Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [27]
Broadhurst went to the window and stood with his tiny hands shoved into the pockets of his tan tweed jacket. He said to the pane, “People have been searching for those diaries and maps for centuries. People have died in that search, even though no one knows for sure they even exist.” He turned. “If they do exist, and we don’t pull out every stop to obtain them, it will be a blot on this library. They belong here.”
“Or in Spain,” Mullin said. “But we should land them.”
Broadhurst cocked his head and smiled in response to the expression on her face. “Yes, you’re right, Mary Beth, a blot on my reputation, too, if we don’t.”
“You’ll do what you can.”
“Hopefully, it will be enough. See you at the reception. The diaries may be merely a chimera. I’ll let you know if I get a chance to talk to Senator Menendez. I’ll leave Senator Hale to you. Another chimera.”
He walked to the door, paused, and turned. “By the way, anything new on the stalker?”
Mary Beth had followed him halfway across the room. “No, and I wish there were. This nut has the main reading room librarians spooked. They’ve taken to wearing their name badges upside down to make it more difficult for patrons to read their names.”
“The police have anything new to offer?”
“No. They’ve got an undercover officer hanging around the room every day. Fortunately, the incidents have been limited to phone stalking.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way. See you tonight.”
Chapter 9
“That’s a wrap!”
Lucianne Huston told her crew to pack up after having interviewed Annabel for twenty minutes.
“I’m not used to being interviewed,” Annabel said, “especially on camera. I’m afraid I didn’t have much to say.”
“You spoke volumes compared to your friend Dr. Paul,” Lucianne said, removing the lapel microphone from Annabel’s jacket.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You were interviewing him at four. How did it go?”
“A waste of time. He sat down with a chip on his shoulder and gave me a series of one-word answers. Grunts don’t make for great moments in television journalism.”
“I’m sorry. And by the way, he’s not my friend.”
“My estimation of you has just risen. Know what he did when the interview, or grunt fest, was over?”
“What?”
“Invited me to dinner, a ‘cozy little spot where we can get to know each other better.’ Spare me.”
“Hate to take the wind out of your sails, but he invited me to dinner, too.”
“He must operate under that old male adage that if you ask enough women, you’ll find one who says yes.”
“Well,” Annabel said, “I’m sorry the interview didn’t work out. He is the expert on the subject. Staying in town for a few days?”
“Just tonight. I’m flying back to Miami in the morning. There’s really no story here, Annabel. If I could smell even a small story, I could blow it up into a bigger one. But all the links are missing links. I mean, your interview will be helpful when we put together the special on Columbus to coincide with the celebration, but this Casas wild-goose chase is just that. With any luck I’ll be in Africa in a few days hoping I don’t come down with malaria.”
“Malaria doesn’t stand a chance against you. I wish you well.”
Lucianne and her crew left the Madison Building, and Annabel went to her space above the Hispanic reading room in the Jefferson. She’d just immersed herself again in a book when Michele Paul arrived.
“Got your article written?” he asked brusquely.
She ignored the flippant question.
“Feel like a drink?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I might share some inside Las Casas stories with you, but only over a cold, dry martini, straight up.”
“A sobering notion.”
“That gal digging into ancient burial rituals