Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [18]
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 white 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