Murder at the Library of Congress (7 page)

No need to send Morrie and Garraga their share of the money now, he decided. Where they were going, they couldn’t spend it anyway. Where he was going …

Where
was
he going?

The first thing was to get out of the country. You could fly to Cuba from Mexico City. That was it, he decided, Havana, drinking
mojitos
like Hemingway with a bunch of wild Cuban women hanging over him. As long as the U.S. and Fidel didn’t decide to bury the hatchet, he was home free.

“A drink?” the flight attendant asked after they were airborne.

“Yeah, sure. Got any
mojitos
?”

“What’s that?”

“Forget it. A vodka on the rocks, and make it a double.”

7

Michele Paul, arguably the nation’s foremost living scholar on the role Bartolomé de Las Casas played in the life of Christopher Columbus, as he would be the first to agree, was up early in his condominium on the top floor of an apartment building in Bethesda, in Montgomery County. This was north of the District, as Washington, D.C., is often referred to. The few close friends who’d been invited to the apartment over the years were impressed with its opulence, considering what Paul did for a living. Pursuing scholarly research was not destined to make one rich; the psychic benefits were expected to compensate.

There were, of course, the small advances paid by publishers for esoteric books he’d written, and the magazine fees for articles. But the three-bedroom apartment and its furnishings better reflected the lifestyle of a successful businessman or highly placed government employee. What was as striking to those few visitors as the apartment’s handsomeness was its total lack of anything living—not a plant or flower, not even a goldfish—aside from Paul, of course. He was fond of telling friends, “I don’t want anything in my life that requires my taking care of them. Taking care of me is challenging enough.” He’d never married.

He’d exercised for the past forty-five minutes, an intense workout starting with stretching, then the treadmill set at a fast pace, followed by weight lifting. Michele was proud of his body to what some would consider a narcissistic point. Naked, perspiration highlighting the definition of his arms and shoulders, he posed before the bathroom mirror for a long time, smiling approval at what he saw. Not only did he consider himself the world’s foremost Columbus and Las Casas scholar, he was certain he was the best conditioned.

Now, showered and dressed in a robe and slippers, he enjoyed coffee and a large bowl of fresh fruit on a broad terrace overlooking a park, the National Institutes of Health its scrim on the far side. He flipped through the morning paper, then pulled a lined yellow legal pad from a briefcase at his feet and began reading his handwritten notes, the result of a meeting with a friend in New York the previous day.

He picked up a cordless phone from the table in response to its feeble ring.

“Hello?”

“Michele? It’s Consuela.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Her iciness was not lost on him. “We missed you yesterday.”

“It’s always nice to be missed.”

There was silence, followed by, “I’ve asked you to keep me informed when you won’t be here. I don’t think that’s asking too much.”

“Didn’t I tell you I’d be out of town?” he said playfully. “I was sure I did.”

Another silence: “I assume you’ll be here today.”

“Of course I will. You know I’m incapable of staying away from you or the library for more than a day at a time.” He smiled and waited for her response.

“There are people I want you to meet with today,” the chief of the Hispanic division said flatly.

“Oh? Who?”

“Annabel Reed-Smith. You were scheduled to see her yesterday. She’s writing a piece for
Civilization
.”

“Poor thing. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Yes, it must have. And Lucianne Huston.”

“Who’s she? Oh, wait, that fearless television reporter who’s always reporting from some bloody murder scene or in the middle of a global calamity. Am I her next … calamity?”

Preferably her next victim, Consuela thought. She said, “She’s doing a story for the Columbus celebration and wants to interview you.”

“Should I wear a suit? Will there be makeup?”

“What time will you be here?”

“On time. I’d punch in if we had a time clock.”

She hung up with conviction.

Paul laughed as he pushed Off on the phone. After dressing—a pinched-waist double-breasted blue pinstripe suit that hugged his trim physique, a chalk-white shirt, wide lemon tie, and a new pair of black loafers purchased recently at London’s Poulsen & Skone—he checked himself again in the mirror. M. Paul looked every bit like a man who had found his grail. His honey-colored, oval face had a matte finish, smooth and dry and unwrinkled, except for tiny lines slashing upward from the corners of surprisingly blue eyes, creating the effect of pulling them up into perpetual bemusement.

