They did, the painting was dropped to Munsch, and Garraga and Morrie joined him on the ground. Garraga tossed the ladder in a Dumpster and they turned to leave
the area, Munsch in the lead. As he turned to start down the alley, he stopped abruptly.
Morrie and Garraga came to his side. Coming toward them was the fat man in the tan uniform they’d seen in the bodega.
“Hey, what are you doing back there?” he asked, continuing to waddle in their direction.
“Who the hell are you?” Munsch asked.
“What’a you got there?” he asked, still narrowing the gap.
“Come on,” Munsch said, starting to lead his colleagues up the alley again.
The guard placed himself squarely in their path.
Munsch and the others now saw that the guard was carrying something in his right hand.
“He’s got a piece,” Garraga said, his voice rising.
“Stop!” the guard ordered.
Garraga answered by pulling a small Saturday night special from the waistband of his jeans, pointing it at the guard, and pulling the trigger. The shot struck him in the stomach.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Morrie asked.
“Stupid,” Munsch said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They ran past the guard, moaning and writhing on the ground, his stubby fingers pressed to the wound. The “piece” he’d held in his right hand was lying next to him. It was a cell phone. Morrie started to bend over the guard but Munsch grabbed his collar and pulled him upright.
“Leave him,” Munsch said.
“I think he’s dead,” Morrie said.
“He ain’t dead,” Garraga said. “All that fat stopped the bullet.”
The three men reached the street and continued running to where they’d parked the silver Taurus. They jumped in, and Munsch drove too fast to his Cadillac.
“I thought there wasn’t supposed to be no guard,” Morrie muttered.
“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Munsch asked, running a light. “There were three of us. The guy didn’t even have a gun.”
“I thought I saw one,” Garraga said. “Just shut up and drive. Forget about it. Just get the money, Munsch, and we split.”
“The buyer’s not going to be happy there’s no frame,” Munsch said.
“The hell with that,” Morrie said. “It’s the best we could do. It was too big. Dumb bastard, shooting the guy.”
“He won’t be happy,” Munsch repeated.
“Who?”
“The buyer. Maybe he wanted the frame, too.”
“What do we do with the Taurus?” Morrie asked.
“Just leave it. Do I have to think of everything?”
Munsch dropped Garraga and Morrie where they’d met up with him at the DeSoto Plaza and the fountain.
“How about a lift home?” Morrie said to Munsch.
“Call your cheerful blond chauffeur. I don’t have time.”
Munsch handed Garraga and Morrie envelopes, each containing two thousand dollars in cash.
“When do we get the rest?” Morrie asked. “I got bills to pay.”
“When I get back from L.A. Cool it till then. And keep your mouth shut, huh, especially with your bimbo.”
“I’m outta here,” Garraga said, leaning through the open driver’s side window, his long, thin face inches from Munsch’s face. “You bring the money back, Munsch. I’ll keep in touch with Morrie. You bring it back, understand?” Munsch thought Garraga was about to draw the gun again but the Cuban left it in his waistband.
Garraga and Morrie watched Munsch drive off.
“I never liked Munsch,” Morrie said. “What’d you shoot the guy for? You’re nuts. You’re one crazy Cubano.”
“Forget it. It never happened. He better come back from L.A. with the loot. You want a drink?”
“No. My sinuses are still killin’ me. It’s all this humidity, and the rain don’t help. I ought to move to Arizona or some other desert.”
“Yeah, why don’t you do that, Morrie?” Garraga said. “Stay in touch.”
“Yeah, do that, Garraga. Enough art appreciation for one night. Hasta luego.” He disappeared into the rain.
2
“Mac, it’s Annabel.”
The five o’clock rush hour within New York’s La Guardia Airport was as busy as the roads surrounding it, thousands of people moving methodically and with purpose, many running, jackets flapping, glasses sliding down noses, narrowly avoiding knocking each other over, leather briefcases in hand or slung over shoulders, the constant stream of flight announcements over the PA fueling the mad scramble to leave New York.
“Mac, I’m at the airport running for the shuttle. I—I’m losing you. This cell phone is … Oh, there you are. What? … The meeting went very well—I’ll fill you in tonight…. What about the doctor?—Excuse me—No, not you, Mac, I bumped into someone…. Surgery? Really? Are you okay? … No, I—I’m losing you again…. You’ll pick me up? Great. See you in an hour—love you.”
Annabel Reed-Smith dropped the tiny phone into her oversized bag and picked up her pace in the direction of the Delta Shuttle gate. Senator Menendez, with whom Annabel had spent the day at the offices of Civilization, the magazine published in concert with the Library of Congress, had already checked in.
“Reach Mac?” he asked.
“Yes. He’ll pick me up.”
“Good.”
