Darwin's Blade

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and tried to figure out the system of shelving. “It could be random,” he said. “Buy a book, read it, stick it on the shelf.”
    â€œIt could be,” agreed Syd. “But you’re not a random kind of guy.”
    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, “Stephen King way up on the upper right. Truman Capote’s 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 Hemingway’s crap—”
    â€œHey, watch it,” said Dar. “I love Hemingway.”
    â€œAll of Hemingway’s crap on the bottom right shelf,” finished Syd. “I’ve got it!”
    â€œI doubt it,” said Dar, feeling his feathers ruffled again.
    â€œThe bookcase is a rough map of the United States,” said Syd. “You shelve regionally. King’s up there freezing his ass off near the ceiling in Maine. Hemingway’s down there near the floor heating vent, comfortable in Key West…”
    â€œCuba, actually,” said Dar. “Impressive. How do you shelve your novels?”
    â€œI used to do it according to the relationship between the authors,” she admitted. “You know, Truman Capote right next to Harper Lee…”
    â€œChildhood friends,” added Dar. “Little, weakling Truman was the model for Dill who visits every summer in Mockingbird. ”
    Syd nodded. “With the dead authors it worked all right,” she said. “I 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 Tan’s tight with Tabitha King, and the next thing I read, they’re 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 not…”
    â€œYou’re so full of shit,” Dar said in a friendly tone.
    â€œYep,” 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. “My turn,” he said.
    Syd nodded and sipped.
    â€œYou’re about thirty-six, thirty-seven,” he said, starting with the riskiest territory and rapidly moving on. “Law degree. Your accent’s fairly neutral, but definitely devoid of back east. A little midwestern left in the corners of your vowels. Northwestern University?”
    â€œUniversity of Chicago,” she said, and added, “And I’ll have you know that I’m only thirty-six. Birthday just last month.”
    Dar went on. “Chief investigators for even local district attorneys are some of the best enforcement people around,” he said softly, as if to himself. “Former U.S. marshals. Former military. Former FBI.” He looked at Syd. “You were in the Bureau for what? Seven years?”
    â€œCloser to nine,” said Syd. She got up, went to the coffeemaker, and came back to pour them both more of the thick, black stuff.
    â€œOkay, reason for leaving…” Dar said, and stopped. He did not want to make this too personal.
    â€œNo, go ahead. You’re doing fine.”
    Dar sipped coffee and said, “That glass-ceiling sexism thing. But I thought the Bureau was getting better.”
    Syd nodded. “They’re working on it. In ten more years, I could have been as high as a real FBI person could get—right under the political crony or career pencil-pusher that some president appoints as director.”
    â€œThen why did you leave…” Dar began, and then stopped. He thought about the

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