and tried to figure out the system of shelving. âIt could be random,â he said. âBuy a book, read it, stick it on the shelf.â
âIt could be,â agreed Syd. âBut youâre not a random kind of guy.â
Dar sat silently, thinking of the chaos mathematics that had made up the bulk of his Ph.D. dissertation. Syd sat silently studying the wall of novels. Finally she muttered to herself, âStephen King way up on the upper right. Truman Capoteâs In Cold Blood a couple of shelves below, still on the right. To Kill a Mockingbird on the second shelf from the bottom. East of Eden way the hell to the left over by the window. All of Hemingwayâs crapââ
âHey, watch it,â said Dar. âI love Hemingway.â
âAll of Hemingwayâs crap on the bottom right shelf,â finished Syd. âIâve got it!â
âI doubt it,â said Dar, feeling his feathers ruffled again.
âThe bookcase is a rough map of the United States,â said Syd. âYou shelve regionally. Kingâs up there freezing his ass off near the ceiling in Maine. Hemingwayâs down there near the floor heating vent, comfortable in Key Westâ¦â
âCuba, actually,â said Dar. âImpressive. How do you shelve your novels?â
âI used to do it according to the relationship between the authors,â she admitted. âYou know, Truman Capote right next to Harper Leeâ¦â
âChildhood friends,â added Dar. âLittle, weakling Truman was the model for Dill who visits every summer in Mockingbird. â
Syd nodded. âWith the dead authors it worked all right,â she said. âI mean, I could keep Faulkner and Hemingway the hell apart, but I always had to keep moving the live ones around. I mean, one month Amy Tanâs tight with Tabitha King, and the next thing I read, theyâre not talking. I was spending more time reshelving my books than I did reading, and then my work started to suffer because I was frittering away my days worrying if John Grisham and Michael Crichton were still good buddies or notâ¦â
âYouâre so full of shit,â Dar said in a friendly tone.
âYep,â Syd agreed, and lifted her coffee mug.
Dar took a breath. He was enjoying himself and he had to remind himself that this woman was here because she was a cop, not because of his devastating charm. âMy turn,â he said.
Syd nodded and sipped.
âYouâre about thirty-six, thirty-seven,â he said, starting with the riskiest territory and rapidly moving on. âLaw degree. Your accentâs fairly neutral, but definitely devoid of back east. A little midwestern left in the corners of your vowels. Northwestern University?â
âUniversity of Chicago,â she said, and added, âAnd Iâll have you know that Iâm only thirty-six. Birthday just last month.â
Dar went on. âChief investigators for even local district attorneys are some of the best enforcement people around,â he said softly, as if to himself. âFormer U.S. marshals. Former military. Former FBI.â He looked at Syd. âYou were in the Bureau for what? Seven years?â
âCloser to nine,â said Syd. She got up, went to the coffeemaker, and came back to pour them both more of the thick, black stuff.
âOkay, reason for leavingâ¦â Dar said, and stopped. He did not want to make this too personal.
âNo, go ahead. Youâre doing fine.â
Dar sipped coffee and said, âThat glass-ceiling sexism thing. But I thought the Bureau was getting better.â
Syd nodded. âTheyâre working on it. In ten more years, I could have been as high as a real FBI person could getâright under the political crony or career pencil-pusher that some president appoints as director.â
âThen why did you leaveâ¦â Dar began, and then stopped. He thought about the
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