Broadhurst stared intently at Driscoll. Yes, and some, while valuable, had not benefited the library all that much. Driscoll had gotten out of his chair and stood at the table, his chin jutting out in defiance of what Broadhurst would say next. The Librarian wanted to ask about John Bitteman, about what role Driscoll played in Michele Paul’s murder, about so many things. He would have if the phone hadn’t rung.
Instead, he watched and listened as the founder of the nation’s largest discount brokerage firm said, “Yes, Constance, I’m here with Cale Broadhurst…. They are? What do they want? … All right, put them on.”
After thirty seconds, Driscoll said, “I’ll be returning to Los Angeles tonight. I’ll be happy to meet with you tomorrow—with my lawyer. What was that? No, there’s no need to have someone meet me tonight when I arrive. I’m a man of my word, Detective. My lawyer and I will be at your office at ten. Oh, and please, do not harass my wife. She isn’t well. Thank you.”
Broadhurst looked away as Driscoll hung up, pretending he hadn’t heard. When he again looked at Driscoll, he saw a man whose defiant stance had been replaced by a sagging humility.
“Thank you for coming, Cale,” Driscoll said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Broadhurst asked, meaning it.
“No, thank you. A misunderstanding, that’s all. Easily resolved. Rest assured, Cale, that I continue to pursue those diaries. I have my exclusive sources. I assume you want me to do that.”
“I … yes, of course, David. We’ll all be in your debt once more if you’re successful. Safe trip home. My best to Constance.”
Broadhurst returned to the Madison Building and rode the elevator to his office floor. Waiting anxiously for him was Mary Beth Mullin, who followed him into his office.
“Cale,” she said, “there’s something vitally important I must discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“Public Affairs received a call a half hour ago from Lucianne Huston. She called from Los Angeles. It’s about David Driscoll.”
37
“Annie, it’s Consuela. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
Annabel checked her watch. Five-thirty. Wow. She raised her head wearily from the notes. Almost time to pack up and go home.
She came downstairs into the reading room and went to Consuela’s office, but on impulse stopped first to say hello to Dolores, who was still working at duplicating files and printing out the discs. She was so intensely focused on the task that Annabel said nothing.
Consuela, who was on the phone when Annabel arrived, waved her in, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Only be a minute.”
Annabel browsed a copy of the library’s latest annual report until Consuela ended her phone conversation with “No, not a problem at all. I sort of expected it. See you later.”
“Hi,” Annabel said.
“Hi. Getting anything done up in your rabbit warren?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Once I realized how to structure the article, I’ve been able to focus my research, aiming a rifle instead of a shotgun. I see you’ve still got Dolores hard at work.”
“Sure have. Annie, can I impose upon you again?”
“I’m not aware you already have. What’s up?”
“Can you come to the meeting tonight when I deliver the discs and hard copy to Cale?”
“What time?”
“I told him six-thirty.”
“Sure. Nothing on the home-front agenda tonight except Mac and getting to bed. Staying up a few extra hours won’t kill me—I don’t think.”
“I’ll order in dinner. Preferences?”
“Keep it light. A heavy meal will sink me, literally. I might as well go back upstairs and keep working. Yell when you want me.”
Despite Annabel’s determination to continue working on her article, the road to hell being paved with such intentions, she found it hard to concentrate. She turned on her laptop computer and inserted the disc on which she’d copied sections of the five discs found in the Aaronsen collection. “Damn,” she muttered as the screen filled with words. “I know I took this disc out when I went with Consuela to see Broadhurst.”
She fast-forwarded through the pages until reaching the copy she’d made of the final fifteen pages from the fifth disc. Then, using the cursor, she slowly scrolled down through the pages, brow furrowed, tongue running over her lips as she went. She repeated the process three times, frequently stopping to make notes. As she was about to start a fourth reading, she realized she hadn’t told Mac that she wouldn’t be home for dinner. She called; he answered on the first ring.
“I’m going to be late, Mac. A meeting with Cale and others.”
“About?”
“The discs and what’s on them. They’re being duplicated and printed out now. The meeting won’t start until that process is completed, so I can’t give you a definite time.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“No, the adrenaline kicked in, and I had a cup of coffee after lunch that would wake the dead. Consuela is ordering dinner. Why don’t you pop down to the hotel, have a drink and dinner, and get to bed. Don’t wait up for me.”
“I’ll do what you suggest about a drink and dinner, but I’ll be up when you get here.”
“Okay, but it may be late.”
“Just don’t stick that pretty neck out too far, Annie. You’re there to research an article, not end up knee-deep in a murder case.”
“Take care of your own knees, darling.”
Annabel willed herself to get back to focusing on the article.
