Damn him! she thought as she walked down First in the direction of Capitol South Metro Station for a train to the Farragut West Station, not far from her ground-floor apartment near Dupont Circle. The obscene calls had set her whole being on edge, even though the police had assured her that “chances were slim” he was a violent person who would initiate physical action against her: “Obscene callers are seldom violent.”
How comforting.
And now a murder within the library itself. As far as Sue was concerned, the murderer had to be someone who worked there. The new security system was too formidable for an outsider to gain access to the stacks and to the Hispanic division’s
upper gallery, where Michele Paul sat. But she also knew that no security system was
foolproof. Just thinking of Paul’s murder caused her stomach to turn.
She let herself in the apartment. Until the calls, she would have immediately changed into pajamas and robe if she intended to stay in and get to bed early. But the calls had changed that routine. She checked each window to make sure it was locked even though metal ironwork covered them, and double-checked the front-door locks. Rick had been there when the first call came four weeks ago, and he insisted they add a heavy dead bolt to the existing lock.
Feeling relatively secure, she responded to Wendell, rubbing against her legs, fed him, then poured herself her nightly glass of red wine, which she took to the bedroom, gave an extra tug to drapes covering the window, and changed into a gray sweatsuit and sneakers. The TV was in the living room. She turned it on and sat back to watch the evening news, a contented cat on her lap.
International events, and a brewing ethical scandal in Congress, led the newscast. Then, as Sue considered a second glass of wine, Lucianne Huston’s face filled the screen.
“I’m Lucianne Huston at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. The murder of senior specialist and researcher Michele Paul in this imposing institution of learning has predictably shaken those who worked with him. The police have been conducting nonstop interviews with his colleagues, many of whom I’m told were not particularly fond of the deceased. I’ve also learned that eight years ago, another researcher from the library was a possible murder victim. I say ‘possible’ because his body was never found. His apartment had been ransacked and police found traces of blood. This victim, whose name was John Bitteman, was a rival of Michele Paul’s—both had devoted their professional careers to attempting to prove the existence of diaries allegedly written by Bartolomé de Las Casas, close friend and sailing companion of Christopher Columbus on his first three voyages from Spain to the Americas. It was also alleged that Las Casas had drawn a map pinpointing where Columbus had hidden millions in gold. Where the investigation into this latest murder leads is conjecture at this point, but we’ll continue to report developments as they occur. I’m Lucianne Huston in Washington.”
Sue had heard about the disappearance of John Bitteman, but only in snippets. It had happened long ago; she was only sixteen years old. Those who had been there at the time and with whom she talked about it worked in the collections management division, which administered book services through the main reading room, not the Hispanic and Portuguese division. Most had known Bitteman by reputation only.
She went to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge for dinner when the ringing phone stopped her. She reached for it but paused, her hand hovering over the instrument. Was it him again?
“Hello?” she said, voice taut.
“Sue. It’s Hope.”
A sigh.
“Think I was your secret admirer calling?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Hope Martin worked as an assistant at the Corcoran Gallery of Art; she and Sue had been friends since meeting there at a fund-raiser a year ago.
“Rick out of town?” Hope asked.
“Yes. Denver, I think. Or Chicago. One of those places out there. How are you?”
“Great. Had dinner?”
“No. I was just foraging for something.”
“Let’s go out. My cupboard’s bare.”
“I suspect that’s the case with mine, too. Where?”
“Zorba’s? I’m in the mood for tabouli.”
“Okay.” The cafe was around the corner from Sue’s apartment. “A half hour?”
“You’ve got it. If you get there first, which I know you will, grab a patio table. It’s warm enough.”
Sue changed into slacks, a sweater, and light purple and pink crinkled windbreaker and was out the door when the phone rang again. Go back in and answer it? Hard not to. She picked up on the fourth ring, just before her answering machine kicked in.
“Hello, Ms. Gomara.”
The deep male voice spoke slowly, hesitantly, as though he’d stammered at some point in his life.
“Who the hell are you?” Sue said. She’d asked the police to provide a way to trace the calls, but they suggested she see whether the caller persisted. What constituted persisting? she wondered. This was the sixth call, at least, even more when you added the times he reached the answering machine and said nothing.
“Don’t be angry with me, Ms. Gomara. This is a friendly call.”
Hang up? She wished the answering machine had been activated. She wanted his voice on tape.
“How do you know me?” she asked. The police had told her to say nothing when he called, simply to hang up: “That generally frustrates guys like this. They want a conversation with you. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I love the way you look, the way you walk. I like beautiful women who are intelligent, too. Such a beautiful woman to be so smart.”
