“For tax purposes?”
“Probably. It could be that Driscoll already possessed the items he intended to donate, picked them up for the proverbial song, their true worth. Then Michele, with his reputation as a Hispanic scholar, went out and hyped the items, which made them far more valuable than they actually were. Consuela, do you know the date of John Bitteman’s disappearance?”
“Not offhand, but I can find out.”
As the division chief prepared to place another call in search of information, there was a knock on her door. Annabel opened it to Dolores Marwede.
“Sorry,” Dolores said. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I won’t be much longer.”
“Come in,” Consuela said, waving to Dolores.
Dolores entered and closed the door. Consuela asked Dolores while waiting for someone to answer her call, “You were here when John Bitteman disappeared. Remember when that was?”
“Eight years ago,” Dolores answered. “Why?”
“Do you have a more specific date?” Annabel asked.
“No. It was summer, I think.”
“July?”
“I—I really don’t know.”
Consuela reached a friend in the personnel office and asked the same question. When she hung up, she said to Annabel and Dolores, “July fourteenth, 1991.”
“Why the interest in John Bitteman?” Dolores asked.
Annabel looked askance at Consuela. From her perspective, what she’d confided
in Consuela should have been kept between them, at least until the discs had been
turned over to the Librarian of Congress … or the police.
“Consuela, I wonder if …”
The division chief sensed Annabel’s discomfort and quickly said, “We can get into this later. In the meantime, I have a meeting with Dr. Broadhurst. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Dolores and Annabel started to leave the office.
“Oh, Annabel, stay just a minute, won’t you?” Consuela said.
When Dolores was gone, Annabel asked, “Are you taking the discs to Dr. Broadhurst now?”
“Yes. I called his secretary from home and told her it was urgent that I see him first thing this morning.” She looked at her watch. “We’re due there right now.”
“We?”
“Absolutely. You’re the only person who knows what’s on these discs.”
“Do you want me to tell him that I think they belonged to John Bitteman, and that Bitteman disappeared two days after he wrote notes about exposing Michele Paul’s dealings with David Driscoll?”
“Two days after?”
“Yes. Bitteman disappeared on July fourteenth. The computer file index on those final fifteen pages says he wrote them on July twelfth.”
“Which led to his disappearance.”
“Or murder.”
“We’d better go. Dr. Broadhurst is a stickler for punctuality.”
“With what we’re about to tell him, he might prefer that we be late—a couple of years late.”
“… and I find this extremely distressing,” Broadhurst said after Annabel and Consuela had explained the purpose of wanting to see him. “You say the material on these discs came from Bitteman?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain of that, Dr. Broadhurst,” Annabel said, “but I believe it to be the case.”
“And Bitteman knew of what was going on between Michele Paul and David Driscoll?”
“According to what he wrote two days before he disappeared. He threatened to bring what he knew to what he referred to as LC—Library of Congress, or Librarian of Congress. That would have been Jim Billington.”
“Yes,” Broadhurst confirmed.
“Dr. Broadhurst,” Consuela said, “is the story true about Mr. Driscoll paying Michele substantial sums of money over the years?”
Her question caused overt discomfort in Broadhurst. He got up from his chair and went to the sliding glass doors opening onto the terrace, hands shoved in the pockets of his tweed jacket, shoulders hunched beneath it. Consuela looked at Annabel and grimaced.
Broadhurst turned and said, “We’re attempting to contact David Driscoll as we speak. If the police are correct, he was sending Michele Paul money over time—not big
money in his terms but big to Michele Paul—but I want to hear it directly from David. As
you know, the press is spreading the story all over hell and creation.”
He said to Annabel, “Based upon having read what’s on those discs, do you think they should be turned over to the police?”
“Of course,” she replied, “although I suggest a copy be made before they’re taken out of our hands. I … I copied some of the material on a disc of my own, but not all of it, just selected sections I felt might be helpful to my article.”
Broadhurst pondered her suggestion. “You’re right, of course. Can you take care of that? I’ll want a printout, too.”
“I’ll have it to you by the evening,” Consuela said.
“Good,” the Librarian said. “Anything else I should know about what’s on those discs?”
“I don’t think so,” Annabel said, “but if something else strikes me, I’ll let you know.”
“Good. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Consuela and Annabel returned to the Jefferson Building using the underground walkway, its umbilical cord to the Madison.
“What do you think?” Annabel asked as they walked.
“I think he’s in a tough position, Annie. Michele Paul’s murder was troublesome enough for the library, but now it’s mushrooming into a full-fledged scandal—Michele being paid by David Driscoll to turn over his research, a possible tie to another possible murder eight years ago, discs mysteriously showing up in the stacks—when does the next shoe drop?”
