Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [4]
It did, with a sucking sound, and they slid the skylight away from the opening.
“The rain’ll mess up the floor down there,” Morrie said.
“So what?” Garraga said.
Morrie handed the penlight back to Garraga, who directed its beam down into the gallery. Morrie peered over the edge. “That’s a hell of a drop,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about that, Morrie.”
Garraga dangled his legs through the opening, lowered himself until his elbows on the roof supported him, then continued his descent until he hung by both hands. He let go, the sound of his contact with the floor joined by a Spanish obscenity.
Morrie trained the light on Garraga as he got to his feet, looked around the gallery, and limped to the wall on which the Fernando Reyes painting of Columbus offering up his Book of Privileges hung. Morrie shifted the light to the painting. That’s what we’re supposed to steal? he thought. Must be worth plenty for what Munsch said they’d be paid once the painting was delivered.
Garraga expected the painting to be firmly anchored to the wall, but it was attached only by two brackets at the top. Some gentle back-and-forth movement caused them to eventually pull free of the wall, leaving the large framed canvas in Garraga’s hands. He leaned it against the wall and went to a supply room in which Reina said there would be another stepladder. Garraga positioned it beneath the opening in the roof, brought the painting to it, climbed the ladder until he was close to the ceiling, and pulled the painting up behind him. Morrie positioned himself to receive it.
“It’s too big,” Garraga said as he tried to wedge the painting through the opening.
“Try it on an angle,” Morrie suggested.
“I did. It’s too big. Can’t you see that?”
“Take the frame off. Munsch said to get the painting, not the frame.”
Garraga returned to the floor, opened his jackknife, and began to cut the canvas away from the simple wood frame, staying as close to the perimeter as possible. That task finished, he rolled the canvas, went up the ladder, and pushed it through to Morrie. He hoisted himself up to the roof: “We got to put the skylight back.”
They did, the painting was dropped to Munsch, and Garraga and Morrie joined him on the ground. Garraga tossed the ladder in a Dumpster and they turned to leave the area, Munsch in the lead. As he turned to start down the alley, he stopped abruptly. Morrie and Garraga came to his side. Coming toward them was the fat man in the tan uniform they’d seen in the bodega.
“Hey, what are you doing back there?” he asked, continuing to waddle in their direction.
“Who the hell are you?” Munsch asked.
“What’a you got there?” he asked, still narrowing the gap.
“Come on,” Munsch said, starting to lead his colleagues up the alley again.
The guard placed himself squarely in their path.
Munsch and the others now saw that the guard was carrying something in his right hand.
“He’s got a piece,” Garraga said, his voice rising.
“Stop!” the guard ordered.
Garraga answered by pulling a small Saturday night special from the waistband of his jeans, pointing it at the guard, and pulling the trigger. The shot struck him in the stomach.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Morrie asked.
“Stupid,” Munsch said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They ran past the guard, moaning and writhing on the ground, his stubby fingers pressed to the wound. The “piece” he’d held in his right hand was lying next to him. It was a cell phone. Morrie started to bend over the guard but Munsch grabbed his collar and pulled him upright.
“Leave him,” Munsch said.
“I think he’s dead,” Morrie said.
“He ain’t dead,” Garraga said. “All that fat stopped the bullet.”
The three men reached the street and continued running to where they’d parked the silver Taurus. They jumped in, and Munsch drove too fast to his Cadillac.
“I thought there wasn’t supposed to be no guard,” Morrie muttered.
“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Munsch asked, running a light. “There were three of us. The guy didn’t even have a gun.