Murder at the Library of Congress Page 3

  Each year, almost a million visitors pass through the metal detectors of the Jefferson, Adams, and Madison buildings for a weapons search and subject their handbags and briefcases to personal examination. Annabel Reed-Smith was among them, entering the newest of LC’s buildings, the Madison, the morning after her return from New York.

  She passed inspection, having nothing suspicious in her bag except the usual womanly too-much-of-everything, and went directly to where she’d been told to report, the Office of Public Affairs, on the ground floor.

  “Good morning,” she said to the first person she met. “I’m Annabel Reed-Smith. I’m working on an article for Civilization and was told to check in here. I’ll be working in the Hispanic-Portuguese section.”

  “Of course,” the attractive, middle-aged woman said, smiling, extending her hand, and introducing herself. “I’m Joanne Graves. I’ve been expecting you. Civilization is my baby, so to speak. I’m the library’s liaison. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, no, I’ve had enough.” Annabel didn’t add that having married Mackensie Smith, an avowed coffee snob, had turned her into a caffeine parvenu in her own right. Office coffee? Either bring it from home or skip it.

  The public affairs specialist fetched a fresh cup of coffee for herself from a small kitchen, sat behind her desk, and asked pleasantly, “Ready to settle in to the life of scholarly research?”

  “More than ready,” Annabel said. “It was a bit of a scramble to cover the gallery. I have an art gallery in Georgetown. But it worked out.”

  Annabel had once been a matrimonial attorney in Washington, one of the more respected ones, according to Washingtonian magazine’s annual issue on the city’s best lawyers. Having never married had nothing to do with a lack of suitors. Annabel simply was constitutionally not content with second best. She’d spend a year and a half shopping for just the right rug, never succumbing to those that were almost what she wanted. It was the same with men. Better to remain single than to make a mistake.

  Then she met Mackensie Smith, former top criminal attorney whose clients had included a number of inside-the-Beltway notables. With his wife and son gone so suddenly, Smith lost interest in his practice, eventually giving it up and becoming a law professor at George Washington University.

  “I’m thinking of leaving the law,” Annabel told him one night after their relationship had been firmly established. “I’ve had this lifelong love of pre-Columbian art and history, and I’ve always wanted to open a specialized gallery. What do you

  think?”

  “Do it!” he said without hesitation. “Change your life before life changes you.”

  She found an attractive space in Georgetown and filled it with baked-clay Tlatilco statues, stucco death masks, beaded belts, and silver jewelry from that vastly rich and artistic era before Columbus and other Europeans set foot on the shores of Central and North America and transformed those places forever, not always for the better. Simultaneously, Annabel immersed herself in pre-Columbian history, eventually finding the study of Christopher Columbus and his four voyages to the New World to be of great interest. And she started writing articles on the subject, first for esoteric journals, then moved on to publications with wider circulation and enhanced influence. These activities helped to make the name she’d forged for herself in pre-Columbian art circles—the gallery was now twice its original size—and led to the offer to write the lead article for Civilization on the Las Casas connection to Columbus.

  “I know your gallery, Mrs. Reed-Smith. I’ve been there but never bought anything. A little—no, a lot beyond my means.”

  “Buying things for the gallery is often a lot beyond my means, too,” Annabel said modestly.

  “Let’s head over to Hispanic,” Annabel’s host said, taking a final sip of coffee.

  “Do you know whether I’ve been set up to speak with Michele Paul?” Annabel asked as they left the public affairs office and went to the main entrance, where Annabel’s briefcase and handbag were again searched—this time for books belonging to the LC—before exiting to Independence Avenue.

  “Too nice a day to use the underground tunnel,” the pert, enthusiastic public affairs specialist said, striding briskly in the direction of the researcher’s entrance to the Jefferson Building on Second Street, SE. The main entrance was on the other side of the building, on First Street.

  “Michele Paul,” Annabel repeated.

  “Oh, him.”

  Annabel laughed. “Should I read something into your tone?”

  “Please don’t. Telling tales out of school—in this case, a library—is a popular sport, especially where Michele Paul is concerned. He’s a brilliant scholar.”

  Annabel waited a beat: “And?”

  “He can be …”

  “Difficult?”

  “A rare bit of understatement in a town that thrives on overstatement.”

  “Don’t feel you’re betraying any confidences,” said Annabel. “I’ve heard harsh comments about him, too, although I can’t speak from much personal experience. The last time I was in the Hispanic reading room, Consuela introduced us. He was terribly rude.”

  “I’m not surprised. You and Consuela go back a long way, I hear.”

  “Yes. She’s a dear friend.”

  “And popular around here. If she has a dark side, I’ve yet to see it.”

  “How does Consuela deal with the temperamental Mr. Paul?” Annabel asked.

  “Pretty well, I guess. When you deal with someone with his credentials—he’s the

  sole reason some donors to the Hispanic collection look to us first—Consuela might not

  have been able to find a way to—well, there I go again.”

