The Da Vinci Deception (13 page)

“You know what kind of treasures you've got up there in the library, and you certainly know that security at the Castle is imperfect. The royal librarian didn't want to take chances with all the tearing up and new people prowling around, so he sent a personal request up to the commissioner asking for a surveillance officer from my squad. There wasn't any good reason he shouldn't ask you chaps at Windsor but I guess Sir Mackworth-Young would rather do business with Sir Albert Waye.”

Deats nodded. “I'm afraid I knew that. I was hoping for more.” It was a perfect opening to ask Heston why he had not told him previously about assigning Sarah to the library. But he pressed on. “Did she file any reports? Anything to indicate she might be onto something?”

“There were a few reports, but all the routine sort of thing. She indicates that she was compiling a dossier on each employee and, well—here, let me read from a report filed two weeks ago.” Heston fingered through the folder and extracted a page.
“‘I am assembling a personal file on each member of the library staff, all that is except Sir Mackworth-Young, whom I assume we can safely exclude. I have also contacted the personnel people at Heldwicke Air-Control Systems for a report on all members of the construction crew assigned to the library. Most of these files are in hand, with several yet to complete. I shall include these papers in a future report, possibly the first or second week in September.'”
Heston looked up. “None of the dossiers has been filed.”

Deats stuffed tobacco into his pipe and lit it. “Interesting. Interesting indeed.” He smiled. “Damn it all, it
is
interesting and just could be something. If you don't have any of those dossiers and none were found in her briefcase, where the hell are they?”

Heston rubbed the point of his nose. “She hasn't used her desk here at the Yard. I plan to send a deputy to her home to relay official condolences. We'll get all of her paperwork at that time.”

“Two of my men visited the mother on Saturday. I don't think she needs further commiseration. Was Sarah under orders to prepare the dossiers?”

“It was part of her training. Her first responsibility was surveillance.”

The phone rang and Heston answered. He handed the phone to Deats. “I think it's your autopsy report.”

Deats took the phone and spoke with his assistant. He gave Heston a summary: “Fractured skull and her chest was badly crushed. Never a chance. The only good news is she didn't suffer. It's what you'd expect, except for one wrinkle. She had a point-oh-three blood alcohol count. No obvious evidence of drug use, but those tests aren't complete. Apparently she stopped for a drink before driving home.”

“With a friend, do you suppose?”

“I haven't learned anything about her personal life. She was a friendly sort, I'm told, but didn't mix with the others. I'm sure she had friends. She was much too pretty.”

“There was alcohol. That's something.”

“A low count. Sounds like a single whiskey or a glass of wine. I'm not interested in how much she drank but who she drank it with.”

Heston moved to the window where his view was down Claxton Street toward Westminster Chapel. “What do you want me to do about the investigation?”

“Let me handle this on my own. I promise to yell if I get onto something and need help. God knows you have facilities we only dream about. I'll send reports directly to you, and if I get any strange hunches, I hope you'll let me talk to you about them.”

“I know you would, Wally, but I can't avoid department policy. I have to put someone on the case.”

Deats relit his pipe, then fixed his eyes on his friend. “Put yourself on it.”

“The accident occurred in your jurisdiction, but the victim was one of ours. You have a duty to investigate and I'll see that you get our full cooperation.” Heston returned to his desk. “I've got the perfect man for the assignment, except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“You hate his guts.”

“I'm a tolerant man, Elliot, but around here that can only be Jack Oxby. I thought you were transferring him out of C13.”

“No one will have him.” Heston laughed. “No, that's not true. I didn't want to lose him. In spite of all his character defects, the little son of a bitch gets the job done.”

“Character defects? You make him sound like the bad boy in a church choir. The bastard's deceitful, immoral, a liar, and you know that
someday he'll go a step too far and you'll be the one to suffer. He'll survive. That kind always does.”

Heston's eyes were closed and his head was nodding ever so slightly. “I've thought of that. Oxby also knows more about art and art thieves than all of Scotland Yard and Interpol combined.”

“Are you saying there's no one else? It's Oxby or nothing?” Deats tapped his pipe on a heavy glass ashtray with a series of loud bangs. “Put yourself on it. It'll be like old times with you and me.”

“I can't do that, Wally. For all practical purposes I am on the case and you'll report directly to me.”

Slowly a smile began to cross Walter Deats's face. “If I were in your position, I'd probably put Oxby on the case, too. In some perverse way I admire him.”

“You too, Wally? I didn't think a conservative old fart like you could find any redeeming qualities in Oxby. Besides, I might find it difficult to dislodge Jack at this time. He's genuinely interested in the art owned by the Crown, so he has a personal attachment to the whole matter. He's worked up a backgrounder on Sarah Evans which I'll send you.”

Deats acknowledged that that would be helpful. “Better yet, I'd like to meet with Oxby while I'm here.”

“That's not Jack's style.” Heston pointed at the city beyond his window. “He's out there someplace, gumshoeing in his own strange way, as the Americans might say.”

“He still assigns himself to the cases he likes and works up his own agenda. And you let him.”

Heston nodded. “Yes, and for a quite simple reason. Those are the ones he always solves.”

In the apartment-building lobby Deats took a deep breath then pushed the button next to Sarah Evans's name. A male voice sounded on the intercom, and after Deats announced he was from the Windsor police, a buzzer sounded. He walked the flight of stairs and was met at the top by a short, heavyset man.

“Officer, I'm pleased to meet you. I'm Teddy O'Mara, brother to Sarah's mother, who's tendin' to matters at the funeral home.” His face was pink and sad and his heavy Dublin-accented voice was pitched high and nearly squeaked as he spoke.

