The Silenced Tale, стр. 25
Elgar is reminded that, in those procedural shows, they always question witnesses separately, to ensure the stories check out. He doesn’t mean to be difficult, it’s just that he . . . he can’t help thinking about the strange man on the bench.
“Mr. Reed!” Khouri repeats, yanking Elgar back into the present. “Would it be best if we continued this tomorrow? I’d like you to get checked out by the paramedics again. You’re having trouble focusing. Did you take a fall earlier that you didn’t tell us about?”
“No, I didn’t fall. I’m fine,” Elgar lies, and he doesn’t like the way his voice trembles.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m tired, suddenly. I’m . . . what was the question?”
“Has there been anything else, besides the salad and this?”
“No,” Elgar says, but Juan immediately jumps in with:
“The Smithsonian.”
Elgar turns to stare at his assistant. “They told you?”
“They told me first,” Juan says. “You know the call wouldn’t have gotten through to you if I hadn’t let it.”
Khouri shifts closer to Juan. “What are you talking about?”
“In December, someone stole the typewriter Mr. Reed donated to the Smithsonian.”
“They stole an artifact from the Smithsonian,” Khouri repeats, to verify.
Riletti stiffens. “How come that wasn’t in the news? A theft like that, I would have thought it would have been international headlines.”
Elgar’s flattered that she thinks his missing typewriter is important enough to be international news, but just shakes his head. “Ah, I’m not that important.” The admission costs him a little something, a bit of what Lucy calls his Narcissist Beta Male Shield, and as painful as it is to break off that small piece of it, he realizes immediately that he doesn’t really miss it. Admitting to one person that he is not, in fact, the alpha and omega of the writing world hasn’t harmed anyone. His ego is bruised . . . but bruises heal. And he has other things to focus on.
“Besides,” Juan chimes in. “Jamie, the curator—oh, um, Jamie Denver, with an IE, yeah—she said that the Smithsonian doesn’t report robberies unless they’re really huge deals, because they don’t want to encourage copycats, like, uh, like how transit officials don’t call it suicide when people jump on the tracks.”
“Morbid,” Jackson says.
Khouri rubs his forehead and sighs. “Okay, look. I’m going to get in contact with this Jamie Denver, see what’s going on, on her end. Obviously, we’ve got a pattern now, and this person is escalating. I’d like to put a watch on the house, and I’d feel more comfortable if you stayed in a safe house for the next few nights, Mr. Reed. We’ll get you put up so an officer can stay with you. Is that acceptable? Riletti and Jackson can drive you out.”
“A safe house?” Elgar repeats, agog. “Is that really necessary?”
The detective shifts and shrugs one shoulder. “I’d like you to be somewhere we can keep an eye on you, and somewhere whoever did this can’t. We’ve got a place, nice and comfy, and it means you can be safe and out of the way, just in case.”
“In case he strikes again?” Elgar asks.
Khouri’s eyes narrow. “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?”
“Oh,” Elgar says, caught on the back foot. “Well. It’s just . . . all my fans are male, aren’t they?” Riletti coughs. “Well, most of ’em, anyway. I’d assume it was one of them, right?”
“Right,” Khouri agrees, though he doesn’t quite seem to take what Elgar says at face value. As if he knows that Elgar knows something, or some other equally circular cliche from the detective thriller his life seems to have turned into.
“What about Linux?” Elgar asks. “Can I bring him?”
“I’ll take him, boss,” Juan says softly, and stands to do just that. Linux is reluctant to let go of Elgar’s shirt collar. They have to prise his claws loose. The cat snarls a bit, but goes limp again when Juan tucks him close to his own heartbeat.
That damn cat really does love Juan. More than it’s loved any of his other assistants. Elgar muses that he can’t ever fire Juan now—not that he has any plans to, of course—because Linux will kick up such a fuss over it that he wouldn’t be able to stand it. Juan spoils the little monster.
Free of the cat, Elgar leads Sergeant Jackson upstairs, where the cop watches him pack for a few days away, eyes on the room’s shadows. Jackson explains how they’ll pull the car up, block the view of the front door from the street with the ambulance, and try to get Elgar and Juan into the cars at the same time so nobody will know that they have left. Just in case someone is watching the house right now.
That doesn’t really make Elgar feel any safer, but he chooses not to say anything about it. If . . . if someone is watching the house, or watching him . . . he has a feeling they’ll know, anyway.
Some black magic shit, indeed.
“You’re quick,” Khouri says when they return to the office.
“I travel a lot,” Elgar replies, with an attempt at self-deprecating humor. “Hazard of the job, I’m afraid.” Then he crosses to his filing cabinet, retrieves his laptop, and drops it into his travel bag. He hesitates a moment, and then also pulls out the big fire-safe case and hands it to Jackson. It has a handle, and is about the size of a large briefcase, so it isn’t too cumbersome. Though, by the look on the officer’s face, he hadn’t expected it to be so heavy.
Nobody asks Elgar why he’s taking a fire-safe with him to the safe house, but the look on Juan’s face makes it clear that he hasn’t before considered that someone