The Inner Circle by Brad Meltzer Page B

(photos of old German zeppelins), on the microwave (photos of steam-engine trains), on top of the fridge (separate piles for dogs, cats, and tons of old automobiles), and even filling the seat of the bright orange 1960s lounge chair that I got at the Georgetown flea market and use as a head chair (each pile a different exhibit from the 1901 Pan-Am Expo in Buffalo, New York, including a big pile for the camel parade).
    To anyone else, it’s clutter. To me, it’s how the world used to communicate: through postcards.
    Back in the early 1900s, when you bought a new car, or new dress, or had a new baby, you took a picture, sent it to Kodak, and they’d send you back six black-and-white “real photo postcards,” which you’d then send to family and friends. At the time, collecting those real photo cards was the number one hobby in America. Number one. But once World War I began, since the best printing was done in Germany, production halted—and a new company called the American Greeting Card Company filled the void, offering cheaper cards that Americans didn’t like as much.
    Of course, the final nail hit the coffin in the form of the telephone. Why send a card when you could just call up and tell them the news? But today, those real photo postcards are among the most collected items on eBay, as I learned when I sold a photo from a 1912 Stanford football game for a whopping $2.35.
    To my mom, the cards are yet another example of my obsession with the past. To my sisters, who know me far better, they’re the distraction that’s only grown in size since Iris left. They may be right—but that doesn’t mean distractions don’t have benefits. The cards have oddly helped me settle back into my groove and find my sea legs—so much so that when an old friend like Clementine emails after fifteen years and asks how you’re doing, instead of thinking about what’s wrong with your life, you take a chance, hit the reply button, and say, “So glad you got in touch.” That’s even more valuable than the newest bids on eBay.
    The problem is, by the time I reposition the piles on the kitchen table and pour my morning bowl of raisin bran, there’s only one thing I really want to see on the computer. I start every morning with the obituaries. Mostly, I read about strangers. Today, at washingtonpost.com , I put in Orlando’s name. His obit’s not in there yet.
    I put in the word Archives . Nothing there either. Not even a little blurb in the Metro section. I know what it means. If they thought it was foul play—even if it was suspicious and the cops were looking into it—there’d be ink on this. But as I swallow a spoonful of raisin bran, it looks like there’s no current police investigation.
    The worst part is, I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
    Maybe it was just a heart attack, I tell myself, still hearing Khazei’s words. For all I know, the only bogeymen are the ones in my imagination.
    There’s only one problem with the theory.
    I look down at the vintage soft brown leather briefcase that’s leaning against the leg of the table. The briefcase used to belong to my dad. He died when he was twenty-six. He never had a chance to use it. Today, it holds my keys, my journal that I keep all my eBay sales in, and the beaten old dictionary that sticks out from the back pouch.
    Forget the videotape and Khazei and everything else.
    The book. It still comes back to George Washington’s book.
    There’s a reason that book just happened to be in that room, which just happened to be used by the leader of the free world. And until I find out what it is—
    There’s a quick double tap of a car horn, honking from outside.
    “Coming!” I call out even though he can’t hear me.
    Grabbing my briefcase and winter coat, I head for the door, speedwalking through the living room, which is decorated with a used art deco black leather sofa that sits right below three side-by-side framed photo postcards from the 1920s, each of them