While she worked, Mac took Rufus down in the elevator for a walk, returned to the apartment, made a few phone calls, and started out the door to go to the Watergate Hotel’s dining room for dinner. The buzzer from the front desk of the South Building stopped him.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Smith, you have a visitor.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Ms. Huston. Shall I send her up?”
“Really?” He paused to think. “Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.”
Lucianne was pacing the large lobby when Mac stepped off the elevator. “A pleasant surprise,” he said, shaking her hand. “What brings you here?”
She smiled and said, “Couldn’t it be that I simply wanted to stop in for a friendly visit?”
“Sure, but unlikely. This isn’t Mount Pleasant, Iowa. Friendly visits are usually preceded by a phone call.”
“I didn’t have time. I just got off a plane from Los Angeles.”
“I was just heading to the hotel for dinner,” Mac said. “Buy you a drink?”
“Sure, dinner, too, if you’re in the mood for company.”
They left the lobby and headed down into the mini-mall of shops that linked the buildings in the Watergate complex.
“Where’s your wife?” Lucianne asked.
“At the library.”
“Working late?”
“Yeah. The deadline for her article is coming up fast and she’s feeling under the gun. So to speak.”
“I tried to call her there but didn’t get any answer on the number I have. I assume you know how to reach her. What’s new there on the murder and David Driscoll?”
Mac stopped walking, turned, and asked, “Is that why you showed up at the apartment, to see if I can reach Annabel for you?”
“That’s one reason. I came to see you, too.”
He grunted and resumed walking.
“You’re limping,” she said.
“A trick knee, that’s all. I’d say it’s an old war or football injury, but the fact is it’s just an old man’s wear and tear.”
“Make up something exotic.”
“Maybe I will.”
They sat at a table in the Potomac Lounge and ordered drinks. Lucianne took in her surroundings before saying, “The famous Watergate, symbol of the Washington power elite.”
“And occasional scandal,” Mac added.
“Speaking of scandal�
�.”
“You never quit, do you? I’m sure you know more than I do.”
“And you’re probably right, although I was hoping your wife’s insider status at the library would add, well, insider information.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
A tourist couple recognized Lucianne and stopped to tell her how much they enjoyed her work on television and asked for an autograph, which she graciously provided.
“What were you doing in Los Angeles?” Mac asked after the tourists left the table.
“Tracking down Driscoll.”
“Successfully?”
“I didn’t find him, but I was successful in other ways.”
Their drinks were delivered. She raised her glass: “Oogy wawa!”
Mac laughed. “What’s that?”
“Zulu for ‘cheers.’ Learned it the last time I was in Africa.”
“I’ll try to remember it next time I go on a binge there.”
“Impresses the natives, knowing their language. Sure there’s nothing new on this end about the murder?”
“I’m sure, but tell me about your success in L.A.”
“Okay, I will. No, I’ll do even better than that. I’m sitting here with one of D.C.’s top criminal attorneys. Let me—”
“Former criminal attorney.”
“But still itching to get back in the saddle. Am I right?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. Go on. I’m listening.”
“Pretend you’re back in court, in this case defending someone like David Driscoll.”
“All right.”
“And pretend I’m your chief investigator. Okay, here’s what I’ve learned from impeccable sources. David Driscoll hires a two-bit hustler in Miami to break in and steal a painting from a small museum of sorts, Casa de Seville. The artist was named Fernando Reyes, a hack, I’m told. While this petty thief—his name was Warren Munsch—does the deed, a security guard at the museum is shot and killed. A part-time maintenance worker at the museum left a skylight open for Munsch and his cronies, two of them, to gain access to the museum. The Miami police pick up the maintenance worker, who turned in Munsch’s two accomplices. They, in turn, ratted on Mr. Munsch.”
She checked Mac for a reaction.
“I’m with you so far.”
She pressed on. “Munsch took the Reyes painting to Los Angeles and delivered it to one of Driscoll’s gofers, a so-called actor named Conrad Syms. Syms then took the painting to an art restorer named Widlitz, Abraham Widlitz.”
“To have it restored?” Mac asked.
“No, to see whether there was something hidden behind it.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a map.”
“By Señor de Las Casas?”
“Exactly. I just got that information yesterday from my source.”
“Was there a map?”
“No. Mr. Widlitz was questioned extensively by the L.A. police. Nothing behind the painting except crude preliminary pencil sketches by the artist.”
Mac held up his hand, said, “Driscoll went through all this and came up empty?”
“Yup.”
Mac’s hand went up again. “You’re sure that David Driscoll was behind this?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Doesn’t play for me, Lucianne. A man of Driscoll’s wealth and stature doesn’t go out and hire a two-bit Miami thug to steal a two-bit painting.”
