Read Online Breach of Power by Chuck Barrett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chuck Barrett
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The carriage house was built in 1813."
Regan followed the woman down the long hallway to a closed door near the back of the home. Every inch of wall space, it seemed, was covered with paintings. Cabinets and display cases full of antiquities that appeared to have come from every corner of the world. Through the rear windows she could see the gardens full of assorted flowers, most in full bloom, and the old carriage house.
The woman knocked twice then opened the door and walked in.
"Mr. DeLoach, Ms. Regan is here to see you." The woman turned to her. "Go on in, honey, and talk loud, he's hard of hearing."
As Regan walked in, the woman closed the door behind her. The room was full of equipment some of it small, some not so small. She had no idea how any of it worked, nor did she really care. Next to a wall was a large table with different colored vials of what she assumed were chemicals, a large magnifying glass with a light mounted under the rim illuminating a book that lay across the center of the table, and standing at the table, an old man wearing jeweler's glasses and white gloves.
"Mr. DeLoach, I'm Ashley Regan. We spoke on the phone."
The old man held up his hand. "Shh. I'll be with you in a moment." He sounded angry and impatient. "Have a seat. And I'm not hard of hearing so you don't have to yell. Zula Mae tells everyone that so she can listen through the door."
She smiled at the thought of a nosy housekeeper, found a chair next to a window, and sat down.
Regan guessed Arthur DeLoach was in his seventies, perhaps as old as eighty. His gray hair was thin, long, and scraggly. His old hands showed signs of arthritis induced deformity but they seemed steady when he worked. His shoulders had a permanent hunch and he shuffled when he walked. She realized he wasn't angry or gruff, his voice just made him seem that way.
"So Ms Regan, what do you have for me?"
She was on. Time for the lies to begin.
"Mr. DeLoach, my Uncle William Franks, my mother's brother, died a couple of months ago, and since I was the only relative left, I was named executor of his estate. When I went to clean out his house I found this." She pulled out the book in the plastic bags. "It was frozen in the back of a freezer in his garage. Years of frost had accumulated on it. I know this sounds odd, but my uncle was an odd man. A bibliophile…his house is full of books. I don't know where I'm going to put all of them. As the frost melted, I suspected this might be his personal journal so I wrapped it up and put it back in my freezer until I could find someone to safely restore it. It has his initials on the binding and some sort of crest. Maybe a family crest, I don't know. My uncle grew up in Germany, Bavaria I think. Also there's a hole punched through it and some sort of stain…I don't know what happened to cause that."
There. Her story complete. Her lies told. She designed her story to cover all the bases and hopefully deflect any suspicion the old man might have.
"May I hold the book?" DeLoach held out his old arthritic hand.
She placed the book in his hand. He held it up to the light, pulled his jeweler's glasses down and studied the book.
"Why so many plastic bags?" He asked.
"I was afraid if it started to dry out, it might ruin it."
"I can dry it out with my vacuum drier, but I won't know the condition of the pages until I take a look to see how extensive the restoration will be…if I can restore it at all."
He raised the glasses and looked at her. His slate gray eyes looked worn and tired. He had dark circles, droopy cheeks and eyebrows a decade overdue for a trim.
"And how long do you think this will take?" She tried not to sound eager.
"If everything goes well, three or four days."
"And if it doesn't?" She asked.
"I only have one other project right now." He pointed to the book on the table. "So I can give this book a lot of attention. No more than a week, I'd say."
"And the cost?" Regan smiled.
"I'm old Ms Regan. I don't
Regan followed the woman down the long hallway to a closed door near the back of the home. Every inch of wall space, it seemed, was covered with paintings. Cabinets and display cases full of antiquities that appeared to have come from every corner of the world. Through the rear windows she could see the gardens full of assorted flowers, most in full bloom, and the old carriage house.
The woman knocked twice then opened the door and walked in.
"Mr. DeLoach, Ms. Regan is here to see you." The woman turned to her. "Go on in, honey, and talk loud, he's hard of hearing."
As Regan walked in, the woman closed the door behind her. The room was full of equipment some of it small, some not so small. She had no idea how any of it worked, nor did she really care. Next to a wall was a large table with different colored vials of what she assumed were chemicals, a large magnifying glass with a light mounted under the rim illuminating a book that lay across the center of the table, and standing at the table, an old man wearing jeweler's glasses and white gloves.
"Mr. DeLoach, I'm Ashley Regan. We spoke on the phone."
The old man held up his hand. "Shh. I'll be with you in a moment." He sounded angry and impatient. "Have a seat. And I'm not hard of hearing so you don't have to yell. Zula Mae tells everyone that so she can listen through the door."
She smiled at the thought of a nosy housekeeper, found a chair next to a window, and sat down.
Regan guessed Arthur DeLoach was in his seventies, perhaps as old as eighty. His gray hair was thin, long, and scraggly. His old hands showed signs of arthritis induced deformity but they seemed steady when he worked. His shoulders had a permanent hunch and he shuffled when he walked. She realized he wasn't angry or gruff, his voice just made him seem that way.
"So Ms Regan, what do you have for me?"
She was on. Time for the lies to begin.
"Mr. DeLoach, my Uncle William Franks, my mother's brother, died a couple of months ago, and since I was the only relative left, I was named executor of his estate. When I went to clean out his house I found this." She pulled out the book in the plastic bags. "It was frozen in the back of a freezer in his garage. Years of frost had accumulated on it. I know this sounds odd, but my uncle was an odd man. A bibliophile…his house is full of books. I don't know where I'm going to put all of them. As the frost melted, I suspected this might be his personal journal so I wrapped it up and put it back in my freezer until I could find someone to safely restore it. It has his initials on the binding and some sort of crest. Maybe a family crest, I don't know. My uncle grew up in Germany, Bavaria I think. Also there's a hole punched through it and some sort of stain…I don't know what happened to cause that."
There. Her story complete. Her lies told. She designed her story to cover all the bases and hopefully deflect any suspicion the old man might have.
"May I hold the book?" DeLoach held out his old arthritic hand.
She placed the book in his hand. He held it up to the light, pulled his jeweler's glasses down and studied the book.
"Why so many plastic bags?" He asked.
"I was afraid if it started to dry out, it might ruin it."
"I can dry it out with my vacuum drier, but I won't know the condition of the pages until I take a look to see how extensive the restoration will be…if I can restore it at all."
He raised the glasses and looked at her. His slate gray eyes looked worn and tired. He had dark circles, droopy cheeks and eyebrows a decade overdue for a trim.
"And how long do you think this will take?" She tried not to sound eager.
"If everything goes well, three or four days."
"And if it doesn't?" She asked.
"I only have one other project right now." He pointed to the book on the table. "So I can give this book a lot of attention. No more than a week, I'd say."
"And the cost?" Regan smiled.
"I'm old Ms Regan. I don't
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