Murder at the Library of Congress

by Margaret Truman

  “But it’s a different story when it’s broadcast around the world. Everyone’s on edge.”

  “Stick to your guns, Annie, and stay out of it.”

  “Wish I had a few guns. Not easy, but I’m trying. Should be home by six.”

  “I’ll be here. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mac.”

  She worked at her desk for a while until a kink in her back prompted her to get up and stretch. She wandered over to where Sue Gomara had just started on her second box, the one marked AARONSEN COLLECTION.

  “How goes it?” Annabel asked.

  “Great. I finished the first one; I’m starting this one now.”

  “Good for you. I’d take my time, Sue, so you don’t overlook anything.”

  Annabel started for the stairs but stopped when Sue called, “Mrs. Reed-Smith, look at this.”

  Annabel returned to the intern’s side and looked at the envelope she held. Written on it was LAS CASAS.

  “What have we here?” Annabel said, perching on the edge of the desk and opening the envelope. Inside were five computer discs; each had LAS CASAS written with a black felt-tip pen on its label.

  “These might be helpful for the article you’re writing,” Sue said.

  “I imagine they will be,” Annabel said, more to herself than in response to Sue. “The Aaronsens collected material on my guy?”

  “Yup, looks that way. Underneath these other papers.”

  Annabel had no idea who the Aaronsen family were, or their approach to collecting Hispanic and Portuguese manuscripts and books. But they evidently had quite an interest in the man who’d been consuming Annabel’s days and nights since starting her research. What good luck, she thought as she replaced the discs in the envelope and stood. “I think I’ll pop one of these in my laptop and see what’s on it. As the line goes, Sue, you might have made my day.”

  “Great!”

  At five-thirty, Annabel returned the disc she’d been looking at on her laptop to its envelope and started down to the reading room.

  “Anything good on the discs?” Sue asked as Annabel passed.

  “Ah, I think so, Sue. I have to talk to Consuela. Thanks again for finding these. They’re … they’re very interesting.”

  Consuela was in her office preparing to leave for the evening. With her was

  Dolores Marwede.

  “Got a minute?” Annabel asked.

  “Sure,” the division chief said.

  “I was just leaving,” Dolores said. “I have a date.”

  “Good for you,” Consuela said.

  “Yeah, nice guy. He’s a librarian at the Smithsonian. Have a good evening.”

  Annabel waited until Dolores was gone before saying, “You’re not going to believe this, but Sue found this envelope in the Aaronsen Collection.” She handed it to Consuela.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Computer discs labeled LAS CASAS. There are five of them. I took a look at what’s on one.”

  “Aaronsen? As I recall, that family’s interest was exclusively on slavery tracts and pamphlets from the West Indies, nineteenth century. Las Casas?”

  “I don’t know anything about the Aaronsens, Consuela, but I do know that the disc I looked at is filled with notes about the diaries.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “I also think …”

  “Yes?”

  “I also think the notes might have been written by Michele Paul.”

  30

  Broadhurst’s attempt to reach David Driscoll that morning had been frustrating in the extreme.

  “Mr. Driscoll is out of the country, Mr. Broadhurst,” the man who answered the phone at Driscoll’s Los Angeles estate said.

  “Do you know how I might reach him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Please leave a message that I called.”

  “Yes, Mr. Broadhurst, I will.”

  David Driscoll’s whereabouts remained unknown for the rest of the day.

  Broadhurst hadn’t been the only one interested in contacting David Driscoll that day.

  “Mr. Driscoll’s office.”

  “Hi. This is Lucianne Huston, NCN, News Cable Network. Is Mr. Driscoll there?”

  The secretary in Driscoll Securities’ chairman emeritus’s office said, “I’m sorry but he’s not, Ms. Huston. Is there something I can help with?”

  “Probably not. I’m working on a story about what the economy will look like in the year two thousand. Leading financial experts are giving their forecasts, and I was anxious to include Mr. Driscoll.”

  “I’m sure he’d be pleased to participate, Ms. Huston, but I’m afraid he’s out of the country.”

  “Back to Mexico again?”

  The secretary laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I enjoy your work on television very much.”

  “Thank you. I suppose you’ve been following my coverage of the murder at the Library of Congress.”

  “Some of it. A terrible tragedy. Mr. Driscoll was extremely upset when he heard.”

  “I’m not surprised. His support of the library is well known.”

  “A real passion with him.”

  “When is he due back?”

  “He didn’t say, although probably in a day or two. He seldom stays there long unless he’s traveling with his wife.”

  “Will he be checking in with you today?”

  “I don’t think so. He spends very little time here. He’s retired, you know.”

  “I hope I’m that active when—and if—I ever retire,” Lucianne said, injecting a laugh for effect. “I’ll just have to try again.”

