Hazard and Somerset, Gregory Ashe [ebook reader with internet browser TXT] 📗

of Wahredua’s rush hour. And, of course, Somers would have known that perfectly well. Asshole.

After wiping his face, Hazard stretched his back, grunted, and checked his phone. Another text. He felt a little of the same charge that he experienced with a new case, a particularly difficult one. Somers’s riddles weren’t exactly brain benders, but combined with the time limits and the unscrupulous use of insider knowledge—knowing how Hazard’s mind worked and twisting it against him—made the game surprisingly challenging. And pleasant.

Hazard scrubbed out that last part.

The next text said, The next demand is for you to arrange a meeting between your childhood crush and your big-boy crush.

You were not my high school crush.

The phone remained still in Hazard’s hand.

You were my high school bully.

Nothing.

You were my tormentor.

Nothing.

My high-school crush was Ricky Welter. He had those blond curls.

Ricky Welter was an asshole, Ree!!!!! Don’t even pretend you liked him.

The heart has its own reasons.

15 minutes.

And I don’t have a big-boy crush on anyone.

The phone’s screen timed out.

Hazard unlocked it and sent another message: I don’t. I have a handsome fiancé. He takes up my entire life. I love him like crazy.

Nothing.

He takes up every spare minute. I wouldn’t have time for a crush if I wanted to.

A bubble appeared, showing Somers was composing, and then the bubble vanished, and then it started again, vanished again, started again, vanished. Hazard grinned.

Then a single emoji came through: a clock.

Asshole, Hazard texted back.

He took the stairs up to the library’s main entrance; the building was locked until nine, but Hazard guessed that Somers had either arranged for Hazard to get into the building somehow or expected him to do some misdemeanor breaking and entering. When Hazard got to the top of the stairs, he had his answer.

Jessica Hariguchi didn’t look like a librarian. She had her glossy black hair in a ponytail, and she was wearing yoga pants and a quarter-zip pullover. Hazard knew her age—when she had gotten the job as head librarian, he had felt like it was his civic duty to investigate her, just to make sure the collection of Wahredua’s Public Library was in safe hands—and he knew twenty-eight wasn’t young. Not really. And she had a good degree in library science. And she had publications. But he had still been on the fence about her until they had met and she had started The Stack.

“You’re falling behind,” she said as she pushed open the door.

“John roped you into this?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant.” She pointed over her shoulder, indicating the circulation desk, where she kept The Stack for Hazard. “I added four more yesterday: Dolly and Dolly: Human Cloning and the Future of Country Music; String Theory: A Psycholegal Account of the Newport Knitting Murders; Ozark Myths and Moonshine; and a fourth one. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“What is it?” Hazard asked, stepping past her. He had grown up in this library, and he knew it better than he knew any other place. Somers had made a mistake, challenging him here. And while, yes, some things had changed after Jessica had taken over—a thorough weeding of the collection, a new layout for the first three floors, a self-check-out system that had obviated Hazard’s major complaint about the library—other things had remained the same—the ancient drinking fountain, the smell of paper and binding glue, the wall of photographs documenting forty years of Wahredua Wildcat Wild Readers, an elite club for kids who read more than ten books during the summer. Hazard’s picture showed up on the wall fourteen times, more than anyone else’s—twelve years of school, plus kindergarten, plus Mrs. McCreary, the ancient librarian at the time, had made an exception and let Hazard participate one last time after he graduated high school.

“Grown in our Garden: Slugs, Sex, and the Origins of the Cabbage Patch Dolls.” Jessica eyed him as they walked toward the desk. “You know I give you first dibs, but I can just send it into general circulation.”

“I guess I should at least look at it,” Hazard said, and then he cleared his throat. “Might have something interesting.”

“Sure.”

“You never know.”

Jessica nodded once.

“So,” Hazard said, “what did John leave for me?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Jessica. I’m done with this stupid game.”

“He just asked me if I’d let you in early. I don’t mind doing it for you; your late fees paid most of our activity budget last year.”

Hazard grunted. “Do you have any Wahredua High yearbooks?”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“Sorry. The school library keeps those. You could head over there; they’ve already started the school day, so I know they’re open.”

“No.” Hazard frowned. “What about newspaper archives?”

“We’ve got digital access to the Courier archives after 2011. Does that help?”

“What about before that?”

“We have microfiche.”

“Good Christ.”

“What do you need? Oh, wait. Am I supposed to help you?”

“Did he say you couldn’t?”

“No, but I don’t know the rules.”

“Fuck his rules. I’m not letting him eat one of my quiches.”

Jessica’s eyebrows went up.

“Never mind,” Hazard mumbled.

“What do you need?”

“A picture of John from high school. And a picture of him today. And, because I want to fuck with him, a picture of Ricky Welter.”

“Who’s Ricky? Was he cute?”

“He was an overgrown thug with a face like a hatchet. But sometimes, John is too fucking smug for his own good.”

“I don’t know how to help you with the picture from high school. Do you know if John-Henry or the other guy, Ricky, were ever featured in the Courier back then?”

“I doubt it. Maybe for something with sports.”

“That means looking at each edition page by page.”

“I don’t have time for that. What about a recent picture?”

“You don’t have any pictures of your own boyfriend?”

“Fiancé,” Hazard said. “And of course I have pictures of him. But I’m supposed to find it here.”

“Sure, that makes sense,” Jessica said.

“Without the attitude, please,” Hazard said. “Librarians are supposed to be meek and mousy.”

“I’ll remember that the next time a Ken Burns documentary comes in.”

“Holy shit.”

“I’m just joking.”

“No, holy shit. John thinks he’s so fucking smart. Be right back. Get