He made a final call before leaving, this to the manager of the boathouse on the Potomac where Paul kept a thirty-foot sailing sloop. He was angry at minor damage that had been done to the boat during a recent storm and berated the manager for his lack of preparedness. Satisfied with the manager’s apologies and promise to repair
the damage, Paul drove his red Jeep Grand Cherokee from the underground parking garage and headed into the District, eventually pulling into the parking space reserved for him at the Library of Congress, a perquisite granted when Texas University tried to recruit him, and he’d used the offer to better his lot at LC.

The hard heels on his new shoes reverberated off marble as he walked smartly to the second floor of the Jefferson Building, entered the Hispanic reading room, returned “Good morning” with a nod or grunt, passed the open door to Consuela Martinez’s office without looking in, then climbed the stairs and entered his own personal space on the upper gallery. Richard Kelman, whose space was on the other side of Annabel’s, looked over and said, “Good morning.”

Paul didn’t reply. He carefully hung his suit jacket on a hook in the wall, sat, and went through a pile of mail on his desk, methodically tossing the envelopes in a waste-basket. He checked the monthly calendar on the desk, picked up a phone, and dialed Consuela’s extension.

“My day’s getting jammed up, Consuela. What about these women you want me to meet with?”

“Annabel Reed-Smith should be here shortly. I’ve assigned her the space next to you. Lucianne Huston is due at two.”

“I have a meeting at two.”

“You can’t change it?”

“Not without difficulty. I should be back by four.”

“I’ll see if she can interview you then.”

“I assume you’re still looking for larger, more private space for me.”

“I’m working on it.”

“But not very hard, I take it. Have you called Wayne Brennan in Scholarly Programs? Half those offices over there are always empty.”

“And you know they’re reserved for outside researchers. I can’t be—Oh, here’s Mrs. Smith now.”

“Send her up to my cell.”

Kelman gathered up his papers and left the area without another attempt at civility, passing Annabel on his way.

“You must be Mrs. Smith,” Paul said at her arrival, extending his hand to Annabel and displaying a strong set of white teeth, made more so against his tan face.

“Yes. And you are Michele Paul.” She took his hand, aware that he held it a little longer than necessary. She didn’t bother mentioning that they’d been introduced before.

“Welcome to the garret,” he said, indicating the area with a sweep of his hand.

“An apt description,” she said. “I’m thrilled to have space here.”

“A badge of honor. I understand you’re writing for
Civilization
.”

“That’s right. On Bartolomé de Las Casas.”

“Please, sit.” He pulled the chair from her area into his. “I should be concerned,” he said after they were seated. “You’re invading my area of expertise.”

“I wouldn’t view it that way,” she said pleasantly, “but I do want to pick your brain about that expertise.”

“Pick at any part of me you wish, Mrs. Smith. It’s Annabel, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I insist upon being on a first-name basis with anyone who’s picking my brain.”

“Of course.”

“And you may call me Michele. My mother was slightly confused when she named me.”

Annabel laughed, in spite of herself.

“Well, Annabel, I’m yours for the next hour. A meeting at ten, lunch with a collector who has the audacity to consider turning over his materials to another institution, and an equally boring afternoon. My hour with you will be the highlight of an otherwise drab day.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Exactly as I intended. What do you wish to know?”

“Everything you know about Las Casas, I suppose.”

“Are you planning on spending a few years here?”

“I’m planning on spending a few months here. Are you convinced the Las Casas diaries exist, based upon your research?”

“Yes.”

“Based upon what?”

“You want me to do your work for you?”

Remaining civil, Annabel knew, would test her.

“Mr. Paul—Michele—I’m doing research in order to write an article for
Civilization
on the Las Casas connection to Columbus. The entire issue will be devoted to Columbus. Because you’re acknowledged as a Las Casas expert, I was hoping you’d be gracious enough to give me a few good quotes, perhaps tell me why you predicted you would prove in two years—that was a year ago—that the diaries do, indeed, exist. Will you?”