“Consuela, was there ever any question of Michele’s sexual orientation?”
The question brought a short, harsh laugh from Consuela. “God, no. His reputation as a womanizer was well known. Of course, he never married, hardly a basis for questioning his sexual preferences. No family that I know of. Why?”
“John Bitteman was an acknowledged homosexual. Obviously, there was bad blood between him and Michele Paul. Bitteman’s comments about Michele on the discs are vitriolic, intensely personal at times. I just wondered if their relationship went beyond the professional.”
“No,” Consuela said. “That’s out of the question.”
“Just thought I’d ask. Want help with copying the discs and printing out hard copies?”
“Thanks, no, Annie. You’ve got your article to do. I’ll get Sue Gomara or Dolores to do it. Shouldn’t take very long.”
“Okay, try Sue. But if you need an extra hand, just yell.”
They parted in the Hispanic-Portuguese reading room, Consuela disappearing into her office, Annabel swiping her magnetic card in the door’s slot and going up the narrow stairs to her space. Sue Gomara was at her desk wading through Cuban newspapers again. She dropped that task and turned to Annabel.
“The stuff on the discs was good?” she asked, beaming.
“Very good, in its way. Thanks again.”
“Good thing I looked through the Aaronsen box. You never know.”
“A very good thing. Nice motto for a research librarian. Why don’t you go down and check in with Consuela. I think she has an assignment for you.”
“Really? Okay, I will.”
Annabel had turned on her laptop while talking with the intern. As Sue started to leave, Annabel stopped her. “Sue, were you here at my desk this morning?”
“At your desk? Me? No. Why?”
“I was sure I’d removed this disc from the computer before I went with Consuela to meet with Dr. Broadhurst.” She held up a disc on which she’d copied sections of the five discs taken from the Aaronsen collection.
“Wasn’t me,” Sue repeated.
“Did you see anyone else here?”
She shook her head. “Not re
ally. Dolores was around for a while, but I didn’t see her at your desk. She was in the stacks. I wasn’t here the whole time.”
Annabel forced a smile. “They call such lapses a senior moment these days,” she said lightly. “I must have forgotten to take the disc out. Go see Consuela. You might enjoy what she has in store for you.”
Annabel stared at the laptop, her face creased as she tried to resurrect whether she had, in fact, taken the disc from the computer and placed it to the side. She was sure she had, but how sure could you ever be of something like that?
She put aside the question and got to work on material for her article. By one, the night without sleep had caught up with her, although the morning’s work, during which the structure of the article had suddenly become clearer, buoyed her spirits if not her tired body.
She called Mac’s office at the university.
“Holding up?” he asked.
“Fading fast but I’ll make it. You?”
“Feel great. We ought to pull all-nighters more often, and not just reading discs. What was the outcome of giving the discs to Consuela?”
“We met with Cale. Since I was the only one who’d read everything on them, Consuela wanted me with her. He was upset.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“He’s still trying to get through to David Driscoll.”
“Did he confirm the reports that Driscoll was paying off Michele Paul?”
“He said the police have confirmed it. Consuela is having copies of the discs made before Cale turns them over to the police.”
“I’m glad he’s giving them the discs. It’s obviously not clear what bearing they might have on the murder, but there could be something there.”
“I agree. How’s the knee?”
“Pretty good. I think the magnet is working. I don’t like the bulge it makes in my pants but that’s a minor price to pay to avoid the knife.”
Avoid the knife! He could be too dramatic at times.
“See you at dinner?” she asked.
“Sure, only let’s make it an early one. I have a feeling we won’t be seeing the ten o’clock news.”
“Or the nine o’clock. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
She smiled and hung up.
Consuela had set Sue Gomara up with a computer in a cramped meeting room off her office. The intern peered intently at the screen as she brought up each individual file from a disc, then replaced it with another disc on which she copied the file. Annabel looked in on her.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Okay,” she said, not taking her eyes from the screen. “Some of this stuff is interesting.”
“Don’t get bogged down reading everything,” Annabel said. “I know that Consuela needs the duplicate discs as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, she told me that.”
“Good. I’m going out for a sandwich. Want me to bring back something?”
“No, thanks, I had lunch.”
When Annabel came out of the office, John Vogler was coming from Consuela’s office. From the anguished expression on his face, it had not been a pleasant meeting. For a moment, he seemed startled to see Annabel. He said nothing and walked away. Annabel poked her head into Consuela’s crowded space. “Feel like a sandwich?” Annabel asked.
“I feel like a large margarita. Make that a triple.”
“Something else happen since this morning?”
Consuela answered by jerking her head toward the door.
“Vogler?”
A sigh was the only response to the question. “You buying?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
They walked to Bullfeathers and sat at the long bar. Midday temperance won out; it was soft drinks for both, and crab salads.
