Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [45]
Lapin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Still stalking according to the stalkee. Is there such a word?”
Shorter laughed. “I don’t think so. We had another complaint filed with us yesterday.”
“I’ve got a plainclothes officer working the main reading room. You can’t tell the stalkers without a program. We attract our share of kooks. The main reading room is open to all, even the District’s more … colorful types.”
“Nice way to put it,” said Shorter.
“At least we know it’s a man,” Lapin said. “That rules out the Bride of Christ.”
“Say again?”
“The Bride of Christ. She’s been coming here in her white wedding gown for more than a year looking for proof in one of the Bibles in the collection that Christ was her husband.”
“That so?” Nastasi said. “How many Bibles do you have?”
“Enough to keep her going another couple of decades. The main reading room librarians are wearing their badges upside down to make it harder to read their names. Have you met Ms. Gomara?”
The detectives shook their heads.
“If I was going to stalk somebody from the library,” Lapin said, “I’d pick her. A knockout. A little young for me but … Everybody seems a little young for me these days. What’s new in the murder investigation?”
“Not much,” replied Nastasi. “No prints on the weapon. Tough to pick up prints off that burlap that covered the lead weight. Now it’s at the FBI lab. They’ve got new equipment that might do the trick. Some of your people are meeting this afternoon with ours at the deceased’s apartment to look at library materials. It’s been searched. Didn’t come up with much. He had a black book filled with names, lots of women. I take it that despite being hated around here, there were women who found him charming.”
“Oh, yes. He had a reputation of being a ladies’ man. Much water fountain scuttlebutt. But Paul kept pretty much to himself. Didn’t have any real friends, no confidants at the library as far as I know.”
“He lived pretty good,” Shorter said. “Nice big apartment. Nice car. Thirty-foot boat. A ton of credit card receipts from when he traveled, which seemed to be often. Didn’t skimp when he was on the road.”
“By the way,” Nastasi said, “have you finished going through background security checks on people in the Hispanic division?”
“No. Maybe by the end of the day.”
“How extensive are those checks?” Shorter asked.
“Depends on the employee and what they have access to. Anyone authorized to get close to the rare books, maps, and manuscripts goes through a fairly rigid check before starting work. In some cases, like the Kissinger papers we have, there’s material that bears on national security. Employees working in that section have to get a top-secret clearance. Same with anybody working in the congressional research division.”
“Let us know when you’re done,” Nastasi said.
“Shall do.”
“You have any info on where Paul got the money to live the way he did?” Shorter asked Lapin.
The security chief shook his head. “Rich uncle, maybe. Moonlighted as a male escort, maybe. Lucky at the lottery …”
“Maybe,” Nastasi said.
Chapter 17
Warren Munsch sat at a table outside the San Angel Inn on Diego Rivera, a few blocks from the Hotel Polanco, where he’d been staying since arriving in Mexico City. He’d left his room early that morning carrying his possessions in his overnight bag. Fortunately, the clerks at the desk hadn’t seen him leave. If they had, they might have asked whether he was checking out and presented him his bill. That would have been embarrassing. Munsch didn’t have any more money.
He’d checked in for only one night, paying cash. The next day he informed them he’d be extending his stay a few days and would settle the bill when he left. Well, now he’d left, and they could go whistle for their money.
He sipped from a mug of hot black coffee the consistency of motor oil and pondered his next move. This morning, as with most mornings of his adult life, he silently cursed what had been and reflected what his life would be if only he hadn’t …
He flew into Mexico City feeling good despite the thought that he