Murder at the Library of Congress (25 page)

The computer notes went on to mention that a separate diary prepared by Bartolomé de Las Casas, said to have been written during those three previous voyages, contained information detrimental to Columbus’s claims of having been cheated out of vast riches. Ovando wanted those diaries and offered a large sum to anyone delivering them.

“Did this Ovando ever get the diaries?” Mac asked.

“Not as far as I know. I’ve done my own research on Ovando. There’s no record of his ever taking possession of them.”

“What do those initials mean?” Mac asked.

Annabel turned, looked up at him, and smiled. “My question exactly,” she said, scrolling back to the beginning of the notes. “There are sets of initials all over the discs. Here. I’ve been making note of them.”

She handed her husband a slip of paper on which she’d written “MP,” “LC,” “DD,” “JS,” “DM,” “BE,” “CX,” and “WA.”

“MP?” Mac said. “Michele Paul?”

“Could be. If it does refer to him, it reinforces my belief that he didn’t write these notes.”

“A reasonable assumption. What about ‘DD’? Would that be David Driscoll?”

“The initials fit.”

“What about the rest of them?”

“I don’t know. Except for ‘LC,’ of course.”

“Others?”

“I originally thought some of them might refer to names out of Columbus’s past, one of his sailing companions, a member of his family. I went through all the names in my database but came up empty.”

“Are you finished for the night?” Mac asked.

“No. I have the other discs to get through. You go to bed.”

“Not on your life. If you can stay up all night, so can I.”

“Mac, it’s not a contest.”

“Just want to show I can keep up.”

“Keep up? With me?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

“A newfound spirit of proving age doesn’t matter. If John Glenn can blast off into space, I can stay up all night with my young wife.”

Annabel shook her head. “I’m only five years younger than you.”

“I’m aware of that. Go on, get back to work. I started on that speech I’m supposed to give next month at the D.C. Bar. I’d better get back to work, too.”

He kissed her on the cheek and started to leave. Annabel watched as he took a step, grimaced, then continued through the door favoring his right leg.

“What happened to the magnet?” she called after him.

He stopped, turned, and said, “I took it off. Better get it back on. It works miracles.”

Her thought before returning to the subject that had consumed her all night was, Get that damn leg operated on, and do it fast! It’s got you talking like an old man.

He looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, yes, my love: If you come across anything pertinent to Michele Paul and the payoffs, log when, where, how long between presumed delivery of whatever and the payoff. As they
were supposed to have said in the Watergate case, follow the money.”

But not thinking like an old man. She placed disc number four into the CPU, drew a deep breath, and went back to work.

32

David Driscoll entered Hacienda de los Morales, his restaurant of choice whenever in Mexico City. He navigated the crowded main room and passed through French doors to lush gardens behind the restored fifteenth-century mansion. The table for two he’d reserved in a secluded corner was the only vacant one in the garden. A chair was held out for him. He was seated and served a “Mexican,” rum and tequila with honey and lime juice—a drink he’d grown fond of when visiting Havana’s La Bodeguita del Medio, where Ernest Hemingway had ordered doubles. Two waiters hovered nearby, keeping anxious eyes open for any subtle signal that he wished something else.

He wore a double-breasted navy blazer with gold buttons bearing his family crest, white shirt with pinched collar, solid blue tie, and gray slacks. It was as informal as David Driscoll allowed himself to be, even in the three o’clock heat of the day.

He sat stiffly, eyes straight ahead as he sipped his drink. Nor did his posture change when Emilio Sebastian appeared at the French doors, saw him, nodded, smiled, and approached the table. His floral shirt and white slacks contrasted with Driscoll’s buttoned-up apparel. A waiter pulled out the chair across from Driscoll.

“Buenos días,”
Sebastian said.

“Emilio.”

Sebastian ordered a Bloody Mary. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, David. Your trips to Mexico seem to be less frequent.”

“I come as often as always, Emilio. I simply don’t inform you of my every visit.”

“Of course.” Sebastian looked up through white blooms of the soapberry trees and exclaimed, “A perfect day. We must drink to that, David. How many more perfect days will we have the time to enjoy, huh?”