  “Find a way to get rid of him?” Annabel felt like she was on a game show where one person starts a thought and the next contestant finishes it.

  “Talk with Consuela about it. We’ll go in that door over there.”

  “I get the feeling I won’t be interviewing him,” Annabel said.

  “Oh, I suspect you will—eventually. Ever since he started his research on Las Casas six or seven years ago, he’s defined secrecy, not just rudeness. Every note, every scrap of paper goes home with him at night.”

  “But he does give interviews,” Annabel said as they approached the Jefferson, the oldest of LC’s three buildings. “And he occasionally writes for the scholarly journals.”

  “Under threat of decapitation from the Librarian’s office. But you’ve probably noticed that he never writes about what his research has uncovered. All he does is add fuel to the rumors about Las Casas.”

  “He claimed in one article that he would prove the existence of the diaries and map within two years. That was a year ago.”

  “Typical of Paul—predict something but don’t back it up. He’s very good at provocation.”

  They paused before entering the Jefferson.

  “Mrs. Reed-Smith,” Joanne Graves said, placing a hand on her arm, “don’t listen to me when it comes to Michele Paul. Okay? I don’t want to color your perception of him. He’s not popular with colleagues, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be utterly charming and helpful with you.”

  “Fair enough, although I have to admit certain preconceived notions about Mr. Paul.”

  “And I’m delighted having you write for Civilization. It can use some new creative energy. Come on, Consuela’s expecting us.”

  The Hispanic room occupies what is known as the Southeast Gallery on the second floor of the Jefferson Building. Until 1938, its space had been devoted to “Invention.” The conversion of the space into the Hispanic room had obliterated a stained-glass ceiling with the names of twenty-nine famed inventors—Bell, Edison, Westinghouse, et al.— to the chagrin of those more interested in inventions than Hispanic-Portuguese history.

  They entered the north vestibule and an entrance to the 130-foot-long vaulted reading room. Annabel stopped in the center of the vestibule and said of four dramatic murals: “Every time I’m
here, these Portinari murals grab me. It’s as though they’re pulling me into the scenes.”

  “I have the same reaction,” Joanne Graves said. “The Brazilian’s powerful.”

  They turned in the direction of the reading room to see Dr. Consuela Martinez approaching. “Hello, you two,” she said.

  “Good morning, Consuela,” Annabel said.

  The chief of the Hispanic and Portuguese division was an attractive, vivacious woman of uncertain middle age, with a body language that spelled energetic. She was

  fond of vivid makeup—bloodred lipstick and dark blue eyeliner—and large gold jewelry.

  “Coffee?” Consuela asked. “Let’s go into my office.”

  “I left one behind, but thanks,” Joanne said. “Have to be running now that I’ve delivered your latest scholar. Stop in and say hello now and then, Annabel.”

  “Shall do. Thanks.”

  “Annabel? Coffee?”

  “Couldn’t handle another,” Annabel said, comfortable with small lies.

  They settled in the cramped, overfilled office. Piles of books, maps, and file folders created small mountains on every surface.

  “Ready to dig into the life of Bartolomé de Las Casas?” Consuela asked.

  “Can’t wait to get started.”

  “Good. I’ve reserved a cubicle for you on the upper gallery. Not terribly large but sufficient, I’m sure. As long as you don’t sneeze.”

  “I’ll feel important,” Annabel said, “having my own space here.”

  “They considered giving you a carrel in the Office of Scholarly Programs,” Consuela said, “but since you’re focusing on a single Hispanic subject, it’s better you settle in here. Some of the material you’ll want to see will be in Rare Books and Special Collections, or the manuscript division. Looking at maps, too?”

  “Maybe. I’d like to start with Columbus’s Book of Privileges. I had a brief look a year ago, but never really delved into it.”

  “LC’s most prized piece of early Americana. It’s a vellum copy, one of only three known to exist. The other two are in Paris and Genoa. But ours has the Papal Bull Dudum siquidem. Makes it that much more valuable. You’ll need a translator.”

  “Probably, although I’ve been studying Spanish for the past three years. Took it in high school and college and promptly forgot most of what I learned. But I’m closing in on fluency now. Más importante.”

  “Splendid,” Consuela said. “Let’s get you settled upstairs. I’ll set it up with Manuscripts for after lunch.”

  “Before we go …,” Annabel said, “I was wondering about the interview with Michele Paul. Is that still on?”

  Consuela’s sigh spoke volumes. Next came a laugh. “Charm school didn’t take with Michele,” Consuela said, becoming conspiratorial. “The charm gene was missing at birth. I couldn’t pin him down, Annabel. He returned a day or so ago from a trip to Peru so I know he’s in town. Michele single-handedly consumes our travel budget. I’d raise it with him but …”

  “But it keeps him away from here,” Annabel offered, not sure she should.

  “From your mouth. Michele should be here by noon. I’ll bring up the interview again.”

