Page 10 of The Librarians

Thursday

That afternoon, she and Jonathan sit in the staff office, she fiddling with a Christmas tree made of books in Photoshop, he looking on the Austin American-Statesman ’s website to see how much coverage the paper has given to branch library events in the past year.

“I love the board you did for the poetry workshop, by the way,” said Jonathan.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

Jonathan hosts the monthly poetry workshop and gets a nice roster of regulars. But given how many people have moved to Austin recently, Astrid thought it would be a good idea to publicize the workshop a little more with a standing blackboard display at the front of the library.

“I’m thinking of also updating the board for the open mic night,” she adds.

“That’s a great idea. You’re so talented, Astrid.”

He is being deliberately kind. She should be too proud for it, but she is desperate for such care and generosity.

“Wait—what?” Jonathan exclaims softly.

Astrid looks up. “What’s going on?”

“Come and see.”

A frowning Jonathan gets up from his chair and steps out of the way for Astrid to read the article on his monitor.

New Austin Resident Found Dead

The Austin Police Department has confirmed that the body found in a vehicle parked on Fanfare Drive in Northwest Austin is that of Jeannette Obermann of Twin Courtyards Apartments.

Obermann, until recently a resident of North Carolina, moved to Austin in August to take a job with Apple as a technical writer. Those who knew her describe her as helpful and responsible, “someone who’s interested in everyone and everything.”

The police have not yet released Obermann’s cause of death. They have also declined to state whether the incident is being investigated as an instance of homicide.

“Twin Courtyards Apartments?” says Astrid, feeling faintly alarmed. “That’s right across the street from where I live. And why does this woman look familiar?”

An image of Jeannette Obermann accompanies the article, a professional portrait that makes Astrid think of real estate agents, the kind whose faces are prominently displayed on open house placards.

Then shock hits her like a hammer, jolting her out of the lethargy of the past few days. “My God, was she the fortune teller with the third eye on her forehead? She’s dead?”

A knock comes at the glass door of the office—Sophie, in a tangerine skirt suit that only she and Lupita Nyong’o can carry off. Astrid is used to seeing Sophie in vibrant outfits. It’s Sophie’s expression—at once hollow-eyed and…guilty-looking?—that takes her aback.

Sophie pulls open the door and admits a handsome woman of about Jonathan’s age and possibly Middle Eastern heritage and a freckled young white man. Sophie closes the door again, then says quietly, “Astrid, we have two detectives from Austin Police Department who would like a word with you.”

“Are you Ms. Brittany Sorenson?” says the woman detective. She sports a blue vest over a crisp white shirt, her dark, abundant hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

“Maryam?” Jonathan cries. “Is that you?”

The woman nods, her manner impeccably professional. “Hey, Jonathan. It’s been ages.”

Jonathan glances toward Astrid, confusion and inquietude written all over his face.

With some reluctance, Astrid answers, “I’m Brittany Sorenson, but I usually go by Astrid.”

At least that is her real middle name, from her real Swedish great-grandmother.

“I’m Detective Maryam Shariati and this is Detective Branson Jones,” says the woman. “A moment of your time, please, Ms. Sorenson.”

“Y-yes, of course.”

“I’ll take the detectives to our meeting room,” says Sophie. “Why don’t you log out of your session, Astrid? Detectives, this way, please.”

“Do you need a lawyer?” asks Jonathan urgently, as soon as the cops are gone. “If you aren’t comfortable, you don’t have to answer questions without legal representation.”

Astrid dry-cackles from sheer astonishment: He thinks she might be in trouble. Is that why Sophie guided the cops ahead to the meeting room? To give her a minute or two to gather herself and form a strategy?

“I’m fine,” she declares. “Let me go see what they want.”

All the same, her mind becomes a swarm of whirling thoughts. Maybe the police want to know about Jeannette Obermann, but Astrid doesn’t know anything about her. She doesn’t have any late bills or outstanding traffic tickets. She’s never even abandoned a shopping cart in a grocery store parking lot.

Sophie stands in the passage leading to the meeting room. She raises a brow in question. Astrid smiles in reassurance, but her cheeks feel rigid.

Inside the meeting room, a table and three chairs have been set up, but not in a confrontational configuration of two chairs on one side of the table and one chair on the other side.

