Murder at the Library of Congress (22 page)

“Okay.”

Consuela pulled a printed list of collections that had been donated to Hispanic over the past few years and jotted down a list of names of the contributors. She handed the paper to Sue.

“Start with the first three on the list, Koser, Aaronsen, and Covington. They’re small collections, not much more than a box for each.”

“Which one should I do first?”

“Your choice. Lay out the material, break it down into categories that make sense, note what each section contains, and put the materials back in file folders marked with the name of the subject.”

“I really appreciate this, Dr. Martinez.”

“And I’ll appreciate the good job I know you’ll do.”

Sue eagerly went to leave but Consuela stopped her with “But you’ll still have to handle the Cuban newspapers.”

“Oh, sure, I can do both. Thanks again.”

After the fourth ring, Cale Broadhurst picked up the phone himself, his secretary having left her desk for a moment. “Broadhurst.”

“Hi, Cale. This is Annabel Smith. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. I just had a talk with Lucianne Huston, and she told me something she knows that I thought you should know.”

“Okay.” Feeling blood rush to his head, Broadhurst asked, “What despicable rumor is she peddling now?”

“Apparently one of her more reliable sources informed her that Michele Paul was receiving large sums of money from David Driscoll. I know she assumes that Paul was selling information about rare books he had found to Driscoll, who would then buy them for the library.”

“Is she going to make this public?” Broadhurst asked nervously.

“I think so.”

“Well, thanks for calling me. I guess I better talk to Ms. Huston before she does permanent damage to the library.” As he hung up, he couldn’t strike the image of a gleeful Lucianne Huston—
“Reporting from Washington, money and murder at the library”
—from his mind.

28

Los Angeles’ “art squad” was, as in all major cities, small and not considered terribly important in the overall scheme of law enforcement. Stealing an expensive piece of art from someone who obviously had enough money to buy it in the first place didn’t rank up there with drive-by shootings, racial unrest, rape, and arson.

Still, the few detectives assigned to the task in Los Angeles took their job seriously. While investigating the studio of Abraham Widlitz, they methodically looked at every piece of art in the studio while the owner tried in vain to reach his son in Pittsburgh: “Daddy’s at a dentists’ convention in Florida, Papa Abe,” his sixteen-year-old granddaughter told him, “and Mom went to a garden show.” Widlitz didn’t want to upset his granddaughter. “Nothing important,” he said in a tremulous voice. “I’ll call again.”

He’d sat at his desk while the police continued their examination of the contents of the studio, answering an occasional question but spending most of the time thinking about calling an attorney. He hesitated to do that because he felt it might make him appear guilty. As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything wrong in accepting art from clients despite knowing they might have obtained their “finds” from less than honest sources.
It wasn’t his responsibility to determine the provenance of any work of art. He was just a craftsman.

The detective who seemed to be in charge asked Widlitz for his records.

“Those are confidential,” Widlitz protested weakly.

The detective laughed. “You’re not a lawyer or a doctor, Mr. Widlitz. You can cooperate with us, which would be in your best interests, or we can do it the hard way, take you downtown and subpoena your records.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Depends on what we find here. Do we see the records or not?”

Widlitz gave them what few records he kept, which they packed into an empty leather catalog case they’d brought with them. Widlitz was told he was free to go, but that he was not to leave Los Angeles.

“What about my work?” he asked.

“Look at it this way, Mr. Widlitz. We’re giving you a few days vacation while we take a closer look at what’s here in the studio. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”

Abe Widlitz’s final words as he left were “I have a lawyer.”

“That’s good. Have a nice evening, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

Having operated on a tip from an informer that Widlitz was in the business of fencing stolen art, the two detectives spent the next day comparing lists of stolen art contained in a publication used by art squads around the world, the
Stolen Art Alert
, produced monthly by the International Foundation for Art Research, with the canvases in Abe Widlitz’s studio. They came up empty. They then went through their own reports of stolen art from
the Los Angeles area and attempted to find a match. There was none.

