The Cartographers(14)

Except it was still there on the wall.

“I don’t understand,” she finally said.

“What do you mean?” Lieutenant Cabe asked.

“The Buell map,” she murmured. “It’s still there.”

“It is,” he agreed. He was studying her closely. “Why are you surprised?”

“It’s the most valuable piece in the Map Division,” she replied. “If someone broke in, I don’t know what else they could have been searching for but that. Even if they were after something else, to walk right by and not take it . . .” She turned to Lieutenant Cabe. “What did they steal?” she asked desperately.

She could not read his face except to know that he was telling the truth when he finally spoke.

“They didn’t steal anything.”

“What?”

“Not a single thing.”

Nell couldn’t make sense of it. “You’re saying that thieves broke into the most historic library in New York, didn’t trigger the alarm, killed Henry, had free run of the entire collection, and then just . . . left?”

Lieutenant Cabe opened his hands to indicate he didn’t understand it either. “As far as we can tell, yes. Either they were spooked by something, or maybe what they were looking for wasn’t in the library.”

Nell’s blood ran cold.

It couldn’t be.

There was no way that what the burglars had been after was her father’s map.

“What do you know, Nell?” Lieutenant Cabe asked.

Nell blinked, surprised. “Nothing! I had no idea anything was wrong until I saw all the police cars out front.”

He nodded placatingly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. We just have to cover all our bases, like I said before. First your father’s death, then the same library where he passed away was violently burgled, and I find you in the lobby—”

“Before yesterday, I hadn’t been to this library in years,” Nell said. “And the only reason I came was because you ordered me to meet you here. I returned today to check on Swann, to make sure he’s holding up all right. And then I saw the sirens, and the blood, and . . .”

“That’s the truth,” another voice said, and Nell whirled around to see a woman looking at them from her place among another cluster of police officers. She was a few years younger than Swann and her father but wore her age far better than either of them. The silver hue of her chin-length bob combined with the impeccable lines of her black blazer and pencil skirt gave her the air of a retired fashion model, or perhaps assassin.

Nell gaped. It had been years, but she easily recognized her. “Ms. Pérez Montilla,” she finally managed. The chair of the board of the entire New York Public Library.

“Nell, call me Irene,” she said as she approached. “I can vouch for her. Until yesterday, she hasn’t been back to the library in many years—to our great misfortune.”

“Thank you, Irene,” Nell finally managed, as Lieutenant Cabe noted Irene’s statement in his notepad. Nell wondered if the years had been so long, Irene had forgotten she was the reason for the misfortune—she was the one who had fired Nell, after all. Even if she hadn’t had much of a choice, either.

“I’m very sorry about your father,” Irene was saying to her, as if reading her expression. “He was a great man, his complicated history aside.”

“Yes. Complicated,” Nell agreed.

“Our captain would like a word, when you have a minute,” Lieutenant Cabe said to Irene, and then went to help push back the crowd of reporters at the door.

“Another interview.” Irene sighed. She was still as composed as ever, but Nell could sense a flicker of strain beneath the steely veneer. “With Dr. Young’s passing yesterday, and now the breakin last night, the media has whipped itself into a frenzy. There’s never a right time for tragedy, but this truly is a terrible blow to the library.”

“Swann told me yesterday how much trouble the city’s been causing with the revised budget,” Nell said. “He said it’s worse than ever.”

Irene shook her head. “It is. And now with this, I’m afraid we might be in danger of losing the bumper funding we’d been promised altogether.”

“That’s terrible!” Nell cried. “What would that mean for the library?”

“I don’t want to speculate, and I’m not going to give up.” Irene grimaced. “But without it, I’m not sure we could . . .”

“That can’t happen,” Nell replied. “The NYPL is a cultural institution. The heart of the city.”

“I agree. But this main branch, with all its galleries, right on Fifth Avenue . . .”

“There has to be something,” Nell said.

“I’d hoped,” Irene sighed. She looked haunted. “I actually think your father, rest in peace, was working on some kind of secret project before he passed. He kept requesting funding and wouldn’t disclose the purpose, and was skipping our monthly meetings. I let it go on, because half the board assured me that whenever he got like that, it was because he was on the verge of a huge breakthrough. I thought we were going to see the fruits of it any day. Increased publicity from the press announcing our discovery, increased memberships, a windfall from being able to loan the item out on temporary exhibits—the kind of prestige and buzz that would leave the city no choice but to honor its original budgetary promises. But then . . .” She sighed. “I only wish he’d told someone about what he was working on.”