“It was last time, too, in a different way. Sam, I’m out here following up on a murder case at the Library of Congress.”
Davis looked at her quizzically. “What would I know about a murder in Washington?”
“Maybe more than you think. Is the name David Driscoll familiar to you?”
“Sure. Richer than God and aspiring to the title. Why? Oh, that’s right, you reported something about him having paid money to someone at the Library of Congress. The guy who was murdered?”
“Uh huh. I’m out here hoping to interview Driscoll. He’s in Mexico, I’m told. Let me fill you in.”
She ran through what she knew of Driscoll’s connection with Michele Paul and laid out the details of the theft of the Reyes painting in Miami, the shooting of the guard at the museum, and Warren Munsch’s flight with the painting from Florida to Los Angeles, disappearing in Mexico only to be gunned down by Mexican authorities.
“So?” Davis said when she was through. “Are you suggesting that Driscoll had something to do with all that?”
“I’m suggesting that I’d like to know whether LAPD has anything on it. Look, I
know from cops in Miami that your people were informed that the painting headed this
way, and that this slob, Munsch, who was wanted for the theft and guard shooting, was here, too, before skipping across the border. No bells ringing?”
Davis shook his head.
“But you will find out for me, won’t you?”
“For a lousy drink?”
“Dinner’s on me, too. Spago. Morton’s. Your choice— provided you give me something I can use.”
“It’s a deal. The Belvedere at the Peninsula Hotel. Got your credit cards with you? It’ll run you a couple of hundred.”
“Nickels and dimes, my friend. But first the info, then dinner.”
Davis ordered another round and pulled out a small cell phone. He settled back in his chair and made three calls, making notes as he did. Lucianne watched, a bemused smile on her face. When he completed the third call, he flipped the phone closed, returned it to his pocket, and said, “This is worth six dinners. The painting ended up with an art restorer named Abraham Widlitz. The art squad—yeah, we have an art squad—they pulled a raid on Widlitz’s studio looking for stolen art. They came up empty except for the painting that was stolen in Miami. Piece of junk, according to our art experts. Widlitz told them the painting had been brought to him on Driscoll’s behalf by a guy named Conrad, only it turns out that’s his first name, Conrad Syms. Mr. Syms is some sort of a gofer for Driscoll and was picked up after leaving Driscoll’s house. He confirmed he took the painting to Widlitz on Driscoll’s orders. How am I doing?”
Lucianne looked up from notes she was taking, grinned, and replied, “Not bad. What else?”
“What do you mean, ‘what else’? I’ve just handed you your story.”
“What’s the disposition so far?”
A shrug from Davis. “They want to bring Driscoll in for questioning but, as you say, he’s out of the country.”
“He’s an accessory to murder,” Lucianne said.
“He’s a rich and powerful guy. Sits on a dozen boards, big arts benefactor.”
“Including the Library of Congress.”
“I’m hungry.”
She placed an American Express card on the bill.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Stay at my place. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Visiting an elderly spinster aunt? Or a nubile young starlet?”
“None of your business.”
“True, but I’ll have the answer before the night is over.”
Davis laughed and stood. “Yeah, I’m sure you will. But you’ll have to drag it out of me.”
“Oooh, sounds like fun. I can’t wait to get started.”
36
Upon returning from lunch, Annabel spent a few minutes with Sue, who sat at a computer in a semi-isolated corner behind the Hispanic division’s reference librarian’s desk. She’d started making copies of each file on the five discs and printing out a hard copy of each.
“How’s it coming?” Annabel asked, sipping from a mug of the intern’s coffee, which, as promised, seemed to instantly jolt her awake.
“Pretty good, only I have to get over to the main reading room. My shift starts at three.”
“I can do some,” Annabel offered.
“No need,” Sue said, reading a printout of the file she’d been copying. “Dolores said she’d take over for me.” As she said it, Dolores arrived.
“Hi,” Annabel said.
“Hi,” Dolores said, slipping into the chair Sue had just vacated. “Where do I start?”
Sue filled her in on where she’d left off, then said, “Got to change into my fancy librarian duds.”
Annabel couldn’t help but smile as she watched the intern run off to change wardrobes, tripping over a chair because her eyes were on a clock on the wall.
“Great kid,” Annabel said, peering over Dolores’s shoulder as the next file to be copied appeared on the screen. The words, of course, were familiar to Annabel, who had read them at home the night before. “If you get bored, give a yell and I’ll do some.”
Dolores sat up straight and looked up at Annabel, as though her presence was startling. “What? Oh, sure, thanks, Annabel. I appreciate it.”
Sue bounded out of the room she used as her dressing room and came to Annabel and Dolores.
“How do I look?” she asked, pirouetting.
“Like the next Librarian of Congress,” Annabel said.
“I wonder who the youngest one ever was,” Sue said.
