Murder at the Library of Congress Page 5

  “A bad eye for art and a ruthless disregard for human life.”

  “Maybe.” Baumann got up, stretched against an ache in his back, went to the window, and looked down at a man-made lake. He turned, leaned against the sill housing the vital air-conditioning, and said, “I got a call last night from Joe Betz in Los Angeles.” Betz was the network’s L.A. bureau chief. “He thinks there’s a story in this Las Casas diary business. My nose tells me there is. According to him, some people out there, identity unknown at this point, are offering big bucks for the Las Casas diaries and map.”

  “Map?”

  “Yeah. Those who believe those diaries exist also believe that Las Casas drew a

  map showing where Columbus buried gold. A lot of gold. Sixty Minutes did a piece on it

  six months ago.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Where’s the news? If I find the gold, do I get a cut?”

  “No, but you’ll get a letter of commendation in your file, and have the satisfaction of having contributed to mankind’s understanding of his origins.”

  “Cute. Forget it. Give me a nice little war. When do I leave for Africa?”

  “You’re not going to Africa.”

  “Why? I was supposed to cover the unrest in Mozambique.”

  “It’s cooled off there, Lucianne. I want you to follow up on this art theft, the murder, and Las Casas. See if they’re joined at the hip. Everybody loves missing treasure. Like who’ll win the lottery.”

  “But we don’t even know whether a map and diaries exist.”

  “Right, but I’d like us to be in the hunt along with the eggheads. Speaking of them, there’s a guy at the Library of Congress who’s supposed to be the most knowledgeable scholar in this area. Name’s Michele Paul. I pulled up some material from the Web on Las Casas. Dr. Paul predicted in a piece he wrote a year ago that he’d prove within two years that the diaries and the map are real. Go to Washington and get an interview with him. In the meantime, I’ll keep tabs on the art theft and murder. The police say, off the record, that it looks like the museum’s maintenance man might have set things up from inside, left a skylight unsecured for the thieves to get in. He’s disappeared, never showed up for work after the theft. The cops say he had a record of drug use. If they find him, they’ll probably know who pulled the heist. A couple of days off the stuff and every hophead spills.”

  “Washington? I’d rather go to Africa. Or some other war zone like L.A.” Lucianne stood.

  “Maybe when this is over. Might I add that our fearless leader has a special interest in this?”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah. Among his many charitable activities is raising money for the Library of Congress. He and Cale Broadhurst break bread together.”

  “Who’s Cale Broadhurst?”

  “The Librarian of Congress. By the way, it was he who killed your Africa assignment.”

  “The Librarian of Congress?”

  “No, our fearless leader. Look, even if you don’t come up with anything startling, we’ll use what you get for the documentary on the Columbus celebration.”

  They locked eyes.

  Baumann said, “Our crack research desk has info on Michele Paul and the stuff from the Web. Any of your sources happen to be in the Library of Congress?”

  “Oh, sure, lots. But I’ll have to go back through my files, search under ‘egghead.’ ”

  “I knew I could depend on you, Lucianne. Look at it this way. Instead of being where you might get your pretty head shot off by some rebel gunman, you can operate for a little while in the genteel safety of the Library of Congress.”

  “I’m thrilled. Yawn.”

  “Every library is more exciting than it looks. Ask any real reader. You’re a hard-digging reporter. That’s what people do in libraries—they dig for information. Or entertainment or distraction, whatever. By the way, you look tired. Why don’t you get more sleep?”

  “Because of your phone message. I’ll get plenty of sleep sitting in a library. Thanks for nothing.”

  6

  Munsch waved off the flight attendant who came down the aisle passing out magazines.

  Warren Munsch didn’t read much. The last book he’d gotten through was during his second stint inside, two and a half years for possession of stolen property. The book was Know Your Rights: A Layman’s Guide to Criminal Law.