“Look you creep, you’d better—”
“Sex and beauty are inseparable, Ms. Gomara, like life and consciousness. The intelligence that goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.”
She was about to slam the receiver into its cradle when he said, “Let care kill a cat, we’ll laugh and grow fat,” and laughed.
Shakespeare? My obscene caller is quoting Shakespeare?
“Cats are such a female thing,” he said, and then used a crude sexual term in describing what he wanted to do with Sue.
She hung up and stood shaking, staring at the phone. It rang.
Sue left the apartment and walked quickly to the restaurant. As she passed a phone booth, she stopped, turned, and tried to see the man in it. His back was to her.
Two other men walked by, and she stared at them, too.
Who are you?
No more waiting for the calls to “persist.” In the morning, she’d demand that the police do something.
She told her friend Hope about the latest call as they sat on the cafe’s patio. “Don’t wait for the police,” Hope said. “Buy one of those recorders that activate whenever the phone is lifted. Get the bastard on tape.”
“I will,” Sue said. “First thing tomorrow. He quoted Shakespeare.”
“The creep?”
“Yes. I think it was Shakespeare, something about killing a cat.”
“Your cat, Wendell?”
“Don’t even say it.”
She returned to the apartment at nine-thirty. The message light on her machine was blinking.
“Sue, it’s Rick. Sorry I missed you. Hope you’re out having fun. Forgot to give you the hotel I’m staying at in Cleveland.” He reeled off the number. “Love you, baby. Pleasant dreams.” He ended with a loud kiss.
She tried him at the hotel but he wasn’t in his room. She then called the MPD and reported the most recent call.
“We really can’t do much tonight,” the desk officer said. “Come on by tomorrow and talk to the officer handling your case.”
“And what if this creep decides to break in here tonight and rape me, kill me?”
“Unlikely, Ms. Gomara. These phone stalkers are generally passive types and—”
She yelled at him.
“Okay, okay, calm down
, ma’am. We can have a car make a couple of passes by your house tonight, but that’s about it. Why don’t you buy one of those tape recorders that records phone conversations? They’re not expensive. But your best bet is to come in here in the morning and …”
The night was spent curled up with Wendell watching old movies on TV and drinking wine. She called in sick in the morning, bought a tape recorder, stopped at MPD headquarters and filed another complaint, which resulted in her case officer promising to put into motion a means of tracking the calls, and spent the rest of the day in bed waiting for the phone to ring.
It didn’t. Which was worse than if it had.
21
Cale Broadhurst entered the Beaux-Arts Willard Hotel, a block from the White House, and paused in its opulent galleried lobby as he always did when there, to admire the huge chandeliers and elaborately carved ceiling. The hotel’s grand reopening in 1986 after eighteen years of being shuttered was cause for celebration in Washington. The Willard, with a rich 150-year-old history, was one of the city’s enduring monuments, like the Washington and Lincoln memorials, but providing more amenities.
David Driscoll’s suite was on the seventh floor, one floor above the State Department–vetted suites reserved for visiting heads of state.
“Good morning,” the patrician businessman said to Broadhurst as he opened the door for his visitor and led him to the living room, where a coffee service had been delivered by room service. “Right on time, but no surprise.”
“I find people who are late to be bores, don’t you agree?” Broadhurst said.
“Or worse. Coffee? The melon is fresh.”
“Just coffee.”
The Librarian sat in an upholstered, mahogany reproduction Queen Anne chair.
“They say this was the suite Julia Ward Howe stayed in when she wrote ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ ” Driscoll said absently. “Supposedly inspired by Union soldiers marching beneath the window singing ‘John Brown’s Body.’ Apocryphal?”
Broadhurst laughed. “No, I think it’s true, David. Whether President Grant coined the term lobbyist because of people seeking favors from him in the Willard’s lobby is conjecture. Good flight?”
“Yes.”
Driscoll wore a gray pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, solid burgundy tie, and highly polished black wingtip shoes. Broadhurst was in his “uniform”—gray slacks, gray tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt, floppy yellow bow tie, and brown leather shoes with thick soles, adding an inch to his height.
Driscoll had remained standing. Now, he sat, carefully crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and made a face as though he had bitten into something sour. “So, Cale,” he said, “have you made any progress on lining up funds?”
The question threw Broadhurst for a moment because he’d been poised to ask the first question: Are the Las Casas diaries and map really in hand—and for sale?
He answered Driscoll’s question: “Yes, although much of it is tentative. I’m at a disadvantage in not knowing how much money will be needed, but I do have expressions of support. Senator Menendez says he’s willing to introduce a resolution to fund, at least in part, the acquisition of the diaries.”
