Read Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) for Free Online

department heads, even deans who crossed him wound up doing the academic equivalent of selling pencils from a cup on the street. He watched the ebb and flow of pedestrians crossing Fifth Avenue in waves each time the signal lights changed. Benny was a city kid whose Bensonhurst roots ran deep—raised among those who protected their neighborhoods, solved their problems, and settled their disputes pretty much on their own.
    “Max Wagner’s not worth getting in trouble over, Benny.”
    Benny shook his head. “Fuck him.”
    “Better to drop it.”
    “What he does ain’t right, Ray.” Benny glared into Ambler’s eyes for emphasis. “He doesn’t know how to treat people, even his own staff.”
    Ambler caught on. Benny was talking about Kay Donnelly, whom Max Wagner treated like a scullery maid. Benny saw behind her curt manner, severe expression, and frumpy outfits to a desirable woman lurking beneath. He’d seen them walking together in the hallway, oblivious to everyone around them, like two high-school kids with a crush on each other. Too bad she was trouble. Bad enough she worked for Wagner; having a murdered ex-husband was entirely too much trouble for a wise man to take on.
    Ambler took in Benny’s pointed and shiny black leather shoes, stiffly creased black dress pants, open-collar, starched and ironed Italian dress shirt, soft leather jacket. Not the way most librarians dressed. He was who he was. Presented with a bully and a damsel in distress, his choice wasn’t a wise one. Yet such choices had been made for centuries. Who was Ambler to change human nature?
    “Be careful.” He patted Benny on the shoulder. “Max doesn’t play by the rules.”
    Instead of grabbing a sandwich as he’d intended, Ambler kept walking down Fifth Avenue deep in thought. Walking in the city was as natural as breathing for him. Sometimes for weeks on end, he’d walk everywhere he went. Seldom did he take a cab. He might take a bus on a rainy day; you couldn’t get a cab anyway. If he went some distance, he’d take the subway, although sometimes he’d walk then, too. At lunch, he walked most days, walked and observed the city around him.
    On this day, he strolled downtown about twenty blocks, picked up a barbecue sandwich at one of the lunch carts at the north end of Madison Square Park, and found a bench in the park, where he sat, watching people walk by, in the shadow of the Flatiron Building, which if he remembered correctly housed the editorial offices of Nelson Yates’s publisher. He wondered idly if his walk to Madison Square Park had been more intentional than random. Had the idea of Nelson Yates taken over his subconscious because his name popped up when someone talked about James Donnelly’s murder?
    *   *   *
    “Raymond, come here.” Adele beckoned from the doorway of the Berg Collection reading room as he headed back to his office after lunch. “Nelson Yates is in Harry’s office. He’s mad as a hornet about Max Wagner for some reason. Harry sent me to get you.”
    “Why me?” He had to wonder for a moment if his subconscious, not satisfied with leading him to the Flatiron Building, had conjured up the real-life Nelson Yates.
    Adele shrugged.
    Harry jumped up when Ambler came through the door. “Here he is now.”
    The man sitting in front of the desk was thin, emaciated, much older looking than the evening they’d spent drinking and talking not so many years ago. His long legs crossed at the knees, he bent forward in such a way as to seem permanently curled. His eyes were sunken far back in his thin face, so he looked weary—defeated and weary.
    “Hello, Nelson.” Ambler held out his hand. Because of the blank look he got in return, he wasn’t sure the writer remembered him. “It’s good to see you again.”
    Yates shook his hand listlessly.
    “Mr. Yates is concerned that Professor Wagner has been given access to the collection before it’s been cataloged. I’ve explained the precautions