Henry Wood Detective Agency (Henry Wood Detective series Book 1) by Brian Meeks

Author:Brian Meeks [Meeks, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Mystery
Published: 2014-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

Luna had asked Sylvia and Winston to come to Henry's office around 2 pm. She hadn't told them why, mostly because she didn't know. Henry had a plan, though, and she trusted him. After they finished lunch, she and Henry went back to his sparsely furnished office. He asked her to keep an eye on things while he took a walk to clear his head. She thought it was a pretty easy task as there wasn't much to look at save for the painting of the White House that hung on the wall in the outer room. Henry had once mentioned that he liked fine art. This was not an example of such, but she gave the artist credit for having captured the essence of 'better than a blank wall.' She sat and kept an eye on the wholly unremarkable painting.

Henry had a plan. Actually, he had a vague idea of something that might work or might completely blow up in his face. After the beating Mike had taken, he didn't feel he could continue to search for the missing pieces of the codex. He needed to make a move. Tommy 'The Knife' appeared to be getting desperate; the rival gangs seemed to think this was the time for an all-out war to topple Tommy. The constant speculation in the newspapers was turning the city of Manhattan into a powder keg about to blow.

Henry walked a little farther and came to the familiar steps of the library, which held the key to it all. It was unseasonably warm, and the snow that had covered everything was now a gray, melting coat of sludge. He stopped and lit a cigarette, casually puffing on it, while he looked around to see if anyone had followed him. Henry didn't smoke, but he always kept a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter on him for just such an occasion. The little white sticks gave one a perfect excuse for stopping anywhere and pausing to take a drag or two.

It was clear nobody cared about Henry, so he flicked the butt into the gutter and went into the library. He stopped at the card catalog and waited a few more minutes. If anyone were following him, they would move quickly to get inside lest they lose him. Nobody else passed through the doors. He felt safe. Back into the stacks he went, past rows and rows of books about everything known to man. He loved the smell of books and the sounds of a library. Everyone thought of libraries as being perfectly quiet, but they weren’t; they had their own language. The chatter of chair legs on marble floors, pages being turned, muffled whispers of overworked students at the tables, the echo of feet walking here - it was like a quiet sonata to his ears. Henry normally found it comforting. Today, he listened for anything out of the ordinary and took no comfort in bringing the journal from its hiding place.

Down the steps, past more rows, right turn, left turn, past some study tables, and down another hall.

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