Monument to the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page A

course. I loved being close to so much history and sharing
     it with the public. It wasn’t the past that was dangerous, it was the present.
    Still, I jumped when my phone trilled: James, waiting outside. I gathered up my bag,
     making sure Shelby’s envelope of spreadsheets was still there, and hurried to open
     the heavy front door, a relic from an earlier time. I armed the alarm system, pulled
     the door shut behind me, and turned to welcome James.
    He looked depressed, and I told him so.
    “I keep thinking I’m missing something—something that would convince the right people
     that we have a serial killer on our hands.”
    I glanced around to see if anyone, friend or stranger, had overheard the term
serial killer
, but the pedestrians kept moving. “Maybe our list will help.”
    “If it doesn’t, I don’t know what I can do next.”
    I had never seen James Morrison so frustrated or helpless. “Do you want to talk about
     it?”
    “If you’re willing, it might help if we went over the list together. I’d ask Marty,
     but she has a tendency to go off half-cocked.”
    “I know what you mean, but right now I think she’s really worried. And I’ve already
     told her she’s too close to the people involved to see the big picture, if there is
     one. How about we pick up some food and go to your place?”
    “I’d really appreciate it.”
    “Great. Let’s stop at that Indian place—it’s on the way.”
    I was always amused at how differently James and I had made homes for ourselves. I
     lived in a tiny former carriage house in the leafy suburbs, and I had filled it with
     flea-market finds and a few semi-antiques from my family. James lived in a stark,
     sparely furnished apartment in an older building near the University of Pennsylvania
     campus. It was neat and efficient—everything my place wasn’t. (He had, after several
     visits, admitted that he had a cleaning service that sent someone over once a week,
     which made me feel better.)
    We spread out our food on his small but immaculately clean table (why was it
my
table was always covered with salt and pepper shakers, unanswered mail, and a host
     of things I didn’t know where to put?), and he pulled an open bottle of wine from
     the refrigerator and held it up, raising an eyebrow.
    I laughed. “Shelby would approve.”
    “What?” he said, retrieving two glasses.
    “She mentioned that maybe some wine would loosen up our thinking.” I took a glass
     from him and sipped.
    “At this point, I’ll try anything. There has to be something I’m not seeing.”
    I doubted that, but maybe he was looking for facts and obvious patterns, while what
     we had put together was more about nuances and subtle connections. “Why don’t you
     look over the spreadsheets while we eat? Then we can talk about it.”
    I dished up from the takeout containers and kept my mouth shut while he quickly scanned
     the pages, nodding occasionally. By the time he’d finished reading, we’d cleaned our
     plates and finished our first glass of wine.
    He squared up the pages and laid them on the table, then sat back and rubbed his face,
     as if trying to erase his fatigue. I remained silent, waiting for his assessment.
    It came quickly. He pulled his chair forward, sat up, and looked at me. “First, I
     have to tell you this is great work. This is exactly the kind of stuff we probably
     wouldn’t have found, certainly not as quickly.”
    I was warmed by the compliment. “Thank you. So why don’t you tell me what conclusions
     you draw from it?”
    “Before you tell me yours? Okay. It seems clear that the greatest overlap is on three
     primary institutions: the Art Museum, the Society, and this Forrest Trust. What’s
     this trust all about?”
    “I’m not familiar with it, but I’ve asked Shelby to put together a summary of whatever
     we have in our files.”
    “You came to the same conclusions?”
    I smiled. “We did. But there were three of us, and it took us longer