“Not directly. Leaves plenty of layers between him and those who dirty their hands. Mr. Syms, aspiring movie star, tells the police that he acted on Driscoll’s behalf, and Widlitz confirms the painting came from Driscoll. Pretty strong evidence against your client?”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Okay, now in our little role-playing exercise, I’m now the prosecutor. Here’s the scenario I come up with. It’s been established that Driscoll was paying Michele Paul on occasion lots of money for Paul’s research findings. This titan of industry and patron of
the arts uses Paul’s research over the years to identify and uncover rare books and
manuscripts, which he generously donates to the Library of Congress. This makes him a big man in the eyes of those whose approval he seeks, people like Dr. Broadhurst and others of that genteel, academic ilk. Making money is fine, but it doesn’t buy you the cultured status you yearn for.”
“Fair enough. What are you as the prosecutor going to do, charge my client as an accessory to the Miami security guard killing?”
“Yes, but I’m not stopping at that.”
“What other charges do I have to defend? Lay it all out, Ms. Prosecutor. Remember, we have disclosure laws.”
“I wouldn’t think of withholding anything from a lawyer of your stature, Mr. Smith. After years of coming up with interesting items to donate to the library, Driscoll decides to go after the really big one, the Las Casas diaries and map, if they even exist. Michele Paul tells Driscoll he can help him locate the diaries and map, and Driscoll sends Paul a big check. Paul tells Driscoll the map may be behind this second-rate painting in Miami. That spurs Driscoll into action. He hires Munsch and his gang of bumblers, through intermediaries, of course. The painting is stolen, the guard gets offed, and things start to unravel for your client.”
“We’ve already gone over that,” Mac said, shaking his head at the waitress, who’d asked if they’d like more drinks.
“True,” said Lucianne, “but Driscoll can’t stop there. Let’s say Michele Paul decides he wants more money than he’s been getting from Driscoll. Let’s say he tells Driscoll he intends to reveal their arrangement to the Librarian of Congress and others who wouldn’t be too happy with the news. Paul must have known about the bungled Miami heist and could identify Driscoll as an accessory to that theft and murder. So, your client, David Driscoll, has to get rid of Michele Paul.”
Mac laughed. “David Driscoll—my client—didn’t come into the Library of Congress, Ms. Prosecutor, and hit Michele Paul over the head. Not his style.”
“Of course it isn’t, but again, people like Driscoll can always find someone else to do their dirty work. He did in Miami; no reason he couldn’t have paid someone in the Library of Congress.”
“Prove it!”
“I was hoping to get some help with that from you and your wife.”
“You’d like the defense to help the prosecution make its case?”
She nodded.
“Nice try.”
“Driscoll is going to be brought in and questioned when he gets back to L.A.”
“If I were his attorney, I’d be with him.”
“I’d love another drink.”
“One’s my limit, at least tonight.”
“I don’t set limits on myself.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“What I haven’t figured out is the connection between Michele Paul’s murder and the disappearance of that other Las Casas researcher, John Bitteman.”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
“Has to be. That’s why I want to talk to Annabel. I assume she told you about discs some intern found in a collection back in the stacks.”
“You know about them?”
“Yes.”
“Another impeccable source?”
“Of course.”
“From inside the Library of Congress?”
A noncommittal shrug.
“Well, Ms. Huston, I am duly impressed with your ability to get people to confide in you.”
“What was on those discs, Mac?”
“How would I know?”
“My source tells me your wife ended up with them.”
“Maybe all your sources aren’t as impeccable as you think.”
Lucianne smiled. “I’m pretty good at reading people, and judging from my read on you at this moment, I think my source was better than impeccable.”
“Think what you wish.”
He signaled for a check.
“My treat,” Lucianne said.
“Goo
d. I think I’ll skip dinner here in the hotel, go back and make myself something simple.”
“Am I invited back with you?”
“No.”
They stood. Lucianne extended her hand, which Mac took.
“I’m not offended at being disinvited for dinner,” Lucianne said.
“And no offense intended. I just think we’ve run out of things to talk about.”
“Maybe you’re right, but there’ll be more—things to talk about.”
“Undoubtedly.”
He walked away, paused at the entrance to the lounge, looked back and saw her standing next to the table, hands on her hips, head cocked, a smug, knowing smile on her lips. Another tourist came up to her and handed her a napkin on which Lucianne scrawled her signature. For a moment, Mac considered going back and extending the evening with her. There was something strangely compelling about being close to someone who managed to know so much about things she wasn’t supposed to know anything about. He’d enjoyed the what-if exercise, the role playing, being cast as a criminal defense lawyer again.
Murder at the Library of Congress Page 25
