Murder at the Library of Congress (30 page)

Mac laughed. “What’s that?”

“Zulu for ‘cheers.’ Learned it the last time I was in Africa.”

“I’ll try to remember it next time I go on a binge there.”

“Impresses the natives, knowing their language. Sure there’s nothing new on this end about the murder?”

“I’m sure, but tell me about your success in L.A.”

“Okay, I will. No, I’ll do even better than that. I’m sitting here with one of D.C.’s top criminal attorneys. Let me—”

“
Former
criminal attorney.”

“But still itching to get back in the saddle. Am I right?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. Go on. I’m listening.”

“Pretend you’re back in court, in this case defending someone like David Driscoll.”

“All right.”

“And pretend I’m your chief investigator. Okay, here’s what I’ve learned from impeccable sources. David Driscoll hires a two-bit hustler in Miami to break in and steal a painting from a small museum of sorts, Casa de Seville. The artist was named Fernando Reyes, a hack, I’m told. While this petty thief—his name was Warren Munsch—does the deed, a security guard at the museum is shot and killed. A part-time maintenance worker at the museum left a skylight open for Munsch and his cronies, two of them, to gain access to the museum. The Miami police pick up the maintenance worker, who turned in Munsch’s two accomplices. They, in turn, ratted on Mr. Munsch.”

She checked Mac for a reaction.

“I’m with you so far.”

She pressed on. “Munsch took the Reyes painting to Los Angeles and delivered it to one of Driscoll’s gofers, a so-called actor named Conrad Syms. Syms then took the painting to an art restorer named Widlitz, Abraham Widlitz.”

“To have it restored?” Mac asked.

“No, to see whether there was something hidden behind it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a map.”

“By Señor de Las Casas?”

“Exactly. I just got that information yesterday from my source.”

“Was there a map?”

“No. Mr. Widlitz was questioned extensively by the L.A. police. Nothing behind the painting except crude preliminary pencil sketches by the artist.”

Mac held up his hand, said, “Driscoll went through all this and came up empty?”

“Yup.”

Mac’s hand went up again. “You’re sure that David Driscoll was behind this?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Doesn’t play for me, Lucianne. A man of Driscoll’s wealth and stature doesn’t go out and hire a two-bit Miami thug to steal a two-bit painting.”

“Not directly. Leaves plenty of layers between him and those who dirty their hands. Mr. Syms, aspiring movie star, tells the police that he acted on Driscoll’s behalf, and Widlitz confirms the painting came from Driscoll. Pretty strong evidence against your client?”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Okay, now in our little role-playing exercise, I’m now the prosecutor. Here’s the scenario I come up with. It’s been established that Driscoll was paying Michele Paul on occasion lots of money for Paul’s research findings. This titan of industry and patron of the arts uses Paul’s research over the years to identify and uncover rare books and manuscripts, which he generously donates to the Library of Congress. This makes him a big man in the eyes of those whose approval he seeks, people like Dr. Broadhurst and others of that genteel, academic ilk. Making money is fine, but it doesn’t buy you the cultured status you yearn for.”

“Fair enough. What are you as the prosecutor going to do, charge my client as an accessory to the Miami security guard killing?”

“Yes, but I’m not stopping at that.”

“What other charges do I have to defend? Lay it all out, Ms. Prosecutor. Remember, we have disclosure laws.”

“I wouldn’t think of withholding anything from a lawyer of your stature, Mr. Smith. After years of coming up with interesting items to donate to the library, Driscoll decides to go after the really big one, the Las Casas
diaries and map, if they even exist. Michele Paul tells Driscoll he can help him locate the diaries and map, and Driscoll sends Paul a big check. Paul tells Driscoll the map may be behind this second-rate painting in Miami. That spurs Driscoll into action. He hires Munsch and his gang of bumblers, through intermediaries, of course. The painting is stolen, the guard gets offed, and things start to unravel for your client.”

“We’ve already gone over that,” Mac said, shaking his head at the waitress, who’d asked if they’d like more drinks.

