Murder at the Library of Congress (24 page)

Lucianne hung up and dialed Baumann’s office at NCN in Miami.

“Bob, Lucianne. I’ve been trying to reach Driscoll but he’s in Mexico.”

“I’d be more comfortable if you had a statement from him, Lucianne.”

“I don’t need a statement from him. My source with the police here in D.C. is solid gold. No doubt about it. Driscoll was sending this Paul person money and lots of
it over the years, including a hundred grand the day before he was murdered. I want to go out to L.A. this afternoon and be there when Driscoll returns.”

“How long will that be?”

“A few days at the most. Driscoll’s the key to this story, Bob. One of the country’s filthy rich paying off a murdered researcher, for whatever reason, at the Library of Congress. Smells. Driscoll’s rumored to have been waving money around the rare books and manuscripts underground looking for lost diaries by Las Casas. Researcher is hit at his desk. Security guard is shot in Miami during the theft of a third-rate painting that’s delivered to—where else?—Los Angeles. The lowlife who stole the painting is gunned down by police in—where else?—Mexico. Another Hispanic researcher at LC, as it’s affectionately called, disappears eight years ago, no trace. Was Driscoll paying him, too? Did Driscoll do more than just give these guys money?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe kill them, or have them killed to keep his payments quiet.”

Baumann whistled into the phone: “Payments for what? Pull back, Lucianne. You don’t go around accusing somebody like David Driscoll of murder unless you have the video of him standing over the body, blood on his hands with a crazed look in his eyes. Look, I’ll run it by our esteemed leader.”

“Why?” she exploded. “You’re the news director,
you
make the decisions.”

“I told you, Lucianne, that our leader happens to be a friend of the Library of Congress’s top guy, Broadhurst. Driscoll is a big supporter of LC, as you call it. Right?”

“Right.”

“So I’m not letting you go further on Driscoll until I
have a talk with the guy who signs our checks. You’re at the hotel?”

“Right.”

“Cool it, Lucianne. Go get a pedicure and a stiff drink. My treat. Relax.”

“I don’t get pedicures, Bob. They’re tough to find in Somalia.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“I can’t wait.”

Two LAPD detectives sat in an unmarked car a few houses down from Driscoll’s. They’d called the house and received the same message as Lucianne Huston, that Driscoll was “out of the country.” Naturally suspicious, they decided to spend a few hours watching the house on the chance they’d been lied to. After four boring hours, during which no vehicle or person came to or left the house, they decided to return to headquarters. They started the engine when a car arrived, a white BMW convertible with its top down. Its driver, wearing a white jacket and full-brimmed straw hat, and sporting a neatly cropped red beard, got out of the vehicle and went to an intercom mounted next to a pair of black iron gates.

“That’s the guy Widlitz described,” one of the cops said. “Our Conrad. We should have a little talk with him.”

“Let’s see what he does, where he goes after this.”

The electronically operated gates swung open and Conrad Syms drove into the compound. Ten minutes later he emerged and turned right, followed at a discreet distance by the detectives. He drove south on the San Diego Freeway until exiting for Hermosa Beach, and pulled into the parking lot of Woody’s Comedy Club, a one-story building close to the water. The detectives pulled up next to him as he was getting out of the BMW.

“Conrad?” one of them said. “LAPD.” They displayed their credentials.

“So, what do you want from me?”

“You related to David Driscoll?”

“What? Come on!” He started to walk away but they blocked his path.

“Look, dimwit, we can talk nice and friendly here, or we can take you in for wearing an illegal hat.”

“Illegal hat? What are you guys, auditioning at Woody’s?”

They moved in unison, one on each side of him, pinning him against his car. “What is your last name?” one asked.

“Syms.”

“Conrad Syms?”

“Yeah. How come you asked about Driscoll?”

“Know a gentleman named Abraham Widlitz?”

“Jesus, what’s this all about?”

“It’s about a murder in Miami, which we’re led to believe you were an accomplice to.”

“Murder? Miami? Ah, come on, guys, you’ve got to be joking.”

“So how come you’re not laughing, Conrad?”

“I don’t know anything about any murder. I’ve never been to Miami. Look, I’m here to audition for a comedy flick. I’m an actor.”

