Murder at the Library of Congress (23 page)

“Authorities at the Library of Congress, its Jefferson Building behind me, have been uncooperative in my search for answers to the many riddles surrounding Michele Paul’s murder. Their silence speaks volumes to this reporter.

“I’m Lucianne Huston reporting live from Washington.”

The staffers gathered in the kitchen looked at one another in bewilderment as someone removed a videotape from the VCR and squeezed out of the room. The others
followed, buzzing about what they’d just seen. Rich Wilson came to where Annabel stood outside the kitchen.

“Is all of what she reported true?” he asked.

“Who knows? There are more rumors flying around this place than cards in the card catalog. The reporter, Lucianne Huston, had asked me about David Driscoll, so I suppose there’s some truth to what she says about him.”

“That’s a bombshell.”

“More like a land mine someone just stepped on. Where there’s one, there’s bound to be others.”

They moved to an empty cubicle.

“Annabel, will this have any bearing—I mean, an adverse bearing on the article you’re writing or the issue itself?”

“I don’t know. At the moment, the murder is
over
bearing. But the article will be about Las Casas, not Michele Paul. I do know that the library is being turned upside down by all that’s happened. Lucianne Huston is in the process of painting it to be the devil’s crib itself.”

“She’s pretty good at that. Fill me in on how your article is going.”

“Sure.”

After giving Wilson an idea of her approach and some of the better bits from her research, Annabel went to the Hispanic reading room and looked in on Consuela Martinez.

“Come in, come in,” Consuela said. “How’s everything going?”

“Despite my best intentions, much too slowly. You?”

“Doing my best, which isn’t very good. What’s new with the investigation?”

“Lucianne just gave a live report on it on the noon news.”

“Really? What did she have to say?”

“Lots.” Annabel recapped what she’d seen on TV.

“Wow! I’d heard something about David Driscoll having paid Michele for some information, but now it’s definite?”

“According to Lucianne. Did you ever have an inkling that something like that might have been going on?”

“Absolutely not. If I had, I would have immediately brought it to the Librarian’s attention and probably taken pleasure in doing it, I’m ashamed to admit.”

“Why do
you
think Driscoll would have paid Michele, Consuela?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? It had to have been for something Michele was giving Driscoll. His research. I mean, what else would he have to offer? Unless …”

“Unless?”

“Some personal reason? Blackmail of some sort?”

“Perhaps.”

“No, it had to be professional, Annabel. Michele must have been using his research findings to point Driscoll in the direction of rare Hispanic finds, books, manuscripts. There’s no question about it, David Driscoll has come up with more important discoveries in recent years than any other single collector.”

“And donated a number of them to LC.”

“Yes, which makes his having paid Michele that much more unfathomable. If Michele knew where to locate these treasures, all he had to do was tell us and we would have gone after them.”

“Except Paul wouldn’t have augmented his income that way.”

“True, and if we’d gone after those materials as an institution, it would have had to be done in a public way. Having David Driscoll act as the go-between avoided having those items end up on the auction block and driving up the price. Is someone contacting Driscoll?”

“From LC? I don’t know. Cale may be. I understand that Huston, too, is trying to reach Driscoll, and I’m sure the police will want to see him.”

“This thing is exploding, Annie.”

“It certainly has that potential. I’m going to grab a sandwich in the cafeteria.”

As she was leaving, Consuela said, “Oh, you asked me whether I knew someone named Sebastian.”

“That’s right. His name came up in Michele Paul’s notes regarding the artist Reyes.”

“I realized later that I do know of someone by that name. I’ve only heard of him, never met him. He’s Mexican, lives in Mexico City last I heard. He’s a collector of Mexican books and art although you won’t find him at any of the usual gatherings of collectors. From what I know of him, he’s a crook wired into the higher echelons of the Mexican government and power elite. Here, I dug this out. It says he’s suspected of laundering drug money and using his import-export business to bring in drugs from Cuba.”

Annabel took the small, faded newspaper clipping from Consuela, read it, and handed it back. “Lovely fellow.”

“Why would Michele Paul be involved with someone like that?”

“I didn’t say he was, just that he noted the name Sebastian a few times in his file about Reyes. I’ll be back in an hour. I think I’d better hunker down for the afternoon in that lovely space you’ve given me and get some serious work done.”

The cafeteria was busy when Annabel arrived and she joined a long line at the sandwich section. She was eventually served and sought out an empty table. There weren’t any. But then she spotted Sue Gomara.

“Mind if I join you?” Annabel asked.

“Oh, sure. Please do.”

Annabel noticed that Sue was dressed for duty in Hispanic—jeans and a plaid shirt.

“Back to Cuba, Sue?”

“What? Oh, the newspapers. No. Consuela gave me a new assignment, going through some small collections and logging what’s in them. I’m definitely moving up in the world.”

“One small step toward becoming the Librarian of Congress,” Annabel said. “Good for you. Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“Better than filing Cuban propaganda. I mean, keeping track of what Cuban newspapers are saying is important.”

“No need to explain. Congratulations on your new responsibilities.”

Annabel started on her sandwich.

“Did you know Michele Paul real well?” Sue asked.

“No. I just met him a few times. You probably had more contact with him than I did.”

“I really didn’t like the guy, but you know that. It’s horrible what happened to him, his head bashed in and all. Have you heard anything more about who did it?”

“No. The police are—”

Sue guffawed. “The police! I don’t think they can find their way to work.”

“Pretty harsh assessment,” Annabel said. “You’ve had some dealings with them?”

“I sure have, and every one of them has been bad. I’ve been getting obscene phone calls for over a month now, but every time I report it, the cops sort of shrug it away. I suppose I’ll have to be killed by this nut before they’ll take it seriously.”

Annabel said, “I was an attorney in my former life. Obscene callers are generally passive types.”

You could tell by her face that Sue was thinking, Not you, too.

“That must be terribly upsetting. He’ll probably become tired of calling and stop,” Annabel said, finishing her sandwich. “If it keeps up, tell me. Mac may have an idea or two. Thanks for sharing the table with me. Have to get back.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Annabel was alone in the space on the upper gallery that afternoon, with the exception of Sue Gomara, who sat at her small desk going through the contents of a file box at her feet.

“Made any discoveries yet?” Annabel asked.

“No, only I suppose it’s all interesting to somebody. This guy Koser collected a lot of strange things. He was big into Haiti.”

“I love Haitian art. My husband and I have bought a few pieces over the years. What other collections will you be going through?”

Sue glanced at a note on her desk. “Aaronsen and Covington. I’m almost done with the Koser box.”

At four, Annabel remembered that Mac had had a two o’clock appointment with his orthopedic surgeon, Giles Scuderi. She called the apartment.

“Just came through the door,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine, but the question is how are
you
? What did Giles say?”

“What he always says, that I need surgery.”

“And?”

“I told him to go ahead and schedule it. He assures me that my knee will be good as new. It’s an outpatient procedure. He’s getting back to me with a date.”

Annabel broke out in a self-satisfied smile. “Great,” she said.

“I suppose so. What’s new at LC?”

“Lots, although I’m trying to stay focused on my research. Lucianne Huston did a report on the noon news. She claims David Driscoll was paying Michele Paul really big bucks, ostensibly for his research findings.”

“No surprise. She talked to you about it and to us at dinner.”

“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.”