Driscoll drew a breath. “Naturally, I’m willing to put up the money to buy the diaries, if that becomes necessary. Frankly, I’d prefer that the only other source of money be Congress, not private parties. The people of the United States should be the ones who bring such important documents into the Library of Congress.”
The people, and David Driscoll, Broadhurst thought.
“Is there something to buy, David?”
“I believe there will be,” he said, his coffee cup at eye level.
“Care to share the source with me?” Broadhurst asked.
A thin smile crossed Driscoll’s lips.
“I understand you’re reluctant to do that at this juncture, but it will be necessary—eventually.”
“Of course. But let’s explore this question of sources for a moment. You’re no stranger to valuable manuscripts and books coming to the library from—what shall we say?—from unconventional, unexpected sources.”
Broadhurst narrowed his eyes.
“The Lucas collection I managed to obtain for you is one good case in point.”
“True.”
“Precious books, rare maps, indeed entire collections lie submerged for generations, for centuries, then find their way to the surface through a fissure created by need or greed, human tragedy or simple dumb luck.”
“And which of the above applies to Las Casas?”
“A little of each, I suppose. You know, putting one’s hands on something as valuable as the Las Casas materials isn’t easy. It’s a very competitive market out there, Cale, not competition in the traditional business sense, but every bit as fierce, perhaps more so.”
Broadhurst said, “Are you saying we’re facing serious competition for Las Casas?”
“Of course. You didn’t expect otherwise, did you?”
“No, but it’s a matter of degree. If the diaries and map—Is there a map?”
“I believe so.”
“If the diaries and map do exist—and I take it from what you’ve said that they do—then the matter of origin becomes important. I have the feeling they’re not about to be offered through traditional channels.” Broadhurst’s raised eyebrows asked for verification.
“Let’s just say, Cale, that in order to acquire Las Casas for the Library of Congress, I will have had to take unusual steps.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I’m unable to be more specific.”
“We can’t expect Menendez to propose a Senate resolution to purchase materials through less than savory channels.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. Two things will be needed from you.”
“Should I take notes?”
Driscoll ignored the sarcasm. “First, as I said, if I put up private money, there will have to be congressional involvement. This will be a national acquisition. I’ll be putting up the money in the first place—but the final purchasing must be done by the government.”
Driscoll waited for a response. Receiving none, he continued: “Second, I’ll expect a tangible expression of public recognition from Congress and LC.”
“In the form of?”
“As far as LC is concerned, a research center bearing my name within the Hispanic and Portuguese division. And you’d have to accept my appraisal of the material—and, as before, give me a letter saying so, with a generous valuation on what I provided with my … shall we say, down payment.”
“That would not be my decision to make unilaterally, David. Our Congressional overseers.”
“Over whom you have considerable influence.”
“And Congress itself?”
“Acknowledgment of my contribution to having secured the diaries and map for the American people.”
“Which you would certainly have earned.”
“I’ve already incurred considerable expenses.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“And I happily incur them. My reimbursement will come from having been instrumental in seeing a preeminent institution of learning become the keeper of such monumentally important documents as created by Las Casas during his journeys with Columbus. The diaries are all about having discovered us, Cale. Now, we’ve discovered them. They belong in the Library of Congress, not in some private collection.”
“I agree, of course.”
“Should I go forward?” Driscoll asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m flying home after lunch. I see you have one of the star crusading TV journalists, Ms. Huston, to contend with.”
Broadhurst laughed. “Our public affairs people are keeping her in check.”
“Michele Paul. His murder still a mystery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s my understanding that he was reclusive in his work.”
�
��Reclusive and exclusive. He tended to work alone.”
“We had met. Has his apartment been examined for any Las Casas or other materials he might have had there?”
“Yes. By Consuela Martinez—she’s our Hispanic division chief—Consuela and a writer named Annabel Reed-Smith were there yesterday. They brought some files back with them to the library. A truck and crew are returning today to pick up everything else.”
“Annabel Reed-Smith? She has a gallery here in Washington.”
“Exactly. She’s spending a few months at LC researching a Las Casas article for Civilization.”
“I met her once or twice. Beautiful woman, as I recall.”
“Very attractive. And knowledgeable. Her husband, Mackensie, and I are friends. Tennis partners.”
Driscoll stood and went to the window. Broadhurst followed. They looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I trust you know how appreciative I am of what you’re attempting to do, David.”
Driscoll replied without looking at Broadhurst, “It’s the least I can do for my country.”
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 14