“When can I have the diaries? Where are they?”

“Well, we seem to have hit a snag,” said Sebastian, moving his elbows off the table—a gesture of retreat.

“What do you mean, a snag? Can I get them or not?”

“Yes, you’ll have them, but …”

“But what?”

“Some additional expenses have come up, and we’ve experienced some delays.”

“Delays?” Driscoll asked, ignoring the matter of additional money.

“Yes, the books are in fragile condition, so they have to be transported with extreme care. We can’t just mail them.”

“But you told me we’d have them by now. Wherever they are, you could have walked them to Los Angeles by now,” Driscoll said, his anger and frustration becoming clear to Sebastian.

“I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to get them for you as soon as possible. If you could just get me another—”

“You want more money now? Pay your expenses from what I already paid you,” Driscoll said loudly, causing several patrons of the restaurant to turn their heads
toward the corner table. “Anyway, why did you have him killed?” he asked, quietly now, his thin lips barely moving now.

Sebastian’s puzzled look was exaggerated. “Have
who
killed?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“Oh, yes, the thief from Florida. What was his name, Munsch?”

“Why did you have him killed?”

“I had him killed for … well, for you, of course.”

Driscoll glanced at the waiters and motioned impatiently for them to leave. They misunderstood and approached.

“Not
now
. Leave us alone,” Driscoll said.

They retreated, casting furtive glances at each other.

Driscoll’s body remained stationary as he turned his head to Sebastian. “Don’t you ever say that again. Do you understand?”

Sebastian smiled. “If you do not wish me to say it, I won’t. But that is the truth.”

“I told you to find him and question him, that was all.”

“And I did find and question him, David. An unsavory type, but that was to be expected considering what he did for a living.”

David Driscoll hated losing patience, detested people who allowed their emotions to dictate their actions. One of his favorite movie characters was E. G. Marshall in
Twelve Angry Men
, who never broke a sweat in the stifling, excited jury room. But he recognized he was losing patience at this moment. He controlled his voice. “I am not interested in your character analysis of Mr. Munsch, Emilio. I
was
interested in how much he knew of who’d ordered the painting stolen. I was interested in whether
he could link me to my man, Conrad. I distinctly told you that should you feel he could provide a link to me, you were to get him out of the country. I provided money to do that. I didn’t mean in a box!”

Sebastian’s drink was served by a waiter who wasn’t sure he should be there and who immediately withdrew. Sebastian raised his glass. “You have nothing to worry about, David. Sending Mr. Munsch out of the country would only provide you with temporary relief. My solution was infinitely more permanent.”

Driscoll waved for the waiters. “Walnut soup,” he said, “and an endive salad with duck.”

His sudden order took Sebastian by surprise. “The same for me.”

Driscoll now adjusted himself so that he leaned closer to Sebastian. “I have never been in the business of having people murdered, Sebastian.”

“Of course you haven’t, David, but I am having trouble understanding your concern. The man was a common thief and murderer—a security guard died during the theft, did he not?”

Driscoll didn’t respond, and Sebastian continued.

“You provided three thousand dollars for me to give to this reptile so that he could fly to Cuba and enjoy the good life. Why should he be rewarded for his vile deeds, David? The money is in more worthy hands. Our police aren’t paid very much, as you know. Three thousand dollars is a great deal of money for them. They are hardworking family men. But most important, you never have to worry about Mr. Munsch again. He told me he was certain he could identify your man, Conrad. He seemed proud that he could. It was my judgment—and you paid me for my judgment, David—it was my considered judgment that he posed a significant threat to you. I
acted in your best interests. An expression of appreciation would be more appropriate.”

Conversation during the meal was one-sided. Sebastian left the subject that had brought them together and talked of the political situation in Mexico, of its soccer team’s prospects in the World Cup, the young woman with whom he’d recently been involved, new restaurants he’d discovered, and other banal topics to which Driscoll barely responded.

“Dessert?” Sebastian asked.

“No. I must leave.”

“As you wish. We should do this more often.” Sebastian grabbed the check from the waiter and laid cash on it.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Driscoll said.