Instead, the chairs are placed all around the table, looking haphazard, as if three buddies who are working on a project together have deserted their station at lunchtime.

The detectives ask if she is all right with being recorded. Astrid, after a moment, nods. Detective Shariati motions her to a seat. Detective Jones turns on the equipment. And Astrid states, when prompted, her name, age, address, and occupation.

“Do you recognize this person?” begins Detective Shariati and shows Astrid a picture on a piece of printer paper.

Perry! In the not terribly sharp image he sports the kind of formal attire people wear to English society weddings, and there is a church looming up behind him.

Astrid’s confusion congeals into dread. “Is—is he okay?”

“Can you identify him for us?”

Why won’t they answer her question? “He told me his name is Perry. I don’t know his last name.”

“Can you tell us what you do know about him?”

What does she know about him? That is her entire problem, isn’t it? “Can you tell me if he’s okay?”

“Please answer the question,” says Detective Jones in a kind but implacable tone.

Detective Shariati merely waits.

Will they tell her what they know if she tells them what she knows? “I met him in April when he was in town on business. We had a fling that lasted all of one week. I never heard from him again until he showed up at the library two days before Halloween.”

“What business?”

“I asked him one time and he said it was tedious business, so I didn’t ask anymore.”

“You didn’t dig around a little?”

Astrid shrugs, a stab of futility in her heart.

“We were a hookup, plain and simple. I didn’t know his surname—I can’t even be sure Perry is his real name.

I would have liked to know what he was doing in town—and a lot of other things besides.

But I didn’t have the means to find out—or the standing, really. ”

“When he came back, you didn’t take the opportunity to ask questions?”

She realizes belatedly that they last spoke in this very space, she and Perry. They were standing near the doors, the stacks of brown folding chairs behind him. “Frankly, I was trying not to have anything to do with him.”

“But then you changed your mind?”

Her heart drops straight into a vat of nuclear waste.

How? How do they know she changed her mind? And why does it matter, in the greater scheme of things, that she ended up sending a few more texts to a man who clearly didn’t care enough about her?

Yet for the police to ask, it must matter to some degree. Also, they would need access to his phone or phone records to know that she’d messaged him.

If everything were okay, they wouldn’t have either and they wouldn’t be here.

Her fingers clutch at the edge of her cardigan.

“On the day he returned, he tried to put some sort of gloss on his disappearance. I refused to listen. But the next day, he was in the library again and was struck during an altercation. He left quickly enough that we didn’t speak, but I worried.

So that evening, after work, I sent him a few texts telling him he could come over if he wanted, but he never responded. ”

“You didn’t try to get in touch with him after that?”

Astrid shakes her head. “What was the point?”

Detective Shariati is silent for some time. They must know that what Astrid said is true, that there was no more exchange between her and Perry after her unanswered texts.

“Does the library have CCTV cameras?” Maryam Shariati asks instead.

“It does, but they haven’t worked for a while.” Astrid gathers her courage. “Perry—is he okay?”

Maryam Shariati again does not answer her question. “Can you give us an account of your movements in the twenty-four hours after the altercation here?”

Maybe he is lying in a hospital unconscious. Maybe he kidnapped someone. Maybe he stood up people far more important than Astrid—a judge or a parole officer—and is now being considered a fugitive.

Anything but the bleak possibility that is now a maelstrom in her head, swallowing up all hope and coherent thought.

“I was at the library until it closed at nine p.m. that night. I texted him after I got home,” she answers.

“At one point someone came to the door. I thought it was him, but it was only the pizza I ordered. I went to sleep and came back to work the next morning and didn’t leave again until the end of my shift. ”

She clasps her hands together and prays this will be the end of the interview. Instead, Detective Shariati starts again from their first meeting and wants to know everything Perry said and did—or at least, everything that wasn’t NC-17.

Astrid does most of the talking, yet she feels as if she is the one forced to listen to something endless and miserable. She wants to cover her ears and beg for it to stop.

At last Maryam Shariati asks, “And you’ve answered everything to the best of your recollection?”

Astrid’s voice quakes. “Yes.”

At a signal from Detective Shariati, Detective Jones turns off the recording equipment.

Astrid leaps to her feet. “Can you please tell me now what happened to Perry?”

“He is dead,” says Maryam Shariati, her eyes softening slightly. “I’m sorry. Thank you again for your cooperation.”