At the end of the day, they sat in their cramped two-man office and went over their findings, or lack thereof.

“Joey called,” one said, referring to the snitch who’d sent them on their fruitless search of Widlitz’s studio. “The little twerp wants his money.”

His partner’s laugh was half snarl. “Tell him he owes us. You want to call Widlitz and tell him he can go back to work?”

“Sure. Nice old guy.”

“Don’t get soft. Behind that ‘nice old man’ facade could lurk a serial killer. Call him before his lawyer decides to sue the city.”

As his partner made the call, the chief of the art squad started writing a report on their activities on the Widlitz case. He was interrupted by a homicide detective from down the hall. “How’s everything with you two Rembrandts?” he asked.

“All right. You?”

“Good. O’Connell wanted me to give you this.” He tossed a file folder on the desk and sat down.

The art squad chief opened it and began reading.

“It’s that security guard murder they forwarded us from Miami,” the detective who’d delivered the report said. “The perp evidently stole that painting and killed the guard in the process. This guy, Munsch, brought the painting with him to L.A. after the heist, then ended up in Mexico, where our esteemed colleagues south of the border gunned him down by the airport.”

“Yeah, we’ll put it on our list,” the art squad chief said, closing the folder.

His partner, who’d just hung up after informing Abe Widlitz he was free to return to his studio, absently opened the file.

The homicide detective said, chuckling, “You guys ever find a stolen Picasso or Andy Warhol and consider selling it on the side?”

“Sure, we find stuff like that every day. That’s how we got rich and live in Beverly Hills, drive a Jag and a Bentley, and—”

“Un momento,”
the other art squad detective said. “Look at this.” He pointed to an item on the list they’d made of what was in Widlitz’s studio.

“Yeah?”

“It could be the same piece, that one rolled up on the table in his place. Columbus on his knees giving something to a king. Yeah, it
is
the same. Artist, Reyes.”

The art squad chief looked up at the homicide detective. “How long has this been kicking around?”

“Few days.”

“Nice you finally got around to bringing it to us.”

“You say it’s the same one?” the homicide detective asked.

“Sure looks like it.” To his partner: “Widlitz didn’t have any record of who brought it to him, did he?”

“No.”

“Maybe we should call that nice old man again and have another talk—down here!”

“You want a cup of coffee, a soft drink, maybe?”

“No, thank you. I have told you what I know about that particular painting. It was brought to me by Conrad, who asked me to see whether there was anything under it, another painting, perhaps a map.”

“Does this Conrad have a last name?”

“I don’t know it.”

Widlitz sat with one of the art squad detectives and the lead homicide investigator on the Miami case in an interrogation room at LAPD headquarters in Parker Center,
on Los Angeles Street. The arrival of the police at his home had upset him. Now, being where criminals were questioned completely unnerved him. He was on the verge of tears; everything he said in response to their questions was delivered as a pleading.

“Tell us what Conrad looks like.”

“What can I say? He is of medium build and height, I think. He has a red beard—neatly trimmed—and wears a white jacket and a straw hat.”

“A real fashion plate.”

Widlitz threw up his hands. “That is all I know about him.”

“No idea where he lives?”

“No. I swear.”

Widlitz’s determination to protect David Driscoll as the real source of the Reyes painting was fading fast.

“This Conrad, he’s the one who paid you for the work?”

“I haven’t been paid yet. I haven’t finished the work.”

“Did you find anything behind the painting?”

“No. There is nothing behind it.”

The art squad detective left the room and conferred with his partner while looking into the room through a one-way mirror. The homicide detective had taken up the questioning and was leaning over Widlitz, causing the older man to shrink into a ball in his chair.

“He’s not being straight with us,” the chief told his partner.

“I know. This Conrad works for somebody else. We’re being too nice to him.”

“We mention the security guard murder in Miami, maybe suggest he’s an accessory to murder?”

“Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Ten minutes later a frightened, panicked Abraham Widlitz told them his client was David Driscoll.

“
The
David Driscoll?”

“Yes.”

The detectives looked at each other.

