Now the hospital was closed and St. Kevin’s served a population that was lowercase “catholic” as well as upper.

Peter glanced into the storefronts—a local bank, Sanchez Puerto Rican grocery, a Vietnamese nail salon, a beauty shop with the sign in the window—”Beaded corn rows $5 each.” And there—Vartaby’s Flowers.
Peter slowed a bit and got a few horn blasts. Columbia Road was four lanes, divided, and people drove fast.
He couldn’t tell much from a glance into the shop, except that there were lights on in the back room. At eleven o’clock? Most florists went to bed before nine, so they could get to the Flower Exchange by five in the morning. Was Mo Vartaby up late doing his books?
Then another question dawned on Peter Fallon. What in hell was he doing here? Sure, he was a treasure hunter, and he did well at it, because he was willing to get himself into trouble. He’d been chased, shot at, and forced to fight for his life more than once. And he didn’t like any of it.
So he decided to go home and do what Bingo had suggested: call the FBI.
BUT THE FBI called him first. Or called on him.
They were waiting when he arrived at his office the next day.
Two men with short haircuts and government-issue gray suits were standing over his secretary’s desk. One of them was asking questions. The other was reading the titles of the rare books in the locked cases.
“Morning, boss,” said Bernice. “These gents say they’re from the FBI.”
As the agents turned, Bernice made a face at Peter. What in hell is going on?
She was in her sixties, wore her bleached hair in a beehive that was big in the sixties, and had worked for the Fallon family since the sixties. Her skirt did nothing to flatter her thighs, her pantyhose rubbed like fine-grit sandpaper when she walked, and her accent and attitude were South Boston smart-ass, not Newbury Street chic. But she could run an office, and she carried a Beretta in her purse. She was also Peter’s aunt.
He handed her the bag of Dunkin’ Donuts and told her to get three cups of coffee. Then he invited Agents George Hause and Will Luzier into his office.
Fallon Antiquaria occupied an L-shaped space on the third floor of an old Boston bowfront, above a gallery that was above a restaurant. The display room, with all the fine volumes in all the locked cases, was in the long section of the L. Peter’s office was where the bowfront bowed out.
“So”—Peter seized the initiative—”was it one of your guys sitting in the car with the stove-in front end last night?”
The agents looked at each other. Hause wore glasses and seemed to be in charge. Luzier was taller and took notes.
Hause said, “Why were you casing Boston Street and Vartaby’s Flowers last night?”
“I was following a lead.”
“A lead?” asked Luzier. “On what? A rare book?”
“I know it sounds crazy. A lead an inmate down at Cedar Junction gave me.”
“Inmate?” said Hause, his face expressionless.
And Peter told them everything that Bingo Keegan had told him. Then he described every detail of his trip to Dorchester.
When he was done, Agent Hause said, “Why should we believe you?”
“Because I’m a good American.” Peter could think of no other reason, and he liked the sound of that one.
“A good American,” said Luzier, “even though you sell Arab books in here?”
“Arab books?” said Peter.
“In the display case. Something by someone called”—Luzier looked in his notebook—”Omar Khayyam.”
“The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam?” Fallon laughed. “It’s one of the classics of world literature.”
Hause gave his partner a roll of the eyes; then he asked Fallon, “Where did Keegan get his information?”
“He said it was ‘word on the street,’ “ answered Peter.
“Word on the street?” Luzier looked at Hause. “If convicts are hearing about this, and they’re telling booksellers, the subjects may know that the secret is out. They may decide to speed things up. Or go underground.”
“We should move.” Hause tapped a finger against his lip. “This will take an enormous amount of coordination in a very short time.”
In the outer office, Bernice picked up the telephone.
Luzier pointed a finger at her.