  “Please do. It was a pleasure talking with you.”

  Lucianne hung up and dialed Baumann’s office at NCN in Miami.

  “Bob, Lucianne. I’ve been trying to reach Driscoll but he’s in Mexico.”

  “I’d be more comfortable if you had a statement from him, Lucianne.”

  “I don’t need a statement from him. My source with the police here in D.C. is solid gold. No doubt about it. Driscoll was sending this Paul person money and lots of it over the years, including a hundred grand the day before he was murdered. I want to go out to L.A. this afternoon and be there when Driscoll returns.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “A few days at the most. Driscoll’s the key to this story, Bob. One of the country’s filthy rich paying off a murdered researcher, for whatever reason, at the Library of Congress. Smells. Driscoll’s rumored to have been waving money around the rare books and manuscripts underground looking for lost diaries by Las Casas. Researcher is hit at his desk. Security guard is shot in Miami during the theft of a third-rate painting that’s delivered to—where else?—Los Angeles. The lowlife who stole the painting is gunned down by police in—where else?—Mexico. Another Hispanic researcher at LC, as it’s affectionately called, disappears eight years ago, no trace. Was Driscoll paying him, too? Did Driscoll do more than just give these guys money?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe kill them, or have them killed to keep his payments quiet.”

  Baumann whistled into the phone: “Payments for what? Pull back, Lucianne. You don’t go around accusing somebody like David Driscoll of murder unless you have the video of him standing over the body, blood on his hands with a crazed look in his eyes. Look, I’ll run it by our esteemed leader.”

  “Why?” she exploded. “You’re the news director, you make the decisions.”

  “I told you, Lucianne, that our leader happens to be a friend of the Library of Congress’s top guy, Broadhurst. Driscoll is a big supporter of LC, as you call it. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So I’m not letting you go further on Driscoll until I have a talk with the guy who signs our checks. You’re at the hotel?”

  “Right.”

  “Cool it, Lucianne. Go get a pedicure and a stiff drink. My treat. Re
lax.”

  “I don’t get pedicures, Bob. They’re tough to find in Somalia.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Two LAPD detectives sat in an unmarked car a few houses down from Driscoll’s. They’d called the house and received the same message as Lucianne Huston, that Driscoll was “out of the country.” Naturally suspicious, they decided to spend a few hours watching the house on the chance they’d been lied to. After four boring hours, during which no vehicle or person came to or left the house, they decided to return to headquarters. They started the engine when a car arrived, a white BMW convertible with its top down. Its driver, wearing a white jacket and full-brimmed straw hat, and sporting a neatly cropped red beard, got out of the vehicle and went to an intercom mounted next to a pair of black iron gates.

  “That’s the guy Widlitz described,” one of the cops said. “Our Conrad. We should have a little talk with him.”

  “Let’s see what he does, where he goes after this.”

  The electronically operated gates swung open and Conrad Syms drove into the compound. Ten minutes later he emerged and turned right, followed at a discreet distance by the detectives. He drove south on the San Diego Freeway until exiting for Hermosa Beach, and pulled into the parking lot of Woody’s Comedy Club, a one-story building close to the water. The detectives pulled up next to him as he was getting out of the BMW.

  “Conrad?” one of them said. “LAPD.” They displayed their credentials.

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “You related to David Driscoll?”

  “What? Come on!” He started to walk away but they blocked his path.

  “Look, dimwit, we can talk nice and friendly here, or we can take you in for wearing an illegal hat.”

  “Illegal hat? What are you guys, auditioning at Woody’s?”

  They moved in unison, one on each side of him, pinning him against his car. “What is your last name?” one asked.

  “Syms.”

  “Conrad Syms?”

  “Yeah. How come you asked about Driscoll?”

  “Know a gentleman named Abraham Widlitz?”

  “Jesus, what’s this all about?”

  “It’s about a murder in Miami, which we’re led to believe you were an accomplice to.”

  “Murder? Miami? Ah, come on, guys, you’ve got to be joking.”

  “So how come you’re not laughing, Conrad?”

  “I don’t know anything about any murder. I’ve never been to Miami. Look, I’m here to audition for a comedy flick. I’m an actor.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “I told you—”

  “And we’re telling you that we have a lot to talk about. Be a nice boy and put the top up on your fancy car there, lock it, and come with us.”

  “Am I being arrested? I want a lawyer.”

  “No, Conrad, you are not being arrested. You’re being invited to a party. If you want to bring a lawyer as your date, be our guest.”

  * * *

  The only people, it seemed, who weren’t looking for David Driscoll that day were Annabel Reed-Smith and Consuela Martinez. After Annabel had taken the envelope containing the discs to her friend, and the door to the office had been closed, they continued talking about Sue Gomara’s discovery.