“I bet you are.”

“I told you—”

“And we’re telling you that we have a lot to talk about. Be a nice boy and put the top up on your fancy car there, lock it, and come with us.”

“Am I being arrested? I want a lawyer.”

“No, Conrad, you are not being arrested. You’re being invited to a party. If you want to bring a lawyer as your date, be our guest.”

* * *

The only people, it seemed, who weren’t looking for David Driscoll that day were Annabel Reed-Smith and Consuela Martinez. After Annabel had taken the envelope containing the discs to her friend, and the door to the office had been closed, they continued talking about Sue Gomara’s discovery.

“And you think these discs were not Aaronsen stuff, that they belonged to Michele?” Consuela asked.

“From what I’ve read, yes. The question is, how did they end up in the Aaronsen file box? When was that collection donated?”

Consuela consulted a card. “Almost three years ago.”

“What do we do with the discs?” Annabel asked. “I’d like to be able to go through all of them. From what I saw on the first one, there might be a wealth of material for my article.”

“I’ve got to let Dr. Broadhurst know.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like you to come with me.”

“If you wish.”

Consuela dialed the Librarian’s number. His secretary answered and said Broadhurst had left for the evening for a dinner with a trustee and a speech at American University.

“It’ll have to wait until morning.”

Annabel’s brow furrowed.

“You’re thinking?”

“I’m just thinking, realizing, that once we deliver the five discs to Cale, I won’t have an opportunity to go through them.”

“Not necessarily true. They’re library property.”

“And they’ll most likely become police property.”

“Not forever.”

“Long enough to deny me what’s on them that might contribute to the article. The police will want to examine their content to see whether there’s any material relevant to the murder. That could take months. They can sit on them for as long as they want. Consuela, would you be willing to let me take these discs home with me tonight?”

“Oooh, I don’t know, Annie.”

“I’ll understand if you say no, but I’ll also be eternally grateful if you do. If Cale was in his office right now, and we were to bring them to him, I wouldn’t even think of doing this. But unless you’re going to turn them over to someone else tonight, they’ll sit here until morning. Are you planning to give them to someone else?”

“No. I think Cale should be the first, and only, person to have them.”

“But I’ve already seen them, Consuela, and I can make good use of them. I just want to make notes of anything on them that’s helpful to my article.”

Consuela thought for a moment before saying, “Only because it’s you, Annie.”

“I owe you.”

“No, you don’t. But what if you come across material that bears on the murder?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I suppose I’ll make note of anything of that nature, too, and share it with you tomorrow.”

Consuela narrowed her eyes; a small smile crossed her lips. “Are you sure, Annie, that you want to see what’s on those discs only because you’re searching for Las Casas material for the article?”

Annabel’s eyebrows went up. “Why else would I want to take them home?”

“To see whether there
is
anything on them about the murder?”

Annabel didn’t answer, but Consuela read her face.

“Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. Take them home, Annie, but be back with them first thing in the morning. If there is anything on them referring to Michele’s murder, I’d hate to be charged with obstruction of justice.”

“Me, too. See you tomorrow. And thanks.”

31

Annabel wondered as she left the building whether the security guard would ask to see what was in the envelope. He didn’t. She walked quickly up First Street in the direction of the Supreme Court Building in search of a cab.

“The South Building, the Watergate,” she told the driver.

Mac and Rufus were on the terrace when she arrived. It was a lovely, warm evening in Washington, the sun seeming to stay high in the sky longer than usual, a gentle breeze from the west displacing the city’s legendary humidity with dry air. She noticed immediately as man and beast crossed the living room to greet her that Mac wasn’t limping.

“How’s the knee?” she asked.

“Great. I may not need that surgery after all. The magnet’s working.”

“What magnet?” she asked, slipping out of her shoes and heading for the kitchen.

He came up behind her and kissed her neck. “The one I’m wearing. I stopped in a drugstore and bought one. See?” He pulled up his pants leg to display an elasticized bandage. A small lump pressing against it was, Annabel assumed, the magnet. “Feels good already.”

“That’s … that’s great, Mac.”

“Drink?”

“I don’t think so. I’m in for an all-nighter.”

He laughed. “Trying to relive your undergrad days?”

