Book of Souls

Frazier tried again, then made Toby visibly uncomfortable by suggesting he would make it worth his while. When Martin Stein approached, Toby hastily excused himself and moved away. As the two auctioneers chatted, Frazier edged close enough to overhear Stein say, “He was insistent on having the book sent to New York by courier for delivery tonight. He offered first-class return seats and hotel accommodations to a member of staff! He’s already holding a seat on BA 179 this evening.”

“Well I’m not doing it!” Toby said.

“Nor I. I have dinner plans,” Stein huffed.

Toby spotted his assistants across the room and waved them over. Nieve was giddy with excitement over the Cantwell book while Cottle was, as usual, a piece of wood. “I need someone to courier the 1527 book over to New York tonight.”

Cottle was about to speak, but Nieve opened his mouth first. “Christ, I’d love to go, Toby, but my passport’s not sorted out! Been meaning to do it.”

“I’ll go, Mr. Parfitt,” Cottle quickly offered. “I’ve got nothing on for the weekend.”

“Have you ever been to New York?”

“On a school trip once, yeah.”

“Well, okay. You’ve got the job. The buyer is prepared to have the duty fully paid at Kennedy Airport and have it added to his account. He’s providing you with a first-class ticket and deluxe hotel accommodations, so you shall not want. They’re quite security-conscious, so you’ll be picking up a letter from the BA desk at arrivals with the delivery address.”

“First class!” Nieve moaned. “Bloody hell! You owe me, Cottle. You really owe me.”

Frazier skulked off to the lobby. The girl at the reception desk was packing up the brochures and sign-in sheets. “I want to send a thank-you note to that young guy who works here. Cottle. He was very helpful. Can you give me his first name and tell me how to spell Cottle?”

“Adam,” she said, apparently surprised that anyone as insignificant as young Cottle could be helpful to a patron. She spelled out his last name. That was all he needed to know.

A few hours later, Frazier was in a taxi heading to Heathrow, wolfing down three Big Macs from the only High Street restaurant he trusted. Adam Cottle was in another taxi a hundred yards farther on, but Frazier wasn’t worried about losing him. He knew where the young man was going and what he was carrying.

Earlier, Frazier had reached the night duty officer at Area 51 and requested a priority search for an Adam Cottle, approximate age twenty-five, an employee of Pierce & Whyte Auctions, London, England.

The duty officer called him back within ten minutes. “I’ve got your man. Adam Daniel Cottle, Alexandra Road, Reading, Berkshire. Date of birth: March 12, 1985.”

“What’s his DOD?” Frazier asked.

“Funny you should ask, chief. It’s today. Your guy’s going down today.”

Frazier wearily thought, Why am I not shocked?

WILL PASSED THE string beans to his father-in-law. Joseph speared a few and smiled. They were just the way he liked them, buttered and al dente, which was not unexpected since his wife was the one who had made them. Mary had prepared the whole meal, actually, even the bread, and she had unpacked, reheated, and plated the feast in the kitchenette while the others fussed over Phillip.

The Lipinskis, newly minted grandparents, couldn’t get enough of their grandson, and they thought nothing of driving forty-five minutes from Westchester down to lower Manhattan on a Friday evening to get their fix. Mary wouldn’t saddle her beleaguered daughter with the cooking, so she made a lasagna and all the trimmings. Joseph brought the wine. Phillip was awake and on form and for the visitors; it was a slice of heaven.

Even though it was a family night, Mary was smartly dressed and had gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair done. She danced around the tiny kitchen in a cloud of perfume and hair spray, a heavier, rounder version of her daughter, still surprisingly pretty and youthful. Joseph’s wild and wavy white hair made him look like a mad scientist crawling on the floor in hot pursuit of the grinning baby.

Nancy and Will had been sitting next to each other on the sofa, a good foot apart, unsmiling, tightly clutching their wineglasses. It was spectacularly apparent to the Lipinskis that they had entered an argument hot zone, but they were doing their best to keep the evening light.

Joseph had sidled up to his wife, poured himself more wine, then tapped her between the shoulder blades to make sure she saw his raised eyebrows. She had clucked, and whispered, “It’s not so easy, you know. Remember?”

“I only remember the good things,” he had said, giving her a dry peck.

Over dinner, Mary watched Will’s hand pumping over his plate. “Will, you’re using salt before you even taste it!”

He shrugged. “I like salt.”

“I have to fill the shaker every week,” Nancy said in an accusatory way.

“I don’t think that’s healthy,” Joseph observed. “How’s your pressure?”