“Sure, we find stuff like that every day. That’s how we got rich and live in Beverly Hills, drive a Jag and a Bentley, and—”
“Un momento,” the other art squad detective said. “Look at this.” He pointed to an item on the list they’d made of what was in Widlitz’s studio.
“Yeah?”
“It could be the same piece, that one rolled up on the table in his place. Columbus on his knees giving something to a king. Yeah, it is the same. Artist, Reyes.”
The art squad chief looked up at the homicide detective. “How long has this been kicking around?”
“Few days.”
“Nice you finally got around to bringing it to us.”
“You say it’s the same one?” the homicide detective asked.
“Sure looks like it.” To his partner: “Widlitz didn’t have any record of who brought it to him, did he?”
“No.”
“Maybe we should call that nice old man again and have another talk—down here!”
“You want a cup of coffee, a soft drink, maybe?”
“No, thank you. I have told you what I know about that particular painting. It was brought to me by Conrad, who asked me to see whether there was anything under it, another painting, perhaps a map.”
“Does this Conrad have a last name?”
“I don’t know it.”
Widlitz sat with one of the art squad detectives and the lead homicide investigator on the Miami case in an interrogation room at LAPD headquarters in Parker Center, on Los Angeles Street. The arrival of the police at his home had upset him. Now, being where criminals were questioned completely unnerved him. He was on the verge of tears; everything he said in response to their questions was delivered as a pleading.
“Tell us what Conrad looks like.”
“What can I say? He is of medium build and height, I think. He has a red beard—neatly trimmed—and wears a white jacket and a straw hat.”
“A real fashion plate.”
Widlitz threw up his hands. “That is all I know about him.”
“No idea where he lives?”
“No. I swear.”
Widlitz’s determination to protect David Driscoll as the real source of the Reyes painting was fading fast.
“This Conrad, he’s the one who paid you for the work?”
“I haven’t been paid yet. I haven’t finished the work.”
“Did you find anything behind the painting?”
“No. There is nothing behind it.”
The art squad detective left the room and conferred with his partner while
looking into the room through a one-way mirror. The homicide detective had taken up
the questioning and was leaning over Widlitz, causing the older man to shrink into a ball in his chair.
“He’s not being straight with us,” the chief told his partner.
“I know. This Conrad works for somebody else. We’re being too nice to him.”
“We mention the security guard murder in Miami, maybe suggest he’s an accessory to murder?”
“Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Ten minutes later a frightened, panicked Abraham Widlitz told them his client was David Driscoll.
“ The David Driscoll?”
“Yes.”
The detectives looked at each other.
“This Conrad works for him?”
“I don’t know. He delivers things for him. He delivered this painting.”
“He’s delivered other paintings to you?”
“Yes, a few. Murder? Please, I know nothing about murder. I want to speak to a lawyer.”
“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Widlitz. Excuse us.”
They conferred outside the interrogation room with an assistant district attorney they’d called in.
“There’s nothing to hold him on,” the DA said.
“Possession of stolen property” was offered.
“You think he knew it was stolen?”
A shrug. “Let’s assume he did.”
“What’s to be gained?” asked the DA. “You think he has more information to offer?”
“Maybe not, but I’d just as soon not have him contacting Driscoll until we’ve been able to hash this out with Miami. Twenty-four hours?”
“All right, but no more than that. And no more questions until he has an attorney present.”
29
Dr. Broadhurst was engaged in quiet contemplation. The question on his mind was whether to call an emergency meeting of the Joint Committee on the Library of Congress to discuss Paul and the Driscoll matter. His thoughts were disturbed by his secretary reminding him that someone from Public Affairs would bring a writer from American Heritage for an interview in fifteen minutes, and that a final draft of a speech Broadhurst was to give that night at American University was ready. She handed it to him.
“Thank you, Pamela. Have the writer come in as soon as they arrive.”
He read quickly through the draft, making a few minor changes. Fifteen minutes
later a public affairs specialist arrived with her journalistic ward. The interview lasted a
half hour. The moment they left, Broadhurst’s secretary handed him a message slip, explaining, “Public Affairs wonders whether there’s any possibility of you finding a few minutes to speak with Lucianne Huston?”
“I wanted to have a word with her anyway, but off the record. See if you can arrange that.”
Minutes later, his assistant returned. “Ms. Huston can’t promise not to use anything you say to her. She thinks this story is too important. ‘The American public has a right to know what goes on in the institutions it finances,’ she said.”
“Then tell her that I can’t talk to her right now.”
