He walked slowly at first, looking over his shoulder to be sure he was doing what they wanted him to do. Sweat poured down his face and his breath came hard as he increased his pace, almost running now, stumbling, wanting to cry—why me?—get to the airport and—
The shots crackled from six weapons, a barrage of bullets tearing into his back and buttocks, sending him pitching forward face-first onto the hard blacktop. But his face didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore.
23
Annabel hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. The pain in Mac’s knee had kept him awake, causing him to struggle in search of a comfortable position.
“You should have the surgery,” she told him at breakfast. “These things are so easily fixed these days.”
He just looked at her. She knew not to pursue it, at least not again that day. He would have surgery only when he was ready for it.
After wincing herself as she watched him limp out of the house to go teach a class at GW, she took a cab to the library. Soon, she and Consuela stood in the deep recesses of the division’s stacks. Steel shelving held dozens of cardboard file transfer boxes with BITTEMAN written on them.
“Did anyone go through these after Bitteman disappeared?” Annabel asked the division chief.
“Yes, but that was before I got here. When you said you wanted to look at the Bitteman materials, I pulled out the report that had been written by the people who’d originally examined the boxes. They broke everything down into rough categories, which is helpful. But like so much material in LC, it gets a quick once-over when it arrives and then sits for years until someone decides to take a second look.”
“Impossible to analyze it all,” Annabel said. “There’s so much.”
“Twenty million items in storage waiting to be cataloged, and it keeps pouring in. Anyway, Annabel, here’s the Bitteman stuff. Help yourself.”
“These are the categories they broke it down into?” Annabel asked, pointing to smaller lettering on each of the boxes.
“Yes.”
“I don’t see—oh, here’s a box marked ‘Las Casas.’ ”
“Here’s another,” Consuela said. “The people who went through them noted that there was nothing especially new and interesting in Bitteman’s Las Casas papers, which I found surprising.”
“How so?”
“Las Casas was one focus of his professional life. Las Casas did write a book or more after the voyages with Columbus but there was nothing really definitive about any diary and no mention of a map. Everyone assumed all the work Bitteman had put in on the subject would have resulted in more revelations. But I suppose we sometimes expect too much of our researchers. You can spend a lifetime delving into a narrow subject and still come up empty.”
“Well,” said Annabel, “I’ll take a look anyway, although I’m beginning to feel empty.”
“I’m pulling together a team to go through Michele Paul’s files,” Consuela said. “Dr. Broadhurst asked me to do it. Love to have you join us.”
“I’d like that,” said Annabel. “Anything bearing on Las Casas could be helpful for my article. When are you starting?”
“This morning. Dolores Marwede will be helping, but it’s a daunting task for two people.”
“Count me in, after I take a look at these.”
Annabel spent the morning bringing the boxes labeled BITTEMAN—LAS CASAS to her work space on the upper gallery and going through their contents with more care. The people who’d originally skimmed the materials had been right as far as she could tell by her examination. The boxes were filled with articles written about the Spanish companion to the famous explorer and folder after folder of Bitteman’s notes on books
and other researchers’ conclusions. But there seemed to be nothing of Bitteman’s
original findings and thoughts. You’d think that a man like him, she mused, devoting almost all of his professional life to one man and one subject, would have come up with something more. But there was good stuff about Las Casas as a writer and as a sailor.
She came down to the main reading room, where Consuela and Dolores had set themselves up at a table in a secluded corner.
“Find anything?” Consuela asked.
“Not much,” Annabel said, “although I went through it awfully fast. How’s this going?”
“Nothing exciting so far,” Consuela said. “A few rare books he took and never returned.”
Dolores looked up at Annabel. “You really didn’t expect to find anything useful in John Bitteman’s work, did you?”
Annabel shrugged and joined them at the table. “I didn’t know him, of course, but I heard he was a dedicated researcher.”
Dolores smirked. “John Bitteman was a fraud,” she said, continuing to pull papers from one of the boxes on the table. “He made his reputation as a writer and speaker on Hispanic subjects, using other people’s original work as a basis for his own. I don’t think he had an original idea in his head.”
“You knew him pretty well?” Annabel asked, absently picking up papers and glancing at them.
“We worked together,” Dolores said.
“Lucianne Huston was here this morning,” Consuela said. “She’s really trying to make a connection between Bitteman’s disappearance and Michele’s murder.”
“I never took her for a tabloid-TV type,” Dolores said.