“Give you a quote?”

“Yes.”

“The diaries written by Bartolomé de Las Casas exist.”

“That’s it?”

“Next year’s federal budget will be squandered on military hardware and not on the arts. It will be a warmer winter in Washington this year than last year. And I will be out of this hovel and in a larger, private office this time next month, even if I have to kill someone
to accomplish that. You can quote me on all three subjects.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you so long,” Annabel said.

“No, actually you saved me, but I should run. I’d enjoy continuing this conversation. If I come off as slightly prickly, it’s because I am prickly by nature, especially when amateurs intrude on a subject to which I’ve devoted a considerable portion of my adult life.”

“Thanks for your time.”

“Dinner tonight? Been to Taberna del Alabardero?”

Annabel stared at him.

“The tapas and paella are good, don’t you agree?”

“I’m having dinner with my husband tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Only tonight? Is it an event?”

“Every time we meet.”

She watched him slip on his suit jacket, check himself in a small mirror he’d hung on the wall next to the coat hook, and leave.

“Bastard,” she murmured as she moved to her desk and went over notes she’d made the day before in the rare manuscripts room. Before she knew it, it was noon, and she was hungry. She went down to Consuela’s office. “Feel like lunch?” she asked.

“Can’t. A division chiefs’ meeting. How did it go with our Dr. Paul?”

“Hardly the picture of helpful cooperation. He’s so arrogant it’s almost charming. He hit on me, as the saying goes.”

“I knew he’d like being interviewed by a tall, attractive redhead. Were you flattered?”

“No.”

“Mac would be unhappy at the news.”

“Mac would only be unhappy if I invited it, or fell for it. Paul reminds me of a bullfighter, dangling that red
cape, and confident that no matter how strong the bull is, it can be killed at the end.”

“An image I’m sure he’d enjoy. Rain check on lunch?”

“Sure.”

Annabel turned to leave but her way was blocked by a woman standing in the doorway.

“Hello,” Annabel said.

“Hello.”

“Dolores, this is Annabel Reed-Smith,” Consuela said. “I’ve told you about her.”

“Of course.” They shook hands.

“Dolores is one of our top specialists in Hispanic,” Consuela said. “Her field is Mexican culture.”

“More specifically the impact of the pre-Columbian era on later Mexican culture,” Dolores added.

“Why don’t you two grab lunch together?” Consuela suggested. “Annabel will be here for a few months researching a piece for
Civilization
.”

“So I understand. I was just heading out. Join me?”

“Love to.”

Dolores suggested they skip the cafeteria on the sixth floor of the Madison Building and “eat on the economy.” They walked to a strip of small restaurants a block away on Pennsylvania Avenue, decided on a place called Hill Street Brews, and were seated by the hostess in a booth.

Dolores, whose last name Annabel learned was Marwede—“People tend to pronounce it Mar-
weed
, but it’s really Mar
wee-dee
,” Dolores said—was one of those individuals to whom Annabel took an instant liking. They were approximately the same height, tall, and might have been mistaken for sisters if their coloring was ignored. The redheaded Annabel was fair-skinned; Dolores was dusky, her hair, which like Annabel she wore long, was inky black. It had crossed Annabel’s mind while walking to the restaurant that the anachronistic
stereotype of librarians as granny-goose types, hair in a bun, round glasses, spending their days quieting children and protecting copies of
Ulysses
beneath the counter, had long ago been dashed. Most librarians she knew didn’t fit that description, and the woman sitting across from her was no exception.

“… and so I got my doctorate at Columbia in Spanish history,” Dolores said over coffee, “and looked for teaching positions. The Library of Congress had an opening and I grabbed it.”

“How long have you been there?” Annabel asked.

“Nine years.”

“Enjoy working in the LC?”

“Love it. I split my time between doing my own research and as a reference librarian for people using the Hispanic division. Consuela tells me you have a wonderful husband.”

Annabel smiled. “Yes, I do. Mac—his name’s Mackensie—is a terrific guy. He teaches law at GW.” She’d noted that Dolores did not wear a wedding ring.