“No, trying to make sense of something and I only have one night to do it.”

“Tell me more.”

A club soda with lemon in her hand, and a dry Rob Roy in his, they went to the terrace and sat at the table. Mac positioned the large multicolored umbrella to shield them from the sun, which had suddenly decided to make its lovely dive for the horizon.

Annabel told Mac about how Sue Gomara had discovered the envelope containing five discs and how she, Annabel, had taken a look at one of the discs on her laptop. Mac listened intently, a nod or grunt of understanding his only intrusion into her monologue.

“I’m sure these discs weren’t part of the original collection donated by this Aaronsen family. Other things in the box were dusty, yellowed. The envelope was new, the discs pristine. Someone put the envelope in that box recently.”

“Maybe it was Michele Paul,” Mac offered.

“Why would he do that?”

“To hide the discs for whatever reason he may have had. Cale Broadhurst told me the last time we played tennis that one of the biggest problems at the library is finding the time and manpower to go through donated collections. He said some collections sit for years before anyone gets around to really seeing what’s in them. Sounds to me like a perfect place to hide something.”

“Unless an intern is given the order to go through them. Let’s say you’re right, Mac. Let’s say that Michele Paul put the discs there to hide them.
Why?
All his other research was neatly filed in his apartment. If he had
wanted to conceal the discs, I don’t think he would just plop them in a box in the stacks.”

“You’re probably right, Annie. The discs might or might not have relevance to his murder. They could be important for your article.”

“I’m sure they are, which is why I’m determined to go through all five of them tonight before they’re turned over to Cale. Speaking of that, I’d better get started.”

“Go to it. I’ll whip up something for dinner.”

“Order in from the hotel. Something simple. Crab bisque and a salad?”

“Okay. Anything else I can do to help?”

“Yes. Keep the coffee coming and give me an occasional neck massage.”

“You’re too easy, Annie.”

Annabel worked steadily at the computer in the bedroom they’d set up as an office, the soft strains of Mozart and Haydn, and Rufus’s body wedged beneath the desk at her feet, keeping her company. Mac stayed up, too, popping in occasionally to deliver a fresh cup of coffee and to knead his wife’s lovely neck.

At three, Annabel got up from the computer for the first time and went to the living room, where Mac had dozed off in a recliner. Her presence woke him.

“More coffee?” he asked sleepily.

“No. I need to talk.”

He smiled, stood, and stretched. “Find something of interest?”

“I think so.”

They sat side by side on the couch.

“Mac, I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“About the discs. I don’t believe the material on them is Michele Paul’s research.”

“Oh? What’s brought you to that conclusion?”

“Some of the entries on them. They mention Michele in the third person.”

Mac laughed. “Maybe he was like some of those athletes and politicians who refer to themselves in the third person.”

“I don’t think so. If he was that sort of person, he had some pretty harsh things to say about himself.”

“A masochist who speaks in the third person?”

“Mac.”

“Sorry. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Much of the material on the discs—I’ve gotten through three of the five—is devoted to possible sources of information that might lead to the Las Casas diaries. Some concern the mythology of the diaries, why some experts consider them a possibility, why others are convinced they’re a myth.”

“That’s all good for you and your article.”

“Yes, it is, it’s virtually the theme—and I’ve been making good notes for that purpose. I’ve also copied off sections onto another disc of my own.”

His eyebrows went up. “Think twice about that, Annie.”

“Just for my recollection when I’m writing the article. I don’t have time to make all the notes I need. I’ll erase it when I’m done.”

Mac excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned, Annabel was back in the office.

“Look at this, Mac.” She brought up a file from the second disc.

He read over her shoulder as she scrolled down. It was a long series of rambling thoughts on the Ovando family of Seville, Spain. Don Nicolás de Ovando, Annabel knew, had been appointed governor of the islands and mainland of the Indies, a post Columbus had coveted. Shortly after Ovando set sail for the Indies,
Columbus petitioned and was granted money to launch his fourth voyage to the New World. According to the notes on the screen, he felt that Ovando and his predecessor, Francisco de Bobadilla, had deliberately withheld gold and other valuable consideration due him, and was anxious to return to the scene of his first three voyages to stake his claim.