Murder at the Library of Congress (17 page)

“Sex and beauty are inseparable, Ms. Gomara, like life and consciousness. The intelligence that goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.”

She was about to slam the receiver into its cradle when he said, “Let care kill a cat, we’ll laugh and grow fat,” and laughed.

Shakespeare? My obscene caller is quoting Shakespeare?

“Cats are such a female thing,” he said, and then used a crude sexual term in describing what he wanted to do with Sue.

She hung up and stood shaking, staring at the phone. It rang.

Sue left the apartment and walked quickly to the restaurant. As she passed a phone booth, she stopped, turned, and tried to see the man in it. His back was to her. Two other men walked by, and she stared at them, too.

Who are you?

No more waiting for the calls to “persist.” In the morning, she’d demand that the police do something.

She told her friend Hope about the latest call as they sat on the cafe’s patio. “Don’t wait for the police,” Hope said. “Buy one of those recorders that activate whenever the phone is lifted. Get the bastard on tape.”

“I will,” Sue said. “First thing tomorrow. He quoted Shakespeare.”

“The creep?”

“Yes. I think it was Shakespeare, something about killing a cat.”

“Your cat, Wendell?”

“Don’t even say it.”

She returned to the apartment at nine-thirty. The message light on her machine was blinking.

“Sue, it’s Rick. Sorry I missed you. Hope you’re out having fun. Forgot to give you the hotel I’m staying at in Cleveland.” He reeled off the number. “Love you, baby. Pleasant dreams.” He ended with a loud kiss.

She tried him at the hotel but he wasn’t in his room. She then called the MPD and reported the most recent call.

“We really can’t do much tonight,” the desk officer said. “Come on by tomorrow and talk to the officer handling your case.”

“And what if this creep decides to break in here tonight and rape me, kill me?”

“Unlikely, Ms. Gomara. These phone stalkers are generally passive types and—”

She yelled at him.

“Okay, okay, calm down, ma’am. We can have a car make a couple of passes by your house tonight, but that’s about it. Why don’t you buy one of those tape recorders that records phone conversations? They’re not expensive. But your best bet is to come in here in the morning and …”

The night was spent curled up with Wendell watching old movies on TV and drinking wine. She called in sick in the morning, bought a tape recorder, stopped at MPD headquarters and filed another complaint, which resulted in her case officer promising to put into motion a
means of tracking the calls, and spent the rest of the day in bed waiting for the phone to ring.

It didn’t. Which was worse than if it had.

21

Cale Broadhurst entered the Beaux-Arts Willard Hotel, a block from the White House, and paused in its opulent galleried lobby as he always did when there, to admire the huge chandeliers and elaborately carved ceiling. The hotel’s grand reopening in 1986 after eighteen years of being shuttered was cause for celebration in Washington. The Willard, with a rich 150-year-old history, was one of the city’s enduring monuments, like the Washington and Lincoln memorials, but providing more amenities.

David Driscoll’s suite was on the seventh floor, one floor above the State Department–vetted suites reserved for visiting heads of state.

“Good morning,” the patrician businessman said to Broadhurst as he opened the door for his visitor and led him to the living room, where a coffee service had been delivered by room service. “Right on time, but no surprise.”

“I find people who are late to be bores, don’t you agree?” Broadhurst said.

“Or worse. Coffee? The melon is fresh.”

“Just coffee.”

The Librarian sat in an upholstered, mahogany reproduction Queen Anne chair.

“They say this was the suite Julia Ward Howe stayed in when she wrote ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ ”
Driscoll said absently. “Supposedly inspired by Union soldiers marching beneath the window singing ‘John Brown’s Body.’ Apocryphal?”

Broadhurst laughed. “No, I think it’s true, David. Whether President Grant coined the term lobbyist because of people seeking favors from him in the Willard’s lobby is conjecture. Good flight?”

“Yes.”

Driscoll wore a gray pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, solid burgundy tie, and highly polished black wingtip shoes. Broadhurst was in his “uniform”—gray slacks, gray tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt, floppy yellow bow tie, and brown leather shoes with thick soles, adding an inch to his height.