“A lot older than you,” Dolores said, never taking her eyes from the screen as she scrolled through the text. Annabel was tempted to suggest that if Dolores kept reading what she was supposed to be copying and printing, she’d be there forever. But she held her tongue. It wasn’t her concern how or when the discs were duplicated and their material printed. That was up to Consuela. Sue left for her other LC life, and Annabel went to her space on the upper gallery to resume work on her article.
Dr. Cale Broadhurst had a last-minute, unscheduled lunch that day, too, with Mary Beth Mullin. After his meeting with Consuela Martinez and Annabel Reed-Smith, the Librarian canceled the date he had on his calendar with a former George Washington University colleague and asked Mary Beth to break her own previous engagement.
Seated at an isolated table at the University Club, where Broadhurst had been a member for years, they explored the legal ramifications of the Driscoll–Michele Paul
connection.
“Are you sure Mrs. Reed-Smith is correct in what she says is on the discs?” Mullin asked the Librarian. “It sounds like speculation to me.”
“I don’t think so,” Broadhurst said. “We’ll know precisely what’s on those discs after they’ve been duplicated, and we have a hard copy to read. But it seems prudent to me that we assume the material on them bears on Michele Paul’s murder. I suppose that’s a decision the police will have to make. I’m glad we’re having copies made. At least anything of value to the library will still be in our hands.”
She nodded.
“But I’m not as concerned about that as I am about the public relations ramifications for the library. If David Driscoll, one of its leading benefactors, has been corrupting its professional staff for years, and, if that same David Driscoll was involved in some way with Michele’s murder, and, if the murder was linked to John Bitteman’s disappearance—we’ll be further smeared, this time on every tabloid TV show and in every supermarket rag. The World’s Great Unsolved Mysteries, direct to you from your nation’s library. By releasing the discs to the police, Mary Beth, we might as well hold a press conference to announce to the world that you don’t have to check out murder mysteries from our librarians, all you have to do is hang around and see the real thing.” He said it through tight li
ps, small muscles in each cheek contracting in anger.
“When will you have the hard copy, Cale?”
“Consuela promised them to me this evening.”
“Good. May I make a suggestion?”
“I welcome all the suggestions I can get.”
“Don’t worry about what handing over the discs to the police will mean, Cale. There’s really nothing else that can be done until you speak with Driscoll.”
A rare smile creased Broadhurst’s face. “The timing is dreadful, Mary Beth. Senator Menendez was in the process of seeking funds to buy the Las Casas diaries, but now this Driscoll matter has surfaced, he’s backed off. Can’t say I blame him. I assume the trustees will, too.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” she said, her tone soothing. “No matter what the source of the Las Casas diaries, and no matter how flawed the individuals involved, people will turn a blind eye on how they’re obtained. No one will stand on principle and let something as important as those diaries slip away.”
“I hope you’re right,” Broadhurst said grimly, signing the bill.
“Know what I’m thinking, Mary Beth?” he said as they parted on the sidewalk in front of the club.
“What?”
“If David Driscoll did anything to sully the reputation of the Library of Congress, I just may commit the next murder.”
Mullin watched him walk away, seeming even smaller than he actually was. Two things crossed her mind as she hailed a passing cab: She ached for her boss, and what she’d said inside represented unfortunate reality. Events would steamroll ahead with the force of an avalanche, and those standing in the way couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
“Dr. Broadhurst, a number of people called while you were gone,” his secretary told him upon his return, “but I think you’ll want to see this one first. He says it’s urgent that he speak with you this afternoon.” The slip she handed him said David Driscoll—2:15—Urgent—Call at 555-9100.
“A local number?”
“The Willard. He said he’ll be there all afternoon awaiting your call.”
It was the same suite Driscoll had occupied when he and Broadhurst last met at the venerable landmark hotel. Driscoll had been brusque on the phone: “I’ll only be in Washington until early this evening,” he’d said. “It’s important we talk before I leave.”
“David, do you mind telling me why—?”
“When you get here, Cale.”
Broadhurst was left with a loud click in his ear.
The Librarian arrived at four-fifteen. A tray of hors d’oeuvres and a bar setup had been delivered from room service just prior to Broadhurst’s arrival. Judging from Driscoll’s demeanor on the phone, the Librarian of Congress expected a tense, confrontational atmosphere. Instead, Driscoll greeted him with an outstretched hand and broad smile. “Come in, Cale, make yourself at home. Single-barrel bourbon, if I remember correctly. Blanton’s. The best. Help yourself. The scallops are excellent. They do something special with them. It’s the lime juice, I suppose.”
A drink was the last thing on Broadhurst’s mind, but he poured some bourbon over ice and tasted a scallop. “Yes, quite good, David. To be honest, your call this afternoon took me by surprise. I’ve been trying to reach you since—”
“… since that whore of a reporter, Lucianne Huston, started with her trash on TV about me. Is that what you were about to say?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, Cale. Let me refresh your drink.”
