Murder at the Library of Congress (9 page)

“It would have to be private money, wouldn’t it, with Congress continuing to tighten its belt?”

“Ideally, private
and
public. Maybe not as tough a sell on the Hill as it appears at first blush. Sure, the military budget goes up every year, and the budgets for the so-called soft side of government go down. I’m considering slipping an aircraft carrier into our budget and hoping it goes unnoticed.”

“Not a bad idea. You could call it the
Santa Maria
. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing specific at this point, maybe some informal asking around on the Hill. That congressman from Appropriations who’s always looking at you with adoring eyes at parties might be sympathetic if you brought it up with him. Is your husband still Senator Hale’s favorite bridge partner?”

“Only when he bids correctly.”

“Tell him to keep doing that. I intend to bring it up with Menendez tonight if the time is right, and he is ripe. I think the appeal should be to national pride, not that the LC will benefit. Shame if the diaries end up in another country. A possible shining moment for Congress and the nation. I’m going to feel out some donors as to what they might come up with to sweeten the pot.”

Mullin frowned. “Not afraid of having it become public knowledge?”

“I considered that, but I don’t think we have any choice. Driscoll wants a response within three days.”

“I ask because Public Affairs called me this morning. Lucianne Huston is here to do interviews about Columbus, including the so-called Las Casas diaries.”

“I know. And Annabel Reed-Smith is writing an article for
Civilization
. I’d say we should clamp a tight lid on this, but that’s like asking a politician to keep a secret. This will be all over LC by morning, maybe sooner. Obviously, Consuela in Hispanic will have to be consulted. Michele Paul, too, importantly. Guess I mean self-importantly.” He chuckled. “If the diaries did actually surface, there’s first of all the authenticating process to go through.”

Broadhurst went to the window and stood with his tiny hands shoved into the pockets of his tan tweed jacket. He said to the pane, “People have been searching for those diaries and maps for centuries. People have
died in that search, even though no one knows for sure they even exist.” He turned. “If they
do
exist, and we don’t pull out every stop to obtain them, it will be a blot on this library. They belong here.”

“Or in Spain,” Mullin said. “But we should land them.”

Broadhurst cocked his head and smiled in response to the expression on her face. “Yes, you’re right, Mary Beth, a blot on my reputation, too, if we don’t.”

“You’ll do what you can.”

“Hopefully, it will be enough. See you at the reception. The diaries may be merely a chimera. I’ll let you know if I get a chance to talk to Senator Menendez. I’ll leave Senator Hale to you. Another chimera.”

He walked to the door, paused, and turned. “By the way, anything new on the stalker?”

Mary Beth had followed him halfway across the room. “No, and I wish there were. This nut has the main reading room librarians spooked. They’ve taken to wearing their name badges upside down to make it more difficult for patrons to read their names.”

“The police have anything new to offer?”

“No. They’ve got an undercover officer hanging around the room every day. Fortunately, the incidents have been limited to phone stalking.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. See you tonight.”

9

“That’s a wrap!”

Lucianne Huston told her crew to pack up after having interviewed Annabel for twenty minutes.

“I’m not used to being interviewed,” Annabel said, “especially on camera. I’m afraid I didn’t have much to say.”

“You spoke volumes compared to your friend Dr. Paul,” Lucianne said, removing the lapel microphone from Annabel’s jacket.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You were interviewing him at four. How did it go?”

“A waste of time. He sat down with a chip on his shoulder and gave me a series of one-word answers. Grunts don’t make for great moments in television journalism.”

“I’m sorry. And by the way, he’s not my friend.”

“My estimation of you has just risen. Know what he did when the interview, or grunt fest, was over?”

“What?”

“Invited me to dinner, a ‘cozy little spot where we can get to know each other better.’ Spare me.”

“Hate to take the wind out of your sails, but he invited me to dinner, too.”

“He must operate under that old male adage that if you ask enough women, you’ll find one who says yes.”

“Well,” Annabel said, “I’m sorry the interview didn’t
work out. He is
the
expert on the subject. Staying in town for a few days?”