Deats extended his hand. “I'm terribly sorry we're meeting under these circumstances. Please accept my condolences. I'm hopeful you might let me look around the room where Sarah worked on her police matters. I'm looking in particular for some reports.”

“You come right in, lad. She was a hardworking girl and would want you to have whatever belongs to the department.” O'Mara led Deats to Sarah's bedroom.

He surveyed the room then quite methodically began a search of the closet and bureau. The papers he came across were of a personal nature. Then he sat at the desk and sorted through a dozen or so files that lay next to a framed photograph of Sarah and her husband. He pulled at the single drawer and found it was locked. He tried to force it open. He stopped pulling at the drawer and stared at the keyhole. “Keys!” he said aloud. “We didn't find any keys.”

O'Mara had been standing in the doorway. “You're sayin'no keys was found at Sarah's accident? She carried a pound of keys, she did. I joked she looked like a night watchman with all them keys.”

“I could be wrong, Mr. O'Mara. I don't recall seeing them.”

Cynthia was now standing in the doorway, the spaniel sitting beside her.

“Is it the key to her desk you're lookin' for, Superintendent?” O'Mara asked.

“Yes, do you know where one might be?”

“No, I wouldn't be knowin' where Sarah kept it. Here now, that's Cynthia over there. Maybe she knows.”

Deats sat at Sarah's desk. He spoke quietly to the little girl. “Cynthia, my name is Superintendent Deats. I'm very sorry about your mommy.”

Cynthia didn't stir, nor did she cry. Her tears had been exhausted when she came to the realization her mother would never return. Now she was in the numbing twilight that shock brings on.

“Cynthia, did your mommy carry a lot of keys in her pocketbook?” When the child did not respond, he tried again, a warm smile across his face. “Did mommy have keys like this?” He showed her his own set of keys.

She looked at his hand and nodded.

“Mommy carried lots and lots of keys?”

Again Cynthia nodded. Deats pointed to the desk drawer. “Do you know where to find the key to this lock?”

She stepped closer and shook her head negatively. “My mom has the
keys and she won't be home anymore.” Her voice was a whisper but she spoke clearly and looked directly into Deats's eyes when finally she broke her silence.

Deats tugged at the drawer, then concluded he would have to force it open or wait for help. “May I use the telephone, Mr. O'Mara?”

“Certainly, Superintendent. It's in the other room next to the television.”

Deats reached his office and confirmed that no keys had been found. He ordered another search of the car and grounds surrounding the accident site. “Check the desk she used at the library again. Notify security at the Castle that we're looking for them and advise all foot and patrol constables to be on the alert.”

As Deats returned to Sarah's room the dog suddenly began barking. Cynthia picked him up and stroked his long ears.

“You must forgive the little animal,” Mr. O'Mara said. “He'll be skittish with strangers since he got tossed about last Saturday.”

“Oh? What was that about?” Deats asked almost absently.

“Some gent was here lookin' to install a computer here in Sarah's room. Clover got scared and snapped at his hand and got throwed against the door.”

“Who was the man? Did he give identification? A card?”

“Can't say that I know. I can't say that anybody here knows. My sister said she thinks his name was, oh dear, what was that name . . . Mr. . . .”

“Black.” Cynthia spoke up.

“Black. That's right, Cynthia. Good for you.”

“He hurt Clover. See?” Cynthia held out the dog's paw to Deats. She had wrapped a piece of gauze over a small wound. “Clover bit his hand,” she said triumphantly.

“What did he look like, Cynthia?”

“I dunno,” she replied, shaking her shoulders. “He had whiskers all over and a funny hat.”

Deats realized he couldn't rely on Cynthia's description of Black but perhaps the grandmother could furnish more details. “Mr. O'Mara, here's my card. When your sister returns, and if she's up to it, ask her to phone a description of this Black fellow. Ask if she remembers anything else about him—the way he was dressed, the name of his company—that sort of thing.”

“I will, Superintendent, but don't be expectin' a fast call. Wendy's pretty upset right now. I should be with her but, well, Cynthia here.”

“I quite understand. There's one last favor I'm going to ask. It's important for me to see inside the desk, and if you have a long, flat knife in the kitchen, I might be able to open it.”

O'Mara inspected the desk drawer and took a penknife from his pocket. He deftly slid the blade between the drawer and wood strip above it, jiggled it a couple of times, and the drawer opened. “I was a cabinet maker a ways back, learned a few tricks that come in handy now and then.”

“That's an excellent trick, Mr. O'Mara. Thank you.”

Deats sifted through the folders and papers and letters still in their envelopes. After sorting through all the papers he concentrated on the folder marked “Library Dossiers.” Sarah had designed a two-page form, much like one might complete when applying for a position. On the form she was able to record a brief biographical sketch of each employee, and had somehow managed to secure a fingerprint on an index card or piece of stationery that was stapled to the report. A few prints were clean, others smudged. All part of her training, Deats concluded. He counted eleven completed forms, all library employees. Beneath the completed record were additional blank forms. He thumbed through the sheets and discovered that the bottom page contained a mass of scribbles and red lines.

It was a single sheet of lined notebook paper and on it were two columns of names. One was headed “Library Staff ” and the other “Heldwicke Workers.” Sarah had recorded tiny notations and dates in pencil and ink on what was apparently a summary or worksheet. Deats glanced again at the completed forms, noting that all the names matched those under the “Library Staff ” heading.