The Hypnotist

TWELVE

Lucian pulled his 1988 Mustang into a restricted spot on East Seventy-Ninth Street and, because of his government plates, ignored the meter. He’d bought the car at a police auction, and had restored it to pristine condition. Forgoing an umbrella despite the drizzle, he hurried west. A strong wind blew young leaves off tree branches, and a sheet of the Daily News plastered Lucian’s leg. Pulling it off, he glimpsed the headline, CENTRAL PARK HIT-AND-RUN, and hurried on toward his destination, the New York Society Library.

The library had been housed in this classic limestone building designed by Trowbridge and Livingston since 1937 but had originally opened its doors in 1754 at old City Hall, on Wall Street facing Broad Street. For more than one hundred and fifty years it had been known as the “city library” until the public library system was founded and it became a treasured landmark.

Lucian had passed the building often, but this was his first time inside. He was struck by the quiet after the noisy street. Standing in the entryway for a moment, he looked around, feeling the same grace he experienced whenever he stepped inside a museum. Once he’d read that one of the ways a society’s humanity could be measured was by how well it treasured its artwork, literature and music, how much it revered the work of the soul. In a place like this, he thought, you could almost be optimistic. He’d have to share that insight with Matt; his partner would appreciate it.

Following instructions from the elderly woman at the front desk, Lucian climbed a wide marble staircase, took a right, then a left, and found the director’s office.

William Hawkes, a venerable man whose skin was so thin Lucian could read his veins like a map, greeted him in a surprisingly youthful voice, gave him a firm handshake and offered him a seat.

The office was richly decorated with a fine Louis XIV partners desk, a large bay window enclosed by ruby damask curtains, an Oriental carpet and three walls of carved walnut shelves with rows of leather-bound, gilt-edged books. The ceiling was paneled, and the crossbeams were feathered with gold inlay.

“It’s not often that I get a visit from my friends at the bureau. So how can I help you, Agent Glass?” Hawkes asked after they’d exchanged pleasantries.

“It’s about Dr. Malachai Samuels. I know you’re close to his aunt, so you might be aware we’ve had him under suspicion for quite some time.”

“Yes, I am.”

“He’s still the prime suspect in several crimes, including a recent robbery that resulted in a brutal death.”

Hawkes put both his hands on his desk and used them to propel himself up. He clasped them behind his back, walked over to the window and looked down to the street below. With his back still to Lucian he said, “Beryl is convinced of her nephew’s innocence. She has MS, do you know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Stress is terrible for her,” Hawkes said and turned back to face Lucian. “And the past eighteen months have been very stressful.” He shook his head, and a lock of his thick white hair fell across his forehead.

“We have a lot of circumstantial evidence but no hard proof. That’s why I’m here, to ask for your help.”

“At my age there are so many people I’ve cared about whom I’ve lost to age, illness, accidents… I know the toll that loss takes on the spirit, and I just can’t imagine what something like this will do to my dear friend Beryl.” The news had shaken him, and as he walked back to his desk he seemed more feeble and fragile. “Have you ever lost anyone you cared about, Detective?”

Lucian had come to in the hospital days after Solange’s death, too doped up with painkillers to miss her or mourn her. In the months following, when he should have confronted the pain of her death, he focused instead on the physical pain of learning to work the muscles the knife had cut through and the doctors had sewn back together. Loss? It was a tight, impossible knot inside of him that he’d long since given up hoping to unravel.

“I’ve known Malachai since he was a graduate student…an incredibly bright man. Did you know he studied at Oxford?” Hawkes asked.

Lucian nodded.

“He’s a scientist and a well-respected therapist. He works with children, Agent Glass.” He shook his head. “He works with children.” The shame on you was unsaid but implicit.

“Yes, I know, but none of those things preclude him from being a suspect.”

Hawkes splayed his hands on his desk and looked down at the age-spotted skin as if he’d find an answer to his dilemma there. “You’re putting me in a difficult position. I’ve known Beryl Talmage longer than I’ve known your boss. You’re asking me to choose between two people I care about. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do that.”

Lucian wasn’t ready to give up. Comley had told him about this man who’d won a Purple Heart, taught history at Harvard, had twenty-three honorary degrees, had written several books-including two volumes on the life of Albert Einstein-and had then become the director of the Library of Congress. He’d retired six years ago to travel with his wife, but after she died he’d agreed to take on the directorship of this small private library. What would convince him?

“Do you pay attention to coincidences?” Lucian asked.

“Einstein said, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ But he didn’t really believe in God. He said coincidence was unthinkable in physics, once calling it a weakness of the theory. I’m sorry, you didn’t come here for a lecture. What does this have to do with Malachai Samuels?”

“I am trained to pay attention to coincidences. And they’re piled up around this case like a major accident on the FDR Drive. Can I tell you about some of them before I leave?”

“Certainly.”

Outside, either the clouds had become denser or the rain had intensified, because there was now noticeably less light coming through the sheer curtains, and the atmosphere in the room was suddenly oppressive. “Last year when the ancient stones believed to be Memory Tools were stolen, Dr. Samuels was in Rome.”

“I know that. But you couldn’t find any evidence tying him to the crime. One would have to read the news without glasses not to have been aware of that.”

Lucian nodded. “Last week, while Dr. Samuels was in Vienna, a document was stolen from a library he had-”

“What library?”

“The private library at the Memorist Society, an organization that dates back to the early 1800s.”

“What kind of document?”

“It was a partial list of ancient Memory Tools. A coincidence? Two robberies less than twelve months apart but both dealing with the Memory Tools. Two robberies occurring in cities Malachai Samuels just happened to be visiting.”

Hawkes took a deep breath. It was a few moments before he responded. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Yesterday, Dr. Samuels called and asked you to recommend a librarian he could hire part-time to help him do some research.”

“How do you know that?”

“I regret I’m not at liberty to say.”

The elderly man’s hands knotted into fists on his desk. “Do you have just cause to invade my privacy like this?”

“Not your privacy, Malachai Samuels’s. People have been killed, Dr. Hawkes. You were on the other end of a call, and we’re sorry about that, but that call has put you in a position to help us.”

ACT was anxious to break the case before Malachai could do any more harm. Lucian’s appointments with Dr. Bellmer might or might not yield the kind of infiltration the FBI needed, but this solution could.

“How can I do that?”

“We want you to allow us to supply you with the name of the librarian to suggest to Dr. Samuels.”

“And that man will be an agent?”

“He’ll be a librarian. I’d be happy to show you his CV. I don’t want to impose on you to recommend someone you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can accommodate you, Agent Glass.”

“Several people have died. We’re afraid more will die if we can’t put this man in jail. Will you at least give it some serious thought?”

“Yes, that I will do.”

“There’s one other coincidence.”

“What’s that?”

“During his call, Malachai told you he’s anxious to hire a librarian because he recently obtained new information suggesting that his foundation’s own library might contain clues to the location of other Memory Tools, isn’t that correct? What information do you think that is? Where did he get it? Vienna?”

Dr. Hawkes glared at Lucian. “I don’t like how you do business, Agent Glass.”

“I don’t always like it, either. But I like murder less.”

As Lucian rose to leave he felt his cell phone vibrate for the third time since he’d been there. Once outside the office he finally pulled it out, looked down at the caller ID and checked the two previous calls. All three were from Nicolas Olshling at the Metropolitan Museum. Lucian hit Reply and listened to the phone ringing as he walked out of the library and into the unremitting rain and buffeting wind.