“It’s the Columbus celebration coming up that’s driving it, I think,” said Consuela. “Nothing like a juicy contemporary murder to bring history alive.” To Annabel: “She wanted to talk with you. I told her you were hibernating, but that you’d get hold of her through Public Affairs this afternoon.”
“Thanks. Anyone hungry?”
“I am,” said Consuela. “Dolores?”
“I brought something from home.”
An hour later, as Annabel and Consuela passed through the European reading room on their way back from lunch, Lucianne Huston intercepted them.
“How’s it going?” Annabel asked.
“Slow. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Got an hour?”
“No.”
Consuela said, “Take all the time you need, Annie. Dolores and I will be there whenever you get back.”
At Lucianne’s suggestion, she and Annabel left the building and sat on a semicircular concrete bench on East Capitol Street, directly across from the Supreme Court. The smell of rain was in the air.
“You went to Michele Paul’s apartment to go through his files,” Lucianne said.
“That’s right.”
“Nice apartment.” It wasn’t a question.
“I take it you’ve been there,” Annabel said.
“This morning. Got the super to let me in. Paul lived pretty well. Fancy apartment, a boat, closets full of expensive clothes.”
“He lived nicely, but extravagantly?”
“You know what he was paid?”
“No.”
“Seventy-five thousand a year. He was a GS-Fourteen with over twenty years.”
“Not a fortune, but enough to carry his apartment, I’d think.”
“And build up a savings account of more than three hundred thousand?”
Annabel had been watching one of LC’s police officers yell at a pedestrian for jaywalking. Now, she turned to Lucianne and asked, “How do you know that?”
“I have a friend in the police department here.”
“You seem to have friends everywhere.”
“In this business, you’re only as good as your little black book. The police are running down his finances. Routine in a murder investigation. They traced an account to New York. That’s where he had most of the money.”
“Did it ever occur to you that someone in his family might have left it to him?”
“If so, that someone died just before Paul did. He deposited a check for a hundred thousand in the New York account the day before he was killed.”
“Who was the check from?”
“They’
re tracing that now. What do you think of John Vogler?”
“A nice enough man. I don’t know him. I’ve only had one conversation with him.”
“I think he’s a fruitcake.”
Annabel laughed. “I haven’t heard that term in a while. Why do you say it?”
“Just my reaction. The police are looking hard at him as a suspect.”
Annabel nodded. “That’s understandable, considering his past relationship with Michele Paul. He’s evidently a considerable scholar. I hear nothing but good things about him; he’s a little eccentric, maybe.”
“They haven’t written off your buddy Dr. Martinez, either.”
“Preposterous! No one would ever think Consuela is capable of murder. Why are you telling me this?”
Lucianne ran her tongue over her lips, smiled, and said, “Because I think we have a common failing.”
“And what is that?”
“We’re both always looking for something. I wanted no part of this story when my boss assigned it to me. It was based on a rumor that these so-called diaries and a map might be discovered and offered for sale through some kooky underground rare books network. And there was that theft of a painting in Miami and the guard who died. But when I got here and tried to get some decent material on the diaries, I came up empty, except for what little you told me on camera. Then, the leading scholar on the subject gets his head bashed in, and soon I learn another leading Las Casas scholar
disappeared under mysterious circumstances eight years ago, probably murder. The
most recent victim, the charming Dr. Paul, is hated by half the world, at least the half who knew him. And then, Annabel …”
“And then what?”
“And then you ask me yesterday about the painting that was stolen in Miami. Why?”
“Why did I ask?”
“Uh huh.”
“Because—because—look, Lucianne, I know you have a job to do, a story to report. I respect that. You say we’re both looking for something. You’re right. You’re looking for your story, and I’m looking for material on which to base a magazine article. That hardly makes us soul mates.”
“Oh, I think it does, Annabel. I think you’re the sort of person who can’t resist digging into a murder.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Who you are, that’s why. Former matrimonial attorney, and a damn good one, I hear, married to one of D.C.’s top criminal defense attorneys. Or ‘former,’ as he says. You ended up helping track down a precious Caravaggio painting stolen a few years back from the National Gallery. And you and your husband, who has a bad knee but still cooks for you—lucky you—got up to your necks in a series of murders last year at the Watergate right after you moved in. I can go on.”
“I should be flattered that you have so much interest in me and my husband. I’m not.”
“Just routine, that’s all. The more I know about the players, the better chance I have of coming up with the story. Besides, you seem wired in pretty solid with everybody at the library. The top guy, Broadhurst, and your husband play tennis together, at least when your hubby’s knee doesn’t hurt. You get invited to Broadhurst’s private little cocktail parties. Same with Consuela Martinez, who picks you to help go through Michele Paul’s apartment. What have you learned about John Bitteman?”