  “And you think these discs were not Aaronsen stuff, that they belonged to Michele?” Consuela asked.

  “From what I’ve read, yes. The question is, how did they end up in the Aaronsen file box? When was that collection donated?”

  Consuela consulted a card. “Almost three years ago.”

  “What do we do with the discs?” Annabel asked. “I’d like to be able to go through all of them. From what I saw on the first one, there might be a wealth of material for my article.”

  “I’ve got to let Dr. Broadhurst know.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like you to come with me.”

  “If you wish.”

  Consuela dialed the Librarian’s number. His secretary answered and said Broadhurst had left for the evening for a dinner with a trustee and a speech at American University.

  “It’ll have to wait until morning.”

  Annabel’s brow furrowed.

  “You’re thinking?”

  “I’m just thinking, realizing, that once we deliver the five discs to Cale, I won’t have an opportunity to go through them.”

  “Not necessarily true. They’re library property.”

  “And they’ll most likely become police property.”

  “Not forever.”

  “Long enough to deny me what’s on them that might contribute to the article. The police will want to examine their content to see whether there’s any material relevant to the murder. That could take months. They can sit on them for as long as they want. Consuela, would you be willing to let me take these discs home with me tonight?”

  “Oooh, I don’t know, Annie.”

  “I’ll understand if you say no, but I’ll also be eternally grateful if you do. If Cale

  was in his office right now, and we were to bring them to him, I wouldn’t even think of

  doing this. But unless you’re going to turn them over to someone else tonight, they’ll sit here until morning. Are you planning to give them to someone else?”

  “No. I think Cale should be the first, and only, person to have them.”

  “But I’ve already seen them, Consuela, and I can make good use of them. I just want to make notes of anything on them that’s helpful to my article.”

  Consuela thought for a moment before saying, “Only because it’s you, Annie.”

  “I owe you.”

  “No, you don’t. But what if you come across material that bears on the murder?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I suppose I’ll make note of anything of that nature, too, and share it with you tomorrow.”

  Consuela narrowed her eyes; a small smile crossed her lips. “Are you sure, Annie, that you want to see what’s on those discs only because you’re searching for Las Casas material for the article?”

  Annabel’s eyebrows went up. “Why else would I want to take them home?”

  “To see whether there is anything on them about the murder?”

  Annabel didn’t answer, but Consuela read her face.

  “Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. Take them home, Annie, but be back with them first thing in the morning. If there is anything on them referring to Michele’s murder, I’d hate to be charged with obstruction of justice.”

  “Me, too. See you tomorrow. And thanks.”

  31

  Annabel wondered as she left the building whether the security guard would ask to see what was in the envelope. He didn’t. She walked quickly up First Street in the direction of the Supreme Court Building in search of a cab.

  “The South Building, the Watergate,” she told the driver.

  Mac and Rufus were on the terrace when she arrived. It was a lovely, warm evening in Washington, the sun seeming to stay high in the sky longer than usual, a gentle breeze from the west displacing the city’s legendary humidity with dry air. She noticed immediately as man and beast crossed the living room to greet her that Mac wasn’t limping.

  “How’s the knee?” she asked.

  “Great. I may not need that surgery after all. The magnet’s working.”

  “What magnet?” she asked, slipping out of her shoes and heading for the kitchen.

  He came up behind her and kissed her neck. “The one I’m wearing. I stopped in a drugstore and bought one. See?” He pulled up his pants leg to display an elasticized bandage. A small lump pressing against it was, Annabel assumed, the magnet. “Feels good already.”

  “That’s … that’s great, Mac.”

  “Drink?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m in for an all-nighter.”

  He laughed. “Trying to relive your undergrad days?”

  “No, trying to make sense of something and
I only have one night to do it.”

  “Tell me more.”

  A club soda with lemon in her hand, and a dry Rob Roy in his, they went to the terrace and sat at the table. Mac positioned the large multicolored umbrella to shield them from the sun, which had suddenly decided to make its lovely dive for the horizon.

  Annabel told Mac about how Sue Gomara had discovered the envelope containing five discs and how she, Annabel, had taken a look at one of the discs on her laptop. Mac listened intently, a nod or grunt of understanding his only intrusion into her monologue.

  “I’m sure these discs weren’t part of the original collection donated by this Aaronsen family. Other things in the box were dusty, yellowed. The envelope was new, the discs pristine. Someone put the envelope in that box recently.”

  “Maybe it was Michele Paul,” Mac offered.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To hide the discs for whatever reason he may have had. Cale Broadhurst told me the last time we played tennis that one of the biggest problems at the library is finding the time and manpower to go through donated collections. He said some collections sit for years before anyone gets around to really seeing what’s in them. Sounds to me like a perfect place to hide something.”