Richard Menendez was in his third term as United States senator from Florida. His position of political power, coupled with a reputation, before running for the Senate,
as a champion of Hispanic-American causes, thrust him into the role of leading
spokesman of that large, and growing, constituency. He was rakishly good-looking, sword thin and erect, on the tall side of six feet, with senatorial gray at his temples, the rest of his hair coal black and precisely cut. His expensive suits draped nicely on him; this day he wore a gray one with the unmistakable look of English bespoke tailoring, the whitest of shirts, and a muted gold tie splashed with dozens of tiny replicas of the Spanish flag. But what people usually remembered about Richard Menendez’s physical presence was his smile, a warm, wide, genuine one that said all was well, or would be.
They settled in adjacent seats on the 727.
“What did you think of the meeting?” he asked.
“I thought it was useful,” she replied. “You?”
He ran his tongue over his lips. “I was pleased to see the level of enthusiasm for the theme. From what I’d been told by the library’s public affairs people, there was some resistance to devoting an entire issue to Columbus.”
Annabel smiled. “There’s been a lot of consternation at the library since this new publisher started publishing Civilization for them. The conflict is evidently over whether the magazine is publishing enough articles that reflect the Library of Congress.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Menendez said. “Of course, there’s always a debate when a magazine is published on behalf of an institution or organization, balancing the need for a ‘real’ magazine with it being used as a public relations vehicle for the sponsor.”
“I got the feeling from the new editor in chief that he’s capable of handling that balancing act.”
“An impressive young man.”
“How do you feel about being Civilization’s guest editor for the Columbus issue?” Annabel asked.
His laugh was low and gentle. “I should be flattered, being in the company of such notable guest editors—Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee, Julia Child, Jules Feiffer—a heady experience for a humble U.S. senator.”
A laugh from Annabel. “You show me a humble senator and I’ll make you guest emperor.”
“And you, Annabel? Writing the lead article for the issue should be quite a challenge.”
“I love it. I’ve always been fascinated by the idea that Las Casas might have written his own diaries about Columbus’s first three voyages.”
“If he
did,” said Menendez, “and if those diaries are ever found, history will be enhanced—and someone will become very, very rich.”
“Or famous,” Annabel said, “or even infamous. Hopefully, whoever does uncover the diaries—and let’s not forget they say there’s the possibility Las Casas included a map where Columbus might have buried gold—ideally, that person will be altruistic enough to see that the materials end up in a place of public learning.”
“Like the Library of Congress.”
“Yes, like our library.”
The plane had been taxiing during their conversation. Now, the captain’s amplified voice said: “We’ve been cleared for takeoff, ladies and gentlemen. Flight
attendants, prepare.”
Seconds later, thrust from the 727’s three powerful jet engines pressed Annabel and Menendez back in their seats. The aircraft lifted off La Guardia’s main runway, made a gentle left turn, and headed south, for Washington, D.C., for home.
3
It was raining in Washington when Annabel walked from the terminal to where her husband, Mackensie Smith, stood next to their car. Rather than providing a cooling respite, the rain simply added to the August humidity, which, when combined with a ninety-degree day, gave credence to the old D.C. joke that the first-prize winner in a contest receives one free summer week in the nation’s capital, the runner-up two weeks. Like all such gags, it applied to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Miami, too.
They embraced fully despite the heat and the rain, got in the car, and Mac pulled away from the curb.
“So, tell me all about it,” he said.
“After you tell me about your knee.”
Mac smiled. “Sounds like the title of an art movie. ‘My Knee.’ Dr. Scuderi says I need arthroscopic surgery to solve the problem. It’s the meniscus, he says. It’s ragged and torn.”
“Sounds like you’re getting off easy. At least Giles didn’t suggest a knee replacement.”
Mac accelerated. He said without taking his eyes from the road, “It’s called planned obsolescence.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. Like car manufacturers. Make sure the product will wear out so consumers have to keep buying new ones. God has the same plan. Make sure we wear out—”
“So that I have to buy a new Mac?”
He looked at her. “I’m getting old, Annie.”
“Nonsense. You’re young, or at least youthful, and vigorous. Your problem is you’ve never been sick a day in your life, never had an operation. Have the surgery. You’ll stop limping and be the terror of the tennis courts again.”
He grunted, turned onto the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, crossed the Potomac, and took local streets until driving down into the underground parking garage of the Watergate’s South Building. They’d purchased a three-bedroom apartment there a little over a year ago and loved it.
They were greeted upstairs by Rufus, their Great Blue Dane.
“I’ve only been away a day,” Annabel told the welcoming dog, almost as tall as she, rubbing behind his ears to keep from being devoured. “Both you guys know how to welcome a girl.”
Mac called from the kitchen, “Drink?”
“Maybe one and a half.”
The rain ruled out having their drinks on the terrace, so they settled in the living room, where they clinked glasses and took a first taste of Mac’s perfect Perfect Manhattans.
“Speaking of same, how was Manhattan—perfect?”
“On its best behavior. They say the crime rate’s down … but that hasn’t slowed them down.”
“The meeting,” Mac said. “It went smoothly?”
