Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [20]
“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.”
Chapter 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