Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [3]
The old man behind the counter eyed them as Morrie browsed a magazine rack and Munsch looked at a platter of coquitos on the counter, the coconut candies brought in daily from the Caribbean. Garraga stayed by the door. He’d become edgy, moving from foot to foot.
“Cuánto es?” Munsch asked, pointing to the candies.
“Seventy-five cents,” the bodega owner said.
Munsch threw a dollar on the counter and accepted his change. He took a candy and joined Garraga at the door. “Morrie,” he said sharply. Morrie replaced the men’s magazine and followed the others out to the sidewalk.
“What about the cop drinkin’ coffee in there?” Morrie asked.
“What cop?” Munsch said. “That fat slob with his belly hanging out of his shirt? Forget him. He doesn’t even have a gun.”
They walked along the front of Casa de Seville to avoid the rain, and stopped at the far end of the building, by the alley. Garraga nonchalantly crossed it to where he could see the glass door leading into the apartment building. The woman was gone. He looked up and down the street, then motioned with his head. The others followed him into the alley to the rear of the museum.
Behind Casa de Seville was a small grassy area bordered by a high chain-link fence and containing two Dumpsters. A red metal door provided rear access to the museum. Above it was a slatted red-and-white metal awning; the pinging sound of raindrops was magnified as the three men huddled beneath it.
“There’s the ladder,” Garraga said, pointing to where one rested against a Dumpster.
“And there’s no guard?” Morrie asked.
“No,” Garraga said. “No guards.”
“Don’t light a goddamn cigarette,” Morrie said to Munsch, who was about to.
Munsch ignored him and lit up.
“There’s just the alarm system,” Garraga said. “No guards, no night watchmen. Reina says there’s no money. They pay him peanuts.”
“All right,” Munsch said, coughing and extinguishing the cigarette with his shoe. “Go on. Let’s get it done.”
Garraga leaned the unfolded stepladder against the wall and started up. He paused once he’d climbed onto the roof’s overhang, looked down and said to Morrie, “Come on.”
Morrie said to Munsch, “Why don’t you go up with him.”
“I have to get the car,” Munsch said. “You don’t drive.”
“I don’t have to.”
“You don’t have to what?”
“Drive.”
Another cigarette went to Munsch’s lips. “It doesn’t matter why you don’t drive, Morrie. Get up there and help Garraga, like we planned.”
Garraga scrambled higher onto the roof and waited for Morrie to reach the top of the ladder. Morrie took Garraga’s extended hand and clumsily joined him. They crouched low as they made their way to the skylight, Morrie muttering under his breath about pain in his knees. Garraga pulled a penlight from his jeans pocket and directed its beam on the skylight. “There it is,” he said, “the alarm wires, just like Reina said.” Two small sheathed wires protruded from where one edge of the skylight made contact with the roof.
Garraga withdrew a pocketknife and a small roll of black electrician’s tape from his jeans and handed the flashlight to Morrie. “Hold it steady,” the Cuban said. “I have to splice these to kill the alarm lead to the skylight.”
“Why didn’t your guy just cut it?” Morrie asked.
“Because, Morrie, that would have shown up on the alarm panel, a break in the system. Just shut up, huh, and hold the goddamn light.”
“You’ll get electrocuted in this rain,” Morrie grumbled, keeping the penlight’s beam squarely on Garraga’s hands.
“Okay,” Garraga said, slipping the knife back in his pocket. “Grab that edge of the skylight and lift. It’s not attached.”
Morrie slid his fingers beneath the skylight’s metal lip and tried to lift it. “It’s stuck,” he said.
“Just gunk Reina put