“If it had been, I wouldn’t take such pleasure in doing it. You know, David, you never did tell me why you wanted that particular painting. Hardly a worthwhile addition to your collection.”

“It’s no concern of yours.”

“A shame about your contact at the Library of Congress. A brutal, premature ending to a good life. You didn’t order that, either, did you.”

Driscoll merely stared at him.

They stood in front of the restaurant, where both men had cars and drivers waiting. As Driscoll was about to climb into his limo, Sebastian grabbed his elbow and urged him back. “David,” he said, “there is nothing to worry about. Justice was served when our police were forced to shoot Munsch as he tried to escape. There is no one now who can link you to what happened in Miami.” Sebastian’s laugh verged on being a girlish giggle. “Your worries are over. Keep in touch. Smile, my American friend. It’s a beautiful day. How many more will there be?”

Driscoll said to his driver, “Airport.” He closed his
eyes and took a series of deep breaths. Sebastian had been right, he decided. With Munsch dead, justice had indeed been served, and there was no one who could link him to the theft of the Reyes painting in Miami and the unfortunate shooting of the security guard there.

But his eyes snapped open.

There’s always someone, and I’ve just left him.

33

Dr. Cale Broadhurst waited in the anteroom to Senator Richard Menendez’s office in the Russell Senate Office Building. He’d been there for fifteen minutes, the senator’s delay due to an unexpected floor vote.

Broadhurst had spent most of the morning at LC huddling with members of his management team, including Mary Beth Mullin; a representative from Public Affairs who knew from experience with Broadhurst never to refer to that office’s activities as putting a “spin” on something; Broadhurst’s chief of staff, Helen Kelly; and a senior staffer from Congressional Relations. Those in attendance were treated to a rare burst of anger from the Librarian.

“I’ve only been Librarian for three years. I came here expecting to spend my days and nights helping guide this institution to even greater prominence than it currently enjoys, and to find the money to do that. I expected rocky going in some areas, and turns in the road that would require some skillful maneuvering. But I did not expect to have a scandal like this Driscoll and Michele Paul matter taking center stage. Does anybody here remember what Harry Truman said about this special place? He said in a letter to one of my predecessors, Luther Evans, on the Library’s hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary,
‘It,’ this institution, ‘has stoutly defended the freedom of mind, and the right of the quiet voice of truth to be heard.’
Quiet voice of truth!
Instead, we have the shrill voice of a TV reporter telling the world that our people sell out their research for personal gain, and maybe get murdered in the bargain. Some security guard in Miami is killed and that death is linked to us. A small-time hoodlum from Miami is killed by police in Mexico and
that
incident is woven into this scenario created by the media, Ms. Huston its spear carrier. Or thrower.”

“Has Driscoll been directly confronted about this, Cale?” Public Affairs asked.

“He’s out of the country. Mary Beth has been trying to reach him.”

“Lucianne Huston has been trying, too.”

“And we’d better get to him before she does,” Broadhurst said.

Helen Kelly asked, “Is anyone besides Ms. Huston suggesting that David Driscoll might have had a … well, had a hand in Paul’s murder?”

“If so, it had better not be anyone from this place,” Broadhurst snapped. Then he realized the pettiness of his outburst.

“The police are obviously examining that possibility,” Mullin said.

“It’s a ridiculous notion,” Broadhurst said, getting up from behind his desk. “Preposterous. I have to leave. Senator Menendez has asked for a meeting.”

“There’s lots of talk in Congress about this,” LC’s Congressional Relations rep said. “Some administration haters on the House Administration Committee are floating the possibility of a hearing.”

“That’s all we need with the budget being debated,” Broadhurst said. “Remember what else Truman said? ‘The buck stops here.’ In this case, it stops in this office,
with this Librarian. But for now, you’re all carrying the buck with me. Let’s meet again this afternoon. Thank you for coming—and for your support.”

The senior senator from Florida burst through the door, followed closely by two aides. He smiled broadly as he slapped Broadhurst on the shoulder and said, “Come in, come in. Sorry I kept you waiting. The Rules Committee threw us a last-minute curve. They seem to enjoy doing that these days.”