“The reason for the theft wouldn’t have been money,” Detective Yuan said. He handed her a napkin just as she needed one, and she did her best to clean the honey from the tips of her fingers. He went on talking about noncommercial reasons for theft. Told her about stamp and coin thefts committed by prominent collectors, about manuscript thefts committed by workers as revenge when they felt wronged by their employers, told her about an art theft committed just for the thrill of it that sounded suspiciously like the plot of The Thomas Crown Affair.
Several times during his explanation, as he laid out what sounded like an awful lot of research, she thought to ask him why he was helping her, and each time stopped herself for fear of making him think too deeply about it.
“I’m sorry, by the way, about Miriam,” he said, standing to leave. “It must be very difficult for you.”
“Thank you,” Liesl said. “We were close once.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to go ahead and take this sandwich.”
***
Liesl tried to work as Detective Yuan’s suggestion stumbled around in her brain. For spite, for a thrill, for passion. No one hated them enough to steal from them; they were a library. No one would steal for the thrill of it; they were librarians. That left only passion.
She pulled out a stack of invoices and began the work of reconciling them against her purchase orders. She made tiny check marks with a well-sharpened pencil, checked exchange rates and tax rates. She liked this work where right and wrong were laid out so clearly. The manuscript that Francis had brought her to read was still stacked on the corner of her desk. She put the invoices aside and flipped the manuscript back open to the chapter about the Vesalius. Francis had said they were waiting to add illustrations until they found funding to have new photographs taken. They’d have to work from low-quality file photographs now that the manuscript was gone, she thought.
She was going to reread the Vesalius chapter, but she was still stuck on what Yuan had said. There would be no concentrating that afternoon. She put the manuscript aside and picked up the phone.
“It’s a surprise to hear from you,” Marie said when she answered the telephone, after Liesl had waited through five rings, fussing all the while to make sure the materials on her desk were perfectly perpendicular.
“How’s Christopher?”
“Same as ever,” Marie said, a telltale background beeping suggesting that she was right by his side. “His strength is keeping him in the fight. It’s mine that’s fading.”
“I’m sure he can feel you there.”
Liesl drummed her fingers against the desktop. Pulled the manuscript back toward her and opened it back up to the description of the Vesalius. On the other end of the phone, Marie murmured about heart rates, rehabilitation schedules. Liesl muttered occasionally to indicate that she was listening as she waited for a way into the conversation.
“I’d like to do something for Christopher,” Liesl said.
Marie paused, waited to hear more.
“I’d like to find the books for him,” Liesl said.
She tried to flip back to the table of contents without taking her hand off the telephone receiver. She succeeded in giving herself a paper cut on her way to the listing.
“Goodness,” Marie said. “We’d all like that.”
“I think I know how,” Liesl said. “But I’ll need your help.”
“I’m at the hospital full-time now,” Marie said. “I don’t know how I can be of use.”
“I didn’t realize you were spending so much time there.” The cut was bleeding, threatening to streak red onto the white pages.
“I don’t want him to have to be alone.”
“What about taking care of yourself?”
“That can come after. For now, I’m taking care of Chris.”
“If he wakes up, he’ll need your strength,” Liesl said, looking for something that wasn’t her light-gray trousers that she could use to stem the bleeding.
“When he wakes up.”
“Of course,” Liesl said. “When he wakes up.”
“When he wakes up, someone should be here for him,” Marie said. “So I’ll be there until that happens.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to be able to do this for him.”
“I think, Marie,” Liesl said, “that I might know who stole his books.”
She looked around the empty office and, certain she wouldn’t be caught, stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth. She had always kind of liked it, the faint metallic tinge of one’s own blood.