“You know, you lose something without the long black coat. Little air of mystery is gone,” Kelly told him as they headed for the parking lot. Julian gave his khakis and borrowed T-shirt an offended grunt. Kelly shrugged. “It’s true.”
Kelly’s steps slowed when they came to the car and he saw a white note beneath the windshield wiper, fluttering in the breeze. He plucked it off and unfolded it.
Keys are in the wheel well. Please don’t hot-wire her. O.
Julian read it over Kelly’s shoulder. “He knows you well,” he commented before making his way to the passenger door.
Kelly grinned and knelt to search for the keys. Of course Nick knew him well. That was part of the attraction. “Where are we headed?” he asked as soon as he had the Range Rover running.
“The bookstore.” Julian held up Nick’s badge, the one he clipped on his belt when he wore a suit. “I want to look around.”
Kelly whistled and shook his head, putting the car in drive. “You’re going to be in so much trouble,” he sang.
“It’ll be fine. He won’t know if you don’t tell him.”
“Fat chance.”
“I just need to get the accent down.”
Kelly spent most of the drive critiquing Julian’s imitation of Nick’s accent. He’d heard some Boston accents that were damn near unrecognizable. Others, like Nick’s, were softer or had faded due to being away from home for so long. Nick’s grew heavier when he was drunk or ranting about something, usually baseball but also anything that required the word “fuckers” said with it.
Sometimes Kelly tried to rile him just to hear the original accent, but Nick was usually unflappable. He had to resort to saying “Go Yankees” to really get Nick worked up.
“You might get by with that one,” Kelly advised after Julian’s last attempt. “Just . . . don’t say much. And don’t use Nick’s name; they all know him around here, and you definitely don’t pass as a six-foot-one redhead.”
When they reached the bookstore, Kelly parked on the street, trusting the police plates on Nick’s vehicle to keep him from getting towed. Glass still littered the sidewalk, although it had mostly been swept into a pile. The shattered windows were boarded with plywood. Police tape sealed off the door, with a red tag attached near the doorknob that warned whoever entered about chain of custody. They were supposed to sign the little tag.
“Can you do his signature?” Julian asked. “There’s no one here to see it isn’t him.”
Kelly grudgingly signed Nick’s name on the red slip.
“You’re taking all the blame for this,” he told Julian. “And I’m telling him you stole that badge.”
“Understood.” Julian pulled a knife from somewhere inside his jacket and slit the tape along the edge. When he tried the door, though, it was locked. He pulled a lockpick set out of another pocket, and knelt to work on it.
“How many pockets do you have in that thing?” Kelly asked.
Julian chuckled grimly. “You have no idea.” The door popped open, and Julian replaced his tools and stepped inside.
It was dim and dusty, and the smell of old paper and leather was overwhelming. Kelly headed to the car and rummaged through the back for a flashlight. He found a heavy Maglite, along with other supplies that might come in handy in the next few days if this led to a treasure hunt like he expected. He rejoined Julian, and clicked the flashlight on.
It played over the mess that was left of the shop. “Jesus.
Why’d they tear it apart?”
“I suspect they didn’t actually find what they were looking for and this was either anger or desperation. Perhaps even a brawl. At this point, with little to no success, the rats may be turning on each other.” Julian made his way carefully to the display case that seemed to have taken the brunt of the attack.
“How many of them are there?”
“Two to five. I’m not sure of their exact number,” Julian answered, but he was distracted by the case. “Bring that torch here.”“Torch,” Kelly echoed. “Oh, I miss the English.”
“I’m not English, I’m Irish.”
“Same thing,” Kelly teased. He stepped over a pile of scattered books and shone the light on the display case.
Julian placed his palm over what looked like a handprint in the dust. Then he swept his hand through the air, curling his fingers into a fist as he did so, hovering over another hinted outline of a print. The action seemed to mimic perfectly what someone had done to the display case.
“They wiped it down?” Kelly asked.
“I’m not sure. It could be a grab for whatever sat here. This case is extremely old, look.” Julian tapped his fingers on the corner. “Dark walnut with cabriole legs and dovetail joints. I believe this itself is a Colonial era piece.”
“Is that important?”
Julian fingered the wood like he was looking for something, but he shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s possible it was part of a collection of items, all from the same era. I don’t know.” He straightened with a sigh and glanced around the shop. “Whoever destroyed the rest of this store, though, left this case intact. I wager they knew it was antique and couldn’t bring themselves to touch it.”
“Murderers with a respect for history. Huh. I wonder what led them here,” Kelly said as he began to explore the narrow, dusty aisles. “How far ahead of you were they in all this?”
“Too far. Much too far.”
Nick sat at his desk, hunched over files and notes and several books he’d had one of the summer interns go find for him at a nearby bookstore. He didn’t realize he was no longer alone until someone tapped him on the shoulder.
“You chasing down a lead?” Hagan asked him.
“Uh . . .” Nick’s eyes darted to JD, who was beside Hagan, craning his head to see the books on Nick’s desk. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Hagan threw himself into his chair and clunked his boots on the desk. “What you got?”
Nick glanced at JD again and gestured for him to sit.
After a few seconds of trying to decide how best to word it, he simply said, “We found out who you are.”
JD’s eyes widened and he sat forward, a smile playing across his lips. “You’re serious?”
Nick nodded.
“You don’t look happy,” JD said, dread creeping into his voice. “Oh God, I’m someone horrible, aren’t I?”