She entered CBGB, asked the bartender to hold her purse and NPR tote bag behind the bar, and pushed her way into the crowd. Even though it was early, some kind of band marathon was already in full swing.
The kids on the floor didn’t bother to make room for her, but that was fine. She wanted to have to force her way in, to be pushed by shoulders and elbows and arms, knowing that tomorrow’s bruises would be the price of admission. The band members onstage were five tattooed, skinny boys who screamed unintelligible lyrics to the appreciative crowd. Being inside the mob made her feel part of something, never mind the danger. She found her footing and bounced up and down in time with the bass drum, eyes closed, her senses on fire, filled with energy. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat. She’d open her eyes for a moment and catch a glimpse of a nose ring, a tattoo on a neck, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of a cheek. It was as if the crowd were providing the electricity for the amps and guitars with its wild gyrations, not the other way around.
Finally, after a few songs, she retreated to the bar.
Nick was sitting there, waiting.
She asked for her bags from the bartender and walked by him without saying anything, but he followed her outside. She whirled around, the cool air evaporating the sweat on her skin. She must look a treat, with her hair a mess, smelling of smoke and beer.
“If you think I’m the thief, stop trailing me around and just arrest me or whatever you’re supposed to do,” she said.
“I followed you because I knew you were upset.” He gestured toward the club door with his thumb. “You letting off steam?”
“Exactly right, Mr. Tango.”
“Mr. Salsa, to you. I think it’s great.”
She paused. “You do?”
“Sure. It’s anarchy in there. I like the contrast. Prim librarian during the day, punk rocker at night.”
“They think I’m a joke in there.” Tears came to her eyes. Why was she telling him this? “Just like with Claude.” She paused. “This is all so embarrassing.”
With Nick last night, first dancing and then talking in the diner, Sadie had opened herself up to the possibility of taking a risk. She loved how his brow furrowed when he was really concentrating, and the fact that he enjoyed poetry as much as he enjoyed tracking down thieves. She could continue guarding against betrayal and hurt by shutting herself off from even the idea of love, but in many ways, that was no different from protecting the folio from vandals by locking it away in a sealed vault, or attempting to protect her job by hiding information from the past that might be relevant to the present.
It was time to come clean. No more secrets.
“Can we go somewhere?” Sadie said. “I have something to tell you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
New York City, 1993
Sadie and Nick walked up Lafayette Street and sat on the steps of the Public Theater. If she didn’t figure out who was behind the thefts, if her reputation as a librarian was sullied, it would be hard to find work elsewhere, and then what would she do?
“I’m related to Laura Lyons, the essayist, whose husband, Jack Lyons, was a superintendent for the New York Public Library back in the early 1910s. They were my grandparents.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Lyons was my mother’s maiden name. She spent a few years living in the library as a young girl. When I first came to work at the library, I was curious about the old apartment they’d lived in, what their lives were like. I did some research and didn’t like what I found.”
“What was that?”
“That Jack and Laura Lyons were under suspicion for book thefts when they lived there. At the time, Laura Lyons wasn’t the big deal she is now, so I didn’t feel the need to mention it. But I recently found out information that was more disturbing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Apparently, before my mother passed away, she hinted that her father—Jack Lyons—stole a ‘tambourine.’ I only just heard about this. From my six-year-old niece, so it’s not exactly verifiable.”
“A tambourine . . . the Tamerlane?” Nick considered it. “So you think that your grandfather stole that book back in 1913? The one that’s never been recovered?”
“To be honest, it’s all really murky. My mother also said something about how they had to leave the library because of a burning book. I have no idea what that means.”
Nick looked at her closely. “What happened to your grandfather?”
“He died in 1914. There’s a chance he committed suicide.” She explained about the last entry in his diary: stepladder, rope, note.
Nick looked out into the street. “It’s likely not related, but I need to pursue every angle I can, so you should have told me from the start. If there’s anything useful there, I need to know it.” He paused. “You should inform Dr. Hooper of your connection to the Lyons family, I would think.”
“I will. First thing Monday morning, I promise.”
Nick stood. The conversation was over. She got up as well.
It felt good, to have this out in the open, finally.
“I want you to show me everything you’ve found in the archives,” he said.
“That’s fine. I’ll meet you in the Rare Book Room tomorrow at four. Will that work?”
“Tomorrow at four. And no more secrets.”
“No more secrets.”
* * *
On Saturday, Sadie and Nick set up a workstation at one of the corner tables in the Rare Book Room. She showed him the note the library detective wrote to the director, the one that said that it was as if the thief had “dropped from the sky.”
As he studied it, she asked if he’d heard any news from the bookseller.
“The owner of J&M insists the books were sent by messenger to him, that he never met the seller. His instructions were to send the money by wire to an overseas account.”
They fell silent as they made their way through years’ worth of files and notes.
Sadie gave a sharp intake of breath.
“What is it?” Nick leaned over to see.
“I’ve been going through the 1915 correspondence from the director, in case anything had been mislaid.” Something had. She handed it over to him. “The detective’s file, from 1914, ended up there.”
The very first document was a note, signed by Sadie’s grandfather. It consisted of only a few lines, in careful cursive:
I’m sorry for the trouble I caused the library. The fault is mine, as is the shame. Please tell my family I love them.—Jack Lyons