“Miss Adams, before we reach headquarters, I want to ask you a few questions,” Millar said. “What do you know about a crime organization known as the Orphans?”

April turned to look at her seatmate and felt a chill creep up her spine. “The Orphans? I’ve never heard of them.”

Millar studied her face. He seemed concerned with her reaction. “You’ve never heard of them?”

“No.”

“That’s odd, because we have acquired information that suggests you’ve been working for them for almost a year now.”

“I don’t know what information you found,” April said, “but it’s wrong. Just call the library and ask for Dr. Winter. He’ll explain to you that there’s no way I could be involved in some plot to take the Gutenberg.” She felt certain Dr. Winter would defend her case. As the head of the archaeobibliology department, he was her boss, but somehow, despite his reputation for being eccentric, he had become more to her than that: a mentor and, occasionally, a friend. It was amazing, really, considering where their relationship started.

She was sitting in the lobby of his office, waiting for him to interview her for a job at the library, when a man walked in and sat down next to her. He was in his mid-fifties, African-American, with a graying shock of hair on top of his head. He reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out a pipe, which he immediately lit. A plume of blue smoke swirled about his head. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

April smiled. “I don’t mind, but I’m guessing they don’t allow it in here.”

“I’m sure they don’t,” he said, taking a deep puff. “But I’m an old friend of Dr. Winter’s, so I can get away with things most people can’t.”

“You know Dr. Winter?” April asked.

“Sure do. Since high school,” the man said, removing his pipe. “He was the class president, and I was the class clown. Somehow we got to be good pals.”

“What’s he like?” April asked, unable to help herself from digging for some facts that might help her in her interview.

“Oh, he’s a tough critter,” the man said, crinkling his face as if to warn her. “Very serious. Always was. Reads a book a day. Always has. I suppose I was put into his life to impose some balance. I took him to parties. Introduced him to girls. Eventually his wife too. If it wasn’t for me, he’d probably be hunched in a chair somewhere, making his way through a pile of Dostoyevskys, living life inside the pages of a book.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” she said, only half serious.