Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [47]
“I’ll give you the choices, Warren. Either you come nice and easy with us, or we roll you up like an umbrella and carry you there.”
“Get lost. What’a you gonna do, shoot me here in a public restaurant?”
“Maybe. Depends on you. See those federales over there?” He pointed to three uniformed Mexican police with automatic rifles slung over their shoulders standing twenty feet away. “They know we’re here to make a citizen’s arrest. If you, the fugitive, don’t cooperate, they’ll help us shoot you right here in this restaurant.” He’d been speaking softly, but delivered this message in a growl.
“Do I have your attention, Warren?”
“I guess so. What’a you do, pay off those cops over there?”
“You aren’t suggesting Mexico’s law enforcement officers are open to bribes, are you? If you are suggesting that, Warren, you’ll upset Jose.”
A glance at Jose’s surly face. “I sure wouldn’t want to do that,” Munsch said, finishing his coffee and standing. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
“Are you gonna turn me over to the cops?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” Munsch asked as they walked away, the two men flanking him.
“On what our client wants to do with you.”
Munsch’s waitress shouted after them in Spanish.
“He didn’t pay,” Jose said.
“You didn’t pay, Warren.”
“Screw you, Smitty. You pay.”
Smitty nodded at Jose, who returned to the table and handed the waitress money. As he did, Munsch asked Smitty, “What’s in this for me?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m gonna talk to this so-called client of yours, I want to get paid.”
Smitty grinned. “I like your style, Warren.”
“How’d you find me?” Munsch asked as they walked to where the private detectives had parked their car.
“Jose has contacts all over the city, Warren. Took about an hour to learn where a fat gringo named Munsch checked in. You are checked out?”
“Yeah, I’m checked out. I’m paid in full.”
“Good for you, Warren. Hate to see you stiff any of our friends south of the border.”
Chapter 18
“Mr. Driscoll on the phone, Dr. Broadhurst.”
The Librarian of Congress picked up his phone: “David, good to hear from you again.”
“I assume with murders taking place at the library, you’ve been distracted.”
“A fair statement.”
“There’s been little written about the incident here in Los Angeles. Have they apprehended the killer yet?”
“No, but they continue to investigate. Odd case. Upsetting. About your previous call, David, concerning the Las Casas diaries. We’ve been putting out discreet feelers on the Hill, and I’ve had preliminary conversations with private donors who’ve offered generous support in the past. Is there any news on your end? Have the diaries in fact been located, and are they for sale?”
“There is a good chance that Las Casas’s diaries, in one form or other, might become available. I’m flying to Washington tonight. We can meet in the morning.”
“I have a—yes, of course. I’ll wipe the slate clean. Anyone else you’d like at the meeting?”
“No. Let’s keep this between us for now. The others you’ve contacted, are they likely to make this public in some way?”
“I asked them not to.”
“Do they know I’m the source?”
“No, I didn’t mention you by name. I kept it on a hypothetical level, a what-if sort of thing.”
“Please keep it that way, Cale.”
“Of course. What time tomorrow?”
“Eight?”
“Here?”
“My hotel. I’m staying at the Willard.”
“I’ll be there.”
Broadhurst immediately called General Counsel Mary Beth Mullin.
“Mary, you haven’t indicated to anyone you’ve spoken with that Dave Driscoll is the one who’s raised the Las Casas issue, have you?”
“No. I referred only to a wealthy collector.”
“Good. I’m meeting with David in the morning. He’s flying in tonight from California.”
“Want me there?”
“Driscoll asked that only he and I meet. I’ll fill you in after the meeting.”
A minute after their conversation ended, Mullin called back. “Cale, sorry, but I realize I did mention Driscoll to Senator Hale.”
“Is he likely to spread that in the Senate?”
“I’ll call and ask him not to.”
If it isn’t too late, Broadhurst thought.
It was vitally important,