She was halfway through Genesis when Peterson spoke. “Detective . . . ?”
Madison looked up. “Mark and Vivienne Bell were Jewish; Ronald Gray and Vincent Foley’s foster-parents were Jewish. This”—she held up the book—“is a Bible. Whatever Gray intended to be done with it, I doubt it was a family heirloom. I’d like to speak with your deputy, please.”
She went back to Genesis.
The pages were printed on thin paper—almost translucent—and so far, deep into Exodus, Gray had not underlined any passages or made any notes in the margins.
“He’s just gone off shift. I’m sorry,” Peterson said, coming back into the office. “I’ll write down his number. He’s done the night—and it was a heavy one—so he might be a little punchy. Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
A part of Madison, the dark, tinny voice that whispered to her of mistakes and uncertainty and, occasionally, wickedness, spoke now and said that the book in front of her was nothing but a book; it might be a good book—even the best of books—and yet it was nothing but a book and, thus, worthless to the investigation. I don’t think so, she thought. Ronald Gray knew what he was doing. She would go through it word for word if necessary. Madison flipped through the thousand-plus pages, and the tips of her fingers felt the irregularity before she saw it. She didn’t even have time to think: the book fell open, and it was clear that a number of pages had been glued together. Something had been purposefully trapped between them as if inside an envelope. It was invisible if you looked at it from the side, but once you reached that point . . . there it was. Madison gave the smallest of smiles.
“What is it?” Peterson asked.
She showed him. Ronald Gray had chosen well: whatever he was hiding was nestling inside the Book of Revelations.
Madison speed-dialed Sorensen as she rewrapped the Bible in the blue scarf.
Eli Peterson watched as Madison drove off at top speed. She had thanked him, and he had felt a little better about doubting Ronald, but only a little. The lawn was still pale gray and indistinct, and they all lived in a world where Vincent Foley might be right.
Chapter 26
Sorensen’s lamp was the brightest light Madison had seen that day, and it shone directly on the blue scarf. The evidence table had been cleared, disinfected, and covered by a sheet of clean paper.
“Who handled it?” Sorensen asked Madison; she wore an immaculate lab coat, and her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Ronald Gray, Peterson’s deputy, Eli Peterson, and yours truly, as far as I can tell. We don’t know yet when Gray bought the Bible or if it was already in his possession. We don’t know anything at all about the book.”
“We’ll get to that later; first I’d like to liberate whatever is held between these pages.” Sorensen put on a head-mounted magnifier. She examined the book from each side and finally peered at the pages bunched together for a long, silent minute.
Madison fidgeted quietly, leaning against the wall. She knew Sorensen—hurrying her would produce no results except for a lecture on the life-enhancing benefits of patience. On the drive to the lab Madison had had time to think about Gray and what he had left for them to find. A clear explanation would have been nice, and yet somehow she didn’t think that was how things would play out. Whatever it was, Gray thought it had meaning, something so valuable, it had to be kept safe in the only place he could think of that the men who were after him could not reach.
Sorensen swabbed the side of the book and smelled the spatula, then offered it to Madison. She leaned over and sniffed it. Nothing. Madison had come to believe that the crime-scene-unit investigator had developed the olfactory system of a bloodhound.
Sorensen smiled. “What kind of kid were you, Madison?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
“Did you ever do stuff you were not supposed to do?” Sorensen had turned and was looking for something inside a wall cabinet.
Madison had absolutely no idea where they were going with this. “Amy . . .”
“For instance, did you ever steam open a letter that was not addressed to you?”
“I see . . .”
Madison had never actually steamed open a letter that was not addressed to her; however, she understood the notion very well. The steam alters the adhesive properties of the glue, and an envelope can be opened or, in this case, pages separated.
Sorensen made brief work of getting the steamer up to the required temperature and aimed the narrow nozzle at the edge of the book. It took less than two minutes. Her tweezers picked up the corner of the first glued page and turned it. Gray had done a reasonably good job: Sorensen had turned six pages before she hit the jackpot.