They walked back to the bench that was somehow still empty.
“I’m with you,” Yuan said. “I don’t know how these kids do all of their eating standing up. It’s a recipe for a soiled shirt.”
“Can we talk about something besides the sandwiches?” she said, though he had just taken a ravenous first bite.
“Sure. It’s not as good today anyway.”
“Sorry you’re disappointed,” she said.
“I ordered in Arabic last time,” he said through a full mouth. “He must have made it special.”
Liesl had yet to tear open her wax paper.
“Come on,” Yuan said. “Your lunch is going to get cold.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m all of a sudden not hungry.”
He crumpled his empty paper, stained with grease and hot sauce.
“I’ll eat it,” he said. “If you’re not going to.”
She stared at the sandwich in her lap and wanted to cry. The sky had clouded over again; the weather refused to make its mind up. Detective Yuan stood and left her and her uneaten sandwich. He walked to a nearby trash bin and tossed his crumpled wax paper into it with a perfect jump shot. When the wax paper cleared the rim, he threw his arms up into the air in silent celebration, as if an arena full of spectators was cheering him on. She waited for him to come back to the bench, but he didn’t. He strode back over to the yellow truck and greeted the man taking orders as if the two had gone to summer camp together. Money changed hands and then something in a brown paper bag, and Liesl wondered if the man ever stopped eating.
“Baklava, if you’re not hungry for falafel,” he said, handing her the bag.
“I’m just not hungry,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’ve been drinking. You should eat.” He held the bag out until she took it from him.
She thanked him. Didn’t ask how he knew about the whiskey. She ate her baklava instead, setting the still-wrapped sandwich on the bench beside her. It was good, the baklava. Smelling of rosewater and dripping with honey.
“Not much of a market for stolen rare books is my understanding,” he said.
“You’re looking into the thefts?” she said.
“I’ve asked some colleagues to weigh in on the thefts,” he said. “Out of personal interest. I like books. Though I’m more of a Grisham man myself.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning away so the degree of relief on her face couldn’t be read.
“The reason for the theft wouldn’t have been money,” Detective Yuan said. He handed her a napkin just as she needed one, and she did her best to clean the honey from the tips of her fingers. He went on talking about noncommercial reasons for theft. Told her about stamp and coin thefts committed by prominent collectors, about manuscript thefts committed by workers as revenge when they felt wronged by their employers, told her about an art theft committed just for the thrill of it that sounded suspiciously like the plot of The Thomas Crown Affair.
Several times during his explanation, as he laid out what sounded like an awful lot of research, she thought to ask him why he was helping her, and each time stopped herself for fear of making him think too deeply about it.
“I’m sorry, by the way, about Miriam,” he said, standing to leave. “It must be very difficult for you.”
“Thank you,” Liesl said. “We were close once.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to go ahead and take this sandwich.”
***
Liesl tried to work as Detective Yuan’s suggestion stumbled around in her brain. For spite, for a thrill, for passion. No one hated them enough to steal from them; they were a library. No one would steal for the thrill of it; they were librarians. That left only passion.
She pulled out a stack of invoices and began the work of reconciling them against her purchase orders. She made tiny check marks with a well-sharpened pencil, checked exchange rates and tax rates. She liked this work where right and wrong were laid out so clearly. The manuscript that Francis had brought her to read was still stacked on the corner of her desk. She put the invoices aside and flipped the manuscript back open to the chapter about the Vesalius. Francis had said they were waiting to add illustrations until they found funding to have new photographs taken. They’d have to work from low-quality file photographs now that the manuscript was gone, she thought.
She was going to reread the Vesalius chapter, but she was still stuck on what Yuan had said. There would be no concentrating that afternoon. She put the manuscript aside and picked up the phone.
“It’s a surprise to hear from you,” Marie said when she answered the telephone, after Liesl had waited through five rings, fussing all the while to make sure the materials on her desk were perfectly perpendicular.
“How’s Christopher?”
“Same as ever,” Marie said, a telltale background beeping suggesting that she was right by his side. “His strength is keeping him in the fight. It’s mine that’s fading.”
“I’m sure he can feel you there.”
Liesl drummed her fingers against the desktop. Pulled the manuscript back toward her and opened it back up to the description of the Vesalius. On the other end of the phone, Marie murmured about heart rates, rehabilitation schedules. Liesl muttered occasionally to indicate that she was listening as she waited for a way into the conversation.
“I’d like to do something for Christopher,” Liesl said.
Marie paused, waited to hear more.
“I’d like to find the books for him,” Liesl said.
She tried to flip back to the table of contents without taking her hand off the telephone receiver. She succeeded in giving herself a paper cut on her way to the listing.
“Goodness,” Marie said. “We’d all like that.”
“I think I know how,” Liesl said. “But I’ll need your help.”
“I’m at the hospital full-time now,” Marie said. “I don’t know how I can be of use.”
“I didn’t realize you were spending so much time there.” The cut was bleeding, threatening to streak red onto the white pages.
“I don’t want him to have to be alone.”
“What about taking care of yourself?”
“That can come after. For now, I’m taking care of Chris.”
“If he wakes up, he’ll need your strength,” Liesl said, looking for something that wasn’t her light-gray trousers that she could use to stem the bleeding.
“When he wakes up.”
“Of course,” Liesl said. “When he wakes up.”
“When he wakes up, someone should be here for him,” Marie said. “So I’ll be there until that happens.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to be able to do this for him.”
“I think, Marie,” Liesl said, “that I might know who stole his books.”
She looked around the empty office and, certain she wouldn’t be caught, stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth. She had always kind of liked it, the faint metallic tinge of one’s own blood.
“How can you know?” Marie said.
“I don’t yet for certain,” said Liesl.
Marie laughed.
“We’re going in circles, Detective Liesl.”
“I have a suspicion,” Liesl said, looking down at the manuscript’s table of contents, at the listing of magnificent publications. “And a good reason for it.”
“I see,” Marie said. “And I’m to be your Watson?”
“Marie, the theft is upsetting. But the identity of the thief might be even more so.”
“I’m sitting in a hospital next to my comatose husband, Liesl. I’m shockproof at this point.”
Liesl made the consideration and, torn between need for Marie’s help and the consequences of expressing the accusation aloud, decided it best to go all the way in.
“I have reason to suspect Francis.”
“Francis Churchill?” Marie expressed something between a laugh and a cough. “Francis from the library?”
“Well, yes,” Liesl said, tracing the names of other entries in the manuscript with her finger. “Francis Churchill from the library.”
“You and Francis are great friends,” Marie said. “I’ve heard rumors that you and Francis are more than great friends.”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” Liesl said.