The Book of 21 (12 page)

“So that made you start studying folklore?”

“Yeah, well, I started writing the stories down. After a while, I realized I was more interested in collecting stories than in doing my job, which made me feel even more like a fake. So I quit, and here I am.”

John nodded. “So, you figured out what you want to do. That’s good.”

Amy leaned in, which pushed her breasts together and made her cleavage even more noticeable.

John tried not to look and fought to see how long he could hold out.

“So how about you, John? When did you know you wanted to be a cop?”

“When I actually realize that I
want
to be a cop, I’ll let you know.”

She laughed and leaned back, which made it easier for him to keep his eyes on her face. There was a break as the waiter sat the drinks on the table. It gave John an interruption to gather his thoughts, and he decided to be the one asking questions.

“What else do you know about this
Book of 21
?” he blurted out as the waiter walked away.

“Nobody really knows exactly what’s inside it; just that it can free the old gods and bring back the dramatic swings of fate.”

“Who would want that?”

“Who knows,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe someone who didn’t like where they wound up when things normalized.”

“So, how did you say this thing got back to Europe?”

“You mean hypothetically, right? After all, it really doesn’t exist,” she reminded him.

“Hallman seemed to think it did, and it seems to be something I keep running into.”

“Where?” she pried with a frown.

“I really can’t say.”

“Ah,” she sighed. “Like I mentioned earlier, his theory on how it got back to France, and what happened after that, ruined him academically. According to Ted, a group of crusading knights, led by a real gem named Sir Charles, was assaulting this Muslim temple. After a brutal fight, only a few knights were left. Sir Charles started exploring the place, found this old book, and took the thing back to France. The mention of Baphomet in the list of old gods, and the idea that Charles was a Templar, led Ted to think he could crack the mystery of the Templars. It was academic suicide, and Dunglison kept trying to talk him out of it. Unfortunately, Dunglison kept stealing all of Ted’s other work, so he really didn’t have much left to write about.”

“I don’t get it,” John admitted. “Why was the whole Templar thing such taboo?”

“Ordre du Temple? Knights of the Temple of Solomon?” she queried, as she sat her empty glass on the table and waived to the waiter, indicating she would like another drink.

John shrugged and shook his head.

Amy continued, “The Knights Templar was a group of knights that had great favor with the church. They supposedly held a secret item of unspeakable power. Ted thought that item was
Le Coeur Codex
.”

“So why was that such a problem?”

“A great number of scholars are drawn into the Templar drama. They all think they can solve the riddle and identify the source of Templar power. It always involves some conspiracy theory, and always results in a dead end. The day somebody starts talking about the Templars is the day they lose their status as a scholar.”

“So I take it you don’t pay much attention to that whole business.”

“Like I said, I read every one of Ted’s papers, so I knew a lot of his thoughts on the whole mess. Even though his theory was very entertaining, I knew enough to stay away from that whole wild goose chase.”

“What if he found the book?”

She pursed her lips and gave him the same look that his mother used to give him when he did something wrong. She then sighed, “You think he found it?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t. He wouldn’t have shut up about it.” Amy handed the waiter her empty as she took the fresh Long Island iced tea from him.

John shrugged and continued to bluff, “What about the Clef of David that he left in his notes?”

“The actual Key of David?” Amy’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath. “He left that in his notes?”

“What if he did?” John asked, noting that
clef
must mean
key
in French.

“Ted always thought that the key would open the door to the vault of
Le Coeur Codex
. That would have been big. Can I see it?”

“This is all just hypothetical. I really can’t say much else, let alone show you anything.”

“Well, there’s not much I can say,” she sighed. “Ted did a lot of research. He always had very obscure connections, so I wouldn’t really be able to tell you what meant anything until I saw all of his notes.”

John realized that she had been playing with her hair for the last few minutes but decided the twirling action, as well as the blush in her cheeks, was simply a result of the alcohol.

