Page 93 of Fire and Bones

“You have my word.”

“If I suspect you’ve broken that promise, I won’t come.”

Dead air.

I sat, immobile, pulse humming.

Asking myself repeatedly.

Was I insane?

Quick stops at a FedEx outlet, then a bagel shop, and I was back at Doyle’s house by eleven.

In a rare moment of objectivity, I considered the range of emotions I was experiencing. I was irritated by what struck me as Deery’s tunnel vision, agitated by thoughts of my upcoming encounter with the mysterious caller, and curious about the spot allocated to the legendary genius.

After spreading a generous layer of cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin, I booted my laptop and googled “Einstein Memorial.”

I learned that Albert’s is a private monument located on the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences, about a block north of the extravaganza erected for Honest Abe. That it was dedicated in 1979 to honor Einstein’s one-hundredth birthday. That twenty-seven hundred metal floor studs represent the planets, sun, moon, stars, and other celestial objects as positioned by Naval Observatory astronomers on dedication day. That if you stand in the center and talk directly to Einstein, your words will bounce back as if spoken in an echo chamber.

Next, I googled the key words “Montgomery County DOT” and “parking permit.” Followed the same link I’d used in my wee hours search.

Temporarily leaving a vehicle in Maryland was as complicated as it was in Montreal. I acquired the following useless information.

Permits had been issued for forty years.

The program was intended for residents of neighborhoods impacted by certain public facilities, land uses, and adjacent commercial districts.

Outside of central business areas, only single-family homes were eligible to participate.

Great. The permit had been issued to someone living beside a uranium mine, a paper plant, or a boutique shopping strip lacking a lot.

Or to the occupant of a single-unit dwelling.

That last could be moderately useful.

Though language made it clear that online interaction was preferred, I managed to find a single discretely placed phone number.

Call a government agency on a Saturday morning?

Right.

It had worked with Waylon Colt on Memorial Day.

Harboring little hope of success, I dialed.

A recording told me that the office was closed and would reopen at seven a.m. Monday.

“Argh!” I actually said it out loud.

Frustrated, I skimmed the site’s home page. Found a number for the director’s office in a blue band at the bottom of the screen.

What the hell.

In for a penny.

“Archie Baxter.”

“Mr. Baxter.” Caught off guard, I babbled. “You’re the director.”

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