Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [16]
Baumann appreciated Lucianne’s reporting skills. Her looks weren’t lost on him either. It wasn’t that she was beautiful in a magazine cover or Hollywood way. Her features were less than perfect, nose a little too broad, mouth a little too small. It was the overall impression that counted. She was five feet seven inches tall, slim and fit, and carried herself with confidence. Her auburn hair was worn short but not too short, an easy style to maintain in the jungles of Central America or the winter winds of Bosnia. Her complexion was dusky, brown eyes large and round; many assumed she was of mixed parent-age. She wasn’t.
“So, what’s this story you want me on?”
“Columbus.”
“Columbus? You mean Columbo? Peter Falk?”
“Christopher. He discovered us.”
“Oh, that Columbus. He’s surfaced?”
Baumann grinned. “You might say that. See this?” He slid papers across the desk. “Just got these this morning.”
Lucianne read quickly, dropped the papers on the desk. “So?” she said.
“Interesting, huh?”
She shook her head.
“Happened night before last.”
“Bob, this was my day off. You said you had a story for me—‘top priority,’ you said.”
“Right. This is it.”
“A local murder? What’s the big deal?”
“I’m not sure it is a big deal, Lucianne, but it could be. You do know that the Columbus celebration is coming up in six months.”
“Uh huh.”
“And that there’s been this controversy for years over whether one of Columbus’s sailing companions, Bartolomé de Las Casas, might have written his own account of the voyages.”
“I read something about it.”
“The security guard who was shot worked for a small museum called Casa de Seville. In Little Havana.”
“Latin Quarter. You’re behind the times.”
“Whatever. The guard was on his first night at this museum. They never had a security guard before.”
“Timing is everything. My condolences to his family.”
“Whoever killed him stole a painting from the museum that same night.”
“Uh huh.”
“It was a painting that depicted Columbus on his knees in front of the king and queen of Spain. See the picture there?”
Lucianne took a second look at what Baumann had given her. The clip from The Miami Herald included a picture of the ribbon-cutting ceremony when Casa de Seville was dedicated two years ago. Posing in front of the painting by Fernando Reyes were the museum’s curator, the two businessmen who’d provided the initial funding, and U.S. senator from Florida Richard Menendez.
“Okay, I see it,” Lucianne said, “but so what? Some overly dedicated art connoisseurs break into this museum, steal a painting, and shoot the security guard. I see it wasn’t considered a great work of art. They could have done better.”
“The question, Lucianne: Why did they bother stealing this particular painting if it wasn’t worth much, and murder someone in the process?”
“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