“Thank you, no, I—”
“I insist. I’ll join you. It’s been a hell of a day.”
Drinks in hand, they sat across from each other at a small dining table. The multimillionaire peered out a nearby window, drink in hand, eyes narrowed against his thought of the moment. Broadhurst sat silently, content to wait for what his friend of many years had to say.
Driscoll slowly turned, smiled, raised his glass to Broadhurst, and said, “Here’s to those, Cale, who enjoy making mountains out of molehills.”
Broadhurst didn’t respond as Driscoll continued.
“I presume all the irresponsible reporting that’s been going on has caused you some grief.”
“Yes, it has. The timing was bad.”
“Is there ever a good time for such things? I’m certain you know the high regard in which I hold you and the library.”
“Of course I do, David. Your friendship and generosity to the library have always been deeply appreciated.”
“I’ve done it—I do it—because I believe that without knowledge, without centers of knowledge like LC, the future of this nation is questionable.”
Broadhurst looked down into his drink and pondered where the conversation was headed. He’d heard Driscoll pontificate many times before, wrapping the Republic and its future into the contribution of institutions like the Library of Congress, feigning modesty but seeking adoration, publicly eschewing gratitude but privately lobbying for greater recognition from the library, its benefactors, and Cale Broadhurst. Was that what he was looking for this day?
“I believe,” Driscoll said, “that if a man isn’t willing to take a chance, to put himself on the line, he isn’t much of a man. Agree?”
“I suppose it depends upon the cause.”
“Ah hah, exactly. What greater cause can there be than the quest for perfect knowledge, Cale? ‘And this gray spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star, beyond the utmost bound of human thought.’ Tennyson.”
“Yes, Tennyson.”
Driscoll straightened and became more animated.
“Do you realize, Cale, what possession of the Las Casas diaries would mean to the elevating of man’s knowledge?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It could rewrite the history books if Las Casas’s diaries contradict Columbus’s writings about his voyages. Was Columbus really Spanish rather than Italian? A Spanish Jew? What were his ideas of geography? Was he as benevolent to the natives he encountered on his voyages as his writings would have us believe, or was he a cruel conquerer? What did Las Casas say about these things, and more, Cale? And the map. My God, think of it. Did Columbus plunder those natives and stash millions in gold for himself instead of enriching his benefactors in Spain as he was expected to do? If Las Casas’s writings are ever unearthed, Cale, how we view who we are and how we came to be here could forever be changed.”
What about the payments to Michele Paul, David? Why did you give him money? Did you have anything to do with his murder?
There would be time later to ask those questions. For now, yes, let us talk about Bartolomé de Las Casas, he mused.
“Are you closer to obtaining the diaries, David?”
“The most daunting quest in a lifetime of questing for the truth.”
It took Broadhurst a moment to realize Driscoll was referring to himself.
“Cale, let me be blunt with you. I took unusually daring steps to try and obtain the diaries and map for you.” Broadhurst started to say something but Driscoll held up his hand. “No, no need to thank me, at least not at this juncture. I do not believe a map ever existed.”
Have I been summoned here to be informed of his failure? Broadhurst quietly wondered.
Driscoll went on: “But as you’ve known all along, the map was the least likely to surface. I followed, at great personal sacrifice, the most promising route in search of the map. I was informed by a very reliable source that it existed behind a painting created in Seville that was brought to this country. It turned out not to be true.”
Was that “very reliable source” Michele Paul?
“Was our Dr. Paul your source, David?”
“There you go, Cale, believing what you read in the papers.”
And from the police.
And on the discs.
“David, I certainly don’t wish to be argumentative, but are you telling me there is no truth to the allegation that you’d been paying large sums to Michele Paul in return for … his research?”
Drisc
oll’s smile dismissed the question as not being worthy of a reply.
“It’s important that I know,” Broadhurst said, displeased with the pleading tone that had crept into his voice. “It isn’t just the press reports, David. The police traced Michele’s financial records.”
“So I’ve heard—on television.”
“If it’s not true,” Broadhurst said, injecting optimism into his tone, “if there’s been some mistake, some misinterpretation of the information, I assure you that I, and the library, will stand with you to correct this erroneous report. But if—”
“Yes? But if what?”
Broadhurst, uncomfortable with the palpable tension in the space between them, stood and went to the rolling bar, on which he placed his half-empty glass.
“Cale,” Driscoll called from where he continued to sit.
Broadhurst faced him.
“Yes, David?”
“It is irrelevant whether I helped support Michele’s work. He was a brilliant researcher. People like that need all the financial help they can muster. You should applaud my becoming his patron. And I hasten to remind you that a good number of the ‘finds’ delivered to the Library of Congress—which certainly enhanced your stature as Librarian, and of Librarians before you—resulted from the arrangement Michele Paul and I enjoyed.”
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 24