Driscoll had remained standing. Now, he sat, carefully crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and made a face as though he had bitten into something sour. “So, Cale,” he said, “have you made any progress on lining up funds?”

The question threw Broadhurst for a moment because he’d been poised to ask the first question: Are the Las Casas diaries and map really in hand—and for sale?

He answered Driscoll’s question: “Yes, although much of it is tentative. I’m at a disadvantage in not knowing how much money will be needed, but I do have expressions of support. Senator Menendez says he’s willing to introduce a resolution to fund, at least in part, the acquisition of the diaries.”

Driscoll drew a breath. “Naturally, I’m willing to put up the money to buy the diaries, if that becomes necessary. Frankly, I’d prefer that the only other source of money be Congress, not private parties. The people of the United States should be the ones who bring such important documents into the Library of Congress.”

The people, and David Driscoll, Broadhurst thought.

“Is there something to buy, David?”

“I believe there will be,” he said, his coffee cup at eye level.

“Care to share the source with me?” Broadhurst asked.

A thin smile crossed Driscoll’s lips.

“I understand you’re reluctant to do that at this juncture, but it will be necessary—eventually.”

“Of course. But let’s explore this question of sources for a moment. You’re no stranger to valuable manuscripts and books coming to the library from—what shall we say?—from unconventional, unexpected sources.”

Broadhurst narrowed his eyes.

“The Lucas collection I managed to obtain for you is one good case in point.”

“True.”

“Precious books, rare maps, indeed entire collections lie submerged for generations, for centuries, then find their way to the surface through a fissure created by need or greed, human tragedy or simple dumb luck.”

“And which of the above applies to Las Casas?”

“A little of each, I suppose. You know, putting one’s hands on something as valuable as the Las Casas materials isn’t easy. It’s a very competitive market out there, Cale, not competition in the traditional business sense, but every bit as fierce, perhaps more so.”

Broadhurst said, “Are you saying we’re facing serious competition for Las Casas?”

“Of course. You didn’t expect otherwise, did you?”

“No, but it’s a matter of degree. If the diaries and map—Is there a map?”

“I believe so.”

“If the diaries and map do exist—and I take it from what you’ve said that they do—then the matter of origin becomes important. I have the feeling they’re not about
to be offered through traditional channels.” Broadhurst’s raised eyebrows asked for verification.

“Let’s just say, Cale, that in order to acquire Las Casas for the Library of Congress, I will have had to take unusual steps.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I’m unable to be more specific.”

“We can’t expect Menendez to propose a Senate resolution to purchase materials through less than savory channels.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. Two things will be needed from you.”

“Should I take notes?”

Driscoll ignored the sarcasm. “First, as I said, if I put up private money, there will have to be congressional involvement. This will be a national acquisition. I’ll be putting up the money in the first place—but the final purchasing must be done by the government.”

Driscoll waited for a response. Receiving none, he continued: “Second, I’ll expect a tangible expression of public recognition from Congress and LC.”

“In the form of?”

“As far as LC is concerned, a research center bearing my name within the Hispanic and Portuguese division. And you’d have to accept my appraisal of the material—and, as before, give me a letter saying so, with a generous valuation on what I provided with my … shall we say, down payment.”

“That would not be my decision to make unilaterally, David. Our Congressional overseers.”

“Over whom you have considerable influence.”

“And Congress itself?”

“Acknowledgment of my contribution to having secured the diaries and map for the American people.”

“Which you would certainly have earned.”

“I’ve already incurred considerable expenses.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“And I happily incur them. My reimbursement will come from having been instrumental in seeing a preeminent institution of learning become the keeper of such monumentally important documents as created by Las Casas during his journeys with Columbus. The diaries are all about having discovered
us
, Cale. Now, we’ve discovered them. They belong in the Library of Congress, not in some private collection.”

“I agree, of course.”

