Hell’s Corner?”
Chapman shook her head.
Stone leaned forward and tapped the frozen screen, which showed Lafayette Park. “This is Hell’s Corner,” he said. “Pennsylvania Avenue, the actual street, belongs to the D.C. metro cops. The sidewalks around Lafayette Park are the Secret Service’s turf and the park itself comes under the jurisdiction of the Park Police. Secret Service agents are actually taught to grab a person of interest from the street or park, carry him to the sidewalk and then arrest him there to prevent a pissing contest over jurisdiction.”
“Okay,” Chapman said slowly.
“Hell’s Corner,” he said again. “The Feds and cops hate it, but they all have to dance to the same song. The explosion is a case in point. The Park Police will control the scene, but the FBI, and the ATF, because an explosive was involved, will control the investigation. And Homeland Security, Secret Service, NIC and CIA will be hovering like vultures.”
Chapman took a sip of tea. “So what now?”
“We’ll have to go to the park, talk to the investigators and track down the jogger’s identity and that of the woman and the guy in the suit too.” He gazed at Chapman. “Your guy? Where is he?”
“Available for questioning. But we have his full report. He saw less than you.”
“All right.”
She reached for her jacket. “So on to the park?”
“Yes.”
“You want to use my car?”
“I think we should, since I don’t happen to own one.”
CHAPTER 13
A NNABELLE C ONROY RODE THE ELEVATOR up to the second floor, stepped off, turned and entered the Rare Book Reading Room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. She surveyed the large room and spotted Caleb Shaw at his desk in the back. She caught his eye and he quickly came forward.
“Annabelle, what are you doing here?”
“Can you take a break? I’ve got Reuben and Harry Finn out front. We want to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? Oliver. Those guys took him from the hospital and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“If anyone can take care of himself it’s Oliver.”
“But he might need our help.”
“All right, give me a minute.”
As they rode down in the elevator Caleb said, “This has been quite an exciting day for me.”
“Why’s that?”
“We just got in an F. Scott. And not just any F. Scott. The F. Scott.”
“The F. Scott what?” asked Annabelle.
Caleb gazed at her in horror. “F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest American writers of all time.” He sputtered, “My God, Annabelle, where have you been all these years?”
“Nowhere near a library, I guess.”
“The book is The Great Gatsby, arguably his greatest achievement, and certainly his most well-known work. And it’s not just any Great Gatsby, of which we have several. It’s a first edition, firststate, of course. But it has the very rare, scarcely obtainable dust jacket cover.” Annabelle looked at him blankly. “You know, the one with the haunting pair of female eyes? It is one of the most uniquely famous covers in classic literature. You see, the cover was actually conceived before Fitzgerald finished writing the book. He loved it so much he wrote a scene in the novel that included that image.”
“Very interesting,” said Annabelle politely, but her tone actually showed little interest. She had once shared a van with Caleb for nearly two days, during which he had regaled her nearly nonstop with literary scuttlebutt. She had never really recovered from the onslaught.
They got off the elevator and walked toward the exit.
Caleb continued, “And that’s not the best part. The best part is that it’s Zelda’s copy. The provenance is absolutely certain.”
“Who’s Zelda?”
“Who’s Zelda?” sputtered Caleb again. “His wife, of course. Scott and Zelda. A more tragic couple you would be hard pressed to find. She died in an asylum and Fitzgerald drank himself to death. He inscribed the book
Chapman shook her head.
Stone leaned forward and tapped the frozen screen, which showed Lafayette Park. “This is Hell’s Corner,” he said. “Pennsylvania Avenue, the actual street, belongs to the D.C. metro cops. The sidewalks around Lafayette Park are the Secret Service’s turf and the park itself comes under the jurisdiction of the Park Police. Secret Service agents are actually taught to grab a person of interest from the street or park, carry him to the sidewalk and then arrest him there to prevent a pissing contest over jurisdiction.”
“Okay,” Chapman said slowly.
“Hell’s Corner,” he said again. “The Feds and cops hate it, but they all have to dance to the same song. The explosion is a case in point. The Park Police will control the scene, but the FBI, and the ATF, because an explosive was involved, will control the investigation. And Homeland Security, Secret Service, NIC and CIA will be hovering like vultures.”
Chapman took a sip of tea. “So what now?”
“We’ll have to go to the park, talk to the investigators and track down the jogger’s identity and that of the woman and the guy in the suit too.” He gazed at Chapman. “Your guy? Where is he?”
“Available for questioning. But we have his full report. He saw less than you.”
“All right.”
She reached for her jacket. “So on to the park?”
“Yes.”
“You want to use my car?”
“I think we should, since I don’t happen to own one.”
CHAPTER 13
A NNABELLE C ONROY RODE THE ELEVATOR up to the second floor, stepped off, turned and entered the Rare Book Reading Room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. She surveyed the large room and spotted Caleb Shaw at his desk in the back. She caught his eye and he quickly came forward.
“Annabelle, what are you doing here?”
“Can you take a break? I’ve got Reuben and Harry Finn out front. We want to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? Oliver. Those guys took him from the hospital and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“If anyone can take care of himself it’s Oliver.”
“But he might need our help.”
“All right, give me a minute.”
As they rode down in the elevator Caleb said, “This has been quite an exciting day for me.”
“Why’s that?”
“We just got in an F. Scott. And not just any F. Scott. The F. Scott.”
“The F. Scott what?” asked Annabelle.
Caleb gazed at her in horror. “F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest American writers of all time.” He sputtered, “My God, Annabelle, where have you been all these years?”
“Nowhere near a library, I guess.”
“The book is The Great Gatsby, arguably his greatest achievement, and certainly his most well-known work. And it’s not just any Great Gatsby, of which we have several. It’s a first edition, firststate, of course. But it has the very rare, scarcely obtainable dust jacket cover.” Annabelle looked at him blankly. “You know, the one with the haunting pair of female eyes? It is one of the most uniquely famous covers in classic literature. You see, the cover was actually conceived before Fitzgerald finished writing the book. He loved it so much he wrote a scene in the novel that included that image.”
“Very interesting,” said Annabelle politely, but her tone actually showed little interest. She had once shared a van with Caleb for nearly two days, during which he had regaled her nearly nonstop with literary scuttlebutt. She had never really recovered from the onslaught.
They got off the elevator and walked toward the exit.
Caleb continued, “And that’s not the best part. The best part is that it’s Zelda’s copy. The provenance is absolutely certain.”
“Who’s Zelda?”
“Who’s Zelda?” sputtered Caleb again. “His wife, of course. Scott and Zelda. A more tragic couple you would be hard pressed to find. She died in an asylum and Fitzgerald drank himself to death. He inscribed the book
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