Free Coyote by Rhonda Roberts Page B

height.
    The library was made of adobe — sundried mud bricks covered in a generous frosting of red mud. The thick coating made the walls smooth and rounded every line and edge, which contrasted with the dead-straight lines of the windows and doors and made it appear as though they were set into a red-chocolate mud cake. The roof was flat and directly beneath it, protruding from the smooth red walls in a decorative line, was the last yard or so of the mighty logs that acted as beams.
    It looked like it should’ve been sitting in the middle of some Wild West desert, except that water was gushing off its flat roof. And because five stone sculptures of Native American chiefs in full war dress perched on the battlements of the tower. They stared down at the busy, rain-soaked plaza as if waiting for their worst enemy to ride past.
    But that wasn’t what focused my attention.
    There were black and white San Francisco police vehicles parked in front of the library … And a crime-scene tape circled the entire building, preventing a crowd of irate students from entering.
    I edged my way to the front of the crowd, dodging dripping umbrellas. One of the wet-weather-clad cops on the inside of the tape was battling with a student desperate to get in to use the library.
    â€˜You don’t understand. My dissertation is due atthe binders tomorrow and I have to check that my references are completely —’
    â€˜Look, son,’ growled the cop who was probably the same age. ‘No one is getting past this tape until I say so. The library is closed!’
    One of the lower windows in the pueblo tower was broken. Right next to it, two men in cheap navy suits, and holding matching umbrellas, stood arguing. The taller one was pointing to the pueblo tower with darting, angry movements.
    I got my leather wallet out and ducked under the crime-scene tape.
    The uniformed cop sidestepped into my path and grabbed my shoulder. I let him. ‘Look, girl, this is off limits!’
    I grimaced. Yep, my baby-face certainly was a handicap in this business. I flicked my wallet open. He froze, recognising the NTA certified detective’s licence but unsure of what to do next.
    Before the Uniform could lapse back into regulations, I nodded at the Plainclothes boys ahead and snapped, ‘Who’s in charge?’
    He pointed to the taller one. ‘Detective McBain.’
    I strode past him. He let me.
    The two detectives caught me in their peripherals and swung around, ready to bite. I could see the shorter one recognised me. McBain, caught up in his case, just scowled. I flipped out my licence again. The short detective was curious, but McBain was groping for a way to react.
    â€˜Detective McBain, I’m Time Investigator Kannon Dupree and I’m here on a case. I need to talk to a librarian about —’
    â€˜Well, you can’t,’ he bit out with perverse satisfaction. ‘All the librarians are busy answering questions.’Obviously a morning spent out in the pouring rain had soured what good temper he’d brought with him.
    â€˜Okay …’ I eyed the broken window in the strange adobe tower. ‘Then can you at least tell me what happened?’
    McBain gave me a searching look, as though weighing up whether I could be of any use. Then he decided to bait his hook and see what it reeled in. ‘Last night someone broke into the library and stole some extremely rare manuscripts.’ He studied my face.
    â€˜Rare manuscripts?’ My antennae went up. If they came from the Kershaw Archives then these two boys were about to get my help — whether they wanted it or not.
    I gazed around at the number of police. ‘This is a lot of attention just for some missing papers, isn’t it?’
    â€˜A librarian, who’d been working late in another part of the building, surprised the intruder as he was locking up for the night,’ replied McBain. ‘He died in hospital