“Just tonight. I’m flying back to Miami in the morning. There’s really no story here, Annabel. If I could smell even a small story, I could blow it up into a bigger one. But all the links are missing links. I mean, your interview will be helpful when we put together the special on Columbus to coincide with the celebration, but this Casas wild-goose chase is just that. With any luck I’ll be in Africa in a few days hoping I don’t come down with malaria.”

“Malaria doesn’t stand a chance against you. I wish you well.”

Lucianne and her crew left the Madison Building, and Annabel went to her space above the Hispanic reading room in the Jefferson. She’d just immersed herself again in a book when Michele Paul arrived.

“Got your article written?” he asked brusquely.

She ignored the flippant question.

“Feel like a drink?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I might share some inside Las Casas stories with you, but only over a cold, dry martini, straight up.”

“A sobering notion.”

“That gal digging into ancient burial rituals is joining us.”

“Joining
you
. I’m packing up to leave.”

“Suit yourself. How was your interview with the famous Ms. Huston?”

“Fine. Yours?”

“A waste of time. She knows nothing, asked a series of stupid questions that didn’t deserve an answer.”

Annabel said nothing.

As Paul started to leave, Consuela Martinez appeared. “A minute, Annabel?”

“Sure.”

Consuela waited until he was gone before saying, “You can see why he’s never been married. He’s insufferable. Lucianne Huston told me he was totally uncooperative during the interview, barely answered her questions.”

Annabel shrugged. “A brilliant foul ball.”

“But that’s not why I wanted to talk with you. Dr. Broadhurst is having a reception tonight for Senators Menendez and Hale. A small gathering, sort of a thank-you get-together for all Menendez and Hale have done for us over the years. Dr. Broadhurst called to see if you would be available to attend.”

“I don’t know. I—that’s very flattering. I would have dressed differently.”

“You look just fine. Can you stay for it?”

“I think so. I was supposed to meet Mac for dinner at seven. Let me try to reach him on his cell phone. He’s at a going-away party for a colleague at GW.”

“You’ll only have to stay an hour,” Consuela said. “The Librarian is hosting a small dinner party after cocktails for the senators and their wives.”

She was successful in reaching her husband. “Sorry to bust in on your party, Mac, but Cale Broadhurst has invited me to a reception this evening for Senator Menendez. Starts at seven, over in an hour. Can we push dinner back to eight, eight-fifteen?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call and change the reservation.”

“Good.”

“How’s the party?”

“All right.” Obviously, it wasn’t wonderful.

“Knee okay?”

“Fine. Let’s be safe and make it eight-thirty.”

“Okay. Oh, I was interviewed this afternoon by Lucianne Huston.”

“I’m the husband of a celebrity. Fill me in at dinner.”

At a little before seven, Annabel wandered up to the Librarian’s office in the Madison Building, where she was handed a laminated badge to add to the one she already sported on a chain. “This gives you access after closing hours,” she was told. “You’ll need it.”

Annabel went to the terrace overlooking the Jefferson Building, where two dozen people had gathered for cocktails, served by white-jacketed staff. Senator Menendez spotted her immediately and came to her side, drink in hand. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Annabel,” he said in a rich baritone.

“A last-minute invitation,” she replied, plucking a glass of white wine from a moving waiter’s tray.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I understand Lucianne Huston is doing a story at the library.”

“She was. I was interviewed this afternoon. She was supposed to do a piece on the Las Casas diaries, but I don’t think she’s pleased with what she’s gotten so far. Her network’s doing a show to coincide with the Columbus celebration. I think whatever she got may end up on that special.”

Cale Broadhurst joined them.

“Glad you could make it,” the Librarian said to Annabel. “Senator Menendez tells me he’s working closely with you on the special issue of
Civilization
.”

“That’s right. He’s my editor.”

“In name only,” Menendez said. “I leave the real editing to the magazine’s professional staff. It is a great magazine.”

“I wonder if I might buttonhole you for a few minutes?” Broadhurst asked the senator.

“Of course. Excuse us, Annabel.”

She watched them enter Broadhurst’s office, stopping along the way to say something to another guest.