“True,” said Lucianne, “but Driscoll can’t stop there. Let’s say Michele Paul decides he wants more money than he’s been getting from Driscoll. Let’s say he tells Driscoll he intends to reveal their arrangement to the Librarian of Congress and others who wouldn’t be too happy with the news. Paul must have known about the bungled Miami heist and could identify Driscoll as an accessory to that theft and murder. So, your client, David Driscoll, has to get rid of Michele Paul.”

Mac laughed. “David Driscoll—my client—didn’t come into the Library of Congress, Ms. Prosecutor, and hit Michele Paul over the head. Not his style.”

“Of course it isn’t, but again, people like Driscoll can always find someone else to do their dirty work. He did in Miami; no reason he couldn’t have paid someone in the Library of Congress.”

“Prove it!”

“I was hoping to get some help with that from you and your wife.”

“You’d like the defense to help the prosecution make its case?”

She nodded.

“Nice try.”

“Driscoll is going to be brought in and questioned when he gets back to L.A.”

“If I were his attorney, I’d be with him.”

“I’d love another drink.”

“One’s my limit, at least tonight.”

“I don’t set limits on myself.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What I haven’t figured out is the connection between Michele Paul’s murder and the disappearance of that other Las Casas researcher, John Bitteman.”

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

“Has to be. That’s why I want to talk to Annabel. I assume she told you about discs some intern found in a collection back in the stacks.”

“You know about them?”

“Yes.”

“Another impeccable source?”

“Of course.”

“From inside the Library of Congress?”

A noncommittal shrug.

“Well, Ms. Huston, I am duly impressed with your ability to get people to confide in you.”

“What was on those discs, Mac?”

“How would I know?”

“My source tells me your wife ended up with them.”

“Maybe all your sources aren’t as impeccable as you think.”

Lucianne smiled. “I’m pretty good at reading people, and judging from my read on you at this moment, I think my source was better than impeccable.”

“Think what you wish.”

He signaled for a check.

“My treat,” Lucianne said.

“Good. I think I’ll skip dinner here in the hotel, go back and make myself something simple.”

“Am I invited back with you?”

“No.”

They stood. Lucianne extended her hand, which Mac took.

“I’m not offended at being disinvited for dinner,” Lucianne said.

“And no offense intended. I just think we’ve run out of things to talk about.”

“Maybe you’re right, but there’ll be more—things to talk about.”

“Undoubtedly.”

He walked away, paused at the entrance to the lounge, looked back and saw her standing next to the table, hands on her hips, head cocked, a smug, knowing smile on her lips. Another tourist came up to her and handed her a napkin on which Lucianne scrawled her signature. For a moment, Mac considered going back and extending the evening with her. There was something strangely compelling about being close to someone who managed to know so much about things she wasn’t supposed to know anything about. He’d enjoyed the what-if exercise, the role playing, being cast as a criminal defense lawyer again.

But the pleasure was fleeting. He quickly returned to the apartment, prepared a cheese-and-cracker platter for himself, and settled down to watch Lucianne Huston’s all-news network, NCN, hoping Annabel would call, and soon.

38

Annabel was immersed in what was on her computer screen when Consuela Martinez entered her space on the upper gallery. It was six-thirty.

“I think we’re ready,” Consuela said.

“Running late.”

“For some reason it took longer than I thought for Dolores to copy and print all the discs.”

Annabel removed her disc of selected files, slipped it into her blazer pocket, and turned off the laptop.

“Put this in your locker,” Consuela said, handing Annabel an envelope.

“What is it?”

“The duplicate discs. The safe in my office isn’t working. I’ve been after Maintenance for a week to fix it, but they never seem to get around to it.”

Annabel took the envelope from Consuela, placed it in her locker, added her laptop and some files, and locked it, the key going into the other pocket of her blazer. She followed Consuela down to the reading room, where Dolores Marwede waited.

“You can go home,” Consuela told Dolores. “Thanks for staying late and doing such a great job.”

“I didn’t mind,” Dolores said. “But I’ll be here for a while. I dropped a project to dupe the discs. I’d better finish it up before I leave.”

“Sorry,” Consuela said.

“Not a problem.”

As Dolores walked away, Sue Gomara arrived.

“How’s things in the main reading room?” Annabel asked.

“The same. I saw a guy I thought looked like he could be my stalker—‘telephone harasser,’ the cops call it—but I asked him something and listened to his voice. Not him.”

