Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,4
struggle to get Congress to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He feels a small flicker of satisfaction as he rings up the transaction. He loves everything about books, but this is his favorite part of the business, talking with a customer and finding just the right novel or nonfiction work, like a sommelier helping diners choose the perfect bottle of wine to pair with their meal.
Now if only there were more customers.
At least he has Petty, bald and clean-shaven, sitting in the corner in one of the comfy chairs reading The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway; next to him is a cup of the coffee Books always has brewing. It probably isn’t the greatest idea to let a homeless man hang out in your store, but Petty keeps to himself and keeps himself reasonably presentable, and, really, how could Books turn away a guy who served two tours in Desert Storm and gave up so much for his country, not least of which was his sanity?
Petty is a part-time resident of the inventory room in the back of the store. He’s slept there a few nights a week every week since Books first met him six months ago, last December, sitting on the sidewalk outside the store. He shaves and washes up in an old shower that Books revived after converting the space from an old apartment.
Books watches his customer leave. His eyes wander over to the front window, where the name of the store—THE BOOK MAN—is stenciled prominently; the newest releases and local favorites are arranged just so to lure in the shoppers and the passersby in downtown Alexandria.
Then he turns the belt pouch holding his phone upward so he can see who just called. He glances at it, then does a double take.
Moriarty.
William Moriarty, the director of the FBI.
Not a social call. Bill never makes social calls.
Books considers returning the call right away. No customers in the store now, after all. And he can’t deny that tiny surge of adrenaline. You can take the boy out of the FBI, but you can’t take the FBI out of the boy.
The door chimes behind him. A customer. That makes the decision for Books. The FBI will have to wait.
He turns and sees two people enter the store, men in dark suits, each of them removing sunglasses. Jesus, they really have to stop reinforcing that stereotype.
One of them he doesn’t know, but the other, the taller one, is familiar. Desmond, part of the director’s advance team.
“Hey, Books,” Desmond says, glancing around.
“Hey, Dez…” Books gives him a confused look.
“The director needs a moment. He called.”
Yeah, he called two minutes ago. It’s not like he made an appointment last week or anything.
“Somewhere private you could talk for a moment?”
Books lets out a breath. “Sure. The stockroom. There’s a service entrance out back where—”
“He’s already parked there.” Dez nods.
Of course he is. “Okay,” says Books. “Let’s do it.”
5
BOOKS LEADS the advance team into the back room. There are piles of inventory, books ready to be placed on shelves, books ready to be sent back to the publishers, a stand-up display for the children’s author who did an appearance last week. Dez arranges two chairs at a table while his partner pushes open the back door.
“There he is, the bookseller.” Director William Moriarty has aged, and not so gracefully, in this job. He has been a public servant all his life, first as a special agent, then as a federal prosecutor, later as a congressman, and after that as a federal judge. The stress of all of those, he said, paled in comparison to running the FBI. He has lost most of his hair, and his face and torso have widened, but he still has that same no-nonsense stare.
Bill had made no secret of his profound disappointment in Books when he resigned. He’d tried everything to keep Books in the fold. He offered him a promotion, a raise, a better office. He even threatened to take him into federal custody, though Books was reasonably sure that was a joke.
“Hi, Bill.”
“You married yet?”
They take seats across from each other at the table Books uses when he’s balancing his ledgers.
“No.” That answer, Books thinks to himself, is accurate but tells Bill nothing. Not yet would be more informative. So would No, the wedding’s this September. No could mean a lot of things, including No, we’re not married yet, and I’m not sure we ever will be.