“Probably not nearly as much as you have,” Annabel said, standing and straightening her skirt. “I have to get back inside. I’m helping—”
“Helping go through Michele Paul’s files.”
“That’s right.”
“Any chance of filling me in on what you find?”
Annabel couldn’t help but smile. Despite Lucianne Huston’s aggressive personality, bordering on offensive, she liked her.
“I might,” she said.
They walked to the corner.
“I have to go back,” Lucianne said. “Free for dinner?”
“Yes, but—”
“Know what I’m missing?”
“What?”
“A home-cooked meal. Invite me for one of your husband’s dinners.”
Annabel sustained her smile. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll call and see if he’s up to it. I’ll
leave a message for you with the PA office. Allergic to anything?”
“People who get in the way of a good story. Oh, and anchovies. Can’t stand anchovies.”
24
Annabel spent the rest of the afternoon helping Consuela and Dolores go through the boxes from Michele Paul’s apartment. They worked quietly for hours, the only intrusion an occasional comment concerning something found in the boxes or question about a file.
During a break, Annabel asked, “Did either of you read about an art theft in Miami about a week or so ago?”
“No,” Dolores said.
“A painting by an artist named Fernando Reyes was stolen from a small museum there. It depicted Columbus giving King Fernando and Queen Isabel his Book of Privileges.”
Consuela laughed softly. “Not a very creative choice of subjects.” She asked Dolores, “How many paintings do you think have been done of that scene?”
Dolores shrugged. “A hundred? Why do you ask, Annabel?”
“When Consuela and I were going through material at Michele’s apartment, I ran across a file devoted to this artist, Reyes. I wondered why Michele Paul would have such interest in him. Reyes was never a major artist and worked long after Columbus’s time.”
“Then the real question is, why would someone want to steal one of his paintings?” Consuela asked.
“Exactly,” said Annabel, “unless …”
The other two looked at her.
“Unless there was something else to steal besides the painting. Something else in the painting, or that the painting led to.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. Just thinking out loud.” She looked up at the clock. “It’s five. Lucianne Huston is coming tonight for dinner. I told Mac I’d do the shopping on my way home.”
“You and Huston are friends?” Dolores asked.
“No,” Annabel said, standing and stretching against a kink in her back, “but she sort of invited herself. I like her.”
“Careful what you say,” Consuela said lightly. “Your dessert’ll end up on the evening news.”
“I have the feeling that could happen no matter what I say. Sorry to run out on you. See you both tomorrow.”
“… we don’t often have dessert,” Mac Smith said as he, Annabel, and Lucianne sat at the dining room table, “usually only when we have guests.”
“I’m glad I prompted you to have it tonight,” Lucianne said. “This mocha cake is
wonderful.”
“From our own bakery right here in the Watergate,” Annabel said. “More coffee?”
It had been a pleasant evening. Mac and Annabel had expected the highly charged journalist to dominate the conversation, but that wasn’t the case. She was quiet and unassuming, showing intense interest in her host and hostess’s lives and careers, and the story of how they met and conducted their courtship. But she did have, of course, her own stories to tell, especially about some of the most harrowing assignments she’d been on around the globe.
They took their second cups of coffee in the living room, fortified by small snifters of brandy. Lucianne went to the sliding glass doors leading to the terrace and said, “Beautiful view.”
Mac opened the doors and they stood outside looking down at the Potomac. The air was clean from an hour of rain earlier.
“How’s your investigation of the murder going, Lucianne?” Mac asked.
“Better, it seems, than the police’s.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” he said. “I’m always interested in a murder investigation.”
“Like quitting smoking but still wanting one years later?”
“Something like that.”
“Mind if I smoke? I’ve been on my good behavior all evening.”
“
If it isn’t too chilly out here.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“I’ll get a sweater,” Annabel said, going inside. When she returned, Mac had brought three fresh glasses of brandy to the terrace and arranged chairs around a small green metal table.
“I told Mac about our conversation this afternoon,” Annabel said, “that you feel wanting to know things is something we have in common. I’m not sure I agree with you about me, that I have some genetic need to delve into murder, but then again, maybe I do. So, let’s discuss the murder of Michele Paul and see what we can teach each other.”
“Okay,” Lucianne said, lighting her second cigarette, “what about this artist, Reyes?”
Mac and Annabel glanced at each other before Annabel said, “Michele Paul seemed to have an inordinate interest in him.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t have an answer for that,” said Annabel.
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 16