Amy looked at the hand that was twirling her golden locks and quickly jerked it away. She shifted her hand to her glass and seemed unaware of the fact that she was now gently stroking the glass cylinder. After a second, she picked up the untouched shot of bourbon and dumped it in his half-imbibed glass of Coke.

“This one is on me,” she said with a smile. “Now really, how’d you get to be a cop?”

He regarded her for a second and wondered if the zipper on her hoodie was just a bit lower than it had been before. He smiled and sighed, “You don’t want to hear that boring story. I think I need you to stay awake.”

Amy laughed, then looked him in the eye, tilted her head, and opened her mouth ever so slightly, just as she had earlier, on campus. After staring at him for a few seconds, she said, “You seem to think a lot more about things than most of the supposed scholars I work with. Maybe when this is over, and you’re no longer working on this case, you’ll consider giving me a call. I think I’d like to hear that story. I could use a little excitement.”

Her wry smile and blushing cheeks made John wonder just how exciting she thought his life was. To a student, living her life in books, a cop might seem take-charge. If she liked her men aggressive, like her booze, he could see how that would be attractive. She was certainly attractive to him, but John knew there were ramifications to dating a witness on a live case. He started to shake his head and replied, “I really don’t think it’s—”

“Sorry,” she said, raising a hand. “I think Ted’s death just got to me, that’s all. I’m usually not so forward, but then you realize how short life is, and figure you might as well take the chance when you get it.”

John stared at her and smiled for a few seconds, then divulged, “Well, you seem to know more about what Hallman was doing than anyone else. I’m sure we’ll probably talk a few times before this is over.”

Forgetting himself, John took a sip of his bourbon and Coke. The liquor warmed his throat, but he remained stoic. He thought it best to let Amy think he meant to take the action. After a second, he said, “You know, this old man’s had a tough day. I think I need to turn in.”

“Sounds good,” she said with a smile.

“Seriously, my nose and brain still hurt from this morning.”

“Well then, you just might have a concussion. I don’t think you should go to sleep just yet.”

He was unsure of whether she was really saying what he thought she was saying. Tilting his head to the right, he cracked a smile and said, “Nah, time for me to go.”

Amy gulped down her drink and waved for the check. Turning back to him, she said, “OK, can you walk me home, though? I’m pretty tipsy, and it’s not good for a drunk girl to be walking around alone in the city.”

Thinking about how Dunglison claimed to have been stalked in the weeks before his death, John thought it was best to walk her home. He told himself that it was purely business; he had to protect his primary source of context for all the information that Hallman left behind. They settled the check, and made their way out onto the street. They strolled for about two blocks in silence before Amy turned toward him and grabbed his arm.

“I hope I didn’t come across like a slut.”

John’s eyes opened wide. “No,” he laughed, “just like you were young and full of life.”

“You’re not
that
much older than me, are you?”

“You said you were twenty-six. That gives me seven years on you.”

“That’s not much,” she contended.

As they approached the door to her building, John thought about it. Sometimes, seven years could seem like forever. Right then, he thought she was right; it seemed like a small thing.

Amy stopped walking and motioned toward the stairs of a townhouse. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for coffee? I could take a look at, well, whatever you have, from Hallman.”

John looked at her eyes, which peeked coquettishly from under spiral locks of gold. Her breasts were heaving under her labored breath, which she was fighting to control. If she could control herself, so could he.

“Thanks, but I’d better get home. Once this is over, maybe things will be different.”

“Thank you, John.” She gave him a smile. “I hope you call me soon.”

He stood and watched as she walked into her building. When the door closed, he realized he had been holding his breath, mesmerized by her swinging hips. He exhaled, “So do I.”

Chapter 12:
A Rude Awakening

John lay on his couch. It felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when he heard something ringing. After a few seconds, he realized it was his new cell phone. The caller ID displayed Lieutenant Murphy’s office number. He tapped the button on the screen, and the ringing stopped.