“Where’s your husband?”

Annabel turned to face Michele Paul.

“At his own party,” Annabel said. “We’re meeting later for dinner.” She was annoyed at herself for even volunteering an answer to the question.

“You didn’t say you’d be here.”

“Because I didn’t know I would be. Excuse me.”

She walked off, not with any specific destination in mind but simply to move away from him. The word
smarmy
came to mind as she joined Consuela Martinez, Dolores Marwede, and Mary Beth Mullin, who were chatting with Senator Bruce Hale, the central-casting, silver-haired senior Democrat from Massachusetts who chaired the Senate Appropriations Committee. Annabel was introduced to Hale as an expert on pre-Columbian art.

“Dr. Martinez was just telling me about these missing diaries,” Hale said.

“Missing … if they even exist in the first place,” Dolores offered.

“What do you think, Mrs. Smith?” Hale asked. “A wasted exercise trying to find something that isn’t there?”

Annabel shook her head. “No,” she said, “I don’t think it’s a wasted exercise at all. There’s enough tantalizing evidence—well, maybe calling it evidence is wishful thinking—let’s say enough tantalizing
hints
in the literature over the centuries suggesting that Las Casas did, in fact, write his own diaries about the first three voyages. He
did
write about Columbus later. And there is reason to think that a real writer would not have passed up the chance to at least make notes while the little ships were under way. Anyhow, as so often happens, when you’re trying to run down one story, you get on to something else. Do the diaries exist? It can’t be dismissed out of hand.”

“And a
map
?” Hale said. “A treasure map? Sounds like the stuff of fiction to me.”

“Far less credence is given the map than the diaries,” Consuela said.

“And is anyone close to coming up with either?” asked Hale.

“No,” Consuela said, “but lots of dedicated people are looking, trying to trace other written links to Las Casas and his relationship with Columbus.”

Annabel looked past the others to where Broadhurst and Menendez were emerging from the office. A single drop of rain landed on her nose. She looked up at low, dark clouds scooting quickly by, then saw guests being ushered inside. Annabel followed the crowd.

The hour passed quickly. Dr. Broadhurst stood at the door and personally thanked each person for coming. Left behind with him were the two senators and their wives, General Counsel Mullin and her husband, and Broadhurst’s chief of staff, Helen Kelly, whose husband had arrived just as the cocktail party was ending; Broadhurst’s wife, Patricia, was out of town visiting one of their daughters who’d given birth to their third grandchild.

Annabel looked at her watch. Oops. Five after eight. She was meeting Mac at B. Smith’s in Union Station, a ten-minute walk at best, two minutes by cab. She started for the building’s main entrance, opening her briefcase as she went in anticipation of it being searched, stopped, fished in the bag for the notes she’d taken in the Manuscript reading room the previous day, couldn’t find them, went down the stairs to the underground tunnel leading to the Jefferson Building, and walked at a brisk pace, almost a run, muttering to herself how careless she’d been to have left them in her cubbyhole. She was to revisit the Manuscripts room the next day and wanted to
spend an hour or two at home after dinner planning how to make optimum use of the time.

They joke in the Library of Congress about how the three buildings turn into ghost towns the minute the doors close to visitors. Annabel certainly had that feeling as she traveled through the tunnel. No one passed her, and frequent glances over her shoulder confirmed she was alone. The clack of her heels was the only sound.

She reached the Jefferson. The elevators could be painfully slow, so she took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the Hispanic room. She peeked into Consuela’s office, which was empty, then heard a noise, far off. She looked, saw no one.

She was about to swipe her magnetic card in the door leading to the stacks and the private research spaces but hesitated. Somehow, she felt intimidated entering that off-limits area without an escort. She knew how important security was at LC, the new system initiated eight years ago in response to a rash of thefts and defacing of materials. Back then, almost anyone could wander into the stacks; more than one person had been found sleeping in them by security guards during routine morning rounds. Not anymore. The enhanced system prohibited everyone from the stacks except those staff members with an absolute need to enter. Even the library’s hundred-person uniformed police force wasn’t allowed access to them, unless, of course, an emergency demanded it.