderman thought. He’d bought reading glasses but could seldom find them so had stopped looking. He could still see well enough without glasses, if he held whatever he was reading at arm’s length and squinted. That was good enough for him because it had to be, unless he happened to stumble across his glasses by sheer luck. But with glasses like this woman’s…

“Help you?” the woman asked. Fedderman realized she was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Her expression was faintly disapproving.

“Research,” Fedderman said. He was uncomfortable around librarians. Had been since as a teenager he’d returned Lady Chatterley’s Lover three months overdue and-

“What is it you’d like to research?”

Fedderman sure wasn’t going to tell her that. “Something in an old newspaper.”

She observed him as if he were a mildly interesting insect. “We have newspapers on microfiche,” she said. “Our research room is straight down and to your left at the end of those aisles. Someone back there will help you.”

Fedderman thanked her and wandered off in the direction she’d instructed. Never a scholar, he still very much liked the unique musty scent of old books. And many of the library’s books were old. Only about half seemed to have dust jackets, and some of them were faded.

He had no trouble finding the research room. It had three walls and four viewers, and a wall of shelves on which were stacks of small cardboard boxes with writing on them in black felt-tip ink. A scholarly looking man in a saggy brown corduroy jacket and sloppily knotted pink tie sat at one of the viewers, intent on what was sliding past sideways on the glowing monitor. Fedderman noticed that the corduroy jacket had leather elbow patches. He had never owned anything with elbow patches.

At the far end of the room was the librarian Fedderman had been told would help him. She was reaching up to replace one of the boxes that held a cartridge when she glanced over and saw him. And smiled.

Penny Noon.

She looked more like a librarian today, wearing light gray slacks, a darker gray blazer, and what looked like a man’s miniature tie over a white blouse. A large white button with red lettering was pinned to her blazer’s lapel. It read Save the Book.

“More questions about Nora’s murder?” she asked.

“You know me,” Fedderman said, though she didn’t know him all that well. “Always working.”

“So it seems.”

“I thought we’d… gotten more trusting of each other. That maybe we should see each other again.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’m the victim’s half sister. Isn’t there a conflict of interest there?”

“If there is,” Fedderman said, “I don’t care. When certain situations occur, when you meet certain, special people, you should take advantage of them.”

“Of the special people?”

He felt a flicker of annoyance and embarrassment. “Is this what’s known as verbal fencing?”

“No, it’s a way of avoiding the subject. We are the subject. Rather, our relationship, brief as it is. I apologize. I’m being evasive and you’re being direct.”

“There isn’t that much time to say what’s on your mind,” Fedderman said. “For any of us. I know that because of my work. You should know it because of… what’s happened.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Both thinking about Nora. Both knowing that the last thing Fedderman had come here for was to discuss the murder case.

Fedderman began to perspire. He had to break the silence, change the subject. He wasn’t good at this kind of patter, especially in the presence of this woman who made him tongue-tied.

“The book,” he said, nodding toward her lapel button. “Who’s it need saving from?”

“Oh, so many people. Most of them with e-books.”

“Huh?”

“Electronic readers.”

“Those things can’t be much fun,” Fedderman said.

“Someone closer than you imagine might disagree with you.”

“How do you turn pages with them?”

“I’m afraid pages are becoming obsolete. Like librarians.”

“Save the librarians,” Fedderman said.

The guy in the corduroy jacket gave him an annoyed look, like a man on the verge of growling. Instead of growling, he gathered up some papers, and then glanced in Penny’s direction and stood and left the research room. What? Had they been talking too loud?

Penny walked over and switched off the viewer Mr. Corduroy had left on. Fedderman enjoyed watching her do that. Maybe too obviously.

“Did you come here to save this librarian?” she asked.

“Yes. From the electronic book.”

“Is that what you told Ms. Culver?”

“The woman at the desk? No, I told her I wanted to find something in an old newspaper.”

She smiled and moved closer to him. He noticed she was wearing perfume. He couldn’t place the scent, but it smelled better than old books.

“Was that a fib?” she asked.

“Who would fib to Ms. Culver?”

“I bet you would,” she said. She absently buttoned his shirt cuff, then stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He embraced her and brought her close, held her tight, kissed her on the lips, felt her tongue warm and soft against his own.

Their hands were all over each other, there in the research room.