“Should I go forward?” Driscoll asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m flying home after lunch. I see you have one of the star crusading TV journalists, Ms. Huston, to contend with.”

Broadhurst laughed. “Our public affairs people are keeping her in check.”

“Michele Paul. His murder still a mystery?”

“Yes.”

“It’s my understanding that he was reclusive in his work.”

“Reclusive and exclusive. He tended to work alone.”

“We had met. Has his apartment been examined for any Las Casas or other materials he might have had there?”

“Yes. By Consuela Martinez—she’s our Hispanic division chief—Consuela and a writer named Annabel Reed-Smith were there yesterday. They brought some files back with them to the library. A truck and crew are returning today to pick up everything else.”

“Annabel Reed-Smith? She has a gallery here in Washington.”

“Exactly. She’s spending a few months at LC researching a Las Casas article for
Civilization
.”

“I met her once or twice. Beautiful woman, as I recall.”

“Very attractive. And knowledgeable. Her husband, Mackensie, and I are friends. Tennis partners.”

Driscoll stood and went to the window. Broadhurst followed. They looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“I trust you know how appreciative I am of what you’re attempting to do, David.”

Driscoll replied without looking at Broadhurst, “It’s the least I can do for my country.”

On his way out, Broadhurst paused again in the Willard’s lobby to soak up a little of its genteel ambiance before returning to the reality of the Library of Congress and murder. He glanced around for friends. Ayn Rand would have winced at Driscoll’s parting comment, he thought. Driscoll wasn’t doing this for his country. He was doing it to satisfy his own needs, which was fine, Broadhurst knew, continuing to think of Rand, the philosopher and novelist, who believed no one ever did anything that wasn’t self-serving, and that good things happened because of self-interest. Driscoll was like any big contributor to a church or synagogue, Broadhurst mused. After a while, he begins to think he owns the place—and later to confuse himself with God. Oh, yes, and he wants to get a receipt for the maximum valuation of his contributions, to smooth the way for deductions with the IRS. I wonder when he and Michele Paul met? Probably at one or another of our social functions. Whatever Driscoll’s motives, a wonderful thing could result, for the Library of Congress and for the American people.

And for me, he silently admitted.

22

Once the two private detectives had put Munsch in the front passenger seat of their car, he realized there was nothing he could do but go along with them, at least for the moment. His mind raced: Maybe they’d let him use a public restroom, or he could pretend to be carsick. Maybe he could talk them out of whatever it was they intended to do with him. Maybe … He was tired and confused. If that whore hadn’t taken his money; if Garraga hadn’t shot the fat security guard … Once I get to Cuba—
if
I get to Cuba—things will be different. I’ll start doing business in the daylight and …

“Comfortable, Warren?” the American PI asked from behind the wheel, sounding as though he didn’t care what the answer was.

“Yeah, I’m comfortable,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the Mexican sitting behind him. “Where are we going?”

“You ask one more time where we’re going, Warren, and we’re going to have to do something to shut you up.”

“Pardon me for living. I like to know where I’m going, that’s all. Make plans, you know?” The bravado in his voice wasn’t matched by the tremors in his stomach.

They slowly lurched through the sluggish traffic of Mexico City before breaking free on a short run of open road leading to the pretty, leafy suburb of Coyoacán.
The driver slowed as he passed the Leon Trotsky Museum, then turned onto a road flanked by stately colonial homes. He pulled into a circular driveway in front of a two-story house whose entire front was covered with indigo and terra-cotta tiles. Munsch had valiantly tried to keep his emotions in check during the ride, his nonstop questions and wise-guy chatter his outlet. But now that they’d evidently reached their destination, the dread that consumed him came to the surface. He turned to the driver and held out his hands, palms up, eyes bulging with fear. “Look,” he said in a faltering voice, “I don’t know you guys and I don’t want to know you. All I want to do is get out ’a Mexico and get to Cuba. I don’t know what this client of yours is paying you, but I’ll do better.”

The American PI laughed. “That so, Warren? You’re a rich guy, huh?”