“This Conrad works for him?”

“I don’t know. He delivers things for him. He delivered this painting.”

“He’s delivered other paintings to you?”

“Yes, a few. Murder? Please, I know nothing about murder. I want to speak to a lawyer.”

“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Widlitz. Excuse us.”

They conferred outside the interrogation room with an assistant district attorney they’d called in.

“There’s nothing to hold him on,” the DA said.

“Possession of stolen property” was offered.

“You think he knew it was stolen?”

A shrug. “Let’s assume he did.”

“What’s to be gained?” asked the DA. “You think he has more information to offer?”

“Maybe not, but I’d just as soon not have him contacting Driscoll until we’ve been able to hash this out with Miami. Twenty-four hours?”

“All right, but no more than that. And no more questions until he has an attorney present.”

29

Dr. Broadhurst was engaged in quiet contemplation. The question on his mind was whether to call an emergency meeting of the Joint Committee on the Library of Congress to discuss Paul and the Driscoll matter. His thoughts were disturbed by his secretary reminding him that someone from Public Affairs would bring a writer from
American Heritage
for an interview in fifteen minutes, and that a final draft of a speech Broadhurst was to give that night at American University was ready. She handed it to him.

“Thank you, Pamela. Have the writer come in as soon as they arrive.”

He read quickly through the draft, making a few minor changes. Fifteen minutes later a public affairs specialist arrived with her journalistic ward. The interview lasted a half hour. The moment they left, Broadhurst’s secretary handed him a message slip, explaining, “Public Affairs wonders whether there’s any possibility of you finding a few minutes to speak with Lucianne Huston?”

“I wanted to have a word with her anyway, but off the record. See if you can arrange that.”

Minutes later, his assistant returned. “Ms. Huston can’t promise not to use anything you say to her. She thinks this story is too important. ‘The American public
has a right to know what goes on in the institutions it finances,’ she said.”

“Then tell her that I can’t talk to her right now.”

Annabel had received a call from
Civilization
’s editor, Rich Wilson, that morning before leaving home: “I’ll be in D.C. today, Annabel, flying down later this morning to meet with the good folks at Public Affairs. Thought we might catch up for a few minutes while I’m there.”

“Sounds good to me,” she’d said. “When will you be free?”

“Having lunch at one. How about twelve, twelve-thirty at their office?”

“I’ll swing by.”

She spent the morning in the manuscripts reading room poring over materials published in the early fifteen-hundreds that might shed light on the relationship between Columbus and his friend and sailing companion, Bartolomé de Las Casas. The exercise didn’t prove productive and she had the manuscripts returned to their vaults at noon.

She took the underground walkway from Madison to Jefferson and went to Public Affairs.

“Is Rich Wilson here?” she asked an intern manning the reception desk.

“In there,” the intern said, pointing to the employee kitchen.

Annabel went to the door. Wedged in the small kitchen was what seemed to be the entire public affairs staff, their attention focused on a TV on the counter tuned to Lucianne Huston’s cable network. Annabel spotted Wilson in a far corner and gave him a wave, which he returned. Someone said, “Quiet!” as Lucianne’s face filled the screen.

“This is Lucianne Huston reporting from the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. What started as a simple murder—if any murder can ever be branded simple—of a leading researcher at this institution has turned into a brewing scandal complete with mysterious payoffs to the murdered researcher, Michele Paul; a stolen painting in Miami, where a security guard was gunned down; the shooting death of the person who stole the painting in Mexico by police there; and the unsolved disappearance eight years ago of yet another researcher at this institution, John Bitteman. Bitteman and Paul were both scholars in search of the mysterious, alleged diaries of Bartolomé de Las Casas, a companion of Christopher Columbus on his voyages in search of a new world.

“I’ve learned that Michele Paul had been receiving money for years from one of America’s richest men, David Driscoll, founder and now chairman emeritus of Driscoll Securities, a passionate collector of Hispanic art and artifacts, and a leading benefactor of the Library of Congress. Why he paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to the murder victim is a question still to be answered.