Book 11 in the Alex Cooper series, 2009

My earliest childhood memories of books are of those from which my mother read to me every night before I went to sleep. I still have the frayed volumes of poems by Robert Louis Stevenson and A. A. Milne, and the stories of Beatrix Potter and E. B. White. I remember the first time she took me to the public library in our small city, and with what delight I left that day carrying the three books the librarian entrusted to me. Our favorite weekly excursion-an hour of pure happiness with my mother-was the trip downtown to return the small stack I had selected and replace it with another.

Most bibliophiles love reading about books, too, and for me, the opportunity to do some of my research with literary treasures was a thrilling experience. One foundation for my exploration was a 1923 tome I picked up at an antiquarian book fair-Harry Miller Lydenberg’s History of the New York Public Library. I studied Phyllis Dain’s A Universe of Knowledge, Nicholas Basbanes’s A Gentle Madness, Ingrid Steffensen’s The New York Public Library: A Beaux Arts Landmark, and a slim little book published by Educare Press, The Waldseemüller World Map (1507).

One of the most riveting articles I relied on for an understanding of the world of rare map collectors appeared in The New Yorker’s Annals of Crime, called “A Theft in the Library” by William Finnegan. As always, my research notebooks were teeming with clippings from the New York Times, whether about the structural bones of Manhattan buildings or transparency in the boardroom’s of libraries and museums, or even the obituaries of long-forgotten individuals.

Perhaps the most extensive private collection devoted to cartography was in the unique library of England ’s Christopher Henry Beaumont Pease, the second Baron Wardington. The essay written by Lord Wardington for Sotheby’s 2006 sale of Important Atlases from his library captured the passion these treasures inspired, and the elegant descriptions in that catalog helped me design the volumes that line the bookshelves of my fictional characters.

My dear friends Cynthia and Dan Lufkin invited me to their spectacular apartment when they moved to a landmarked building on Central Park West several years ago. It’s still a mystery to me how elements of their stunning home took such a sinister turn in my imagination, but I am grateful for that introduction to the chapel over cocktails.

Dr. Cecilia Crouse, chief of the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office forensic science laboratory, is a woman I admire enormously. She solves crimes, saves lives, does justice every day, and trains scores of young scientists to do the same. Cece is a great force for good against evil in this world, and she remains my DNA guru.

Paul LeClerc, President of the New York Public Library, has the most splendid professional home in America. He has called libraries “the memory of humankind, irreplacable repositories of documents of human thought and action,” and I agree with him that the NYPL is such an institution, par excellence.

David Ferriero, Andrew W. Mellon Director of the New York Public Libraries, was my brilliant personal guide through all the amazing wonders of the great library. The NYPL was founded in 1895, he said, with the mission of making the accumulated knowledge of the world freely accessible to all, without distinction as to income, religion, nationality, or other human condition. David knew that I was likely to invent murder and mayhem within the historic walls of the central library as a result of the time he spent with me, but still he led me from the rooftop to the basement stacks and through every secret passageway in between, and put me in the hands of each scholarly curator and conservator along the way.

My lifelong love affair with librarians reached a fever pitch while working on this book. David’s enthusiasm for the world he inhabits is impressive and infectious. He and Zelman Kisilyuk led me from the rooftop through the treacherous stacks with great care. Isaac Gewirtz educated me about the Berg Collection; John Lundquist let me explore the Asian and Middle Eastern works; Shelly Smith and her colleagues in the Barbara Goldsmith Preservation Division helped me understand the critical nature of their work-and the incomparable gift bestowed on the NYPL by Barbara; and Alice Hudson, and her assistant chief Matthew Knutzen, thrilled me with their displays of the breathtaking and vulnerable riches of the Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division. I borrowed a bit of Alice ’s wisdom and spirit to enliven the plot.

Everyone should have a friend like Louise Grunwald. She’s smart, beautiful, funny, wise, and fiercely loyal to her many, many friends. Her quiet generosity never ceases to amaze me, and she exercised it this time to open the massive doors of the NYPL and place me into the hands of David Ferriero.

My team at Doubleday-led by Steve Rubin and Phyllis Grann-is the class of the field in the publishing world and includes Alison Rich, John Pitts, John Fontana, and Jackie Montalvo. To Esther Newberg and everyone at ICM-especially Kari Stuart-goes my gratitude for helping make my dream of a writer’s life come true.

Wherever you are, use your libraries and support them. And when you are in New York City, come visit the great New York Public Library and behold its treasures.

My mother was the kindest person I have ever known, with the most enormous heart and a dazzling smile that invited all comers to share in her happiness. Among the very best things she ever did for me-and there are many-was to nurture my love of books and reading. She is forever, as I said in the dedication of my second novel, simply the best. Dearest Bobbie, rest in peace.

And like all the books before it, this one is for Justin, always-my first reader, my great warrior.

“I want you to open the door for me.”

Only silence.

“Look through the peephole,” I said. “I’m not a cop. I’m an assistant district attorney.”

I stepped back and squared off so the woman inside the basement apartment could check me out. The hallway and staircase had been cleared of men in uniform, including the detail from Emergency Services poised to knock down her door with a battering ram, which was there when I arrived at the scene a short while ago at one o’clock in the morning.

I didn’t hear any sound from within. No sense of her movement.

“My name is Alexandra Cooper. You’re Tina, aren’t you? Tina Barr.” I didn’t say what my specialty was, that I was in charge of the DA’s Office Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit. The police weren’t certain she had been assaulted by the man who had earlier invaded her home, but several of them thought she might reveal those details to me if I could gain her confidence.

I moved in against the metal-clad door and pressed my ear to it, but heard nothing.

“Don’t lose your touch now, Coop.” Mike Chapman walked down the steps and handed a lightbulb to the rookie who was holding a flashlight over my shoulder. “The money on the street’s against you, but I’m counting on your golden tongue to talk the lady out so those guys can go home and catch some sleep.”

The young cop passed the bulb to Mercer Wallace, the six-foot-six-inch-tall detective from the Special Victims Unit who had called me to the brownstone on the quiet block between Lexington and Third avenues in the East Nineties.