Annabel had received a call from Civilization’s editor, Rich Wilson, that morning before leaving home: “I’ll be in D.C. today, Annabel, flying down later this morning to meet with the good folks at Public Affairs. Thought we might catch up for a few minutes while I’m there.”
“Sounds good to me,” she’d said. “When will you be free?”
“Having lunch at one. How about twelve, twelve-thirty at their office?”
“I’ll swing by.”
She spent the morning in the manuscripts reading room poring over materials published in the early fifteen-hundreds that might shed light on the relationship between Columbus and his friend and sailing companion, Bartolomé de Las Casas. The exercise didn’t prove productive and she had the manuscripts returned to their vaults at noon.
She took the underground walkway from Madison to Jefferson and went to Public Affairs.
“Is Rich Wilson here?” she asked an intern manning the reception desk.
“In there,” the intern said, pointing to the employee kitchen.
Annabel went to the door. Wedged in the small kitchen was what seemed to be the entire public affairs staff, their attention focused on a TV on the counter tuned to Lucianne Huston’s cable network. Annabel spotted Wilson in a far corner and gave him a wave, which he returned. Someone said, “Quiet!” as Lucianne’s face filled the screen.
“This is Lucianne Huston reporting from the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. What started as a simple murder—if any murder can ever be branded simple—of a leading researcher at this institution has turned into a brewing scandal complete with mysterious payoffs to the murdered researcher, Michele Paul; a stolen painting in Miami, where a security guard was gunned down; the shooting death of the person who stole the painting in Mexico by police there; and the unsolved disappearance eight years ago of yet another researcher at this institution, John Bitteman. Bitteman and Paul were both scholars in search of the mysterious, alleged diaries of Bartolomé de Las Casas, a companion of Christopher Columbus on his voyages in search of a new world.
“I’ve learned that Michele Paul had been receiving money for years from one of America’s richest men, David Driscoll, founder and now chairman emeritus of Driscoll Securities, a passionate c
ollector of Hispanic art and artifacts, and a leading benefactor of the Library of Congress. Why he paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to the murder
victim is a question still to be answered.
“Authorities at the Library of Congress, its Jefferson Building behind me, have been uncooperative in my search for answers to the many riddles surrounding Michele Paul’s murder. Their silence speaks volumes to this reporter.
“I’m Lucianne Huston reporting live from Washington.”
The staffers gathered in the kitchen looked at one another in bewilderment as someone removed a videotape from the VCR and squeezed out of the room. The others followed, buzzing about what they’d just seen. Rich Wilson came to where Annabel stood outside the kitchen.
“Is all of what she reported true?” he asked.
“Who knows? There are more rumors flying around this place than cards in the card catalog. The reporter, Lucianne Huston, had asked me about David Driscoll, so I suppose there’s some truth to what she says about him.”
“That’s a bombshell.”
“More like a land mine someone just stepped on. Where there’s one, there’s bound to be others.”
They moved to an empty cubicle.
“Annabel, will this have any bearing—I mean, an adverse bearing on the article you’re writing or the issue itself?”
“I don’t know. At the moment, the murder is overbearing. But the article will be about Las Casas, not Michele Paul. I do know that the library is being turned upside down by all that’s happened. Lucianne Huston is in the process of painting it to be the devil’s crib itself.”
“She’s pretty good at that. Fill me in on how your article is going.”
“Sure.”
After giving Wilson an idea of her approach and some of the better bits from her research, Annabel went to the Hispanic reading room and looked in on Consuela Martinez.
“Come in, come in,” Consuela said. “How’s everything going?”
“Despite my best intentions, much too slowly. You?”
“Doing my best, which isn’t very good. What’s new with the investigation?”
“Lucianne just gave a live report on it on the noon news.”
“Really? What did she have to say?”
“Lots.” Annabel recapped what she’d seen on TV.
“Wow! I’d heard something about David Driscoll having paid Michele for some information, but now it’s definite?”
“According to Lucianne. Did you ever have an inkling that something like that might have been going on?”
“Absolutely not. If I had, I would have immediately brought it to the Librarian’s attention and probably taken pleasure in doing it, I’m ashamed to admit.”
“Why do you think Driscoll would have paid Michele, Consuela?”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? It had to have been for something Michele was giving Driscoll. His research. I mean, what else would he have to offer? Unless …”
“Unless?”
“Some personal reason? Blackmail of some sort?”
“Perhaps.”
“No, it had to be professional, Annabel. Michele must have been using his research findings to point Driscoll in the direction of rare Hispanic finds, books, manuscripts. There’s no question about it, David Driscoll has come up with more important discoveries in recent years than any other single collector.”
“And donated a number of them to LC.”
