“What building?” I ask.
Gabriel slowly lifts his hand from the mystery photo and shows us.
Chapter Seventeen
We pack up all the forms, ribbons, and photos back into the boxes. Gabriel goes to the front desk and signs us out.
“Did you find what you were after?” the librarian asks.
They must ask everyone this. That’s why people come to a city history center, right? To find some specific piece of history that fits an assignment, or research paper, or whatever. Even so, just the librarian’s question has the four of us vibrating with excitement.
“Oh yeah,” Gabriel answers. “I’m pretty sure we found exactly what we were looking for.”
The moment we’re out of the city history room and in the hallway, we implode into the softest collective scream we can manage.
Here, I think to myself.We’re already here.
TREASURE ISLAND BUILDER READS ARCHITECTURE 723
The Treasure Island builder who reads architecture hasto be George W. Kelham, the architect who designed both Naval Station Treasure Islandandthe San Francisco Main Public Library. As in, the library we’re currently standing in.
“So ‘seven two three’ is all that’s left,” Julia says, studying the cipher solution in her notebook.
“No,” Sunny cuts in, “ ‘Architectureseven two three.’ ”
“But George is the architect,” Julia counters. “He’s a builder who reads architecture…That was the clue to him being an architect.”
Gabriel clears his throat. “I thought the word ‘reads’ was pointing to the main library.”
TREASURE ISLAND BUILDER READS.
“Stop,” I say suddenly.
The others jerk toward me. “We’re not actually fighting,” Gabriel says.
“No, no.” I shake my head. “I meant ‘stop’ as in ‘period.’ I think you need to put in a period to figure out the clue. ‘Treasure Island builder reads.’ We know who the builder is: George W. Kelham—and we know what he designed: the navy building on Treasure Island andhere. We’re in his library, right? So if that’s the next step, and all that’s left in the clue is ‘architecture seven two three…’ ”
Sunny snaps. “It’s a call number! It’s a freaking call number!”
We rush down the stairs to the main collection. Right there, laminated in all its rainbow glory, is an old-school Dewey decimal system poster. Sunny points to the seven hundreds.
“Arts and Recreation,” she reads. “Seven hundreds—Fine Art. Seven tens—Landscaping. Seven twenties—”
She looks back at us. “Architecture.”
“Holy shit,” Gabriel squeals. “This is so legit.”
I gaze around the room, trying to figure out which direction the call numbers are heading. Finally, I see a cluster of shelves marked as five hundreds. As the numbers tick up, the shelves get smaller and smaller in the distance, to the point where they almost seem to disappear into the recesses of the far wing.
“This way,” I tell the others.
And even though we’re not underground beneath Trinity Church or sneaking into caves behind Mount Rushmore, I feel exactly like Ben Gates reaching the final step of the puzzle.
We creep past the sea of shelves until we reach the seven hundreds. As I get ready to turn down the next aisle, my chest swells. I don’t know what we’re about to see, but I know it has to be important. I take a deep breath and peer around the corner, and…
It looks exactly the same as any other row of books.
The shelves are the same nondescript metal shelves as the ones in the rest of the library. The books look like the ones in every other row. The floor’s the same gray tile—no one square slightly out of place. There’s not a nearby lamp switch leading to a back room, or a mysterious framed picture of Harvey Milk or George W. Kelham. There’s not even an old letter stuck to the underside of a shelf ledge.
