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“Your man looks all right. Except for his tooth.”
“He’s a tough chap, but he did say colliding with you was like hitting a brick wall.”
Stone continued to focus on the feed. The suit and woman were no longer visible. He saw people running; the security bollards on Pennsylvania retracted into the street and police cars and Secret Service vans raced away. Blair House was quickly sealed off.
“Can you show me the last thirty seconds again?”
She hit a couple of keystrokes and Stone watched the explosion happen again. He sat back puzzled.
“What’s the problem?” said Chapman as she stopped the video.
“Can you slow it down even more?”
“I’ll try.” She worked some keystrokes. “This is the best I can do, I’m afraid.”
They watched it again with everything in ultraslow motion.
Stone followed the path of the jogger as he passed by a pair of uniformed Secret Service officers and a canine before entering the park.
“Fat chap to be in trainers,” noted Chapman. “Doesn’t look like a runner, does he?”
“People who wear jogging suits aren’t always runners. He might have just been out for a walk.”
“If you say so.”
“Bomb could have been on that iPod.”
Chapman nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. C-4 or Semtex. Or something even more powerful. If so, there will be evidence of that in the debris field.”
“Yes and no. Yes, the iPod will be blown apart, but it would be regardless of whether it was part of an explosive device or not.”
“But they’ll be able to tell,” said Chapman. “From scorching marks, from the deformity angles of the parts, outward as opposed to inward, and so on.”
Stone turned to her. “You know about explosives?”
“Another reason they sent for me. I spent three years chasing some nasty Irishmen who didn’t believe the IRA had actually signed a peace treaty. They liked to make things go boom. Learned a lot.”
“I’m sure.” Stone looked back at the screen. “He dove into the planting hole.”
“And the explosion happened a few seconds later. Maybe a suicide bomber, then.”
Stone looked skeptical. “Who kills only himself by diving in a hole?”
“So what do you think the lay of the land is, then?”
He looked at her curiously. “Lay of what land?”
“Your land of too many bloody American agencies. I’ve only been on this case less than a day and already I feel claustrophobic.”
“Ever heard of Hell’s Corner?”
Chapman shook her head.
Stone leaned forward and tapped the frozen screen, which showed Lafayette Park. “This is Hell’s Corner,” he said. “Pennsylvania Avenue, the actual street, belongs to the D.C. metro cops. The sidewalks around Lafayette Park are the Secret Service’s turf and the park itself comes under the jurisdiction of the Park Police. Secret Service agents are actually taught to grab a person of interest from the street or park, carry him to the sidewalk and then arrest him there to prevent a pissing contest over jurisdiction.”
“Okay,” Chapman said slowly.
“Hell’s Corner,” he said again. “The Feds and cops hate it, but they all have to dance to the same song. The explosion is a case in point. The Park Police will control the scene, but the FBI, and the ATF, because an explosive was involved, will control the investigation. And Homeland Security, Secret Service, NIC and CIA will be hovering like vultures.”
Chapman took a sip of tea. “So what now?”
“We’ll have to go to the park, talk to the investigators and track down the jogger’s identity and that of the woman and the guy in the suit too.” He gazed at Chapman. “Your guy? Where is he?”
“Available for questioning. But we have his full report. He saw less than you.”
“All right.”
She reached for her jacket. “So on to the park?”
“Yes.”
“You want to use my car?”
“I think we should, since I don’t happen to own one.”
CHAPTER 13
ANNABELLE CONROY RODE THE ELEVATOR up to the second floor, stepped off, turned and entered the Rare Book Reading Room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. She surveyed the large room and spotted Caleb Shaw at his desk in the back. She caught his eye and he quickly came forward.
“Annabelle, what are you doing here?”
“Can you take a break? I’ve got Reuben and Harry Finn out front. We want to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? Oliver. Those guys took him from the hospital and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“If anyone can take care of himself it’s Oliver.”
“But he might need our help.”
“All right, give me a minute.”
As they rode down in the elevator Caleb said, “This has been quite an exciting day for me.”
“Why’s that?”
“We just got in an F. Scott. And not just any F. Scott. The F. Scott.”
“The F. Scott what?” asked Annabelle.
Caleb gazed at her in horror. “F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest American writers of all time.” He sputtered, “My God, Annabelle, where have you been all these years?”
“Nowhere near a library, I guess.”
“The book is The Great Gatsby, arguably his greatest achievement, and certainly his most well-known work. And it’s not just any Great Gatsby, of which we have several. It’s a first edition, first state, of course. But it has the very rare, scarcely obtainable dust jacket cover.” Annabelle looked at him blankly. “You know, the one with the haunting pair of female eyes? It is one of the most uniquely famous covers in classic literature. You see, the cover was actually conceived before Fitzgerald finished writing the book. He loved it so much he wrote a scene in the novel that included that image.”
“Very interesting,” said Annabelle politely, but her tone actually showed little interest. She had once shared a van with Caleb for nearly two days, during which he had regaled her nearly nonstop with literary scuttlebutt. She had never really recovered from the onslaught.
They got off the elevator and walked toward the exit.
Caleb continued, “And that’s not the best part. The best part is that it’s Zelda’s copy. The provenance is absolutely certain.”
“Who’s Zelda?”
“Who’s Zelda?” sputtered Caleb again. “His wife, of course. Scott and Zelda. A more tragic couple you would be hard pressed to find. She died in an asylum and Fitzgerald drank himself to death. He inscribed the book for her. What a coup for the library. A one of one,” he added. “We love those.”
“Totally unique?”
“Absolutely.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
Caleb looked taken aback. He blustered, “Well, I mean, that is not for public—”
“Come on, just an estimate.”
“It was well into the six figures, I’ll have to leave it at that,” he said, a bit pompously.
Annabelle now looked interested. “My grandmother left me her personal copy of Wuthering Heights. I wonder how much it might be worth. It’s in excellent condition.”
Caleb looked intrigued. “Wuthering Heights? First editions of those in pristine condition are rare. Where did she get it?”
“At a bookstore eight years ago. It’s a paperback, is that a problem?”
Caleb gazed stonily at her and said stiffly, “Funny.”
Outside they met up with Reuben and Harry Finn. Finn was a decades-younger version of Stone, lean and lethal. Unless he needed to move fast, he never seemed to even flinch, as though storing his energy for when a crisis occurred. Reuben had changed from his loading-dock uniform into his usual garb of jeans and a sweatshirt with moccasins on his feet. They sat on the broad steps leading into the library.