  Armed with knowledge from the book, Munsch decided he knew more than any lawyer on earth, and believed he had become expert at analyzing his future activities. He’d given it plenty of thought before agreeing to lift the painting from Casa de Seville and had written down his expert analysis:

  Nobody cares about paintings unless they’re worth millions, so stealing a piece of junk isn’t a big deal.

  Morrie and Garraga do the break-in. If we get caught, they do the hard time. I don’t know when I drive them why they want to go there. They hand me this lousy painting and tell me to take it to L.A. and turn it over to some guy.

  I know nothing. Any clown in Legal Aid gets me off on that rap, like they did with the last two busts.

  Home free.

  The problem, he knew as he pondered this on the plane to Los Angeles, was Number Five. He’d never figured on the shooting of a security guard. The book he’d read in prison stopped short at advising how to beat a murder rap. He added a fifth item to his list: “I’m shocked when this Cuban named Garraga shot that poor security cop. I would have gone to the police but he threatened to kill me.”

  Not bad. Prove otherwise.

  Munsch was glad the buyer of the Reyes painting had sent a first-class ticket. The drinks were free and plentiful. He’d fortified his nerves at the Miami airport bar before boarding and kept the liquid tranquilizers flowing throughout the flight.

  He got in the back of a taxi at L.A. International carrying a small overnight bag and the rolled-up Reyes painting covered by brown wrapping paper.

  “Santa Monica,” he told the driver.

  “Where in Santa Monica?”

  Munsch fished for a slip of paper in his jacket pocket and read an address off it. “It’s a restaurant,” he said.

  “I know it,” said the driver.

  Now, on the Santa Monica Freeway, Munsch wished he hadn’t had so much to drink on the plane. There was bound to be some sort of confrontation once the buyer saw that the painting had been cut from the frame. Maybe I should offer to cut the price so he can get a new frame, he considered, popping two Tums in his mouth, followed by a squirt of breath freshener he’d bought at the airport. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against a fuzziness in his brain and shook his head. Don’t offer to cut the price, he silently told himself. Never show weakness. Cutting away the frame demonstrated they’d been resourceful. If they hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have the painting. How much can a new frame cost? A few bucks?

  The cab dropped Munsch in front of Ivy at the Shore, on Ocean Avenue, where throngs of well-dressed people clogged the street in front of the restaurant. Munsch paid the driver, watched him pull away, then threaded his way through the crowd and went inside, where he was stopped by a man at a podium wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt.

  “I’m going to the bar,” Munsch said. “I’m meeting somebody.”

  The host pointed in the direction of an outdoor terrace overlooking the ocean.

  The bar was four-deep, and every rattan chair was occupied. The noise level was high, exacerbating the pounding headache Munsch had developed during the slow trip on the freeway. A couple left one end of the bar, and Munsch quickly slipped into the space. A bartender appeared.

  “You got any coffee?” Munsch asked.

  “Coffee? Ah …”

  “Gimme a beer.”

  “We have—”

  “Anything.”

  Munsch placed his overnight bag on the floor between his feet and laid the rolled-up painting against the wall. He took in faces at the bar. He’d been told that the person to whom he was to deliver the painting would be wearing a wh
ite jacket and a large-brimmed straw hat. No such creature at the bar.

  His beer was served and he sipped. You’d better show up, Munsch thought. I didn’t go through this for nothing.

  He became increasingly despondent as he waited, nursing the beer, massaging his temples, and grumbling to himself, mostly about that fool Garraga, until he felt a poke in his back. He turned to look into the face of a man with a neatly cropped red beard and wearing a white jacket and straw hat.

  “You took your time,” Munsch said.

  The man smiled. “The traffic. I was delayed.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Munsch grabbed the painting. “This what you’re after?”

  “Not here.”

  The red beard led them to a section of the terrace obscured from the bar by potted ferns. A table had just become vacant; they took rattan chairs across from each other.

  “A drink?” the beard asked.