“Is that still going on?” Consuela asked with a sigh.

“Yeah. Well, time to change back into my grunt clothes and get to work here.”

“Go home,” Consuela said.

“Boyfriend’s out of town again, so I might as well stay instead of going home to my dark, cold apartment, eat leftovers, take another call from that creep and go to sleep crying my eyes out.” Her dramatic delivery, hand over her heart, eyes rolled up into her head, caused Annabel and Consuela to laugh.

“You laugh,” Sue said, joining them, “but wait’ll the creep starts calling you. Actually, I’m staying for the continuing ed lecture.”

“What’s that?” asked Annabel.

“Weekly programs to keep people up to date on what’s going on around the library,” Consuela said. “We’re too compartmentalized these days, left hands not knowing what right hands are doing. Cale Broadhurst initiated the series, people from different divisions telling others what’s going on in their areas. It’s been useful.”

“Dr. Vogler from Manuscripts is speaking tonight,” Sue said.

“Should be good sport,” Annabel said, visualizing Vogler sharing his knowledge with others. “Have fun.”

Consuela and Annabel walked to the stairs leading down to the walkway linking the Library of Congress’s
three buildings. Consuela carried the envelope containing the original discs; Annabel held the pages Dolores had printed.

“The more I read what’s on those discs, Consuela, the more convinced I am that John Bitteman was the author,” Annabel said as they walked, “and that Michele Paul had something to do with Bitteman’s disappearance eight years ago. At least they provide a motive.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” Consuela said as they reached the Madison Building and headed for the elevators. “Let’s say Michele killed Bitteman. The bigger, more timely question is, who killed Michele Paul?”

Annabel was surprised to see that a group had been assembled in Broadhurst’s office when she and Consuela arrived. She’d met General Counsel Mullin and security director Andre Lapin before, and was introduced to the four others. Broadhurst welcomed them, announced they represented the final two arrivals for the meeting, closed his door, and got to the point.

“As most of you know, I called this meeting in anticipation of receiving computer discs and a printout of what’s on them. These discs contain, according to an informal report I received from Mrs. Reed-Smith, information that could have a bearing upon Michele Paul’s murder. The discs will be turned over to the proper authorities once we’ve had the opportunity to examine and evaluate their contents.

“Ms. Martinez took it upon herself to have a duplicate set of discs made so that we could preserve whatever research was on them that might benefit the library. A photocopy of the printout was also produced. Much of what’s on the discs deals with the elusive Las Casas diaries. I see you and Annabel have those things with you.”

“Actually, these are the original discs found in the Aaronsen collection, Dr. Broadhurst,” Consuela said.
“We felt it was more appropriate to give you originals rather than duplicates.”

“I’m sure the police will appreciate that, Consuela.”

Annabel handed the printout to Consuela, and she gave it to Broadhurst, along with the envelope containing the discs. The Librarian pulled the discs from the envelope, held them up like cards in a poker game, and said, “Perhaps you’d be good enough, Annabel, to give us the benefit of your knowledge of what’s on these.”

Annabel put her law training to good use, speaking slowly and deliberately and establishing eye contact with each person in the room. She spoke for ten minutes before getting to what she considered the most important material, the final portion of disc number five. She briefly mentioned her suspicion that Michele Paul might have been involved with John Bitteman’s disappearance eight years ago. That comment raised eyebrows, and questions, but before Annabel could elaborate, Broadhurst was told he had an important call, and the meeting was temporarily put on hold.

Andre Lapin came to Annabel’s side. “What makes you think Paul had something to do with the Bitteman case, Mrs. Reed-Smith?”

“Nothing you’d consider as evidence, Chief Lapin, nor would I if I was still practicing law. It’s more a matter of the apparent animosity between them. Bitteman was going to—”

“Was this break planned?” a man she’d just met that evening asked, smiling. “Like a curtain falling on Act One? I can’t wait for Act Two.”

Lapin and the man started talking, allowing Annabel to slip away and go to where the Librarian had placed the printout on the edge of his desk. She picked it up and riffled the pages. She went to a page near the end, which she read carefully. She went on to the next page, and the
next. Consuela looked across the office and saw the quizzical expression on Annabel’s face. She came to her. “Something wrong?” she asked.