“Yes, which makes his having paid Michele that much more unfathomable. If Michele knew where to locate these treasures, all he had to do was tell us and we would have gone after them.”
“Except Paul wouldn’t have augmented his income that way.”
“True, and if we’d gone after those materials as an institution, it would have had to be done in a public way. Having David Driscoll act as the go-between avoided having those items end up on the auction block and driving up the price. Is someone contacting Driscoll?”
“From LC? I don’t know. Cale may be. I understand that Huston, too, is trying to reach Driscoll, and I’m sure the police will want to see him.”
“This thing is exploding, Annie.”
“It certainly has that potential. I’m going to grab a sandwich in the cafeteria.”
As she was leaving, Consuela said, “Oh, you asked me whether I knew someone named Sebastian.”
“That’s right. His name came up in Michele Paul’s notes regarding the artist Reyes.”
“I realized later that I do know of someone by that name. I’ve only heard of him, never met him. He’s Mexican, lives in Mexico City last I heard. He’s a collector of Mexican books and art although you won’t find him at any of the usual gatherings of collectors. From what I know of him, he’s a crook wired into the higher echelons of the Mexican government and power elite. Here, I dug this out. It says he’s suspected of laundering drug money and using his import-export business to bring in drugs from Cuba.”
Annabel took the small, faded newspaper clipping from Consuela, read it, and handed it back. “Lovely fellow.”
“Why would Michele Paul be involved with someone like that?”
“I didn’t say he was, just that he noted the name Sebastian a few times in his file about Reyes. I’ll be back in an hour. I think I’d better hunker down for the afternoon in that lovely space you’ve given me and get some serious work done.”
The cafeteria was busy when Annabel arrived and she joined a long line at the sandwich section. She was eventually served and sought out an empty table. There weren’t any. But then she spotted Sue Gomara.
“Mind if I join you?” Annabel asked.
“Oh, sure. Please do.”
Annabel noticed that Sue was dressed for duty in Hispanic—jeans and a plaid shirt.
“Back to Cuba, Sue?”
“What? Oh, the newspapers. No. Consuela gave me a new assignment, going through some small collections and logging what’s in them. I’m definitely moving up in the world.”
“One small step toward becoming the Librarian of Congress,” Annabel said. “Good for you. Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”
“Better than filing Cuban propaganda. I mean, keeping track of what Cuban newspapers are saying is important.”
“No need to explain. Congratulations on your new responsibilities.”
Annabel started on her sandwich.
“Did you know Michele Paul real well?” Sue asked.
“No. I just met him a few times. You probably had more contact with him than I did.”
“I really didn’t like the guy, but you know that. It’s horrible what happened to him, his head bashed in and all. Have you heard anything more about who did it?”
“No. The police are—”
Sue guffawed. “The police! I don’t think they can find their way to work.”
“Pretty harsh assessment,” Annabel said. “You’ve had some dealings with them?”
“I sure have, and every one of them has been bad. I’ve been getting obscene phone calls for over a month now, but every time I report it, the cops sort of shrug it away. I suppose I’ll have to be killed by this nut before they’ll take it seriously.”
Annabel said, “I was an attorney in my former life. Obscene callers are generally passive types.”
You could tell by her face that Sue was thinking, Not you, too.
“That must be terribly upsetting. He’ll probably become tired of calling and stop,” Annabel said, finishing her sandwich. “If it keeps up, tell me. Mac may have an idea or two. Thanks for sharing the table with me. Have to get back.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Annabel was alone in the space on the upper gallery that afternoon, with the exception of Sue Gomara, who sat at her small desk going through the contents of a file box at her feet.
“Made any discoveries yet?” Annabel asked.
“No, only I suppose it’s all interesting to somebody. This guy Koser collected a lot of strange things. He was big into Haiti.”
Sue glanced at a note on her desk. “Aaronsen and Covington. I’m almost done with the Koser box.”
At four, Annabel remembered that Mac had had a two o’clock appointment with his orthopedic surgeon, Giles Scuderi. She called the apartment.
“Just came through the door,” he said. “How are you?”
“Fine, but the question is how are you? What did Giles say?”
“What he always says, that I need surgery.”
“And?”
“I told him to go ahead and schedule it. He assures me that my knee will be good as new. It’s an outpatient procedure. He’s getting back to me with a date.”
Annabel broke out in a self-satisfied smile. “Great,” she said.
“I suppose so. What’s new at LC?”
“Lots, although I’m trying to stay focused on my research. Lucianne Huston did a report on the noon news. She claims David Driscoll was paying Michele Paul really big bucks, ostensibly for his research findings.”
“No surprise. She talked to you about it and to us at dinner.”
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 19