“Dr. Vogler did not look happy when he left your office,” Annabel commented.
“Is he ever?” was Consuela’s response. “He’s an enigma. Beneath that neurotic outer shell is a very decent man, but, boy, is he a wreck over the murder investigation.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“He wants me to go to the police and tell them he wasn’t anywhere near Hispanic the night Michele was killed.”
“Do you know that he wasn’t?”
“No, and I told him that. He said someone informed the police that he was there, and that they consider him the prime suspect because of past incidents he had with Michele. You know about his wife, don’t you?”
“Only because Vogler told me about it himself.”
They raised their glasses in a halfhearted toast to nothing special.
Their conversation dealt mostly with the events of the past twenty-four hours—Annabel having stayed up all night going through the discs; of her initial belief that the material on them had been written by Michele Paul, but having come to the conclusion that they were, in fact, John Bitteman’s property; that Bitteman had written
of learning about Paul’s deal with Driscoll and had threatened to expose the scheme to,
in all likelihood, the then Librarian of Congress; and of that morning’s meeting with LC’s current leader.
“I wonder what new revelations our lovely Ms. Huston will conjure up on her next newscast,” Consuela said.
“At least we won’t be surprised with whatever it is. I heard she winged off to Los Angeles.”
“Oh? Chasing David Driscoll?”
“Probably. But he’s not there. Or is said not to be. My money is on her. She’ll find him and get something from him. She’s good at that.”
“Do you think—?”
“The only thing I’m thinking at the moment, Consuela, is that I’ve gotten too old to stay up all night. Pardon me if my head suddenly ends up in this salad.”
Consuela patted her friend’s arm. “If it does, I’ll have to tell Lucianne Huston, and she’ll have it on the evening news. Finish up and let’s get back to my office. Among Sue Gomara’s new duties is keeping the coffeepot going. I know you’re not a fan of institutional java but Sue makes the world’s strongest coffee. One cup and you’ll stay up for a week.”
35
Lucianne Huston didn’t bother booking a hotel in Los Angeles. She grabbed the first available flight from Washington, got off the plane, and took a taxi directly to Parker Center.
“Detective Davis, please,” she told the desk sergeant.
“Who wants him?”
“Lucianne Huston, NCN.”
He cocked his head and smiled. “Yeah, it is you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” she said, going to a corner and sitting, her carry-on bag at her feet.
A few minutes later LAPD homicide detective Sam Davis emerged from a door behind the desk, came up to Lucianne, stopped a few feet away, and laughed.
“What’s funny?” she asked, not getting up.
“Seeing you, Lucy. You always bring a smile to my face.”
“You know I hate being called that,” she said, standing and closing the gap between them. She kissed his cheek, causing him to look nervously at the desk sergeant.
“Still the handsome, dashing foe of all evil,” she said, stepping back and making an exaggerated point of looking him up and down.
Davis was a strapping middle-aged man, forty-five years old, an LAPD veteran who’d been assigned to, and solved, some of the city’s high-profile cases. And in Los Angeles, many cases quickly became high profile, even if the profile was altered by cosmetic surgery. Local media had given him a lot of play as a celebrity; he’d become
known as a hunk, a homegrown heartthrob whose appeal to the opposite sex soared
when his divorce from his wife was reported three years ago.
“And still the globe-trotting reporter,” he said. “I saw you last night on the tube. Things must be slow at the network, Lucy—Lucianne. The Library of Congress?”
“More exciting than you think.”
“Let’s go outside. Leave your bag.”
“With cops around? I’m not tha
t crazy.”
They walked up Los Angeles Street until reaching the Otani Hotel at the corner of First Street. Lucianne looked up at it. “Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked.
“Sleeping with me was a crime? I thought I was supporting the First Amendment.”
“I considered it more a matter of search and seizure.”
“I was good, wasn’t I?”
“You were—good. Time for a drink?”
“Sure. I went off duty two hours ago but hung around to catch up on paperwork. Your timing’s impeccable, as usual. Another fifteen minutes and I’d have been on my way up the coast. Two days off starting tomorrow.”
They settled in the Rendezvous Lounge in the center of the main lobby.
“So, here we are,” Davis said after they ordered from the kimono-clad waitress, “déjà vu all over again. Another case of looking for inside information, Lucianne, or tired of sex with the wimps of your profession and looking for something better?”
“Your modesty is overwhelming.”
“Just fishing for the real reason you’re here. I’d rather it be the second one, but—”
“I’m looking for information.”
“Ah ha,” he said, smiling and nodding his approval. “The lady has learned to be candid with her sources. Ask away, only it’s your treat this time.”
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 23