“Very. The issue is going to be devoted to Columbus, and not just the usual recounting of his voyages and discoveries, but to his personal side, too. You know, he came out of obscurity, Mac, the son of a shopkeeper and weaver. He and one of his brothers went to sea at an early age.”
“But that’s not the specific thrust of your article.”
“Right, the article I’ve been commissioned to write will focus on Bartolomé de Las Casas, the real controversial figure in the story. He’s always been considered nothing more than Columbus’s friend and confidant who worked on Columbus’s daily logs and helped him write his Book of Privileges.”
“Which was? Refresh me.”
“It was the book Columbus presented to judges and notaries in Spain back in 1502. He wanted to convince Queen Isabel and King Fernando to grant titles, money, and other privileges to him and his descendants in return for having risked his life to discover new lands for the Crown.”
“The explorer was a pragmatist as well as an adventurer.”
“Can’t blame him. But Las Casas might have been more than just a pal and editor. If certain scholars are correct, Las Casas kept his own diaries. And never told Columbus he was doing it.”
“And your friend’s alleged diaries might be in conflict with Columbus’s version of things?”
“My friend?”
“Las Casas will be your friend when you’re done researching him. What’s your deadline?”
“Two months.”
“When do you start your research?”
“First thing in the morning. Consuela is setting me up with a cubbyhole in the Hispanic and Portuguese reading room. I’m scheduled to interview Michele Paul.”
“Who’s she?”
“He. Paul is probably the leading scholar in the world where Las Casas is concerned. There are plenty of others, but he seems to be the most respected. He’s been researching the Las Casas diaries at LC for much of his career.”
“That sort of single-minded focus always amazes me,” Mac said. “Snack?”
“Thank you, no. Too close to dinner. Are we eating here?”
He nodded and stood. “I picked things up this afternoon at the French Market. Simple fare.” As Mac headed for the kitchen, he stopped for a moment and winced.
“Your knee?”
“Yeah. Comes and goes.”
“It woke you up last night.”
He smiled. “You were awake?”
“Uh huh. Sit. I’ll get dinner.” She got to her feet.
“Oh, no. I’m the chef in this house, torn meniscus or not. Enjoy your drink. Glad you’re home. So’s he.”
Rufus, who answered to many things, including he, wagged his tail. Annabel watched her husband enter the kitchen, followed by the dog. Mac wasn’t limping, but it was clear he was favoring his right leg.
As minor a procedure as arthroscopic surgery to repair a knee might be, that anything was wrong with her husband was anathema to Annabel. Since marrying seven years ago—he’d been a widower since losing his first wife and only son in a Beltway head-on car crash; it was Annabel’s first marriage—they’d been almost adolescent in their view of their mortality. They would live happily forever now that they’d found each other, no problems, no threats to their love, never aging, doctors to be seen only for routine checkups that showed them to be, of course, in the pink of health, remarkable physical specimens, the perfect couple in every way and destined to remain that way.
Need help? she almost asked, but didn’t. Instead, she picked up that day’s Washington Post and read of the latest scandals in the nation’s capital. She often told herself, sometimes aloud when no one was looking, that she was fortunate that neither she nor Mac was involved in politics. It had become a nasty business, the courtly debates and backroom maneuverings with the nation’s best interests in mind replaced by vituperative, blatantly partisan attacks, too many of them personal as far as she was concerned. Owning an art gallery and being married to a law professor were exactly her cup of tea, smooth Darjeeling with just enough lemon to make things interesting.
She was about to drop the paper and join Mac in the kitchen when an article about the Library of Congress caught her eye. A wealthy woman in Massachusetts had died and left her late husband’s collection of legal documents from eighteenth-century Cape Cod to the library. Upon opening the boxes and examining the contents,
librarians discovered an urn with the husband’s ashes. She grinned. Happens. A year earlier, the article pointed out, another donation of rare books included two plastic bags of cocaine.
Annabel smiled. She’d loved libraries since childhood, their once dusty shelves filled with the thoughts and talents of the ages, the quietude of their reading rooms, and the intensity of persons using them to learn about something they hadn’t known before.
Two months at the Library of Congress, she thought, her smile broadening. She couldn’t wait to get started.
4
The Library of Congress is America’s oldest national cultural institution; the year 2000 will mark its two-hundredth anniversary. It is, quite simply, the largest repository of recorded knowledge in the world, as well as an active symbol of the symbiotic relationship between knowledge and democracy.
While continuing to serve as the primary reference source for Congress, the Library of Congress, known as LC by Washingtonians, houses more than 115 million “items” on 532 miles of bookshelves in three large buildings: more than 17 million books. And it is not all books. There are 2 million recordings, 12 million photographs, 4 million maps, and 47 million manuscripts. Some national libraries in other countries confine themselves to their own languages. The LC has holdings in 460 languages. It has four thousand employees, some of whom serve in overseas offices in Rio de Janeiro, Cairo, New Delhi, Islamabad, Jakarta, and Nairobi, and in acquisitions offices in Moscow and Tokyo.
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 2