Putting the phone to his ear, John grunted, “Hello.”

“Hi, John, this is Lieutenant Sanford. I hope I’m not calling you too late.”

The voice was unlike Murphy’s in any way. It substituted a regimented baritone for Murphy’s flowing bass pitch. The guy sounded like a used car salesman.

“Um, no,” John replied. “Who is this again?”

“Sanford, do you remember me?” he said. “I’m sorry to call you at this time, but under the circumstances I thought we should talk.”

John remembered Sanford, who worked Homicide a few years ago. Sanford was one of the best the division had, but Murphy was not going anywhere, and Sanford wanted a pay grade increase. He eventually left Homicide to head up Narcotics.

The problem was that now Sanford was talking to John the first time in a few years, from Murphy’s desk, after hours, and he was talking about circumstances.

“What circumstances?” John asked.

There was a long pause. “Have you seen any TV or news tonight?”

“No.”

There was another long pause. “Well, I hate to let you know like this, but there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Murphy’s dead.”

“How?”

“It looks like he was hit by a train on the way home. Someone bumped into him on the platform. At least, we think they bumped into him. On surveillance tape, it looks like the guy didn’t even notice he had knocked someone in front of a train.”

“Hold on a second,” John stalled. As he spoke, he turned the television to a local station. After a sitcom erupted into his living room with a fake laugh track, he moved to his computer and typed in the Web address for the Philadelphia Inquirer.

“Yeah, no problem,” Sanford replied. “Sorry if I caught you at a bad time, but there probably is no good time for something like this.”

“True,” John said distantly while the newspaper’s website appeared on his computer monitor. He clicked a few links and found the story in the local section. “Crap, it’s true.”

He blinked back an odd watering in his eyes. He would miss Murphy, who had been a good lieutenant, and a good man. What bothered him most, however, was that the description of Murphy’s death paralleled the train station scene that Dunglison had described. John had bumbled into something, and even though he was too dumb to realize what it was, his boss—his friend—was dead because of it.

“Give me a second,” he quivered. The tremor in his voice annoyed him.

John stood and grabbed his half-empty glass of bourbon and took a gulp. He took a deep breath to steel himself. He made his way into the kitchen for a refill and put the phone back to his ear.

“So, why are you calling about this?” he asked.

“I’m stuck with Murphy’s job until the brass figures out what to do.”

“Why you?” John asked. “It seems odd to bring someone in from outside the division at a time like this.”

“Believe me, John, I thought the same thing. No one in Homicide has supervisory experience, so they asked me to do an interim for the next few weeks. Trust me, I’d rather be at home with my wife and daughter right now.”

The both sat silently on the phone for a few seconds.

John knew that Sanford was giving him a few seconds to take it all in. He took a second drink of bourbon. There was one thing that was missing.

“So, why are you calling
me
?” John probed.

“I have some notes here in Murphy’s file that cause me some concern. I think you should come in.”

“Why?” John swallowed hard and decided to see what Sanford was willing to admit. “Do you think Murphy’s death was related to my case?”

There was a long pause. Neither of them spoke while they both tried to make sense of what they had just heard and already knew.

“Look,” Sanford said, “it’s probably a good idea if you come in. Some strange things are going on here, and I’m trying to make sense out of them before someone else gets hurt.”

John thought about it. He figured that he was not going to get shot in the Roundhouse. A face-to-face would at least give him the chance to read Sanford’s nonverbals and get a feel for whether the man was going to be a help or a problem. He spat back, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Chapter 13:
Back to Work

John made his way to Murphy’s office and found the nameplate was already missing from the door. He looked inside. Sanford was sitting at Murphy’s desk with a manila folder.

Sanford was about forty-five. His black hair sparkled with flecks of gray, and his strong jaw line held a three-day growth of stubble. He was wearing a starched white shirt and red tie. Sanford was just the way John remembered him.