Throughout her senior high years, Nikki Heat had clocked as many as eight to ten hours a week in the last quiet place on earth, the Rose Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library. A cathedral of books, she thought then. Standing in the entry, peering into the vast North Hall, with its long oak tables and stately brass lamps surrounded by walls lined with yards and yards of literature, she thought that now. Heat knew that many greats of letters from Singer to Doctorow had quietly labored under that fifty-foot-high muraled ceiling. She also knew that the true power of the research branch, now named the Schwarzman Building (same lions, new name) came from the librarians who catalogued publications, sought answers, fetched materials, and advised readers, writers, dilettantes, scholars—and teenage girls who just wanted to know.
Carolyn Jay, who had been an inspiration and spirit guide to adolescent Nikki, had become a bit thinner and more angular and had more salt than pepper in her hair than last time they had seen each other, but the playful eyes above the wry smile had not changed, even behind those eyeglasses, which were also a new addition. When Carolyn saw Nikki and came around the dark wooden counter of the research call desk, they embraced as old friends, and it was the librarian who turned heads by being too loud in her joyful greeting. “Let’s go down to my office where we won’t bug anybody,” she said in mock indignation.
The room behind the heavy oak door with the “Staff Only” sign was just as Heat remembered it: a bull pen, smaller, but not unlike the one uptown at the Twentieth. A common space for lots of work and sporadic privacy, with eight mass-produced desks arranged to face the walls. Mrs. Jay still had the same spot, frozen in time. Same single shelf of books overhead, same lamp, same single plastic cup of water next to the pencil mug. The upgraded computer took up less of the desk surface, but that was about it. Heat began by asking about the computer. “Are you guys cyber challenged like we are?”
“Yes, it’s really maddening. I still remember my first Internet search. Tom Wolfe wanted to fact-check commercial real estate tycoons in Atlanta. You get so accustomed to answers at the stroke of a keyboard or the click of a mouse. Suddenly I’m forced to go back and do it the old way. Truth be told, I love my technology.”
“But I bet you still have your old skills.”
“Who you calling skilled?” She laughed then took a moment to study Nikki. “I can see this isn’t a social call.”
“I need your help, Mrs. Jay.”
“Absolutely, you know that. What can I do for you?”
“Find me a boat.”
If Carolyn Jay felt daunted by the task, she didn’t show it. Nikki showed her the notes from her spiral notebook that included the eyewitness description of the sky-blue skiff from the plumbing contractor who had followed Rook and his abductors to Pier 36. The only time the librarian faltered was when she saw Rook’s name and his circumstances. She stared at Nikki, understanding the gravity of all this without needing to discuss it, then put herself to work. Mrs. Jay made photocopies of Nikki’s reporter’s notebook and made some side notes to herself on slips of paper, which she had made, as she had always done, from the blank backs of printed sheets of paper that had been cut down to scratch size.