Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [21]
He made a final call before leaving, this to the manager of the boathouse on the Potomac where Paul kept a thirty-foot sailing sloop. He was angry at minor damage that had been done to the boat during a recent storm and berated the manager for his lack of preparedness. Satisfied with the manager’s apologies and promise to repair the damage, Paul drove his red Jeep Grand Cherokee from the underground parking garage and headed into the District, eventually pulling into the parking space reserved for him at the Library of Congress, a perquisite granted when Texas University tried to recruit him, and he’d used the offer to better his lot at LC.
The hard heels on his new shoes reverberated off marble as he walked smartly to the second floor of the Jefferson Building, entered the Hispanic reading room, returned “Good morning” with a nod or grunt, passed the open door to Consuela Martinez’s office without looking in, then climbed the stairs and entered his own personal space on the upper gallery. Richard Kelman, whose space was on the other side of Annabel’s, looked over and said, “Good morning.”
Paul didn’t reply. He carefully hung his suit jacket on a hook in the wall, sat, and went through a pile of mail on his desk, methodically tossing the envelopes in a waste-basket. He checked the monthly calendar on the desk, picked up a phone, and dialed Consuela’s extension.
“My day’s getting jammed up, Consuela. What about these women you want me to meet with?”
“Annabel Reed-Smith should be here shortly. I’ve assigned her the space next to you. Lucianne Huston is due at two.”
“I have a meeting at two.”
“You can’t change it?”
“Not without difficulty. I should be back by four.”
“I’ll see if she can interview you then.”
“I assume you’re still looking for larger, more private space for me.”
“I’m working on it.”
“But not very hard, I take it. Have you called Wayne Brennan in Scholarly Programs? Half those offices over there are always empty.”
“And you know they’re reserved for outside researchers. I can’t be—Oh, here’s Mrs. Smith now.”
“Send her up to my cell.”
Kelman gathered up his papers and left the area without another attempt at civility, passing Annabel on his way.
“You must be Mrs. Smith,” Paul said at her arrival, extending his hand to Annabel and displaying a strong set of white teeth, made more so against his tan face.
“Yes. And you are Michele Paul.” She took his hand, aware that he held it a little longer than necessary. She didn’t bother mentioning that they’d been introduced before.
“Welcome to the garret,” he said, indicating the area with a sweep of his hand.
“An apt description,” she said. “I’m thrilled to have space here.”
“A badge of honor. I understand you’re writing for Civilization.”
“That’s right. On Bartolomé de Las Casas.”
“Please, sit.” He pulled the chair from her area into his. “I should be concerned,” he said after they were seated. “You’re invading my area of expertise.”
“I wouldn’t view it that way,” she said pleasantly, “but I do want to pick your brain about that expertise.”
“Pick at any part of me you wish, Mrs. Smith. It’s Annabel, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I insist upon being on a first-name basis with anyone who’s picking my brain.”
“Of course.”
“And you may call me Michele. My mother was slightly confused when she named me.”
Annabel laughed, in spite of herself.
“Well, Annabel, I’m yours for the next hour. A meeting at ten, lunch with a collector who has the audacity to consider turning over his materials to another institution, and an equally boring afternoon. My hour with you will be the highlight of an otherwise drab day.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Exactly as I intended. What do you wish to know?”
“Everything you know about Las Casas, I suppose.