The Book of Lost Fragrances

Twenty-four

NEW YORK CITY

WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 10:30 A.M.

Malachai walked up the broad steps to the New York Public Library. It was an unusually warm morning. Even though it had been a short walk from the taxi up the stairs, once inside, he welcomed the cool and dark oasis.

And it welcomed him.

Over the years, coming here to study obscure treatises that touched on past-life theory, he’d learned the library’s grand spaces and secret recesses. It was a living entity that shared itself willingly and appreciated those who appreciated it. A romantic notion, Malachai knew. But one he enjoyed.

Across the lobby, he stopped for a moment at the stairway to prepare himself for the effort. An accident two years before during a concert in Vienna had left him with a slight but ever constant pain in his hip that climbing worsened.

He glanced upward. The high ceiling transfixed him. Lifted his soul. Made him draw in his breath and filled him with reverence. The library was a house of worship to the spirit of creativity and the pursuit of knowledge.

Reed Winston sat at a long table in the main reading room, a half-dozen books spread out before him. He didn’t turn when Malachai passed him. And he didn’t acknowledge his boss’s presence when Malachai sat down across the table from him eight minutes later.

Malachai opened the book he’d requested from the stacks: The Letters of D. H. Lawrence. Rifling through it, he searched for a particular page. When he found it, he removed a small leather-bound book from his pocket and took notes.

For the next thirty minutes, the two men sat at the same scratched wooden table, sharing the same green glass lamp. To anyone watching, it appeared that they were unaware of each other. At eleven, Malachai returned his book to the front desk and left.

He reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fortieth Street as the light turned red.

“I think you left this in the library.”

Malachai turned.

Winston, out of breath, held out Malachai’s leather notebook.

“So I did. Thank you.”

Winston shook his head. “That’s okay.”

If Winston hadn’t followed him, Malachai would have understood the ex-agent was concerned they were being watched.

The light turned green. The two men crossed the street together. On the other side, they began to talk in earnest as they walked toward Madison Avenue.

“What on earth happened in France?” Malachai asked. “You assured me you had the right people in place. That nothing was going to go wrong. That we were, above all, not going to lose sight of our goal.”

“They are the right people.”

“But Robbie L’Etoile’s disappeared?”

“Yes. It seems impossible, but that’s what my contact reported.”

“Is he getting that from the police?”

“Yes. L’Etoile is missing. And he’s the prime suspect in their murder case.”

“And the victim is still unidentified?”

Winston nodded.

“What about his sister?”

“Under surveillance.”

“By who?”

“The best we have.”

Malachai looked at Winston.

“There was nothing that could have been done to prevent this,” Winston argued, even though Malachai hadn’t said a word. “There was no way to anticipate what happened.”

“You and the men you hire are paid to anticipate everything.”

“Yes. But it’s not possible.”

Despite his frustration, Malachai knew the ex-agent was right. There were things you couldn’t anticipate. Like suddenly becoming aware of smelling the world around you when you were fifty-eight years old.

“There is no way that this is going to slip through my fingers.” Malachai was talking about a piece of pottery. He was picturing a woman.

“I understand.”

“It’s going to require a trip to Paris,” Malachai said.

“I can go tonight.”

“Not you. I’m going.” He didn’t like leaving his practice on short notice. The children he helped were sacrosanct. But if the pottery shards were a memory tool, and if they were missing, that took precedence. He could arrange for another therapist to take over his cases for a few days. He couldn’t trust anyone else to go to France.

“I’ll be flying out tomorrow. Fire whoever you had working for you over there. Find me someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the word impossible. In French. Or in English.”