One Night by Marsha Qualey Page B

prejudice. Either way, if you’re one of Bully’s students, you’re smart as a whip, and that’s all I ever care about. How may I help you, Tom?”
    “My friend and I would love to see the Charlemagne.”
    “Can’t.”
    Tom nodded, his face regretful. “That’s what your aide told us. I suppose only a few researchers have access.”
    “They might get away with that at Oxford, but not here,” Professor Larson said. “In the US of A a public school means public. Our collections are open to the taxpayers. And even if we did limit access, well, you can be sure I’d give the okay to one of Bully’s boys.”
    “Then why can’t we see it?”
    “It’s not here. Permanent loan to the Library of Congress. Hasn’t been announced yet, but I delivered it myself last week. Just missed, my boy. Sorry.”
    The prized map was gone, but the genial professor had other things he thought Bully’s boy might want to see. Tom and Dr. Larson—both blithely accepting my claim that I needed to use the bathroom—disappeared together into the archives.
    It wasn’t the bathroom I wanted. I’d spotted a pay phone near the library’s front door. I’m sure I could have cajoled Valley of the Dolls into letting me call for free from her desk or one of the offices; I mean, after all, I’d brought one of Bully’s boys to delight the head man. But I didn’t want her listening in, because I needed to call Kit and arrange the next move. Prince Tom might not be ready to talk and tape an interview, but I didn’t know how much longer I could string him along. Better to let Kit at him now.
    She didn’t answer at home. Odd, because at this time she was usually planted in a favorite chair, drinking ginger ale, and keeping up a running commentary on the news programs. She didn’t pick up at the office, either, and her cell phone threatened to ring on into infinity.
    But the most puzzling thing was that there was no voice mail, not at even one of the numbers. I kept waiting for the familiar message: T his is Kit Carpenter. Talk now! Nothing.
    She always left a way for people to get in touch. Kit would die before she’d be out of touch. Okay, sometimes, if the show had been especially hot, her interviews or commentary especially provocative, she’d stay away from the office phone until things cooled down, until the guys at the station saw the ratings numbers and decided to can the “you can’t do this sort of thing” tirades. But even on those days she kept the cell on and open. It was her private link to her private world. And only a few people had that number: a couple of friends from DC (Kit, honey, I’m just back from the White House, and you would not believe …), her personal shopper at Nordstrom (I’ve got some fabulous new Eileen Fishers; you should see these jackets!), the chef at D’Amicos (The scallops are in, luv, and they’re perfect today).
    And me. I had the number. Kit, I’m at the U map library with the prince of Lakveria. He might be ready to talk with you. Shall we meet at the station and tape a segment for tomorrow?
    That was the message she didn’t want to hear. Didn’t dare hear. That must be it. The thugs wanted their prince back. They’d found out that he wasn’t in the hotel room or with Simone, but they didn’t know where he was now. Just that he was with me and that I worked for Kit. One way or another, they were keeping her company until they found me. So she’d shut me out and wasn’t letting me call.
    That meant one thing.
    Kit knew what I was trying to do. They’d told her I was loose with the prince, and she knew what I was trying to do, knew I’d be in touch, knew they’d be on me in an instant if I checked in. She knew, and avoiding the phone connection was her signal: Go for it, Kelly. Bring him in, but you’re on your own.
    *
    Valley of the Dolls was locking up when I returned. “Closing so soon?” I said. “Isn’t it a bit early for the university library, even for summer