  “I don’t want to make waves,” Annabel said, following Consuela from the office and to a door leading to the Hispanic and Portuguese division’s stacks. Consuela swiped one of several magnetic badges hanging from her neck through a slot on the door, unlocking it. “Make all the waves you like,” she said over her shoulder as they ascended to the balcony overlooking the reading room.

  Maybe he’ll drown in them, Annabel silently translated.

  The space that would be Annabel’s for the next two months was one of four such areas, each approximately ten feet square, with a desk, lamp, empty bookcases, and a photocopy machine. A phone rested on a small table. “You can make all the local calls you want,” Consuela said. “I see you’ve brought the requisite laptop. Here’s an outlet for it, and there’s a phone jack if you want to tap into the Internet from here.”

  “It’s better equipped than my home office,” said Annabel, placing the laptop computer and a compact, portable ink-jet printer she’d purchased especially for the project on the desk. She looked about: “Who uses these other spaces?”

  “The cubicle at the end is occupied these days by a master’s candidate from the University of Missouri.”

  “Oh? What’s he researching?”

  “It’s a she—Mary Alice Warren. Nice gal. You’ll like her. She’s studying ancient Spanish burial rituals.”

  “Why?”

  Consuela laughed. “Why not? It’s the age of specialization. She’s been hard at it for over a month, seems to love the subject. That next cubicle belongs to Richard Kelman. You’ll get along fine with him. He’s on a Fulbright to study how Spanish law impacted the way the indigenous populations of Mexico were treated under the Inquisition. He spends most of his time in Manuscripts poring over items in the Kraus Collection, and in the law library.”

  “And who’s on this side?”

  “Dr. Michele Paul.”

  “Oh,” Annabel said. “I’m surprised he doesn’t have bigger space considering his credentials.”

  “He does. His cubicle is eleven by eleven. Space is at a premium around here. Push come to shove, the books get more space, not people. Actually, we’ve kept this space you’ll be using vacant as sort of a buffer zone between Michele and Dick Kelman. Michele read a paper Kelman had written and berated him in front of a group of people, told him he was a pathetic excuse for a scholar or something like that. No, worse than that. They aren’t fond of each other.”

  “So I’ll be a human buffer zone.”

  “Sorry, but it’s the only space available, at least in Hispanic. If you’re uncomfortable, I can call Wayne Brennan in Scholarly Programs and see if he still has space.”

  “No, thanks, Consuela. I’d rather be right here in Hispanic. We’ll all get along just fine.”

  “Good. By the way, that desk in the hall belongs to one of our interns from Maryland U. Delightful gal. She splits her time between here and the main reading room. I’ve got her cataloging Cuban newspapers. We collect fourteen of them.”

  “Fourteen newspapers published in Communist Cuba?”

  “Fidel, the benevolent dictator and champion of free speech. Sure I can’t get you coffee to kick-start your project?”

  “Thanks, no. I’ll start bringing a thermos tomorrow.”

  “That locker with the padlock is yours. Lock your laptop, purse, notes, anything

  else in there. It’s secure. Ever since they instituted the new security system, we haven’t

  had any problems.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’ll unpack my briefcase and get set up. You say we’ll go to Manuscripts after lunch?”

  “Right. And maybe you’ll have better luck than I’ve had with Michele about the interview. He might be partial to tall, shapely redheads.”

  Annabel settled at the desk and spread out the supplies and papers she’d brought with her. Her excitement level had risen. Although she’d done research at LC over the past few years, those had been short bursts lasting only a few days. Mostly, she’d used the main reading room, where the volumes she sought were housed, including thousands of books on Hispanic-Portuguese subjects that were circulated to the general public.

  But this was different. She was settling in for two months, a chance to really get to know more of Las Casas’s relationship to Columbus, and she hoped to add something useful to the debate over whether the Spaniard had, in fact, written his own diaries about Columbus’s first three voyages. If she could accomplish that through her research, and the article she would write for Civilization, she would have made a worthwhile contribution. She wasn’t seeking to actually find the diaries, if they even existed in the first place. Others had spent their entire professional lives attempting to do that, without success. But if she could pull together all the snippets of information, and all the rumor
s over the centuries, into a coherent case that the diaries did, in fact, exist, she’d be more than fulfilled. Make a case that continuing to search for the diaries wasn’t a wasted exercise. The lawyer in her speaking.

  Her contemplation was interrupted by thoughts of her husband, speaking of lawyers and things worthwhile. Mac had been totally supportive of her plan to leave the day-to-day operations of the gallery to others, and to devote months to writing the article. His support wasn’t surprising, of course. He’d backed every move she’d made since they met, offering advice when asked but leaving the decisions very much up to her. He was, she thought, the most decent and loving person she’d ever—

  “Sometimes you get lucky,” she said quietly as she picked up the phone and dialed their number at the Watergate.

  “Mac?”

  “Hello. Adjusting to your new life as an academician?”

  “I think so. Consuela has given me a wonderful little cubbyhole on the balcony overlooking the reading room. I feel like I’ve been here forever. I’m going to the manuscript division after lunch to take a long, hard look at Columbus’s Book of Privileges.”