  “No. I had a beer. I left it at the bar. I don’t want any more.”

  The beard shrugged. “I see you have what my client has been waiting for.”

  “Your client? I thought it was for you.”

  “I’m acting as an agent for the buyer.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t care who it ends up with.” He leaned forward. “Whoever you are, I—”

  “Smith. John Smith.”

  “Right. John Smith. I’m Joe Brown. Look, we had to slice the frame off because it wouldn’t fit through the skylight with the frame on it.”

  John Smith frowned.

  “I’ll cut my fee so you can get another frame, but not by a lot. A frame don’t cost much.”

  “The frame’s not important. You did what you had to do. We read the Miami papers, too.”

  “That’s right. We used our heads.”

  “Want to give it to me?”

  “Sure.” Munsch handed him the painting. “You want to open it here, see what it is? Believe me, it’s what you … what your client wanted.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mr. Brown.” He withdrew a fat envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Munsch. “What was agreed upon.”

  Munsch shoved the envelope into his pocket.

  “Don’t want to count it?”

  “No. You trust me, I trust you.”

  “The way it should be. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Munsch shook his head. “I better get going. John Smith, huh? Probably your real name.”

  Smith smiled. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Brown.”

  Munsch, who had been eager to go, hesitated.

  “I know it’s none of my business … but how come your client wants this? It’s worth a lot, huh?”

  “Staying in L.A. for a while?”

  “A day or two.”

  “Enjoy your stay.”

  Munsch exited to the street and looked for a cab. There were three lined up at the next corner. He got into the first in line and told the driver to take him to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He knew that was where movie stars stayed; his cellmate in prison had told him he’d stayed there once. “They got a bar called the Polo Lounge, Warren,” he’d said. “You should see the broads hang out there, starlets wall to wall. Like calendar girls.”

  The clerk at the hotel’s registration desk eyed Munsch suspiciously, with his cheap overnight bag, ill-fitting brown corduroy jacket, and no reservation.

  “I’m just in from Miami. Last-minute trip. Had to meet with some producers.”

  The clerk said nothing.

  “You got one of those cottages out back?” Munsch asked.

  “No, sir, but we do have an available room.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  He took a nap and felt somewhat better when he woke up. The headache was gone. He called Miami. The voice and tone told him that Morrie’s blond girlfriend was answering.

  “Morrie there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Warren. Munsch. Put Morrie on.”

  “Call the jail. They arrested him and Garraga.”

  “Oh, man,” Munsch muttered.

  “They arrested Morrie at the dock. We were going to Nassau to gamble. I was there. I’ve never been so embarrassed. Where are you?”

  “I’m—What about Garraga?”

  “Him, too. They got him, too. I told Morrie you were a loser, not to get involved.”

  Munsch hung up, thought for a minute, then called his daughter in Oregon.

  “It’s Papa.”

  “Hello.”

  “How’s things?”

  “Things are just fine.” She always sounded cold when she spoke with him.

  “Good. That’s good to hear. How are the kids?”

  “Fine. Are you in trouble again?”

  “Me? Nah. No trouble. Just thought I’d check in. I’m on the Coast. On business.”

  “What coast?”

  “The West Coast. Got to run. Good talking to you. Say hello to the kids for me.”

  “I will.”

  He looked up airline numbers in a listing he found in a welcome package and called three of them. The third had a flight for Mexico City leaving in two hours. He opened his passport as though to make sure it was legitimate. It wasn’t, but it looked good, good enough to get into Mexico. He’d picked it up in Miami six months ago at a bargain price.

  Munsch didn’t bother telling the hotel he was checking out. No need. He’d paid cash up front. He poked his head into the Polo Lounge before heading for the hotel’s main entrance. A nubile redhead in a tight dress smiled at him from where she sat at the bar. Munsch considered having a drink, nodded at her, had one of the parking valets hail a cab, and headed for the airport.

  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 t
he 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.”