Murder at the Library of Congress (29 page)

“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?”

Driscoll’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.”

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!”